He got up and went over to the old wooden chest unit in the corner of the room. Sliding open the top drawer, he slipped his hands under the scattered mess of papers and keys and bits of string. On reaching the back of the drawer, he traced along the rough wooden panel until he touched on what he was searching for. He removed the felt bag and opened it out on top of the unit. Then he pulled the gun from out of his belt and placed it onto the felt wrapping. His trusty service weapon. A K14-VN – a variant of the K-54 but with a longer barrel. Standard issue for the PAVN and manufactured locally at the Z111 Factory in Thanh Hoa. He was meant to hand it back when decommissioned from service. But somehow, amidst the melee of grief and confusion clouding those days, he’d hung onto it.
“Lucky you thought to bring the gun,” Acid said behind him. “Didn’t think to tell me though?”
Vinh stared down at the small handgun. It had saved his life on many occasions, but had remained in the back of the drawer for many years. It had felt good to hold it again. Like a part of himself he’d lost.
“I have put most of my past behind me,” he said. “And have not spoken about it in so long. But when life became dangerous again, it felt right to bring it with me.” He wrapped the felt cover around the pistol and shoved it under a pile of papers. Then he slid the drawer shut and turned around, forced a smile. “That’s my story. Not a great one. Not a happy one. But as you can see now, I may be more useful to you than you first realised.”
A frown twisted Acid Vanilla’s face. “I don’t get why you’re doing this. I mean, sure, you’re a nice guy, yadda, yadda. But you want to know what happened to this kid even if it means getting yourself killed?”
His turn to frown. “He was my student. Tam is my friend.”
“Seems odd to me. Risking your life for someone else.” She held her hand up. “But, hey, says more about me than it does you.”
Vinh leaned back against the worktop and considered this strange woman sitting in his kitchen. She certainly had something about her. She was attractive, no question. With her dark complexion and full lips, not to mention those striking different-coloured eyes. But it wasn’t only that. It was the way she held herself. Confidence, some might call it. But Vinh saw something more. A deeper, more intriguing element to her personality.
“Let me put the spotlight back on you,” he said. “I understand these people killed your mother and you want revenge. But last night you also told me you wanted to get away from this life of killing. So which is it?”
She looked away, tracing her finger along a raised scar on her forearm, and immediately he regretted his words.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have asked."
“No. It’s fine. And you’re right. Cognitive dissonance and me – I could write a book.” With the coffee mug poised near her mouth, she blew over the surface and took a sip. “Thing is, I’ve always had a lot going on in my head. Most of it pretty grim. Dark stuff. But I deal with it. Most of the time. What I mean is all this – wrestling with myself – it’s all par for the course.”
“I see,” he said. And he did. It wasn’t confidence he saw in her, it was cynicism. He understood that all too well. If you believed the world was against you, it prepared you for any eventuality. Nothing phased you. “Tell me about this Spitfire person.”
“Spitfire Creosote.” A deep frown crumpled her face, bringing with it an expression of sadness. But only for a second. “He’s a prick. And a bastard.”
“I see. That bad, huh?”
"That bad," she said and laughed. But he could tell it hurt.
“So, you do have a past, you and him?”
She wagged her finger at him. “You’re good. I’ll give you that.” She sighed and sat upright. “But yeah, we have a past.”
“Sorry, you don’t have to tell me.”
“He was one of my handlers. Trained me up when I first joined Annihilation Pest Control. Taught me how to shoot. How to fight.” As she spoke she stared off into the middle distance, as though seeing her story play out in front of her. “Thing is, he wasn’t even my type. Isn’t my type. Him all tanned and chiselled and super-confident. But I don’t know, there was something about him. My friend thinks it was a grooming exercise on their part, a way to keep me subservient, in line. But I’m not so sure. I was eighteen. Wily. Horny as hell. Plus I thought I was hard as nails. And I was." She flipped her hand against her thigh. "Fuck. Who the hell knows?"
She glanced at him but he didn’t respond. Experience had taught him when people were talking in this way it was best to give them space. In his own life he knew having a witness to his pain and suffering was a gift hard to repay.
“I liked him from the off, but pushed any thoughts about him away,” she went on. “I was full of hate and anger and ready to show the world what I could do. Falling in love didn’t fit with any of that.”
“Love?” he repeated. “Ah.”
“I think so. The only time. Never again.” She laughed, but stopped herself. “Caesar sent us out on a job together. New York. My first time in the Big Apple. I loved it. The sights, the smells. All those places I’d read about. Sure, we were there to kill someone, but along the way something sparked between us.” A loud sniff distorted her face, morphing it from whimsical reminiscence to bitterness. “And now I’m here to kill him.”
“Do you think you can?” he asked.
She nodded emphatically. Her eyes flickered with purpose. “Absolutely. No question. He has to die, and he will. So yes – you help me find him, and in return we’ll find out what happened to Huy.”
“Thank you.” He gave it a beat. Allowing the heavy atmosphere chance to clear. Then more breezily, he added, “What do you suggest we do?”
She pulled the motorbike rider’s wallet from her pocket. “Sit. Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Glad of something to do, Vinh grabbed the other wallet from the worktop and joined her at the table. They each rifled through the folds, pulling out credit cards, low-denomination notes.
“I’ve got an ID.” He held up the card to show her.
“Me too. Let’s see.”
He handed her the card and she held it up next to the first one. “They’re the same. Security ID. Door men at the Andromeda Club. You know it?”
He thought. “I think so. It’s over in the Kim Ma district. Opened maybe two years ago. I’ve not been, but why would I? You think it’s a front?”
She chewed her lip. “Not sure. But if our attackers worked there, it might be a good place to start.”
“Good idea. But it won’t open until later tonight. Ten at the earliest.”
Acid sat back in her seat and raised her mug. “Gives us plenty of time for you to tell me all about your army days.”
He looked down. “I don’t know. Like I say, I’ve not talked about that part of my life for a long time. It feels like a million years ago now.”
“Yeah, well,” she told him, looking at the clock hanging on the wall above the table. “We’ve got six hours before we need to leave, so come on Mr Army Man. Most impressive kill. You go first.”
Twenty-Seven
Five hours and plenty of gory tales later, Acid and Vinh left the modest apartment and headed for the Kim Ma district. It was a fair walk, but Acid had decided she needed the air. Four strong coffees had left her with a pounding headache she needed to clear. She was, however, pleased she’d won the kill-off. Not that she’d had any doubts she wouldn’t. She hadn’t met a person yet who could beat her well-told tale of the neck scarf and the high-heeled shoe. Although Vinh’s tale of how he infiltrated a hostile’s base and single-handedly took out four enemy soldiers, armed only with a piece of his dead friend’s shin bone, was also impressive.
It was a few minutes after ten when they turned the corner and saw the lights of the Andromeda Club at the end of the road. It wasn’t a particularly big or impressive-looking establishment – all they could see of it from here was a wide entrance, above which a neon sign quietly buzzed.
More remarkable to Acid was the size of the bouncer leaning against the wall and staring blankly out in front of him. He had a few more inches on her and Vinh, and double their girth put together.
“Let me do the talking,” Vinh whispered as they approached.
Acid rubbed at her bare arms, silently bemoaning the lack of a jacket as the hot day turned into a cool evening.
“No worries,” she whispered back. She had every intention of letting Vinh do the talking, since her Vietnamese was embarrassingly non-existent. Spitfire and Davros had tried to get her to learn languages in the early days, but she’d resisted. It felt too much like school. She spoke some French and Spanish but that was all. The way she saw it, the only language she’d ever needed was that of the assassin.
At the nightclub door the bouncer slowly turned his head to acknowledge them. His eyes were bulbous and bloodshot, and he had the kinds of lips that were eternally moist. He eyeballed Vinh then moved onto her, his gaze lingering on her breasts. Instinctively she made a fist, but held her tongue. They’d come unarmed and the plan was to keep a low profile, find out anything they could and then get out of there.
Vinh addressed the man with a friendly tone, laughing and pointing first at her and then back to himself. The bouncer grunted, screwing up his face like he'd smelt something rotten. He drew his eyes her way for a few more seconds, then with a sneer waved them through.
“What did you say to laughing-boy?” she asked as they hurried down a short, dark corridor leading to a set of double doors.
“Same as before. Told him you were a famous English actress,” Vinh replied. “Said you’d heard good things about the club and wanted to visit.”
“I’m not sure he bought it.”
“I just don’t think he was too bothered.”
“Clearly.”
They got to the end of the corridor and took a door handle each, yanking on them in unison. A rush of hot air hit them in the face and the sound of loud electronic music filled their ears. They stepped through the doors and let them swing closed behind them. Once inside they waited for their eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. Acid blinked. They were at the top of a long wide stairway that corkscrewed down to the basement club. The venue was much bigger than it looked from the outside. A thick cloud of dry ice hung over the central dancefloor, as more was pumped in from underneath the DJ booth, to the left of the large open-plan room. Opposite was the bar area, taking up the length of one wall. Red-fringed light shades hung from the ceiling over the counter, the only source of light apart from the cheesy lasers and occasional flurry of strobe lighting. Apart from the bar staff and DJ, they were the only two people in the club, but it was early doors for a Friday night. Acid looked at Vinh and shrugged. They made their way down the stairs and sat at a table at the far side of the room. Near the bar, but with sight lines all around the venue.
“Do you want a drink?” Vinh asked, shouting over the music. “I’m having a Coke.”
She pulled a face. “Whisky, please. Unless they serve it in plastic. In which case I’ll have a beer. Doesn’t matter what, as long as it’s cold.”
Vinh bowed theatrically. “As you wish.”
She sat and watched her companion as he sauntered over to the empty bar and held one finger up for the barman. He was growing on her. It didn’t hurt that she found him attractive. He was older than her by a good fifteen years but didn’t seem it. Not when he was in fight-mode, that was for sure. She had been mightily impressed by the skills on show earlier. Not that she’d ever admit it. Least of all to Vinh.
Her mind drifted to Spook once more, who’d been on at her before she left for Hanoi:
Be more open…
Let your guard down…
The kid meant well but she didn’t understand. Her guard – her Acid Vanilla persona – it was there for a reason. Not to mention, if she let it drop away she was unsure what remained in its place.
Shit.
Spook. She still hadn’t called her.
Acid pulled out her phone intending to drop her a text, let her know she was safe. But they were underground. No reception. She bit her lip and shoved the phone back in her pocket. First thing tomorrow, she’d call her.
Vinh appeared with drinks. “All plastic, I’m afraid,” he said, placing a squat pint of beer on the table, followed by one for himself.
Acid picked up the pint and guided the flimsy container to her lips. “I thought you were having a Coke?”
“I changed my mind. Perhaps you are a destructive influence on me.”
She winked at him over the top of her drink. “That’s what they all say. They’re probably correct.”
The beer was weak but cold and went down well. She gulped down a few large mouthfuls and leaned back on her stool, scoping the place out.
Behind the bar a fresh-faced barman in a tight white shirt and black bow tie was being talked at by a shorter, older, rounder man wearing a black shirt and no tie. The older man was angry. He shoved a stubby finger into the youngster’s chest as he bellowed at him, before running his fingers through his thinning swept-back hair and storming off across the dancefloor. Acid narrowed her eyes as she watched him go. A glance back at Vinh told her he’d had the same idea.
“Manager?” she mused.
They watched the man unlock a door to the left of the DJ booth and disappear. Vinh turned to say something, but she was already on her feet. She drank the last half-pint in one gulp and placed the plastic beaker on the table. Then she was off, striding across the smoky dancefloor.
“Acid, wait,” Vinh called out over the music, coming up alongside her. “What’s our move here?”
She got to the door and turned to him. “We go ask some questions. Simple.”
“But what if he’s a part of it, one of The Cai Moi? It could get nasty.”
"Let's hope so," she said, shooting him a manic grin before pulling the door open and stepping through. She waited until Vinh was clear before she let it swing shut. In front of them was a red painted stairway leading up to a small landing with a door on either side. Both closed. They made their way up the stairs and took a door each. Acid gently placed her hands against the one on the right and lowered her ear to the hollow wood. All she could hear was the throbbing bass emanating up from the dancefloor. She tried the handle and found it to be unlocked. Moving slowly, she eased open the door to reveal a small cupboard.
“Oh. Shit.”
She opened it wider to show Vinh the mop and bucket, the two shelves stacked high with cleaning products. After closing the door, she joined Vinh at the other side.
“Can you hear anything?” she whispered.
“No. But this must be the office. Shall I knock? What’s our story?”
Acid puffed her cheeks. She hadn’t thought this far ahead. But she never did. Most of the time she preferred to think on her feet, let her instincts guide her. She closed her eyes, listening for the chiming chatter of the bats. They were always there, if she listened, right on the cusp of her consciousness. Like a gut feeling, but more cerebral. More creative. Right now, they said, Go for it.
Without consulting Vinh, she knocked loudly on the door. Waited. Knocked again. Still nothing.
“Screw it.”
With the bats urging her on, she grabbed the handle and swung the door open. The man in the black shirt was waiting to greet her. He was standing in the middle of a small office, and in his hand was the unmistakable shape of a Glock 19 handgun.
He pointed it at her head.
“Who the fuck are you?” he yelled, the gun quivering in his grip. “You better talk. Fast.”
Twenty-Eight
Acid raised her hands as the man shoved the gun in her face. Her gaze flitted around the room. The walls were bare. The room windowless. Behind the man was a large, cheaply put-together desk covered in chipped walnut laminate. A dusty laptop sat open on piles of papers and receipts. Over in the far corner was a beat-up metal filing cabinet that had seen better days.
“All right, mate. Keep calm.”
She kept her hands raised, taking a deep breath in through her nasal canal, working on slowing her heart rate. Ironically enough, it had been Spitfire who had taught her how to do that. It was a biofeedback technique. In this case, controlled breathing. By focusing on long deep breaths you maintained oxygenation, which in turn helped clear your head and slow your pulse. That way you gained perspective on your next move. The only problem was, right now most of her perspective was taken up by the gun barrel inches from her face.
She felt Vinh’s presence beside her. His hands were raised. He remained still. Controlled. He spoke to the man in Vietnamese, but it was hard to judge the tone. She saw Vinh nodding, thought she caught some curse words in response. Despite's Vinh's composure, the man before them was clearly furious. But that was understandable. He turned his attention back to Acid.
“Who are you, why are you here? Did they send you?”
“Did who send us?”
The man gripped the gun tighter as a bead of sweat formed over his right eyebrow. Acid zoned in on his trigger finger. It was shaking. Tense. One false move and her head was a cloud of red mist. She took another deep breath and narrowed her eyes to slits, deleting as much peripheral vision as she could.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 38