The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  Spook was about to answer, when Acid snapped her head up. A wave of confusion cracked her supercilious expression. “How did you find me?”

  Spook swallowed. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. That and the fact your boss has killed two of my friends this week. Did you know about that?”

  Acid didn’t look at her. “I’d say him killing my mum still wins out.”

  “It’s not a competition.”

  “No. It certainly is not.”

  Spook sighed. “Whatever. They need to be stopped. All of them.”

  Acid cast a hand over the wall of photos. “I know,” she said. “That is what I’m working on.”

  “But Whitman too,” Spook snapped. “And Clarkson. This is on them as well. They can’t get away with it.”

  “Jesus, kid. Change the record.”

  “Wow. Ironic much? Don’t you get bored with being so cynical?”

  “Beats the alternative,” Acid mumbled. “Least this way there’re no surprises.”

  Spook folded her arms. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  “Piss off. You’ve no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “Do you?”

  Acid leapt to her feet and grabbed Spook by the arm. “Get out. I’m sick of the bloody sight of you.” She dragged her over to the door, ready to throw her out. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

  She went for the door but Spook stopped her. “Wait, listen. I can help, okay? If you’re hell-bent on getting Caesar and his crew, I can help you find them.”

  Acid halted. Her fingers gripped the door handle. “How?”

  Spook shook free of her grasp and moved back into the room. She gave it a beat before speaking.

  “The same way I found you. The facial recognition software I’ve been developing. I got it working, connected it to a spider program that scans CCTV footage from all over the world. It’s extensive as hell. My best work.” She beamed. “I found you in a second: coming out of a shop with a bag full of booze. Unsurprisingly. After that I made a list of the hotels in the area and did the rounds – complete with photo and sob story about you being my long-lost sister. Wasn’t hard.”

  Acid laughed, but Spook could tell she was thinking about it. “I take it the catch is I have to help you take down Cerberix?”

  Spook adjusted her glasses. “We can do this.”

  Acid leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, and at that moment Spook realised what was different about her. All the vitality had drained away. It was like she was a husk. A cheap photocopy of the person she’d been even a few days ago. Grief. It could break anyone. Even someone like Acid Vanilla. It was horrible to see.

  “I’m not sure I can,” Acid whispered into the floor. “Look at me. Full of bluster and fury, but what am I actually doing? Drinking myself into a stupor while I rant at photographs. I’m finished. Caesar’s won. Like he always does.”

  Spook sat on the bed next to her.

  “You don’t mean that,” she said. “I get it. You’re sad, drunk, not thinking straight. But a good night’s sleep. Some rest. We’ve got time. Acid, I need you. Maybe I sound like a broken record, but it’s because it’s true. We can’t let them get away with this.”

  Acid wasn’t listening. She was mumbling into the bottle. Talking about bad karma, about her mum and Caesar and disappearing forever. Like it was that easy. Spook clenched her teeth. This wasn’t the Acid Vanilla she’d met. The one she knew. The one who – yes, it was true – she cared for. She had to help her see this was worth fighting for. Snap her out of this funk. But Acid was still muttering.

  “I have a condition,” she whispered, to the floor. “It’s like bipolar. Though less up and down. More manageable. Usually. It can actually be helpful in this line of work. I take big risks and they pay off. I don’t need sleep. I can even think more clearly. More ingeniously. I wouldn’t change it. But now and again, the bats, the mania, it takes over. Sends me too far the other way. I make mistakes, lose control. You get me? I drink too much, sleep with the wrong people, think I’m invincible when I’m not.” She sighed and picked at a callus on her palm.

  Spook gave it a beat. “I did kind of wonder,” she said. “It makes sense. I read an article once on what you’re talking about: The Secret Sauce of Silicon Valley – something like that. A lot of the world’s top entrepreneurs have the same condition. It’s a kind of hypomania, right? Keeps you inspired, spontaneous, machinelike. Helps you hit goals whilst staying connected to reality.”

  Acid listened without reaction. “Well, yeah,” she muttered. “But that’s the problem. Staying connected to reality. I haven’t been these last few weeks. Months, if I think about it.” She got off the bed and moved over to the photos, speaking to the wall. “You know, I keep saying Caesar made me who I am. And he did, in a way. But the rest of it – that I couldn’t leave – it’s bullshit. I could have stopped. Could have disappeared. A new identity, in a new country. It would have been hard but not impossible. But I didn’t want to. I was number one, and I liked that…” She trailed off.

  Spook shifted on the bed as Acid dropped back down beside her. “Well, I’d say you’ve stopped now, right? That’s good.”

  “Changes nothing. Louisa’s dead because of me. Those bastards are all still breathing. I still want to die.”

  “What the hell good would that do? For anyone,” Spook snapped. “Yeah, you’ve made some bad choices over the years, but you were young. Sounds to me like you were groomed by this creep.” She risked a glance at Acid, but she didn’t look up. “You can’t change the past, Acid. But you can change what happens next.”

  Acid placed her hands in her lap. “If only I’d said no to that last job… taken that holiday.”

  “Ah come on, you said it, enough with the bullshit. You know damn well a holiday wouldn’t have solved anything.” Spook hesitated, expecting a suitably terse response, but it never came. She tried again, softer now. “What I mean is, you don’t have to be the person you think you are.”

  Acid looked up. “You know you sound like every bloody therapist I’ve ever had.”

  Spook held up one finger. “Stay focused, please. Talk to me.”

  “What do you want me to say, Spook? All I want to do is burn the entire universe to the fucking ground.” She finished whatever she was drinking and chucked the empty bottle on the bed. “Listen, don’t think I haven’t thought about this. Because I have. It’s all I have thought about. I’m driving myself crazy. Crazier, I mean.” She got off the bed and paced. Speaking fast. With energy. “You know, maybe Banjo was right. Maybe deep down I have been searching for redemption. A way to make amends for everything I’ve done. But do you realise how lame that sounds? And so what? How do I even start?”

  Spook got to her feet. “You know how. You help me take down those pricks.”

  The comment received a huff and trademark eye-roll from Acid. She made for the bathroom but Spook got in her way. She’d seen an opening. A chink in Acid Vanilla’s impenetrable demeanour. She wasn’t going to waste it.

  “Why won’t you admit it? You want to do good. You want to get justice for Paula Silva. Otherwise why would you have even helped me? You saved my life. Three times.”

  Acid held her hand up. “Four, actually. If you count disobeying my own orders.”

  “Exactly! You risked everything you had. Your career. Your life. And why? Because you couldn’t bring yourself to go through with it once you heard the truth. But it’s hard for you, I know, because to admit that means opening yourself up. It means admitting you have a conscience and that you care about something other than yourself. You never needed a damn holiday. You just needed to let yourself feel something again.”

  Spook slumped onto the bed. Her cheeks were burning and her legs shook but she’d said her piece. She put her hands on her knees and braced herself for the fallout.

  But Acid said nothing. Not for a long time. She stood in the centre of the small room, still except for
the rise and fall of her chest. All at once she seemed delicate. Vulnerable. When she spoke her voice had no hint of sarcasm.

  “You think I can change?”

  Spook smiled. “I think you already have.”

  Acid moved over and sat next to her. “You know, you’re good. I underestimated you.”

  “People usually do.”

  She took a deep breath. “All right,” she said, her voice bolder again. “Let’s say we do this. You got a plan?”

  “I’ve got a plan.”

  Acid considered it. “And you’ll help me find Caesar?”

  “It’s in my best interests, right?” Spook said. “Don’t worry. We’ll get them. All of them. We’re a good team.”

  “Steady on. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “But you’re in?”

  Acid sighed. “Yes. I’m in.” She stood and stretched. “You are wrong about one thing though.”

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “I do need a bloody holiday.”

  Forty-Three

  Raaz Terabyte chewed her bottom lip as the words appeared on her monitor screen. Line 1: Beowulf Caesar. The robotic pulse of the web-phone reverberated around the walls.

  “Bollocks.”

  Raaz had been hoping her first day in the new place might have been a peaceful one. Time to settle in, get to grips with the new systems. But as always, this was wishful thinking.

  She wondered for a second if she might get away with ignoring the call. Tell the boss she was dealing with something in the next room – where Annihilation Pest Control’s huge bank of servers were stored. But she quickly dismissed that idea. It was unprofessional. Plus the mood Caesar was in, it was likely to get her eradicated.

  She sat back in her large, black leather chair and opened the connection.

  “There you bloody well are, I was beginning to think you were ignoring me.” Caesar’s face filled the screen. “You got everything set up?”

  His movements were jumpy, the image pixilated. But that was expected. Despite having set up the main control room earlier today, Raaz was yet to install every program and server unit.

  “Yes. All good here.” Raaz shifted on the squeaky leather chair. “There’s been a few small issues in masking our IPs. But it won’t take me long to sort out.”

  “How are you finding the new place?”

  “It’s great. Thank you.” Raaz looked around the room. No one would be facetious enough to call it an office, but even workspace was pushing it. The walls were bare and made of thick concrete. Apart from the blue glow from Raaz’s three monitors, the only other light was a dim emergency bulb that shone down from the ceiling. Being so far underground it was also freezing cold, even with the Fireball 230V propane heater burning away in the corner like a jet engine. But it was secure and it was undetectable. That was what mattered.

  Caesar had christened this new place The Bunker, but it was actually a series of six rooms, built in the sixties at the height of the Cold War and meant as a survival unit for government officials, for when the bomb dropped. Being off-grid and away from any major city, it was the perfect location for Annihilation Pest Control’s new Global Communication Hub.

  “Well then?” Caesar growled. “You know why I’m calling.”

  Raaz did. She paused. “I can’t confirm for definite. Not yet. But it’s likely.”

  “Excuse me? Likely means fuck all. Give me details.”

  “Sorry, boss.” Raaz picked at the skin on the side of her thumb. “I’ve managed to get dental records of every person pulled from the wreckage. But no concrete match. That’s not to say they weren’t blown to pieces if they were next to the device…”

  “No. She’s alive, I can feel it. Bollocks.” Caesar slammed his fist on the desk, making the screen jump. Making Raaz jump as well. Beowulf Caesar was a scary individual. Even with five thousand miles between them.

  “If she is alive, I’ll find her,” Raaz told him. “The second I have a positive ID I’ll organise a strike team to take her out.”

  Caesar stroked his chin. “Maybe we should open up the contract. Let the world’s finest have a go at her.”

  “Not yet, sir,” Raaz replied. “Let’s keep this in-house. I can find her, I’m certain.”

  “Fine. Make sure you do. We can’t have her running around like some loose cannon. She’s a bleeding pest.”

  Raaz was emphatic. “Don’t worry, Caesar. There’s only one of her. She’s no match for the might of your organisation.”

  Caesar steepled his fingers in front of him. “Your confidence impresses me, Raaz. Okay, let everyone know. A hundred grand to the operative who takes her out. Two hundred if they do it today.” He looked away from the screen, and Raaz wondered if that was remorse twitching at the corner of his eyes. But it only lasted a second. Then he was back, staring down the lens with a dark malevolence clouding his features. “The message is: eradicate as soon as possible. Show no mercy.”

  “Yes, boss,” Raaz replied, allowing a smile to spread. “I’ll put out the call the second we’re finished here.”

  “Good.” Caesar sat back from the screen. “Now, next problem. Have you heard from Cerberix?”

  Raaz sighed. “Only saying the same as before. They want proof the mark is dead before they’ll release the final part of the fee. Said they were extremely disappointed in how we handled the job.”

  “Pernickety pricks,” Caesar shouted. “They’ve got the blasted recording. That’s what they were worried about. Extremely disappointed, for Pete’s sake. Do you know what? They can keep the pissing fee. Who gives a shit? But this makes us look bad.”

  Raaz had once assumed companies as big as Cerberix Inc. would be cagey about their links to organisations such as theirs. But she’d learnt over the years this was far from the case. The bigger and more powerful an organisation grew, the more cocky and wilfully illicit they became. These days a large proportion of Annihilation’s top-level work came from governments, big-name companies, even royalty. What’s more, most of the big-ticket jobs came from referrals, word of mouth. Caesar’s concerns about Cerberix were justified.

  On screen the boss pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Do we have a location on Davros Ratpack?”

  “Sure,” Raaz lied, but she could find him soon enough.

  “Have him call me. As soon as possible,” Caesar growled. “In fact, get locations on the whole team and have them call me. Direct.” He grinned, exposing two gold-capped canines. “I have an idea.”

  Forty-Four

  Acid’s voice carried through from the bedroom. “You sure you got everything you need, Spook?”

  It was Friday morning, three days later, and the two women were now staying in the executive suite of the Canary Riverside Plaza. It was, without doubt, the grandest place Spook had ever stayed, and a far cry from the dank hovel where she’d found Acid Vanilla a few days earlier. The suite was huge, with high ceilings and an exterior wall made of glass. A fitted kitchen ran down one side of the room and a luxurious lounge area stepped down onto a large balcony that jutted out over the river. The atmosphere was calm, relaxed, and the whole place smelt of roses and good coffee. Much more conducive for rest and recuperation.

  Acid shouted through again. “And you know what you have to do?”

  Spook sat back on the plush velvet couch. “For the tenth time, yes. I’m ready. Are you?”

  Acid hadn’t wanted to leave her sordid hotel room initially, maintaining to Spook over the course of many hours how she had to harden herself both mentally and physically for what came next. The hotel may have been cold and cramped and depressing but it represented her atonement, she’d said, it was her time in the wilderness. But then she’d sobered up and, with some coaxing from Spook, had accepted she needed proper rest. In a decent bed. The promise of Mulberry silk bed linen and Egyptian cotton sheets had helped.

  “One second,” Acid yelled. “Just putting the final touches to my new look.”
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  Spook had also managed to convince Acid a few days off the liquor would be a good idea. Though what she hadn’t counted on was her passing out the second they’d entered the new suite and not leaving her bedroom for the best part of thirty-six hours. She had appeared briefly, but only to shuffle to the bathroom or make herself a pot of camomile tea before returning to the bedroom and shutting the door pointedly behind her. For Spook that smarted, but Acid had made it clear, their time together in Paris was a one-off. This was how it was now, and she had to accept that.

  “Have you got the video somewhere safe?” Acid called through.

  “Geez. Yes, Mom,” Spook replied. “Of course I have it.” She checked her jacket pocket all the same, taking the new, pink thumb-drive out and holding it to the light. It looked so innocuous, so everyday. Yet contained within was a weaponised, two-minute video with the potential to destroy a multi-billion-dollar organisation.

  The suite had only one bedroom, so Spook had slept on the couch the last three nights. She’d sat there for most of the past three days too, while she worked on the video. Indeed, the only time she’d got up – apart from trips to the bathroom or to make a drink – was yesterday afternoon, when Acid had appeared from the bedroom and shoved a piece of paper in her face. A shopping list of items they’d need for the plan. Clothes, mainly. Disguises.

  But the downtime had done wonders for Acid’s mood. Spook had been woken at 5 a.m. by the sound of her shadow boxing in the bathroom. Then had watched, bleary-eyed, as she grunted her way through an insane number of sit-ups and push-ups.

  “Here we go,” Acid announced, entering the front room. “What do you think?”

  She was dressed in black skinny jeans, which wasn’t remarkable – nor was the black vest top, despite it showing a fair amount of cleavage. But the royal blue Jimmy Choos and white Alexander McQueen lace-trimmed blazer were categorically not Acid Vanilla’s usual attire. She’d also scraped her hair into a high ponytail and was wearing a pair of huge, red, plastic glasses.