She had work to do.
People to kill.
She heard laughter. Annoying tittering laughter. Then the hand rested on her forehead once more. She felt a calloused palm glide over her eyes, gently forcing the lids closed.
She succumbed.
She slept.
Seven
Acid woke with a start and glanced around. She was lying on a steel gurney in a low-ceilinged room. Most probably a basement. The only light came from a small naked bulb hanging over her head. She sat upright and felt a sharp pain in her side as the memories came flooding back.
Davros Ratpack.
She’d killed him. But not before he’d inflicted a killer blow himself.
She was topless now except for her bra, and could see the wound had a fresh dressing. She peeled away the corner of a piece of surgical tape and tentatively inspected the damage. The laceration was around two inches long, raised and bulbous under a row of twelve stitches. But it was clean and properly dressed. She prodded her fingers around the area, but could no longer locate anything inside of her. To the right of the gurney was a small table with a metal bowl sitting on top. Inside this was an inch-long piece of rusting metal covered in blood. Next to the bowl lay a syringe. A tetanus shot. Acid smiled to herself and swung her legs over the side. You could say a lot of things about The Dullahan – and she certainly had done over the years – but he provided a first-class service.
She examined the room, her heart sinking as she saw her vintage Black Sabbath shirt in the corner. It had been cut in half and was caked in blood. A total write-off. The Dullahan had left a brand new white t-shirt for her, draped over the back of a wooden chair. She slipped it on before wobbling on unsteady legs over to a set of stone stairs in the far corner.
Gripping the handrail tight and taking care with every step, she slowly made her way up to the ground floor where she could hear the faint chime of classical music and the bubbling grumble of a kettle boiling. She got to the top of the stairs and saw the kitchen area to her right. The Dullahan was standing at the sink with his back to her. Doing the dishes, of all things. Seeing him here in this mundane domestic setting, Acid wondered if she might pass out again.
The Dullahan must have heard her at the door. He turned around. “Ah, you’re awake, then? At long last.”
She eyeballed the clock on the cooker. “Twenty past one. That’s not too bad. I did lose a lot of blood.”
The Dullahan walked over to a cupboard and took down two mugs. “Aye, but you think it’s the next day. It’s not. You’ve been out thirty-six hours. I was beginning to think you’d taken a bad turn.”
Acid frowned. “I was out that long?”
“Ya must have needed it. I don’t think it was only the puncture wound either. You were exhausted, lassie. Ya been pushing yourself hard, have ya?”
“Don’t I always.” She eased herself onto one of the chairs around the sturdy farmhouse table in the centre of the room. “Thanks, though. For patching me up.”
He brought two mugs of steaming tea over and joined her at the table. “I didn’t have much choice, did I? Fainting in my arms like that.”
She grinned. “Terrible, aren’t I? So tacky. To be honest, I’m still wondering if I’m delirious.”
The Dullahan brought a pouch of tobacco and some rolling papers from out of the pocket of his robe. “How do you mean?” he asked.
Acid gestured around. At the kettle, the microwave, the matching cabinets. It was the kitchen you’d expect, judging by the cottage’s exterior. But the banal homeliness jarred terribly with her conceptualised notion of the man they called The Dullahan. The Dark Man. He’d been one of the most feared and skilled freelance cleaners in the business. A hero to a lot of her contemporaries. To her too, though she’d never admit it. The Dullahan was already in his late fifties when she started out as an assassin, but was up there with the best even then. Caesar had tried recruiting him on more than one occasion, but he’d always turned him down.
“I can’t believe you’ve ended up somewhere like this,” she told him. “I mean, it’s nice. But it’s so homely.”
“Aye, well, it’s what Sheila wanted,” he said, as if enough of an explanation. He nodded at her mug. “Do you want sugar?”
She gawped. “You got anything stronger?”
“I don’t drink these days.”
“So I heard, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Well, it’s true, so it is. Who told ya anyway?” He scowled. “How did ya find me?”
Acid looked out the window. The back garden was more overgrown than the front. “Does it matter?” she asked. “I’m here now.”
Her leather jacket hung over the chair to her left. She reached into the pocket and pulled out the wad of cash, flung it on the table.
“There you go. A pot of gold for your troubles.”
“Ah, away with ya. I don’t need your fecking money.” He finished rolling a cigarette and screwed it between his dry lips. “I did think you were dead, mind.”
“Is that what Caesar’s telling people?”
He closed one eye as he lit the cigarette. “Aye. But that makes your presence here all the more surprising. If the story is you’re dead, it means he hasn’t declared open season on you. So why not disappear?”
She picked up the mug and took a sip of the hot tea. “You sure you’ve got nothing decent to drink?”
The Dullahan blew a plume of blue smoke over the table. Then he pushed himself to his feet and ambled over to a low cabinet in the corner of the room. Acid watched as he pulled out a large bottle, half-full of viscous amber.
“This is the good stuff,” he said, placing it down on the table. He went to the sink and picked up a glass. Slid it across to her. “Go for your life. I won’t drink it now.”
“Wow. Life really is upside down. The great Dullahan, a teetotaller.”
His eyes snapped up to hers. “Don’t call me that. Not anymore. That person is gone.”
Acid took the top off the whisky, a cork stopper, and poured herself a decent-sized amount. “Okay. What do I call you?” She took a long sip.
“Jimmy will do.”
She had to stop herself spitting whisky over the table. “Jimmy? You want me to call you Jimmy?”
“That’s my name. Was. Is again. It’s what Sheila called me.”
Acid straightened herself. “Fair enough. I’m sorry to hear about your wife.”
The Dullahan – Jimmy – waved the moment away. He pointed to the long scar running down her forearm. “I see you still carry the mark of The Dark Man, though.”
She looked at the raised red line running down the back of her arm. From wrist to elbow.
“Still hurts in chilly weather. You bastard.” She smiled. “That was some fight. You almost had me.”
“You almost had me, lassie. I tell ya. It was about then when I realised it was time to hang up the old spurs. You were something else, you know that?”
“Still am.”
“Is that so?”
Acid looked at him. Jimmy or not, she knew he still had an ear to the ground. What had he heard?
“I could do with some more help, if it’s available. I need to find Caesar.” She pushed the money back over the table at him. Ten grand in used fifties. Less the three hundred she’d given the barman. “Come on, take it.”
Jimmy stared at the money, then back at her. He was faltering. She kept her mouth shut. When tough-minded people were thinking, it was best to give them space. Let them reach their own conclusions. She sipped at the whisky. It was spicy and fragrant and burned her parched throat. She sighed. The old fight-or-flight keeping her going these last few days was leaving her system.
Jimmy reached over and stubbed the roll-up out on a jam jar lid.
“Ya know, there was never any love lost between Caesar and me,” he said. “I always thought he was too aggressive in the way he carried himself. I don’t mean the actual work. But the way he was in the industry. All about the money
for him. Always.”
Acid drank, nodded her agreement. “He’s got worse.”
“Oh, I know. Heard all about his new Nomadic Assassins Network, or whatever it’s called. NAN, is that it? Load of shite. Anyway, like I say, I never had much time for the man. You though, lassie. Good god, I remember first time I saw you out in the field. Amsterdam, I think. Remember? We were both after the price on that Lebanese doctor. Ya killed two of his bodyguards with a neck scarf and a high-heeled shoe. Bloody hell. I knew then you were going to be the best.”
Acid smiled. “I remember those shoes. They were deadly.”
“They sure were. So were you.” His face dropped, the twinkle in his watery eyes faded. “Did ya know my Sheila had Alzheimer’s?”
She shook her head.
“Terrible disease. Caused her a series of mini-strokes. I lost a little more of her every time. Until one day she was completely gone. No memory of me or us or herself whatsoever. Hung on for another three years after that, she did. Just staring into space. Incontinent too. Not a pleasant time.” He looked at his hands, still calloused and rough after all these years. The hands of a fighter. “What Caesar did to your mother was not on, Acid. Not on at all. So yes, I will help ya. Whatever I can do, which isn’t much these days, I’ll warn ya, but there ya go. But I don’t want money. I got all I need.”
“Thank you,” Acid told him. “Can you put out a call, get me a location on Caesar? The rest of Annihilation too?”
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Oh, is that all ya need? Jesus Christ. I’ll try my best. What’s your move?”
She shrugged. “I’m going to kill them. All of them.”
“I figured. And I take it there’s no persuading ya otherwise?”
“Not a chance.”
“Okay. Tell ya what, why don’t we go upstairs?”
Acid finished her drink. “Upstairs?”
Jimmy grinned, his eyes impish once more. “Oh aye, I’ve got something up there you’re going to want to see.”
Eight
The Dullahan creaked open the unassuming wooden door at the end of the narrow landing and stepped aside to allow Acid to enter. She arched one eyebrow his way, puzzlement at the Irishman’s boyish eagerness. But the second she entered the room, she understood.
“Jesus Christ, this is amazing,” she purred.
A bank of flashing hard drives ran down one wall, complete with modems, servers and three large monitors on top of a grand, leather-topped desk. But that wasn’t the best part. As Acid spun around she took in the wall opposite. Covered in red baize, it displayed a veritable armoury of expensive guns. Over thirty assault rifles were mounted at intervals along two rows, with eight rifles on each row. Underneath these sat a collection of handguns, maybe forty pieces in total. Some had never been fired. Some were collector’s items. Moving her gaze down the racks, she took in a decent selection of submachine guns, two sniper rifles and a missile launcher. A vast selection of swords and knives completed the collection on the next wall, along with sharpened knuckle-dusters and obscure stabbing weapons from around the world. Museum pieces, some of them. Some even Acid didn’t recognise.
“You like my games room, then?”
Acid wagged her finger. “I bloody knew you hadn’t retired.”
“I have too,” he scolded. He sat in an enormous leather chair in front of the three monitor screens and shunted the mouse, awakening the system. “What can I tell ya. When you get to my age, a man needs a hobby.”
The monitors flashed into life. Each one was divided into nine smaller screens. Twenty-seven portals in total. Acid scanned them. The first monitor looked to be security cameras, trained on the outside of the cottage. The portals showed the front and back garden, the side alley, a selection of recycling bins. The other two monitors were the same but showed real-time CCTV feeds from various cities around the world. Each portal window had a marker, written in a digital font in the corner: MCR, LDN, NY, CAL, TYO, MSK. As Acid watched, the footage changed, showing a new camera feed from each city.
“I’ve hacked into every major city in the world,” Jimmy told her. “Getting good at the old cyber stuff in my old age, don’t ya know. I select the footage, like so, and it pops up.” He flicked a few buttons, changing the display feed from LDN to BER to PAR. “I’ve still got contacts in most places. Pays to keep your hand in, so it does.”
“I knew you hadn’t retired,” Acid said.
“I fecking well have. Like I told ya, this is a hobby.”
“Whatever,” she said, peering closer to the screen. “So, you still have contacts in Berlin?”
Jimmy gave her a knowing look. “Aye, the Reinigers. And yes, I heard what happened.”
She stiffened. “Yes, well, it won’t happen again.”
“You sure? Cos like I say, the deeper you get into this, Acid, the harder it’ll be to get out of.”
“Come off it. I’m already in with two feet, there’s no getting out of this. Not until every single one of those rotten bastards is dead. Or I am.”
“All right.” He turned back to the screen and gripped the mouse, making himself comfortable. “Here’s what I know. Your man Beowulf Caesar was in Germany for some time. Hamburg, and then Berlin where your paths crossed. After that he went dark for a few weeks. But yesterday the fat fucker pinged up over in the US. Washington, of all places. I’ve seen a few emails between him and the big fella. Something’s going down over there soon enough.”
Acid nodded, blew her cheeks out. And was about to respond, when she spotted something on one of the screens. "Wait. What's going on?"
She was looking at the left-hand monitor. Jimmy’s home security feed. Specifically, she was looking at the alley that ran down the side of the cottage. The footage was dark and grainy, but the muscular figure with the well-fitted suit and the cropped blond hair making their way towards the front of the property could only be one person.
“Spitfire,” she whispered, wide-eyed, at the screen. Then to Jimmy, “You told him I was here.”
He spun around in his chair. “No, I never did. I’ve got nothing but contempt for that whole blasted organisation. After what they did.” He got up and moved towards the door. “But you weren’t exactly stealth-like in the killing of Davros, were ya? Not much of a leap to guess ya came here if you were hurt. Come, we need to get ya out of here. Sharpish.”
Acid paused, looking over at the wall of weapons. A particularly inviting AK-200 with snow-camo decal would solve this problem in under a minute. She glanced over at Jimmy as he held the door.
“Not in the house, lass,” he said, reading her expression. “And not outside either. I know you’re itching to crucify the lot of them, but it will not happen here. I can’t have the two of you going at it in my borough. I still have a reputation to think about. If ya want my help, we play this my way.”
Acid understood. “So what’s the plan?” she asked, trailing him out the door and along the landing.
Jimmy reached the top of the stairs and lifted a small photo of a dog away from the wall. A single switch lay underneath. He pushed it. Acid heard a low whirring sound and a hatch slid open in the ceiling. Another press of the button and a ladder descended onto the landing.
“Up into the loft space. You’ll see an exit over on the far side. It’s a right old state up there, but you’ll be fine. Once you’re outside, head up the alley to the end and take a left. That’ll take you back to the main road.”
“What about you?”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll deal with Spitfire fecking Creosote, the big ponce.”
“You’ll be able to handle him?”
“Won’t need to. Some of us still abide by the code.” He punched her on the arm. “Now get away with ya. I’ll tickle his balls, send him on his way. I’ll be in touch soon enough.”
She put her hands on the ladder. “You’ll be able to find me?”
Jimmy frowned. Playing hurt. “Yes, I think I might be able to. You take care for now, Acid Va
nilla.”
“You too. And thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. You killing that rancid excuse for a human being is all the thanks I’ll need. Now get yaself gone. I mean it.”
A loud banging rose up from the front door, Spitfire attempting to beat his way through it. He knew she was here. She glanced at Jimmy, wondering if she should stay and help the old man. But before she had a chance to say as much, The Dullahan shot her his famous look. The one that made you wither up inside. Those watery eyes of his now burned with a fierce intensity. Not so much windows of the soul, but a gateway to hell. They told Acid everything she needed to know. Whether he now went by The Dullahan or Jimmy, the old man could still handle himself. It was time to get out of here. She gave a solemn nod and climbed up the ladder.
Nine
The banging continued as The Dullahan made his way back down the stairs. “All right, keep your bleeding hair on.”
He went through the same ritual as always – turning the keys in the locks, carefully sliding the bolts open, slotting the chain into its groove. He wasn’t going to let the urgency of his caller, or the force they were exerting on his door, move him any faster. He cracked the door open a way.
“Who the hell is making all this racket?”
Spitfire Creosote glared at him, his chiselled face red and contorted. Like an angry fist. “Where is she?”
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. Flapped his mouth in curiosity. Doing the whole bit. “Good to see you too, Spitfire. It’s been a while.”
The tall blond killer barged past him into the house. “I know she’s here, Dullahan. Where is she?” He held out his hands. “Acid. Fucking. Vanilla.”
Jimmy shut the door and looked his visitor up and down. He was wearing a dark navy suit and a crisp white shirt, complete with silver cufflinks and a navy tie. The whole James Bond shtick. It was laughable. His gaze drifted down to Spitfire’s polished brogue boots. Black. Expensive-looking. He liked the boots. He’d give him that.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 28