The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  “Acid Vanilla?” he mused. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. Isn’t she dead?”

  He was enjoying this, toying with him. But Spitfire knew as much. Next thing he was over to him, sticking a sharp finger in his face.

  “Listen, Dullahan. I’ve got a lot of respect for you. You’re one of the greats. But that bitch has gone too far. She killed Davros Ratpack yesterday. Did it while he was on downtime. That’s not cricket. You know as much.”

  Jimmy smiled his sweetest smile. Full of Irish charm. “No, you’re right there. Not cricket at all.”

  Spitfire snapped his head up, gaze going to the ceiling. "What was that?"

  “What was what?”

  Jimmy was trying his best, but they’d both heard it. The sound of footsteps. Creaking floorboards.

  Jimmy held his nerve. “Damn squirrels. Nothing but a fecking nuisance, so they are.”

  “Bullshit.” Spitfire pulled out a handgun from behind his back.

  “Ah, so that is a gun in your pocket, but ya aren’t pleased to see me.”

  “Shut up, old man,” Spitfire whispered. He pulled a suppresser from his jacket pocket and screwed it on the end of the threaded barrel. His eyes trailed a path across the ceiling as more noise drifted down from above. Louder. Heavier.

  “Squirrels? I don’t think so, friend.”

  Jimmy didn’t flinch as Spitfire shoved the gun in his face. He eyed it as a Kimber Custom TLE. A nice piece. He had five similar ones in his games room.

  “Careful now, son,” he said, staying calm. “You don’t want to be doing anything stupid.”

  Spitfire wavered the gun a moment then turned and strode up the stairs, taking them two at a time. When he got to the landing he shouted, "How do I get up in the roof?"

  “What do you mean?” Jimmy asked, joining him a second later.

  “Stop messing around,” he said, spotting the hatch in the ceiling and scanning the walls for the release button. “Open it up. Now.”

  “I don’t know what y—”

  Jimmy wasn’t expecting the fist to the stomach. A glancing blow. It winded him and he went down awkward, over on his bad ankle.

  “You’ll pay for that,” he grunted.

  But Spitfire wasn’t listening. He had both hands flat against the wall, searching for the loft release he knew to be there. Another thud from above. That did it. Spitfire raised the Kimber and squeezed a few rounds into the roof, peppering the plasterboard with smoking holes an inch wide.

  “Hey! Watch my ceiling, ya fecking eejit.”

  Spitfire readied himself for another blast, but Jimmy grabbed his arm, messing with his aim. Despite Jimmy’s advancing years, he was still wiry. Still had the good fight in him when he needed it.

  “What the hell are you playing at?” Spitfire yelled. “You think protecting her will end well for you?”

  Jimmy glared at him. “You know the rules, son. This is my house. My castle.”

  Spitfire glared back. “You’ve fucked up here, old man.” He spat the words. “You know that. It’s not your battle. You hear me?”

  Jimmy held his hands up. “Maybe not, but it doesn’t change the fact you’ve come into my abode and started shooting the place up. Caesar know you’re here?”

  Spitfire sniffed. “Wouldn’t want to bother the big man at this momentous moment in time. But once she’s dead, he’ll get the full story. The order is simple. Eradicate her. At any cost.”

  Jimmy stuck out his bottom lip. “I always thought you were sweet on the lass,” he mused, holding the shamrock medallion up to the light. “Didn’t you and her have a fling once upon a time?”

  “Come on, Dullahan,” Spitfire snapped. “Stop this. I know what you’re doing. Let me up there.”

  As he spoke they both heard the distinct sound of a window being forced opened. A cool draught seeped through the vents in the ceiling, altering the atmosphere on the landing. The two men both felt it. Spitfire wrapped his hand around Jimmy's throat and pushed him against the wall.

  “Stupid old prick.” He raced down the stairs towards the front door. “You’ll regret this.”

  “I’ll regret nothing,” Jimmy replied, rubbing his neck. “Ya poncey fecker.”

  He watched as Spitfire reached the reinforced metal door and was met with a chain, two stiff bolts, two mortice locks, top and bottom, and a Yale.

  “For Christ’s sake, it’s like Fort-bloody-Knox.” He struggled with the locks, twisting at the hexagon-shaped security keys.

  “It’s to keep fecking assassins out of my house,” Jimmy called down. “But it slows them down plenty too.”

  Spitfire Creosote snarled back at him as he forced the second of the two bolts free and flicked the catch on the Yale lock. As he yanked the door open he turned and pointed the Kimber at Jimmy. The venom was palpable in his face. His finger vibrated on the trigger.

  Jimmy relaxed his body and waited. But Spitfire wouldn’t be so stupid. They both knew anyone dumb enough to take out The Dullahan would not have been long for this world. He might have retired, but he still knew everyone in the industry, still inspired devotion and respect from a lot of scary people. Spitfire made to say something, but no sound came out. Instead, he shook his head angrily and ran out the door.

  Jimmy lingered on the landing a few moments, then slowly made his way downstairs.

  “Well, Acid, I hope I gave ya enough of a lead,” he mumbled to himself. “Because yer man there means business.”

  He put his head out the door and looked both ways. Acid and Spitfire were long gone. He paused and incanted a silent prayer to the heavens. Then he shut the door quietly behind him and shuffled into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea.

  Ten

  The Dullahan’s back garden looked a long way down from the escape hatch. No matter how many storeys, a drop always seemed a lot worse when you were just about to jump. On the flip-side, once on the ground you often found it ridiculous you’d ever been reticent.

  Perhaps there was a metaphor in there somewhere, Acid thought, as she yanked open the small window and made the leap into the back garden. She dropped into a forward roll, cushioning the impact on landing, and was on her feet running before she had a chance to think any more about it. She ran as fast as she could. As fast as the throbbing wound in her side allowed. She knew Jimmy wouldn’t give her away. But she also knew Spitfire Creosote. It wouldn’t take him long to realise what was going on. He’d be on her tail soon enough.

  She scrambled up the high wall at the end of Jimmy’s garden and assessed the situation. Down to her left she could see a row of small, red-brick terrace houses, their backyards facing out into a narrow alley. To her right was a long passageway, flanked on either side by pebble-dashed garages with corrugated iron roofs.

  She was considering which way to go when the first bullet whizzed past her ear.

  Shit.

  Opting for a quick right, she zig-zagged around the shots as more bullets ricocheted off the garages, sending tiny pieces of gravel flying into her face. She reached the end of the passageway and took a left, finding herself in a small cul-de-sac. It was a pleasant afternoon and a group of children were kicking a ball around in the street, watched on by their parents sunning themselves in their front gardens.

  Acid slowed her pace and smiled adoringly at the children, mouthed ‘Bless them’ at the parents, held her hands to her heart. In turn, the proud parents smiled back. A textbook exchange. She hurried to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned back to see Spitfire appear at the far end of the street. He saw the children, saw the idyllic scene, the grinning suburban families, and immediately deployed the same simpering facade she had used moments earlier. It was what you did on a job when finding yourself face to face with civilians. After sixteen years in the industry it became instinctive. Caesar was proud of the fact none of his operatives were on any police database. You didn’t achieve that by shooting up the place.

  Spitfire looked up and saw her at the end of
the street. “Hey,” he shouted. “Wait. Let’s talk about this.”

  “No thanks,” she called back. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

  She turned and sped off, disappearing down the side of another row of red-bricks and through a narrow lane that opened out onto a sizeable recreation ground. She held her side as she went, the stitches straining with the exertion. Trees lined either side of the open parkland, and up ahead Acid could see a children’s playground with a brightly coloured climbing frame and set of swings. But to her dismay the park was deserted, and whilst a row of red-bricks backed onto the grassland, the border of trees provided perfect cover for anyone looking to take her out with a fatally placed bullet.

  Acid glanced frantically about her. She had a head start on Spitfire but he’d be here any second. She ducked behind the border of trees and continued forward, winding through the gaps in the foliage and staying hidden as best she could. The perimeter curved around the back of another housing estate, and beyond that was a main road. Shops. Cars. Another minute and she’d be safe.

  “Acid. Where are you?”

  She spun around to see Spitfire a few feet away, and dropped to the ground. The area between the trees and the wall had been allowed to grow wild, and the long grass hid her well enough.

  “Come out, Acid,” Spitfire called. “You can’t run forever. I know you’re here.”

  She peered through the grass, watching him as he surveyed the scene. He narrowed his eyes into the undergrowth a few feet away. He’d drawn his gun, complete with a suppressor. She did a quick assessment. It was unlikely she’d get to him before he got a shot in. Meaning, if he saw her she was dead.

  She slowed her heartbeat. Took long, silent breaths. Continued watching.

  Up close, Spitfire looked older than the last time she had seen him. That was two years ago. A job in Argentina. It was the first time they’d worked together since New York. Acid had begged Caesar to send Magpie or Davros in her place, but they were on other jobs. Or so he’d told her.

  Seeing him again sent a ripple of energy shooting through her nervous system. Because whilst he looked older, it didn’t mean he looked bad. In fact, if anything, the lines on his face, the salt and pepper flecks in his stubble, it only made him more handsome. The bastard.

  Risk of exposure, be damned. If Acid had a gun right now, she’d put a bullet through his chiselled jawline in a second. Have done with it. That’d teach the charming prick.

  He was still standing there. Still squinting into the trees.

  “I can wait as long as I need to, darling,” he called out. “Can wait for you forever. I always told you that.”

  He chuckled to himself and turned away. Acid stiffened. Now, with his back to her, she might get to him before he had a chance to shoot. She looked around, careful not to disturb anything. She was searching for a weapon. A stick, a bottle, anything. She let out a silent breath, cursing herself for not asking The Dullahan for a piece, something from his extensive selection of top-grade firearms. The truth was, seeing Spitfire again after all this time (resplendent as always in his fitted suit and with his tanned good looks) had sent her head reeling. But that had to stop. Right now. This wasn’t high school, and she wasn’t here to play games.

  Spitfire turned back around, scanning the area above her head. He took a few steps to his left. A few more and he’d be at the right angle to see her. She froze. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. It was apt, she thought, that she was about to die here, in the dirt, at the hands of Spitfire Creosote. After everything she’d said to him. Everything he’d told her in return. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so tragic.

  He was nearly on her now. She tensed her muscles, prepared herself for one last hurrah, over the top into no-man’s-land. She’d launch herself at him. Stay low. She might get lucky.

  But then he stopped. As Acid watched, his face dropped from keen determination into frustration, then annoyance. He pulled a mobile phone from inside of his suit jacket.

  “Yes? What is it?”

  She couldn’t hear the voice on the line, but it was a burner phone, so no doubt it was Raaz Terabyte, Annihilation Pest Control’s In-field Analyst and Communications Officer. Or whatever the hell she called herself these days. Stuck-up tech-nerd was more like it. There’d been no love lost between Acid and Raaz, even back when Acid was unquestionably the best operative on Caesar’s books. She had wondered initially whether it was a territorial thing – them being the only females in the organisation – but then Magpie Stiletto came along and Raaz was all over her like herpes. The fact Acid’s initial impression had been correct pleased her. She still had it. Could still read people. Raaz was simply an out-and-out bitch.

  “Are you serious?” Spitfire rasped into the phone. “But I had her. She’s here. Give me more time I can get to her.”

  He glanced about him as he spoke. An expression of incredulous anger spread across his fine features. Definitely Raaz on the other end.

  “Fine. Yes. If that’s what Caesar wants. I’ll come in straight away.” He paused, shook his head at the phone. “No. I’m in Manchester. What is it with this organisation? We’ve fucking lost the plot… Okay… Fine. You’re right. Orders and all that. I’ll get the next flight. See you in a few hours.”

  He hung up and stared at the phone for a second before shoving it in his pocket. He scanned the area one more time, slid his gun into the holster under his arm, and set off back the way he’d come.

  Acid waited until he was out of sight, then waited a few minutes more, before she got to her feet and brushed herself down. Once certain he was gone, she hurried to the main road and ducked into the first minicab office she found. It was grotty and damp, and it stank of stale beer and cigarettes. She walked up to the small counter window and spoke through the grille at the woman on the other side.

  “Can I have a cab, please? To the centre. As soon as possible.”

  The woman was middle-aged, with thinning, overly dyed hair and the face and demeanour of an angry sloth. She sniffed and tapped a few keys of the computer on the desk beside her.

  “Be two minutes, love,” she said, not looking up. “Take a seat if ya want.”

  Acid turned around to see two old chairs covered in cigarette burns and graffiti. Old kebab papers had been stuffed down the back of one of them.

  “I’ll wait outside,” she told the woman.

  She flipped the collar on her leather jacket and leaned against the side of the building. To kill time, she got out her phone, switched it on, and was immediately presented with a symphony of beeps and vibrations. Twenty-seven missed calls. Fifty-nine unread texts. All Spook. Acid was about to switch the damned device off, but stopped herself. With a sigh, she scrolled down to her recent call list and hit dial. Spook answered on the first ring.

  “Where the hell are you? What happened? I thought you’d been hurt… or…” Her voice trailed off, quivering with emotion.

  Acid raised her eyes to the sky.

  “Calm it down. I’m fine.” She waited for Spook to reply, but she didn’t. “Are you okay? You sound worked up.”

  “Worked up? Worked up, Acid? I’ve not slept in two days. Last I hear, you’ve been injured, and then your phone goes dead. Jesus Christ!”

  A cab pulled up and Acid peered through the window of the office, saw the woman signalling it was for her. She nodded at the driver and climbed in the back.

  “Manchester centre, please,” she told him. “Near the station.”

  The man nodded and pulled away.

  “What’s going on?” Spook asked. “Did you get patched up?”

  Acid felt at her side. “Yeah. I met my contact. He patched me up.” She glanced in the rear-view mirror. Saw the driver watching her. Listening. “Listen, Spook, we’ll talk later, I need you to get me the next flight out of here. I can’t stay in Manchester a moment longer. Can you check for me, now?”

  The line went silent for a second, followed by the distinct clack of fingers across a keyboard. Sp
ook was already sitting at her computer. Acid smiled to herself. A tenner said she’d been checking police reports and hospital feeds.

  “I’ve got a plane leaving in two hours I can get you on. To Heathrow. Half three. Any good?”

  “Perfect. One second, Spook.” Acid covered the phone mouthpiece and leaned forward to the driver. “Hey mate, can you wait for me outside my hotel while I get my luggage, then take me to the airport?”

  The driver frowned and did the whole swaying his head side-to-side act. Like it was a real problem for him. “I not sure,” he told her. “This my last job. Been working twelve hours.”

  Acid reached into her jacket and brought out a couple of fifties meant for The Dullahan.

  “This change your mind? I’ll give you another hundred once we get to the airport.”

  The driver strained his neck to look at the notes offered. “Woah, okay, fine. I do it. No problem.” Then under his breath, “Fucking hell.”

  Acid was back on the phone. “Spook, we’re on, book me on that flight. I’ll see you soon.”

  She hung up and sat back in her seat. The driver was still staring at her, but now with an air of curiosity. Acid gazed out the window, allowing her focus to blur and trying to imagine herself on a sandy beach somewhere in the Indian Ocean, the gentle tide licking at her heels. Hard to do when the cab smelt like someone had stuffed a two-week-old body in the boot… And she knew what that smelt like.

  “You know, lady, you have a splendid face.”

  Acid glared at the eyes in the rear-view. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What I mean is, you have splendid bone structure. If you smile more, you could be so pretty.”

  Great. One of those cab drivers.

  “Oh yeah?” she replied. “And what if I don’t feel like smiling?”

  “Ah, but life is good, no? What is there not to smile about?”

  A laminated taxi ID card hung on the back of the seat, complete with photo. Pieter Mazur was the driver’s name. Eastern Europe from the sound of it. He continued to stare at her.