The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  “What the hell are you playing at?” Acid snarled. She tried to stand, but she was strapped to the chair she was sitting on, her hands fastened with cable ties. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  Barabbas walked over to her. “Calm it down, girly. All will become clear soon enough.” He was holding her sunglasses and put them on. “Do they suit me, cher?”

  Acid didn’t answer. She was already sizing him up. Barabbas Stamp was tall, with a relaxed swagger and long, wiry limbs. From Haiti originally, and that was all Acid knew about him. If she had to guess, she’d say he was in his mid-thirties. Though the long, bulbous scar that started below his eye and disappeared around the angular curve of his jawbone made him look older. They’d worked together only a handful of times over the years and Acid had always found him difficult to talk to. He was guarded, like they all were in this profession, but it was more than that. He was nasty, spiteful, loved to inflict as much pain and suffering on his marks as possible.

  Barabbas removed the sunglasses and tossed them on the ground.

  “Caesar not thrilled with you. At all.” He held up a mobile phone. “Not after I shows him the video I took – your romantic rendezvous at the top of tower. Meeting with a mark, Acid? Oh dear. She got to you.”

  Acid followed Barabbas’ eyeline over to the far corner where Spook was also strapped to a wooden chair.

  “Hey.” Barabbas landed a stinging blow across Acid’s face with the back of his hand. “Don’t look at her. Look at me.”

  “Watch yourself, pal,” Acid snarled at him through her fringe. “Why am I tied up, Barabbas? Why are you even here?”

  “Caesar sent me. He’s worried you’ve lost your way, taking too long to complete the job. He’s worried you’ve lost your mind too.” He walked around the space as he spoke, pausing every so often for effect. He stopped behind Spook’s chair and placed his hands on her shoulders, smelled her hair. “Looks like he was correct. Seems this little missy has gotten to you.”

  “Not true. I was getting the job done. My way. I needed more time, that’s all.”

  Barabbas sniffed. “Time’s up.”

  “What? So you’re here to kill us? Okay then – bloody well get on with it.”

  “Woah.” Spook now, glaring over at Acid.

  Barabbas chuckled to himself. “I’m here to clean up your mess. Do what you were sent here to do.” He flipped open his phone. “Soon as I connect to Terabyte’s feed, I can record my handiwork. Proof for the client. Then my orders are to take you back to Caesar. Alive. Boss wants to deal with you himself.”

  Acid struggled at the ties. “You expect me to simply walk on a plane with you?”

  “Tsk, cher.” Barabbas pointed over to a wheelchair in the corner. A large syringe rested on the seat. “The celebrated Dr Florestine will be returning to England from a business trip. With his poor paraplegic wife in tow.”

  “I see.” Acid gestured at the syringe. “Muscle relaxant?”

  “Deadly Nightshade. But don’t fret yourself, I got the antidote, you’ll be fine. Until you get to Caesar, at least.”

  Acid rolled the idea around in her head. “What about her? The client wanted a suicide or an accident.”

  Barabbas pulled out a gun, a Sig Sauer, from his belt. “Client just want it done. Same as Caesar.” He spun the pistol around his finger and scowled at the phone in his other hand.

  “The system’s still playing up,” Acid called over. “But listen, Caesar doesn’t have to doubt my motivation. Or my commitment to the job. I can speak to him. Sort this out.”

  Barabbas ignored her. Acid glanced at Spook and gave her what she hoped was a reassuring nod, although she wasn’t sure she managed it. Truth was, she was stumped. She’d been trying to get her hands free from the moment she regained consciousness, but they weren’t coming off without a blade. She shuffled on the chair, judging the weight and structure. It was old, rickety, the joints where the separate pieces met were loose.

  Barabbas moved closer to Spook, but keeping his eyes on Acid the whole time as he traced the gun down the side of the young American’s face.

  “Me think you pale kaka, cher. Playing for time. But we done here.”

  He stepped back and straightened his arm, pointing the gun at Spook’s head, making her emit a soft, wailing cry, reminiscent of a dying cat. Barabbas snickered humourlessly. That look of terror in a victim’s face, it was like vitamins to him. His finger quivered on the trigger. Acid closed one eye, bracing herself for Spook’s brains spattering up the crypt wall.

  “Fout tonè!”

  Acid opened her eye. Barabbas was shaking the phone, his ire growing as he waited for a connection. She relaxed a notch. Barabbas might have been a malevolent butcher, but for now it seemed he was following his orders to the letter. Acid could only imagine Caesar had them all on a tight leash since she went AWOL.

  “Wait,” Acid called over, seizing the opportunity. “Spook is a computer genius. Like, a bona fide genius. She’s got real value. Caesar could make good use of her at HQ.” She paused, letting the words land. “Come on, Barabbas, we both know Raaz is limited.” She nodded at his phone. “Case in point.”

  Barabbas looked as if he’d smelt something rotten. “You think the boss would want this bounda plat working for him?”

  “Yeah, Acid, what are you saying?” Spook whimpered.

  Acid chewed the inside of her cheek. “It’s your only play, kid. It might not be what you planned on doing with your life, but you’re out of options. We both are.” Then, speaking to Barabbas. “Seriously, she’s one of the best hackers in the world. She managed to hack into the White House, for heaven’s sake, and she was only a kid.”

  The Haitian looked impressed. He turned to Spook. “This true?”

  “Uh-huh,” Spook said, between sobs.

  “Well, ain’t that something. Little girly has skills.” He went for it again with the gun, stroking it across Spook’s forehead. Then he stuck it under her chin and tilted her head back. “Not a bad looking koko, truth be told. Up close and all. Sweet little missy. So what you suggest, Acid? We take her back with us and she become part of the team?”

  Acid leaned forward, shifting her weight onto her feet. “Caesar would welcome her skillset. I know it. We can say it’s your idea.”

  Barabbas licked his lips. “What about the client? Can’t be letting salopri go free when it suits. That bad for business.”

  Acid stuck out her bottom lip. “What? Are you saying the boss can’t handle an angry client?”

  “No. Not what I’m saying. Ah, here we are.” He held his phone up as a wide grin cracked his face in two. “At last. We got a connection. Looks like this is the end for you, girly.”

  Acid watched helplessly as Barabbas dragged a stone plinth from out of the corner and set it up a few feet from Spook. Then he placed the phone on top, taking a moment to set up his shot.

  “Now we ready to make a movie.” He glided over to Spook and continued to trace the gun up the side of her head, taunting her, playing to the camera. Acid looked at the floor. She knew Barabbas used jacketed, hollow-point rounds. There’d be no mistaking the job was done when the client saw the footage – at that proximity the hydra-like spread of the bullet would decimate Spook’s entire head.

  Acid closed her eyes and waited for the shot. But it didn’t come. Instead she heard Barabbas yell out like a wounded banshee. She snapped her head up to see that bold little American biting down onto the fleshy part of Barabbas’ hand and him dropping his gun.

  It was the distraction Acid needed.

  She rocked forward onto her feet then ran backwards as fast as she could, smashing the chair against the stone wall of the crypt. It broke up on impact with a loud crash and splinter of wood. Barabbas had already managed to pull his hand free from Spook’s jaws and was reaching for the Sig Sauer. She only had seconds. Acid pushed away from the wall, realising that a part of the chair was still attached to the cable tie on her wrist. It was a sturdy piece t
hat had been part of the back support, with a sharp point at one end. She closed in on Barabbas and leapt forward, shoving the makeshift spear into the side of his neck.

  He screamed out in pain as the jagged wood tore through flesh and sinew and muscle. The force of the attack sent them both toppling over onto stone floor. Acid landed on top and was able to shove the spike deeper still as Barabbas let out a deep, guttural wail. His eyes bulged at her, full of hate and madness. They both knew he wasn’t walking away from this, but he wasn’t going without a fight either. He lashed out with his long, bony arms and grabbed a handful of Acid’s hair, wrenching her head back. She leaned into it, twisting the wooden spear, grinding it against severed nerve endings. Barabbas released another rasping howl and loosened his grip. That was enough. Acid leant forward and yanked the wood free. It was time to finish this.

  With blood spurting into her face from the open wound, she stabbed down again, pushing the bloody spear through Barabbas’ ribs and into his heart. His whole body went stiff and he made a sound like someone letting the air out of a balloon. Then he was limp. Barabbas Stamp was no longer a threat. He was no longer anything. With a gasp, Acid collapsed onto the cold floor of the crypt, fighting for air.

  “That was crazy,” Spook cried. “You killed him with a wooden stake through his heart. In a crypt. Wow. Thank you.”

  Acid turned her head to look at her. “Don’t thank me yet. Now we have to get away from here. Fast.” She rolled over and got to her feet.

  “But you saved my life.”

  “Maybe. For now.” Acid looked down at the lifeless body of her colleague. “But I can’t help but think I’ve just signed a death warrant for the both of us.”

  Twenty-Two

  Acid knelt next to Barabbas’ bloody corpse and patted him down, finding car keys and a butterfly knife. She cut through the cable ties on her wrists and found Barabbas’ phone, which had been knocked to the floor in the melee. She released Spook and handed her the phone.

  “Can you get into this?”

  Spook turned it over in her hands. “Not sure. I’d need special equipment.”

  “Nah, it’s not worth it.” Acid grabbed it back and examined the screen. “Raaz will have been tracking us all. She’ll know Barabbas had us here. We need to move.”

  Spook got up, rubbing at her wrists. “Where will we go?”

  Acid retrieved her Glock and leather jacket from the corner of the room. “Away from here. Caesar will know soon enough that Barabbas has failed, that we’re still in play. And I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more operatives after us.” She was walking towards the door, but stopped. “Wait a second. How did we get here?”

  Spook removed her glasses and cleaned them on her shirt as she spoke. “He dragged you to his car and bundled you in the back seat. He was parked at the end of the alley.”

  “Yes, and what about you?”

  She put her glasses back on. “I went in the front.”

  “Why didn’t you run?”

  “Umm, he had a gun pointed at me.”

  “What, the entire time? Whilst he was bundling me into the back seat?”

  “I don’t know. Guess I sort of froze.”

  “You sort of froze?” Unhelpful waves of nervous energy pulsed down her spine. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here.”

  Acid pulled a silver compact from her jacket pocket. She flipped it open and examined herself in the mirror, pulled a face. “Jesus. You got a tissue?”

  Spook picked up her rucksack and rummaged around inside, handed her a packet.

  “Cheers. I look like a bloody serial killer.” She spat on the tissue and proceeded to wipe the blood spatter from her face. “There we are. Okay, let’s move.”

  “But where will we go?” Spook asked.

  Acid put her jacket on and popped the collar. “Well, Spook, I don’t know about you, but I need a bloody drink.”

  They found the way out and hurried up the steps of the crypt, blinking into the bright normality of a typical Friday afternoon in central Paris. The benign mundanity of a working city. It was jarring.

  Acid put her sunglasses on and considered the streets a moment, getting her bearings, then she set off along the Rue Bonaparte. There was only one place she wanted to go right now.

  “Shouldn’t we hide?” Spook whispered, skipping along beside her.

  Acid didn’t look at her. “We are doing. In a way. But I also need to work out what the hell to do next. I need a plan. And I don’t know about you, but I plan a lot better when I’m a tad lubricated.”

  They walked down the street in silence. Down the next one too. Every hundred yards or so, Spook opened her mouth to speak – in the hope, perhaps, some choice words might appear – but thankfully they never did, and each time she shut it again. It was a good move on her part. Acid was veering dangerously close to the edge. One wrong word and she was likely to put a bullet in the kid herself.

  They got to the river and Acid pulled the two phones from her pocket, Barabbas’ and her own. She removed the batteries and SIM cards and threw them as far out as she could into the flowing depths of the Seine. Then she stamped the phone casings against the kerb and tossed these in two separate litter bins.

  She turned to Spook. “Give me your phone.”

  “What? You serious?”

  “Yes. Give.” She held out her hand as Spook reluctantly handed over her phone, a brand-new iPhone 8.

  “You won’t get to the battery,” Spook told her.

  “Want to bet?” Acid knelt down and smashed the casing to pieces with the butt of her pistol, then she threw the SIM and what remained of the battery the way of the others. “Now let’s get going.”

  They set off across the Pont du Carrousel and through the gardens that held the famous glass pyramid of the Louvre and, over to the left, the Arc de Triomphe. Impressive scenery, but Acid paid no attention to any of it. She’d been here many times over the years, but even if she hadn’t it wasn’t the time for sightseeing. As they got to the Madeleine district of the city, the streets opened out into the large square of the Place Vendôme and Acid slowed her pace.

  “Here we are.” She gestured over to the grand building that spanned along one side of the square.

  Spook squinted at the signage. “The Ritz Hotel? Woah. We can’t hide out here, can we?”

  Acid sniffed. “Why not?”

  “Well, isn’t it incredibly expensive and sophisticated? And, you know, we’re kind of scruffy-looking.”

  “Hey. Speak for yourself.” They both looked down at Acid’s scuffed boots, at her jeans with the rip in one knee and covered in crusty flecks of Barabbas’ blood. “All right, fair enough. But don’t worry. They know me here. Trust me.”

  She set off towards the impressive entrance and old Pierre – the reassuringly brusque and tight-lipped doorman that had worked the door for the last twenty years.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” Acid called out, but the stoic Frenchman didn’t let on. As they got nearer, he leaned over and opened the large glass door so they could enter. Acid removed her sunglasses and gave him a wink. “Merci.”

  With Spook following on behind – making the sort of irritating noises people often did in places of extravagant splendour – Acid made her way down the long corridor that led off from the main reception area. Above her head, ornate chandeliers dangled crystal droplets, and along the wall, plush velvet curtains finished with gold lamé stitching framed ten-foot-high windows. At the end of the corridor Acid took a left, heading through the short lane of glass-fronted boutiques that led to her destination.

  “Here we are.” She slowed her pace. “Bar Hemingway. The best bar in the whole world.”

  She stepped inside the small but perfectly formed cocktail bar and breathed the place in, pleased that it smelt the same as always. Of leather and gin and good times. Of past glories and decadence. Of history.

  “Bar Hemingway?” Spook repeated, looking around at the newspapers on the wall, the pictures of old
Ernest. “Bit lame, isn’t it?”

  “He used to drink here,” Acid snapped. “And he helped liberate it from the Nazis. So, no. It’s not lame.”

  She walked up to the bar and ordered her usual. Gin Martini, dry as a bone. “What’s your poison?” she asked Spook. “My round.”

  Spook didn’t answer. Just stared at her.

  “What is it?” Acid asked.

  “I’ve just noticed your eyes.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “They’re different colours.”

  “Yes. I was aware. Did you not discover that little morsel of information whilst researching me?”

  Spook kept on staring. “They’re amazing, so striking.”

  “So they tell me.”

  “They’re like David Bowie’s.”

  “Really?” Acid said dryly, brushing it away. It wasn’t the time. “Anyway, back to the important matters. What do you want to drink?”

  Spook squinted at the cocktail list, twisting her mouth from side to side. “I’ll just have a Coke,” she said.

  “You’re not having a bloody Coke,” Acid told her, then turned to the bartender. “She’ll have a Martini. In fact, make hers a Clean Dirty.”

  The barman bowed in agreement and began the alchemy, picking up a large bottle of gin and solemnly making the drinks.

  “What’s a Clean Dirty?” Spook asked.

  “Wait and see. Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll bring them over?”

  Spook hesitated a second, then did as she was told. Acid watched as she sauntered over to a table along the back wall. Despite her compact size and cute appearance, she was ungainly. Like an awkward teenager. Not Acid’s first choice for someone to help her out of this awful mess.

  “You certainly can pick them.” She slid onto a bar stool to wait for the drinks, noticing a bearded, prime-era Hemingway looking down on her from an old Time magazine cover on the wall.

  She scowled back. “Don’t look at me like that, Papa.” His eyes were sad. Like they understood what she was going through. “Yes. I know, I’m screwed.”