Spook gasped as a digital clock flashed up on the small box, startling in bright red LED. It began counting down from ten. Acid grabbed Spook’s sleeve, pulling her along as she stumbled out the door.
“Run!” she screamed.
Thirty-Six
Spook didn’t need telling twice. Head down, and with her breath in her throat, she raced after Acid. Down the corridor they ran, leaping over dead bodies and pools of blood. They reached the end of the first corridor and leaned into the corner, pushing against the opposite wall to quicken the turn.
5…
They sped down the next long corridor and burst through a set of double doors.
4…
Past reception and through the entrance hall.
3…
2…
Outside and down the steps.
1…
They were a few metres clear of the entrance when Spook felt a rush of heat energy, and a huge explosion sent her flying forward onto the sharp gravel. Then it was quiet. As if all the sound had been sucked into a black hole.
Spook stayed low, covering her head with her arms and every muscle tense, waiting for death, for some flying debris to crush her. She waited, but nothing happened. Then, slowly, she lifted her head and looked around.
“You hurt?”
She rolled onto her back to see Acid Vanilla kneeling over her with an incongruous look of concern on her face.
Spook sat up. “Don’t think so. What happened?”
“A bomb. Attached to a motion sensor.” Acid held her hand out for Spook to grab hold of, and got them both to their feet. “They knew I was coming.”
Spook looked over at the burning wreckage, then back at Acid whose eyes were cold once more, her face deadpan.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.” Acid turned and walked back towards the road. Spook grabbed her rucksack and hurried along after.
“Hey, where are you going?”
“Back to the airport, of course.”
She was walking fast and Spook had run to catch up with her. “Wait, don’t you think we should talk about what just happened?”
“No. Nothing to talk about.”
“But your mom, and all those people…”
Acid stopped and turned sharply. “What do you want me to say? She’s dead. They all are. And it’s my fault. That what you want to hear?”
Spook took a step back. “I don’t think you should blame yourself,” she told her. “Maybe we should sit down, process it. I know I could do with—”
“No,” Acid spat, setting off once more. “There’s no time. We need to get to London and meet Tariq.”
“But—”
“For Pete’s sake, no!” Acid yelled. “There’s nothing to talk about. I just want to get to the airport and get out of here.”
They marched on in silence, Acid with a face like death and Spook taking deep breaths and trying to keep calm, knowing any outward show of emotion would only provoke more anger in her companion. But then a terrible thought came to her, and she had to run into the long grass and wretch up a mouthful of bile. It was only a small amount, but it was harsh and sour.
“Sorry,” she gasped, when she was done. “I just need to—”
“Whatever. Can we get going?” Acid had her arms folded, tapping her foot.
“Please. Wait,” Spook cried, holding her hand up. “I need to tell you something.”
“Jesus. Go on, then. Quickly.”
“I just thought. I had all this research saved in my Dropbox account. On you, mainly. But also your mom. About her being alive. About the care home.” She spoke fast, trying to get it all out before fear stopped her. “It wouldn’t have been hard for a decent hacker to find that information.”
Acid stared at her, then sneered and walked away, quickening her pace as she got further down the road.
“Do you understand what I’m saying—”
“Listen, kid. This isn’t your fault,” Acid snapped, cutting her off.
“But if I hadn’t—”
“I’ve told you, all right? This is on me. My bad karma. Caught up with me at last.” She looked at the sky. “Now, please, let’s get to the airport and get out of this depressing fucking place.”
For Spook, the next hour felt like an eternity as the two women trudged on in the cold and wet. They got to the airport just after nine and got on a plane thirty minutes later. As expected, Acid took the window seat and spent the whole journey with her forehead pressed against the glass. Spook didn’t even try to make conversation. She knew from experience any attempt would only get shot down.
They landed at Heathrow just after eleven. Once through security, Acid stomped through the arrivals lounge and out into the cold night air.
“Don’t we need a cab?” Spook called after her, watching as Acid strode straight past a row of waiting taxis.
“No. We can walk from here,” she yelled back, turning down a winding road, flanked on both sides by tall trees.
Spook scurried up behind her. “Hey.”
“What is it now?”
“Where the hell are we going?” Spook held her arms up and let them drop against her sides.
“Jesus Christ. Why do I have to keep explaining myself to you? Where the hell do you think we’re going?”
“I just figured—”
“Well don’t figure. All right? We’re meeting Tariq by the small reservoir on Stanwell Moor. That’s it.”
Spook shivered. “Sounds grim.”
“It’s perfectly safe. I’ve met Tariq there many times. It’s our spot.”
“And he knows to meet us?”
“Yes, and we’ll be late if you don’t get a bloody wriggle on.”
They carried on with little else said, getting to the meeting point twenty minutes later where, huddled behind a small cluster of evergreen trees that stood near the water’s edge, they waited.
“Where the hell is he?” Acid checked her watch. “I don’t get it.”
She scanned the vicinity and Spook did the same noting how the trees silhouetted against the night sky gave the place an ominous feel. She didn’t want to be here. And Tariq was nowhere to be seen. They waited ten minutes, then twenty, Acid pacing up and down the whole time, occasionally stopping to cast her eyes over the area. This was not like Tariq, she told Spook, he was never late.
They’d been waiting almost forty-five minutes when Acid walked up close to Spook and lowered her voice. “Listen, I don’t like this. He’s obviously not coming. I think we need to get out of here.”
Spook didn’t reply. Just then she was too afraid to. She followed closely behind Acid as she led them out of the grassland and back onto the main road.
“Staines station is about ten minutes from here,” Acid said. “We’ll catch a train from there into the centre.”
“Then what? What about my new passport?”
Acid turned to look at Spook, her expression changing from icy blankness to something nearing humanity. “I don’t know what happened with Tariq, but you’ve still got your original one, yes? You’ll have to risk it.” She stopped walking a second and looked down. “Listen, Spook, once we get into the centre, you’re on your own. You know that, right? I am sorry I can’t be more help. But the entire world’s upside down. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What will I do?”
Acid puffed out her cheeks. “If I was you I’d go back to the States. It’s a big country. Go somewhere quiet, away from a city. Take on a new name, do cash-in-hand jobs for a few years. You should be okay.”
“Should be? Geez, thanks for the reassuring chat. You know, I never asked for any of this, Acid. I’ve done nothing wrong. Apart from believe you might do right by me.”
Acid was in Spook’s face in a beat, stabbing a finger into her sternum. “You know what, I should have killed you,” she spat. “Done everyone a favour. If I had, none of this would have happened. I’d be on a beach right now, Louisa would be alive, and I wouldn’t have to liste
n to that whiny fucking voice.”
“But you didn’t kill me,” Spook hit back. “Because you can see this isn’t right, what Cerberix did. You ask me, the person you were before all that bad shit happened to you – she’s still in there somewhere. And you know what else I think? You wanted out of this life long before you met me. You just didn’t realise it.”
“Oh piss off.”
“No. Why won’t you admit it?”
“Admit what?”
“That you’ve got a heart. That you’re not cut out for killing people any longer?”
Acid’s eyes blazed with an emotion that was as difficult to read as it was terrifying. “Yeah? Maybe you’re right. So I’m useless to you. Can’t help you.”
Spook forced herself to hold eye contact. Her legs shook. “What, so you’re going to run away?”
Acid paused a second. She looked shocked. “You say that to me, after everything that’s happened? Fuck you.” She pushed past Spook and strode on without her.
It was all Spook could do just to keep up. And when they arrived at Staines railway station twenty minutes later, it was after yet another typically awkward and conversation-less journey. The departure board said the train to Charing Cross was due in seven minutes. They sat and waited, both staring at the train tracks. Spook glanced over at Acid, wondering if she was thinking the same as her. Her face was tense and stony. Her jaw clamped shut in what could have been anger, or shame or simply annoyance, it was hard to tell.
“Can I still use my credit card?” Spook asked, speaking so quietly she hardly heard herself.
Acid sighed. “Do you have to?”
“Well, yeah. I’ve got no cash. I need to get a hotel for the night. Something to eat. A plane ticket. Clothes. Everything.”
Acid was silent. The clock on the departure board ticked away. Three minutes to go.
“Draw out as much as you can in one go,” she said eventually. “But listen, if Banjo made it back to HQ then the client has the recording. They might be happy with that. You might be in the clear. So long as you keep your head down.” She looked at Spook and smirked. “But you’re not going to do that, are you?”
“I don’t think so. I have to show the world what they did.”
Acid nodded and returned to staring at the tracks.
The train arrived and they got on, found seats next to each other. All with a heavy tension in the air. A shared awareness that this was it, the end of the line. At Charing Cross they stood on the platform for a few minutes in the cold night air, their breath visible under the harsh halogen bulbs above.
“I guess this is it,” Spook said. “So long, Acid Vanilla, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Oh, don’t be so clichéd,” Acid told her, then paused, something like uncertainty tugging at the edge of her mouth. “Listen, Spook, I am sorry that I can’t do more. Can’t – won’t – whatever. I mean it. But I wouldn’t be any use to you. My head feels like it’s been shattered into a million pieces.”
Spook pushed her glasses up her nose. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “I guess I’ll see you around.”
She swung her rucksack over her shoulder and, not looking back, headed for the exit. She was terrified, she had no clue where she was going, and on top of that her heart was breaking. But what else could she do? It was clear Acid Vanilla wasn’t going to help her. Whatever happened next, she was on her own.
Thirty-Seven
“Come in. Sit down.” Kent Clarkson opened his arms in a gesture of welcome as Sinclair Whitman strode into his London penthouse apartment.
Sinclair looked around. “I take it you’ve good news for me?”
Kent indicated for Whitman to sit on one of a pair of brushed-suede couches that faced each other in the middle of the room. Then he sauntered over by the large window that looked out over Knightsbridge.
“Do you know how much stress you’ve caused me these last two weeks?” he asked.
Whitman sat, folding one leg elegantly over the other. “I’ve been concerned myself, son. Tell me – is all well?”
Kent ignored the question. “I haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept. Hell, I’ve got the keynote in five days and I’m totally unprepared.”
Sinclair stretched his arm along the back of the couch. “All right, drop the fucking Woody Allen routine, will you? What gives?”
Kent walked over to the drinks cabinet and picked up a large cut-glass decanter from the polished-mahogany shelf. Twenty-year-old Aultmore. He poured out two glasses.
“We are celebrating?” Sinclair asked, brushing a fleck of lint from his trousers. “Come on, son. Tell.”
Kent handed over the scotch and allowed a beatific smile to play across his tanned features. He was back to his old self – calm, charismatic, with the carefree swagger that came from knowing you were untouchable.
“Yes. All is well,” he told Sinclair. “I have the recording. It was couriered over to me this morning.”
“About freaking time. Well, cheers.” He drank. “What about the other issue? The idiot at the bottom of all this?”
Kent sat opposite. He wanted to tell Sinclair he was looking at the idiot. But he bit his tongue. “The employee? Dead.”
“We sure?”
Kent swirled the amber liquid around his glass. He didn’t think much of this particular blend, but it was expensive, and he liked expensive things. “I have it on good authority. Recording retrieved. Problem eradicated.”
Sinclair’s shoulders dropped. “There we go. All good.”
“Maybe. This time. But you can’t keep putting yourself in… precarious situations, shall we say?” Kent sat forward, stern. He needed the old man to understand. “I know we go back a long way and you’re a damn good CFO, but I will not allow you to ruin this.”
Sinclair looked down his nose. “Are you threatening me, Kent?”
“No, of course I’m not. I mean, be careful. Why not take a holiday? That island you like.”
He was talking about Paradise Island. A secret resort in the Indian Ocean, only accessible by private jet. A place where rich men could live out any fantasy they desired. Where, for a quarter of a million dollars, you could get a Diamond-Standard room and access to a harem of ten girls. All of them beautiful, all guaranteed disease-free. All of them underage.
Sinclair waved his hand. “Nah, I don’t feel like it. It’s the keynote in a few days. Don’t you want me there?”
Kent turned and looked out the window, speaking now with his back to him. “I don’t want any disruptions, Sinclair. That’s all. Don’t want anything else to knock us off course.”
“I swear. It won’t happen again.”
Kent looked out at the night sky. The sun had set many hours ago, but a red hue remained over the city. He wanted to believe Whitman. But he was so close now he could taste it. Once he’d delivered the keynote, the world would know how powerful his new Gen-Z system was. He’d be truly unassailable. And he wasn’t going to allow anything to get in the way of that. Not even his old friend.
“Hey. Are you listening to me?” Sinclair appeared by his side. “I said, can I see the recording?”
“You want to see it? Why?”
The old man shrugged. “Curiosity.”
Kent couldn’t be bothered to argue. He walked over to his desk and woke the computer with a shake of the mouse. The tell-tale video was still on screen. He’d checked it the second the thumb-drive was out of the envelope. He clicked play and stood back, watching Sinclair view the recording. He was enjoying it, the sick old bastard. Kent looked away and took another drink.
“Can I have this?” Sinclair asked, once it had played through.
“Excuse me?”
“The recording. Can I have it?”
Kent Clarkson stared into Whitman’s held-out hand. As far as he knew it was the only copy. Surrendering it now would take away any leverage he had.
“Come on, son, give it me.”
Kent held his nerve. “In exchange for
the photo.”
The men stared at each other for a long moment. Then a smile cracked the stiff lines on Whitman’s face.
“Oh you’re good,” he said. He walked back over to the couch. “But no. Good idea. Best we both hang onto our respective… insurance policies, shall we call them?” He finished his scotch and placed the glass down on the low coffee table. “More fun that way, don’t you agree?”
Kent took a deep breath and held it in his lungs a second. “Fair enough,” he said.
“Groovy. Then I’ll see you at the keynote.” Whitman raised his hand in a mock salute. “You take care until then, son.”
He showed himself out, slamming the door behind him.
Kent stood in the centre of the room, staring at the closed door for a good minute. Then, with a yell, he launched his glass at the wall, not flinching when it shattered into a million tiny pieces.
But now a new idea was forming in that genius brain of his. He’d get the keynote out of the way, get the launch event done, and then – once he’d taken his rightful place alongside the likes of Zuckerberg and Bezos – he’d give Caesar Beowulf another call. Cut out this cancer once and for all, before it could do any more damage.
He sunk down onto the soft cushions of his couch. He’d long ago made peace with the moral and spiritual dilemma brought on by having someone killed. So doing it a second, a third, or even a twentieth time if the need arose – that would be a walk in the park.
Thirty-Eight
Despite Acid’s deteriorating disposition, her instincts had kicked in. She approached her building from the shadows. The smart course of action. Yet, even as she skulked in the dark alley opposite and assessed the area, she knew the truth. If Caesar, or Davros Ratpack, or the whole of Annihilation Pest Control was waiting for her, she’d find it hard to put up much fight.
She stayed in the darkness, sheltered behind a large tree. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Her kitchen lights were on, but she had them on a timer. She crossed the road and headed for the front door of her building, swiftly unlocking both locks and slipping inside. She scanned the entrance hall. The stairs to her floor. All clear.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 19