The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  “What about my idea?” Spook asked into the void. “I take it that’s not going to happen now.”

  Acid puffed out her cheeks. Ah yes, Spook’s idea. The Avenging Angels Agency. The kid hadn’t shut up about it, ever since that night in the hotel when they’d made their little pact. A pact Acid was now regretting. Spook had agreed to help her find the seven if in return they set up… What would she call it? An underground vigilante agency? Spook’s vision was to provide a service for outsiders who needed help. Those who the authorities had let down for whatever reason. Like her, when Acid found her. But this was Spook’s dream, not hers. The more she thought about it, the more it sounded like the lamest idea in the world. Still, it kept Spook busy at least, and kept her off Acid’s back. That was a good thing.

  Acid sighed. Spook was still staring at her. The question about her idea wasn’t rhetorical.

  “One step at a time, kid.”

  Spook nodded, but in the most pointed and pathetic way anyone could nod.

  “Oh, come off it,” Acid said. “I didn’t mean to be a cow. I’m still struggling with all this.” She gestured around the room, at the two of them sat there in semi-domesticity. Lolling around watching documentaries, cooking, mugs of tea. It was all so alien to her. She took a long drink of the cold beer.

  “You’re not going to help me, are you?” Spook asked.

  Acid sighed once more and closed her eyes. A little dramatic maybe, but with Spook she’d learned outward shows of emotion helped get the point across. And really, whether it was small interpersonal games like this, or life-threatening situations, extremes were just about all she knew.

  “I’m not saying never, okay? But I have to get this out of my system first. It’s all I can think about.”

  She looked across to Spook, whose head had dipped while she picked at the beer label with a worn thumb nail, her glasses slipped to halfway down her nose.

  "Ask me again when the time is right. Okay?"

  Spook huffed but didn't look up. "When will that be?"

  "We'll know." Acid finished her beer and peeled herself off the couch to get another. It was going down well tonight.

  “We’ll need money,” Spook said. “Eventually.”

  She stopped at the door. “I’ve got my bank account in the Caymans. No one can touch it. It’ll last a good few years yet.”

  “Not if you’re jetting around the world on this suicide mission.”

  Acid gripped the door frame. Focused on her breathing. “It’s not a suicide mission.”

  Spook got up and faced her head on. “It’s not going to bring your mum back, you know.”

  “Piss off,” she snarled. “It’s not about her.”

  “No? What is it about?”

  She gripped the door frame tighter. Her fingernails scratched at the old paint. “Revenge. Justice. For myself as much as her.”

  Spook stepped towards her. “I don’t think killing your ex-colleagues will help you find what you’re looking for.”

  “Is that right? Okay then, Dr fucking Oz, what will help me?”

  Spook shrugged. “You ask me, you need to make peace with the past.” She spoke confidently, as if she’d rehearsed the speech. “Focus on the happy times you had with your mum. Remember her that way.”

  “What happy times?”

  “There must have been some.”

  Acid hid her face around the side of the door for a second. Then she turned back to hit Spook with both barrels. “No. There wasn’t. Not that I remember. Because do you know what happens when I focus on my mum? All I can think is I’m glad she’s dead. Is that what you wanted me to say? The little nugget you’ve been trying to tease out of my psyche all these weeks? I’m glad she’s dead. It makes everything so much fucking easier.” She stopped herself, face an inch from Spook’s. The young American swallowed but didn't look away. The kid was some kind of enigma – a lost child one minute, staring down an assassin the next. Vulnerable and strong at the same time. How was that even possible? "Look, I have to continue this mission, Spook. Because I don't want to have to deal with that yet. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Spook nodded. “What if I come with you? To Hanoi?”

  Acid placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder as the energy in the room subsided. “Not this time. But thank you. I need to do this alone. Spitfire and me, we’ve got history.” She smiled and leaned in. “Now, can you print out some information if I email it over? And I need a Visa. Can you sort it for me?”

  Spook watched her a moment, eyes darting around Acid’s face. Then she smiled, reluctant but genuine. “Yeah, sure. I’ll do it now. Will take a few days, I expect. What’s the name this time?”

  Acid thought. “Let’s go with Tanika Taylor. She’s done well for me recently. Can you sort me a flight and hotel as well?”

  Spook sighed. Long and loud. Her turn to be dramatic. “Acid Vanilla,” she said. “I don’t know what you’d do without me.”

  Fourteen

  Ask any tour guide or travel operator and they’ll tell you Hanoi is best visited in the springtime. Between February and April. This is the season when the air is warm but not too hot. From May onwards temperatures soar into the thirties and the dry season moves into the rainy season, making the summer months uncomfortable and moving around the city so much harder. Acid’s plane touched down at Noi Bai International Airport on the first day of May. The start of rainy season. As the plane taxied along the runway, she couldn’t help but think how typical that was.

  This was her fourth time in Vietnam, but only her second time in Hanoi. It was curious to her that she would end up back here. She’d always thought the city to be relatively calm and peaceful, with no real criminal underbelly to speak of. Though from the information she’d received from Jimmy, it seemed that was all about to change. Spitfire Creosote was meeting with the heads of a new organisation. The Cai Moi. Not much was known about them, having only popped up on the radar six months ago. But if Caesar and Annihilation Pest Control were involved, it was a safe bet they were bad news. Jimmy’s theory was they were gearing up to take over heroin and arms trafficking in the country. Probably with some people trafficking thrown in for good measure. In Acid’s experience, these things came in threes.

  Spook had booked a hotel on the edge of the Ba Dinh and Hoan Kiem region, one street away from Hanoi’s famous ‘train street’. Acid had only a light suitcase with her and had carried on, so once through passport control she headed for the taxi rank outside the airport and jumped in a Grab Cab (Hanoi’s answer to Uber, but so much cheaper) and gave the driver a scrap of paper with the address written in Vietnamese.

  The drive to Ba Dinh took around forty-five minutes, ample time for her to decompress after the long flight. She shut her eyes. Partly to avoid any awkward conversation with the driver, who she assumed spoke as little English as she did Vietnamese, but also it helped her think. Helped her focus her attention. She was here for one reason. To kill Spitfire Creosote. She sat with the idea. Made her peace with it. Connected with it until she felt it physically as much as mentally. She couldn’t let unhelpful thoughts or emotions impede her mission. For the next few days her instincts would drive her. She let out a conscious breath – shifting into a well-worn guise, from human being to cold-blooded killer. The person she had to be to get the job done. Clinical and instinctive. An artisan of death. The way Caesar had trained her.

  The Silk Path Hotel looked a decent enough place from the outside. It towered over the surrounding buildings in the area. The slabs of white stone and mock art deco styling stood majestic against the inky blue of the night sky.

  “How much do I owe you?” Acid asked the driver, speaking slow and loud. As if that would make any difference.

  The man twisted around and beamed a toothy grin. He nodded at Acid. “Please?”

  She peeled off a 500,000 VND note and handed it over. That would more than cover it, she thought. From the look on the driver’s face she was correct. She dragge
d her case from the back seat and climbed out of the cab. The air was close, humid. The pavements smelt of hot rain. She walked up the stone stairs leading up to the hotel and entered the air-conditioned foyer.

  “Hello, how are you tonight?” a man asked, as she approached the reception desk. He stood to greet her but didn’t seem to gain much height in doing so. He wore a dark grey suit with a yellow tie, and an enormous smile revealing a perfect set of ivory-white teeth.

  “I’m good. Thank you,” Acid replied. “A little jet-lagged, but nothing new.”

  The man – Sang, read his name-tag – bowed his head and chuckled politely. “And you have a reservation with us?”

  “I do. I hope,” she replied, scanning her eyes around the room as she spoke. “The name’s Taylor. Tanika Taylor.”

  The reception hall was grand and festooned in the way many eastern cultures favour. Modern, but timeless. A few degrees on the wrong side of chic for most western tastes. Polished black marble covered the floor, and on the wall to the left of the reception area hung a gigantic painting. Wailing spectral females peered down from a blood-red background. In front of this, four glass chandeliers cascaded from the high ceiling.

  “Here we are, Ms Taylor. For five nights,” Sang said, looking up from his monitor and hitting her with another top-grade smile. “You’re in room eleven. A suite. On the first floor. If you wait I shall get someone to assist you with your bags?”

  She held up the small suitcase. “No, I’ll manage. Thanks.”

  Sang looked troubled at this, but concurred. “No problem. The lift is behind you. Your room is at the end of the corridor.” He slid a plastic key card over the counter. “I do hope you have a pleasant stay with us, Ms Taylor.”

  Acid picked up the key card and returned his smile with one of her own. “Me too. I’ll be out and about, I imagine, most days. You have a late bar though, right?”

  Sang closed his eyes, expression melting into an easy serenity. “But of course.”

  “Excellent. Thank you.”

  She wheeled her suitcase noisily across the marble and called the lift. The doors parted immediately, and in the short time it took to get to her floor, she adjusted her watch forward seven hours. That meant it was nearly midnight local time. She had a meeting set up with an old contact of Jimmy's, but not until lunchtime tomorrow. Still, five days - that should be time enough. The lift doors pinged open and she followed Sang’s directions to the end of the short corridor. Room eleven.

  The suite was unremarkable. Two spaces: bedroom and basic lounge with an open doorway linking them, and a decent-sized bathroom leading off from the bedroom. The décor was beige and brown, less flamboyant than the reception, but modern. Nice enough for what she required. Like she’d told Sang, she wasn’t planning on being around much.

  Once she’d taken off her boots and jacket, she walked through into the bathroom and positioned herself in front of the basin. She lifted her shirt over her head and leaned into the mirror, examining her face under the stark, unforgiving illumination offered by the halogen strip-light overhead.

  “Jesus. What do you look like?”

  She pulled at the skin under her eyes, at the dark shadows that had formed. She couldn’t simply blame it on jet lag. Next she brought both hands to her cheeks, raising the skin and pulling it back from her face before releasing. She was worn out. More than she had been in a long time. It was nothing a week of sleep and a new diet and fitness regime wouldn’t fix, but she didn’t have that luxury. She was here to do a job.

  Stripping naked, she stepped into the shower, enjoying the feeling of the hot water on her skin. She turned it up high. Unbearably so. Then all the way down. Ice cold. She stuck her head under the stream, forcing herself to remain there as long as possible. It gave her a headache, but she stuck it out until her entire head was numb, her body too. Then she turned the shower off and howled into the ceiling. It did the trick. For now.

  Back in the bedroom she unzipped her case, selecting a new matching Gucci bra and pants set in embroidered black lace, and following these up with a crisp pair of black Levis. Finally, she removed a black t-shirt from the case and held it at arm’s length, taking in the faded yellow text emblazoned over the chest:

  Annihilation Pest Control. No job too big. No pest too tough.

  She’d packed it by mistake, but couldn’t help smiling to herself. The irony of it. The ‘work shirts’ had been Caesar’s idea, a joke for his employees one Christmas time. She pulled it on over her head.

  No pest too tough.

  But now she was the pest. And she would make sure Caesar ate those words.

  She finished the look with her leather jacket and picked up her key card. Her belly was empty and she needed a drink. Plus, it was pointless starting her search now. Tomorrow her mission would begin.

  Fifteen

  Acid took a left out of the hotel and headed down the long tree-lined boulevard, then a right into the Old Quarter. Hanoi was an old city, and the reminders of Chinese and French influence were everywhere. Especially here in the Old Quarter, with its colonial-style buildings and walkways. She passed by the famous ‘train street’ with its actual working train tracks running down the middle of the narrow street. Souvenir stalls and eating establishments bustled for position on both sides, encroaching onto the tracks in a way that meant anyone there when a train was due had to make a quick getaway or become bird food. Acid had never witnessed the spectacle herself, but she'd read about it. The heightened excitement and rigamarole as diners and café owners frantically dragged tables and chairs from the tracks. By all accounts it was a sight to behold, and one she hoped to experience whilst she was here. But not tonight. Tonight she required stasis, somewhere calm and quiet where she could get a late bite and some decent liquor.

  Taking a left off the main strip, she walked along Tong Duy Tan, another long narrow street of cocktail bars and eating hatches, bistros and banh mi houses. She was about half-way down before the smells of spice and meat and herbaceous goods were too much for her. The next place along had a sandwich board outside that read, ‘Best Grilled Chicken Banh Mi in Hanoi.’ That would do.

  There was no one else in the small bistro. Six small tables were spaced out around the room, with four chairs at each table. The walls were yellow and charcoal, adorned with dainty, hand-painted artworks and tasteful lighting. Along the side wall was a large shelving unit housing an extensive selection of earthenware pots and vases. A modern, wrought-iron chandelier hung above the main space.

  Acid walked up to the counter and leaned over, reading the menu lying flat on the counter top. A moment later, a small woman appeared from the kitchen beyond. She was a few years older than middle-aged, with short-cropped hair that framed a round face. Her build was slight but she looked tough. She stared with large, unblinking eyes and a scornful expression that remained when she smiled.

  “Hello,” she said. “How are you this evening?”

  The greeting shocked Acid somewhat. The woman was a local, Vietnamese at least, but her English was perfect. Even down to her accent. It was unusual for this area.

  “I’m good. Thank you,” Acid told her. “Hungry.” She continued to peruse the menu. It was a large one-sided sheet of paper with laminate peeling away at the corners. Most of the writing was in Vietnamese, but there were pictures as well. “What do you recommend?”

  The woman shrugged. “Pho is always good for western taste. You like soup?”

  “The sign outside, banh mi. The best in Hanoi, you say?”

  “Sure is.” The woman grinned, her face relaxing some more. “The best banh mi in all of Vietnam. Grilled chicken, spices, pickles. It’s very nice.”

  Acid looked over the woman’s shoulder at the large fridge behind her. She skimmed down past the rows of bottled water. Past the Cokes and Vietnamese sodas. And there on the bottom shelf: a row of beer bottles. “I’ll have a banh mi and two bottles of Saigon. Thank you.”

  The woman pulled a face but said
nothing. Acid shoved a note over the counter and took a seat at the far end of the room, facing the counter. She took out her phone from her inside pocket and opened up her Dropbox, clicked on the files that Jimmy had sent over.

  There wasn’t much to go off. Spitfire was here as Caesar’s envoy, that much was certain. He was meeting with these Cai Moi people to facilitate some sort of deal. But what that entailed was uncertain. Jimmy thought maybe Caesar was supplying them with guns, but it was just a theory. The only other certainty was Spitfire was in town for seven days. She ran the numbers in her head. He’d arrived three days ago. With tonight already a no-go it meant she had four days left to find him. Not long.

  “Here you go, dear.” The woman appeared at Acid’s table, breaking her concentration. She slipped a tray in front of her comprising the banh mi and a small side salad. Moist, blackened chicken burst out from a large steaming roll. It smelt amazing. After a day of eating nothing but airline peanuts, it was everything Acid wanted.

  "Thank you," she said, with a smile. "Your English is very good."

  The woman shrugged, but with a certain flourish now. Playing it up. “I lived in Australia for seven years when I was younger. It does me well.”

  “I bet. Well, thank you for this. It looks amazing.”

  The woman shuffled off behind the counter and Acid greedily tucked in, ripping a massive chunk of sandwich off and chewing it hard. The meat was salty and tasty, a subtle heat of spice, mixed with the fragrance of coriander and pickled vegetables. She swallowed it down with a mouthful of beer. It wasn’t as cold as she’d have liked, but it was malty and gassy and tasted good.

  Acid ate staring in front of her, in a low-level trance. She finished the tasty banh mi and slurped down the two beers, was done in under a few minutes. It was after midnight in Hanoi, but early evening in her head. Sleep was a way off, but that wasn’t anything new. She sensed the manic, chaotic energy bubbling away under the surface of her consciousness. The bats. Ready to rise up and spur her on when the time was right.