Vinh turned his head and spoke in Vietnamese to the guards. He kept his voice soft, the rhythm of his words slow and easy. She held her nerve, glad he was here. More than anything, she knew now she could trust him. The low timbre of his voice was him creating an atmosphere of calm, letting the guards know he posed them no threat. It was textbook communication. How to act when confronted with stressed people holding assault rifles. A moment later she felt the prod of the rifle in her back, pushing her towards the door. Towards the ropes.
She shuffled forward. They had one chance at this. The ropes were a few steps away and perhaps a foot above their heads. It would be tight. She moved her attention inward, harnessing the old fight-or-flight hormones bubbling through her system as she ran through the next few minutes in her head. Mental rehearsals, so useful in these situations. Her hope was the amateurish guards would be too startled to react quickly enough. But it could easily go the other way. Young, disillusioned men with no prospects often had itchy trigger fingers.
Another shuffling step and they were underneath the ropes. From this angle they appeared higher than she had anticipated. But it was now or never. With a grunt, she leapt for the rope and got hold of it with both hands, swinging back so she was behind the guard. With her eyes fixed on his head she let go of the rope, hitting him with the full weight of her body. Her knees struck him in the shoulders and she rode him all the way to the ground, knocking the wind out of him and cracking his spine with her shin bone. To finish the job, she struck the nape of his neck with the heel of her palm and smashed his head into the wooden floor.
She looked up, panting, to see Vinh kneeling on the back of the second guard.
“Good work,” she gasped. “What now?”
Vinh pulled the tattered photo from out his pocket and grabbed the guard by the hair. He yanked his head back and shoved the photo in front of his face.
Acid watched as the young guard regarded the photo with a stunned expression. Vinh yanked at his hair some more and the pain revived him. Vinh spoke at him fast, all the calm gone from his voice. He was asking him about Huy and the guard seemed to be talking. Then she heard the word chet and saw Vinh’s shoulders drop. The guard was telling him what they both knew. Huy was dead. Vinh let the man's head drop to the ground and got to his feet.
"I'm sorry," she told him.
His eyes burned with a passion and a rage she hadn’t seen before. His jaw was tense, his face hard. “We must find the Cai Moi,” he said quietly. “They must pay for this.”
“Now you’re talking,” she said. “What else did he say?”
“Not much we didn’t already know. He was sent to guard the factory. He’s a foot soldier for the Cai Moi. A new recruit. He says the leaders aren’t here. They have a headquarters in the city but he doesn’t know where.”
Acid shoved the Glock back into her belt and considered the assault rifles the men had dropped. Useful if they needed to fight their way out, but awkward too, noisy. She decided against it.
The second guard was beginning to stir, making low groaning noises. It was time to go. She didn’t think they’d be stupid enough to risk sounding an alarm, but she wasn’t going to wait to find out. She was heading for the door, back the way they’d come, when Vinh stopped and moved over to a pile of boxes by the door.
“Look, here,” he said, picking up a piece of paper lying on the top box.
“What is it?”
He held it up, his eyes darting around the page. “A delivery note, by the looks of it. There’s an address.” He turned the paper around to show her, pointing at a series of symbols top-right. “I know the area. Over in the north. It’s mainly derelict warehouses.”
“You thinking that’s where they’ve set up base?” she asked.
“Don’t you?”
“It’s worth a shot,” she told him. “And my best chance of finding Spitfire. Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Vinh said. “Don’t you think we should rest first? I’m tired. My reactions are becoming sluggish.”
She considered it. “Fine. We’ll take a few hours and reconvene tomorrow. But we must wait until nightfall, that’s an entire day wasted.”
“Yes. But still plenty of opportunity to find your man and get your revenge.” Vinh looked at his feet. “Acid, I am tired and weary. And now I know the truth, time doesn’t seem so pressing.”
Acid sighed. The bats were loud in her head and she hated to stop at this juncture. Especially as it gave her less time to find Spitfire. But she had to admit, she too was feeling the heavy weight of fatigue on her shoulders and legs.
“Fine,” she said, and sighed. “We’ll rest up. Visit the warehouse tomorrow night.”
From the look on Vinh’s face it was the right thing to say. He folded the delivery note into his pocket. “Thank you. Will you risk going back to your hotel?”
“I need my jacket and a few other items, but maybe I could crash at yours after? It’ll be safer, like you say. And my weapons are there.”
Vinh frowned. “Can’t you do without your jacket?”
“Erm. No. Sorry.” She was also planning on calling Spook. Although the call wouldn’t be entirely an altruistic act.
“Okay. Fine,” he told her. “As long as you don’t make me drink again.”
“No,” she said, sternly. “We need to be clear-headed for what comes next.”
“Agreed.”
“Maybe one won’t hurt, though.” She grinned. “Come on. Let’s go get my jacket.”
Thirty-One
Spitfire Creosote sat upright in the bath, sending soap and water splashing over the side.
Bloody bastard shitting hell.
He’d been lying there trying to relax for the past forty-five minutes and had now become one with the steaming suds. He tilted his head in the direction of the next room, hoping he’d had water in his ears and misheard. But no, there it was again, his damned mobile phone going off. He reached over for his watch and let out a heavy sigh. 10 a.m. and already his zen mindset was in tatters.
The phone carried on ringing, announcing its shrill presence in the next room. Not only that, it was the specific ringtone he’d assigned to Beowulf Caesar. The big boss calling.
“Bloody hell!”
Spitfire had been ignoring Raaz’s calls since getting the news about Acid. But he couldn’t swerve Caesar. Not if he valued his balls. And his head.
He stood up in the bath, sending a torrent of coconut and mango-scented soapy water gushing down his body. He stared at his reflection in the mirror over the marble sink unit opposite. Fifty-one years young. Still a fine figure of a man, if he said so himself. Godlike, he’d go so far as, even with the soapy residue lingering in his extensive chest hair, and less extensive (in fact neatly trimmed) pubic region. He stepped out onto the large Egyptian cotton towel he’d earlier placed on the marble floor and selected a second towel from the heated rack on the wall. With the mobile phone still resounding tiresomely, he wrapped the towel around himself and strode into the bedroom.
“All right, keep your hair on,” he shouted, smiling to himself at the unintentional joke. Caesar had some hair when Spitfire first met him all those years ago, but it had soon fallen out. He said stress. Spitfire said weak genetics. Poor bastard.
He sat on the edge of the huge double king-size bed and picked up the phone. He selected speaker rather than handset and tapped Accept.
“Bloody bleeding Christ on a bicycle. I thought you weren’t going to answer.”
“Sorry, boss.”
Spitfire coughed. His voice had sounded sharp and docile. He cricked his neck and took a moment to ground himself. When he spoke again he was back in the deep velvet tonality he’d cultivated over the years.
“I meant to call sooner,” he drawled. “But I was…otherwise engaged.” The way he said it, as full-on innuendo, triggered a throaty laugh from the boss. Which was his intention.
“Dirty old fucker,” Caesar growled. “You having fun over there?”
He sounded to be eating while he talked. The noise of chewing and the squelching of spittle echoed out from the speaker. Spitfire placed the phone on his pillow. People eating on phone calls was one of his pet hates. He’d killed for less.
“Now then, my old mate,” Caesar went on. “I hear your number one fan is in town. I’m hoping you are about to tell me she’s been taken care of.”
Spitfire counted down from five before he spoke. Another technique that had served him well over the years. Especially when dealing with men like Caesar. It paid to be the calm one, the sophisticate, that charming bastard with the devil in his smile. The person he had been before he met Caesar had been on the road to self-improvement – he worked out every morning, watched his posture, trained his voice, was a yearly subscriber to both GQ and Men’s Health – but the day he became Spitfire Creosote that was all turned up to the max. Knowing he could now erase all the elements of his past he found distasteful, he transformed what was already a carefully orchestrated persona into something extraordinary. Someone extraordinary. Mr Sensational. The Flash Boy. Spitfire Creosote.
“She’s proving somewhat – shall we say – tricky,” Spitfire replied, archly. It was a textbook response. The delivery as well. Roger would have been proud.
“Stop being bloody cryptic,” Caesar snarled. “Give me the pissing low down, will you?”
So Spitfire told him. How he’d hired two local thugs to take her out. How they’d let him down big time. “They told me they had it in hand. But I won’t make the mistake again,” he added. “Do we have any sightings?”
“No. We’re pissing blind at the moment. The CCTV networks over there are virtually non-existent. Bloody Vietnamese. You’d think being so close to China they’d get their people in order.”
Spitfire got to his feet and dried himself off. He placed a long, muscular leg up onto the bed and went to work on his thigh. The towel was soft and warm and felt good against his skin.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find her,” he called over to the phone. “I’ve got a meeting with the Cai Moi later, to drop off the goods. I’ll ask for some assistance in tracking her down. It is, after all, in everyone’s interests to get shot of the pesky bitch.”
He finished drying his leg and shoved the towel up between his arse cheeks, thankful he’d managed to fit in his monthly wax before the trip. Smooth as silk.
“You sure you can handle it?” Caesar enquired, sounding a little subdued.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
“Calm down, Spitfire,” his boss spat. “You know what I bastard well mean. We both had a special place in our hearts for Acid Vanilla. Once upon a time. I’m only being assiduous. So, no issues then, as far as you’re concerned?”
Spitfire fixed himself an icy stare in the mirror opposite the bed. “No issues at all.”
“Excellent. Though to be honest, your – shall we say – entwined history might play out in your favour. I take it you heard what went down in Germany?”
“I heard something.”
“The pathetic wretch couldn’t kill me!” he bellowed through the phone speaker. “She had me cornered. Unarmed. All she had to do was pull the damn trigger. But no, she hesitated and I got away. Stupid bloody clown. She’s lost it. So get it done. Nice and clean and quick. Although, do you know what? Messy as hell if you want, slow and painful. Bollocks to her. Whatever works for you. I’m sick to the back molars hearing about the bloody woman.”
Spitfire took a deep breath and stuck out his sizeable chest. “Not a problem, chief.”
“Fabulous. And the Cai Moi are accommodating? I’ve only had communication via our secure messaging system, but from what I’ve heard they’re a riot.”
“Oh yeah. They sure are,” he replied, dryly. He placed his leg down on the thick carpet and moved the towel around to dry his back. He watched his reflection in the mirror as he went to work and couldn’t help but enjoy how his penis – semi-engorged from the heat of the bath – danced around with the motion from the towel. Fifty-one years, and it was still his favourite thing in the entire world.
“Will they stick to the deal?” Caesar asked.
Spitfire stopped what he was doing and returned to sit on the bed. Serious voice. “I believe so. They’re an unusual bunch, to say the least. But they’re focused and they seem resolute in their mission. Reminded me of us, in our younger days.”
“Piss off. You make us sound ancient and washed up.”
“Not at all,” he cut in. “All I mean is they’re dedicated to their cause. The real deal. You ask me, getting this contract is a tremendous power move on our part. We get in there now whilst they’re still finding their feet, we could clean up.”
“Keep me posted then, old boy,” Caesar growled. “And good luck with the meeting. I trust you’ve got everything you need?”
He glanced over at the pile of hard drives on the circular coffee table. “All set. As soon as I’ve made the exchange I’ll give you a shout.”
“Wonderful! I’ll speak to you soon.”
Caesar hung up and Spitfire went back into the bathroom to collect his watch. He wasn’t due back at the Cai Moi warehouse until this evening. Briefly he considered getting back in the bath, but the moment had passed. He reached down and twisted the bath plug open. Then returned to the bedroom to package up the shipment.
Thirty-Two
Across town, it appeared that a deep introspection had fallen over Vinh Phan. Acid had sensed it the moment he’d shuffled into the front room a few minutes earlier and enquired, soft and morose as if he didn't have the energy to speak, if she was awake.
She was. She sat up from her makeshift bed on the couch and told him so, stopping before she divulged too deeply how incredibly well rested and ready for action she felt. It would only be salt in the wound. But the truth was, the night’s sleep had done wonders for her mood. She was alert, powerful, full of vitality. She swung her legs onto the rough threadbare carpet and watched as Vinh lowered himself into a chair by the kitchen table. He looked broken, a brooding silence superseding the keen bloodlust and desire for vengeance that were so apparent back at the factory in the early hours of the morning.
“You don’t have to come with me,” she told him. “To the warehouse, I mean.”
He glanced over at her. Looked through her. “Huh?”
“I’m serious,” she told him. “I’ve been thinking about it. I don’t see what you coming would achieve. I get you’re angry. I get you want revenge. But if the place is swarming with militia, we can’t start shooting up the place. I might have a death wish, but I’m not a fool.”
Vinh frowned. “So what are you thinking?”
“Stealth. Like always. Once I know Spitfire is in there, I’ll get him alone. Do it quick and silent, then slip away. It’s the way I always worked best. Which is why, maybe it’s better I go alone.”
He pulled at his finger and cracked a knuckle. “It’s funny, I was thinking the same before you woke. I said to myself, ‘Vinh Phan, you are not a young man anymore. And Huy is dead. Getting yourself killed won’t bring him back.’”
It was good to hear Vinh talk like this. He was coming to terms with the truth, what Acid had suspected from the start, that Huy was dead. Probably had been for weeks. Months even. She’d only had run-ins with unsophisticated foot solders up to now, but you only had to see the abject terror in the eyes of the Andromeda Club manager to know the upper echelons of the Cai Moi were fearsome people. A small fish like Huy would have been wiped out without anyone missing a beat. The fact his body had never shown up proved that more than disproved it.
She shot Vinh a compassionate smile. Tried to, at least. “Well, if that’s what you think.”
“Yes. But then I realised something else,” he continued. “That is what the old Vinh would have done. Put his head in the sand. Run away. Let despair take over. But no longer.” He stretched his arms. “I want to come with you. I am under no delusion I can take down the Cai Moi or avenge
Huy’s death, but I have to see this through.”
“I don’t know, Vinh.”
“I swear to you I will not jeopardise the mission. Let me help you find Spitfire. Please. It will give me purpose. An extra pair of eyes and hands never hurt, right?” He hit her with a knowing grin. “Besides, it’s the school holidays. What else am I going to do?”
Acid rolled her shoulders back. “Well I guess an extra pair of eyes would be helpful.” She peeled herself off the couch and carried her bag of weapons over to the table. She placed it down heavily on top. “But you follow my lead. And if we do see Spitfire, he’s my mark. Understood?”
“Of course. Think of me as backup,” he told her, and nodded at the bag. “Will we have enough firepower?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see, I guess.”
“We’ll see?” he repeated, chuckling to himself. “I thought you might say something like that. Would you like some tea?”
He got up and was already heading for the stove.
“Do you have anything stronger?” she asked, not looking up. “You look like you need it.”
“My god, Acid. It is only a few minutes after eleven. We need to stay alert. Focused. You said those words.”
Acid removed the guns and pieces of weaponry from the bag. “I say a lot of words, sweetie,” she told him. “But we aren’t heading anywhere until nightfall. A small one now will only help. Believe me.”
Receiving no response, she glanced up. Vinh frowned and dropped his shoulders before lumbering over to a small cupboard under the sink. He lifted out a bottle of something yellow, then shuffled over to another cupboard next to his cooker where he picked out two small tumblers. Placing them on the worktop, he said, "A small one," and filled each one up to the brim.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 40