The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  Acid yawned. “My meeting tomorrow is with a local arms dealer. Over by the Red River. I’m hoping he might give me some pointers.”

  Vinh nodded slowly. “The Red River. I see. Do you know Hanoi well?”

  “Not that well. But I’ll find it.”

  “Why not let me take you there?” he suggested. She opened her mouth to protest but he held a hand up to her. “I understand. You do not want my help. But this is me guiding you around my city, the local’s way. I swear I will not get in the way.”

  “Jesus, Vinh, you don’t let up, do you?” She smiled, not entirely sure it was convincing but it was the best she could manage. “Fine. I guess it’ll be good to have a local with me. But you keep your head down. Understand? I’ll do the talking.”

  Vinh nodded, the twinkle returning to his watery eyes. “I understand, thank you. You won’t regret it.”

  “I already am, sweetie. But enough of this talk.” She slid her empty glass across the table. “I think the best thing you can do now is get another round in.”

  Nineteen

  Spitfire Creosote was losing his patience. He’d already explained himself once. If he had to go through it again, one of these pathetic pricks would lose an eye.

  “I have an appointment,” he repeated, speaking louder and slower. “Spitfire Creosote. Your bosses are expecting me.”

  The two young men guarding the front of the warehouse continued to watch the tall assassin from beneath their hoods. Neither spoke. They both had on the same outfit. A uniform of sorts. Black jeans, black hooded sweatshirt with a large ‘O’ across the chest. Plus the same nasty sneer, same dead-eyed stare. Their pitted post-pubescent skin glowed white in the moonlight.

  Spitfire adjusted his tie, working the knot up as far as the material and his windpipe allowed. He followed this up by gracefully brushing down the arms of his suit jacket and flick-kicking the hem of his perfectly pressed trousers. All affectations, of course. A way of conveying to these scrawny cretins that they didn’t bother him. But it was also the way Spitfire was. Neat. Regimented. With military attention to detail. As a modern, self-made man, he had few mantras he lived by, but one had stayed the test of time.

  Keep your trousers like your haircut, and your haircut like your mind.

  Sharp.

  Sharp as hell.

  A shard of static noise crackled into the silence and broke the atmosphere. One of the guards reached behind his back and lifted a handheld transceiver from his belt. He mumbled into it, speaking in Vietnamese. Didn’t take his eyes off Spitfire.

  “Speetfa?” he asked him.

  “For heaven’s sake… Yes! Spitfire Creosote.”

  The guard returned to the transceiver, nodding along to what was being said. Then he pocketed it and gestured for Spitfire’s attention.

  “Wait here,” he said, in a strong accent. “I come back for you.”

  Internally Spitfire rolled his eyes, but to the guard he said, “Not a problem, squire. Remember - Spitfire Creosote. From Annihilation Pest Control. I don’t know how many more times I can bloody say it. Your boss is expecting me.”

  The man whisper-repeated the names as he backed out through the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

  “Bloody henchmen,” Spitfire snarled at the remaining guard. “Not worth the skin they’re made from.”

  The guard ignored the comment. Or didn’t understand. Most likely it was both. Spitfire reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a silver cigarette case complete with matching lighter. He clicked the small button on the side of the case and the lid flipped open. Perfect engineering. Elegant. The action still brought joy after all these years. He removed a Marlboro Red from under the flat metal arm and slid it between his lips. Like most of Spitfire’s movements, the whole activity was done slowly and deliberately, carried out with an air of both charisma and menace. He flicked the lighter into life and brought the flame up to the end of his cigarette. Puffed it into action. Once lit he took a long drag and blew out a plume of smoke into the night sky. It gave the scene a noir-esque atmosphere. Spitfire liked that.

  It wasn’t an easy semblance to pull off, the old menace-charisma combo. But Spitfire had years of practice. He believed every action, no matter how small, should be performed as though being projected ten-foot-high on a cinema screen. And in the film of Spitfire’s life, he made sure he was always the leading man.

  He stepped back and looked up at the tall building, an old textile factory alongside the Red River in the north-east of the city. The windows and main doorways had long been bricked up. The place was unassuming, but that was the point. The way Caesar had sold it, the Cai Moi were like nothing Hanoi had ever seen before. They were young, fanatical and inventive. It was no real leap to believe within the next few months they’d have the entire city in their clutches. Then Vietnam. Then the whole of South-East Asia. Spitfire took another long drag of his cigarette, feeling the hot smoke deep in his lungs. It was an astute move of the boss, to throw his hat in with these young chancers early doors. The deal they were about to make would mean Annihilation Pest Control getting a much-needed foothold in the region. Something that had eluded them up to now. Spitfire had to make this deal work.

  He heard movement behind the door. Shouting. He took a final drag of his cigarette and blew another large plume into the air. A second later the door opened and the goon beckoned for Spitfire to follow him.

  “Come. They see you.”

  Spitfire nodded to the remaining guard before following his friend down a long corridor lit by pink neon tubing. It only further enhanced the film noir playing in his head. Here he was, the mean, moody (and incredibly handsome) leading man, on his way to broker a million-dollar deal with a shadowy group of underworld criminals. What could possibly go wrong?

  He held his head high and kept his pace measured as the guard led him through a labyrinth of narrow corridors. Raaz hadn’t been able to provide much tangible detail on the Cai Moi, but Spitfire had heard the rumours. One tale in particular had made him smile. The way he’d heard it, the Cai Moi had rounded up five local pimps in an old car yard and nailed them to the side of an articulated lorry. But not before stripping each of them, cutting off their balls, and stuffing them in their mouths. It was brutal, but you couldn’t help but admire the commitment.

  As the guard guided him further into the belly of the warehouse, Spitfire felt a familiar vibration in his trouser pocket. He pulled out his phone to see Raaz Terabyte calling.

  Stupid girl.

  Why the hell was she ringing? She knew where he was. He sent the call to answerphone as they came to a door where another young man was standing guard. He wore the same hooded uniform as his colleague. Same dumb expression. He nodded as they approached and the first guard handed Spitfire over.

  “Oh, are you off then?” he called after him. “Pleasant chat, anyway.” He turned back to find his new friend scowling at him with a face like a slapped tit.

  The man grunted something in Vietnamese and held out his arms for Spitfire to copy. The universal sign you were about to get frisked.

  “Go on then, be gentle,” Spitfire told him, opening his arms wide. “Full disclosure, I am carrying a piece. A holster under my arm.”

  The surly goon grabbed Spitfire by the shoulders and spun him around. With large rough hands he pushed him against the wall until his face was a few centimetres from the crumbling brick. Spitfire flinched as his feet were kicked apart.

  “Hey, watch it, mate. They’re Italian leather.”

  The comment elicited a deep grunt from the guard as he carried out what was, by most people’s standards, a thorough body search. He started by spreading both palms along Spitfire’s left arm, then his right. But found nothing. Then he reached around the front, slipping his hand underneath Spitfire’s jacket and pulling his SIG Sauer P226 with Luger Parabellum chamber from his shoulder holster.

  “Told you,” Spitfire said. “And I will need a receipt for that.”
>
  The frisking continued down Spitfire’s torso. There the guard found a Taurus PT111 and two push daggers, one strapped to each calf. He placed each item on a small wooden table next to the door. Finally, he removed Spitfire’s phone from his pocket and held it up so Spitfire could see the screen was lit up. A call coming through. Spitfire squinted. Raaz again.

  “It’s my mother. Let it ring out.”

  The man chucked the phone on the table with the weapons and spun him back around. He made a show of dusting Spitfire down, but was shrugged briskly away.

  “So? Are we good?” Spitfire asked, as he straightened his tie and checked his cufflinks.

  Not breaking eye contact, the guard shuffled over to the door and creaked it open. “You go,” he told him.

  Twenty

  Chin up and chest out, Spitfire strolled into the room, which opened out into a vast space at least seventy metres square and four storeys high. Clearly this was once the main factory space, but the machinery had long been cleared out and the space refurbished. It reminded Spitfire of a modern art gallery in New York or Tokyo. Shiny, white gloss laminate covered the expansive floor, and the high walls were lined with sheets of thick metal. Lead, most likely, to keep radio signals and listening devices at bay, making the space a gigantic Faraday cage. Lighting comprised of huge spotlights positioned at angles all around the perimeter of the room. Spitfire grimaced at the searing glare from the halogen bulbs. The stark brightness was discombobulating after the black winding maze he’d walked through to get here.

  A low stage had been set up in the centre of the room, about ten metres across. On top of this was a sizeable white table, with two white leather chairs on one side and a matching beanbag opposite. Behind the chairs, a couple of large spotlights were angled to face the beanbag, and alongside these a pair of six-foot yucca plants stood proudly to attention.

  Music came from four giant speakers, one in each corner of the room facing the central platform. Though perhaps that was the wrong word. It was unlike any music Spitfire would choose to listen to. He loved The Jam and The Beatles and a bit of Mozart. That was all. The noise that now erupted into the room was brutal and industrial and loud. The type of music you felt in your chest as much as heard it.

  He was about to speak when the guard pushed past him and intimated for him to follow. Spitfire obliged, striding behind a few paces and continuing to scope out the place, looking for escape routes, something he might use as a weapon if needed. He wasn’t scared, he feared no man, certainly not a group of jumped-up tech-nerds in hoodies. But as always his training preceded him. You didn’t stay in this industry as long as Spitfire Creosote without being prepared and alert at all times.

  The guard stopped at the side of the stage and gestured for Spitfire to sit. On the beanbag.

  “Oh Christ, no. I have to sit on that?”

  The guard didn’t answer. Not so much as a grunt this time. He pointed a stubby finger at the beanbag.

  “Fine. Have it your way.”

  Spitfire undid the buttons of his jacket and straddled the awkward piece of furniture as elegantly as he could muster. Which wasn’t elegantly at all. He squirmed around to find purchase, eventually placing both feet on the ground and resting his hands on the smooth tabletop. Once settled he looked up to see his surly guide exiting the room through the same door they’d entered through.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” Spitfire called after him. “I’m here to meet with a guy called Mot. Is that right? Mart? Murt?”

  No response. A loud bang echoed around the empty space as the heavy door slammed shut. Then the noise of a bolt sliding into place.

  Great.

  Spitfire turned back around and steadied himself as the beanbag adjusted to his movement. This was not what he’d expected. The way Caesar and Raaz had explained it, today’s meeting was to sign off on the deal already in place. And if required, to offer a little sweetener, an incentive to move it all along. It was for this reason, Spitfire suspected, Caesar had chosen him as his representative. Everyone at Annihilation knew he was the most charismatic and charming operative by a country mile.

  Still, as calm and collected as Spitfire was, he didn’t like to wait. In fact, he hated it. After five minutes, he began to get antsy. After ten, he wondered if they’d forgotten about him. Either that or this was some stupid game they were playing. And he hated games as much as he hated waiting. By the time fifteen minutes rolled around he was quietly seething, imagining himself strangling the life out of whoever this Mot fellow was. Then, as the twenty-minute-mark neared and his readiness to storm out became all-consuming, a loud explosion snapped him to attention. At the same time, the room was plunged into total blackness.

  Spitfire was on his feet and straight into attack mode. Whatever was going on, he was ready for it.

  “Who’s there?” he shouted. But the music in the room grew louder, drowning him out. Then it grew louder still, the volume swelling to an uncomfortable sonic overload. So much so that the bass pummelled his entire body and he worried he might lose control of his guts. He peered about him in the gloom, searching for shapes, people. Ready to strike if anyone came near. Then, as quickly as it had started, the music stopped and the two spotlights behind the chairs surged into life.

  “Shitting hell!” Spitfire cried, holding his forearm over his face. He blinked, letting his eyes ease into the stark white environment. “Oh, I see. Very good.”

  Sitting in the chairs opposite him were now two hooded figures. He couldn’t make out their faces with the light behind them, but that was obviously the point. He moved forward and leaned over the table, holding his hand out to the two hoods.

  “Spitfire Creosote,” he purred, in well-worn, client-friendly tones. “I believe you’ve been liaising with my boss, Beowulf Caesar. Is one of you Mot?”

  Neither one of the hoods moved an inch.

  “We are Mot,” the one on the left barked.

  “We are all Mot.” The one on the right now. “We are all The One.”

  Spitfire grinned. He held out his hand a few seconds longer before he pulled it back to his side.

  All right, you ignorant pricks. Have it your way.

  He sat back down on the beanbag. Its positioning meant he was now a good foot lower than the two hooded figures. Though, of course, that was also the point, along with the lights, the outfits, the music. All designed to put him on the back foot, to confuse and disorientate. He had to hand it to these Cai Moi fellows, it was a tasty move. If he hadn’t been on the receiving end, he’d have loved the histrionics.

  “Do you have the goods?” the hood on the left asked.

  Spitfire gave it a beat, reaffirming himself as much as possible. “I don’t have it with me right now. But you knew that already.” He paused, waiting for a response. None came. “I trust the deal is still on the table.”

  The hood on the right raised his head a degree. Spitfire could now make out a mouth and a chin and the bottom half of a nose. The man looked fresh-faced, young. “That is correct,” he said. “Ten million US dollars for the cargo.”

  Spitfire tilted his head. “Ten? I believe the agreed price was fifteen?”

  “Things have changed. At this point we believe ten million is more than fair for what you are offering.”

  Spitfire held his ground, kept his smile in place. He’d planned for this. Another reason he was here.

  “But we had a deal.”

  “You had a deal. And we were open to that deal. But now we are negotiating.”

  “I see,” he began. “Caesar was concerned this may happen. Which is why I’m able to up our offer. This way we ensure we all leave the deal happy.”

  The hoods bristled in the spotlights. Just a flicker, but Spitfire noticed it.

  “Please. Explain.”

  He turned up his smile and opened his arms. “Namely me,” he told them. “I’ll work for you, pro bono, for the next six months. Think of it as a try before you buy scheme. You’ll get to see what A
nnihilation Pest Control can do for you going forward.”

  The figures looked at each other. “We do not understand.”

  Spitfire leaned forward. “Gentlemen, The One, whatever you want to be called, it is known far and wide the Cai Moi are already a powerful organisation. Despite your relative youth, you are willing and able to do what is required for your cause. We also know one of your principal goals is for the betterment of your fine country and the people in it. But there’s the rub, you see. All this.” He gestured around the room, at the spotlights, the yucca plants. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s cool and mysterious and fucked up. I love it. But we all know there’ll come a point, in the not too distant future, when you need to do away with the smoke and mirrors. Get the people on board. Become legit. Or give the appearance, at least.”

  The hood on the left placed his hands on the table in front of him. “And you can offer this legitimacy?”

  Spitfire leaned back. “Not in so many words. But what we are offering is our services. In perpetuity. Think about it. There’ll be many times over the next few years where you’ll be looking to remove those standing in your way. Government officials. Judges. Rival organisations. Annihilation Pest Control will handle these issues for you, while you keep your hands clean. We’re quick, sophisticated, efficient. We’re the best at what we do. And you get all that for the extra five million. Plus, a retainer – another five mill a year after the first year is up and you’re satisfied with the arrangement.”

  “And if we are not satisfied?”

  Spitfire held his hands up and shrugged. His own brand of theatrics. “If that’s the case, we all walk away. No hard feelings.” He winked. “Come along, gentlemen, this is a great opportunity for you. What do you say?”

  The two figures leaned in close, whispering to each other in Vietnamese.