The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  There it was again. The muffled wails of a dying animal. She cast her attention around the room. There, behind the platform. The last guard. She hurried over, moving in a semi-circular path, an eye on all doorways. The man was lying in a pool of his own blood. He’d taken a couple in the chest and one in each leg for good measure. As she got closer, he reached out, said something she didn’t understand. His face was clammy with sweat and his skin glowed white in the subdued light from the moon.

  Not long for this world.

  The phrase came into her head as if from nowhere. It was one of Caesar’s ironic witticisms. If you could call them that. But the thought of her old boss stirred up renewed vigour in Acid. She put a mercy bullet between the guard’s eyes. The least she could do.

  A few feet away was another body. This one laid out on his back with his arms spread wide. The hooded cowl of a long ceremonial cloak covered his face.

  “Ah, Huy. No.” Acid knelt beside the body and rolled it over. “Bloody hell.”

  The surge of relief surprised her. It was the smaller hood. Not Huy. She scanned the man’s body and took in a sharp breath. It confirmed what she’d already suspected. Spitfire had done this. She recognised the go-to shot pattern. Two in the chest followed by a shot to the throat, straight through the spinal cord. Then the coup de grâce: a bullet through each of the eye sockets. Him showing off.

  She got to her feet as she heard a noise drifting across the warehouse. Sounded like a stiff door being forced open. Guns raised, she moved swiftly over to a door at the opposite side of the room. Nudging it open with her hip she was met with a rush of cold air to the face. It was welcome. Focused her attention. A narrow corridor lay in front of her, which opened out into a room at the end.

  Acid moved stealthily down to the end the corridor and flattened herself against the wall. From this position she could see into the next room, but only the nearside wall. She listened. No sound. She side-stepped inside, leading with the FSs. The room’s low ceiling felt oppressive after the expansive height of the main warehouse. She moved her aim around the room. Tense and ready. A wooden sink unit stood along the short wall to her left, and in front of her two tables pushed together to form a square, with small wooden chairs placed around. Beyond this, in the far corner, a fire exit door was hanging open.

  In the centre of the table a laptop lay open. The same one Huy had been using earlier. Draped across it was another ceremonial cloak, the sort the hoods had worn. Acid lifted the cloak and held it up in the moonlight. A bullet had ripped through the left shoulder, below the neck. She stuck her finger inside. The shot had only gone through the first layer of material. No exit wound. Not a good sign for whoever was wearing this when they got shot. Something told her that the someone was Huy. She flung the cloak on the ground and shuffled around the table to get a better look at the laptop. A cool breeze blew in from the open fire exit as she tapped the space bar impatiently. The screen immediately lit up to reveal a professional file-shredding application. She clicked on a few more keys, ran the track pad over the main finder-window. Nothing there. No files. No programs. The entire hard drive had been obliterated.

  Acid closed the laptop and moved over to the fire exit. Remaining cautious, still with the FSs high and ready for action, she stepped out into a barren courtyard. Moss and weeds covered the ground, poking up through the cracked concrete. Opposite, she could see a short alleyway leading to the main road beyond. But Huy, Spitfire, they were nowhere in sight. She shoved the Berettas back in the holster and ran from the building. With the Cai Moi dead, Spitfire would have more impetus to get out of the city. She needed to find him. And fast. But first she needed answers. From the only person who would know where he was.

  Forty-Three

  “Where is he?” Acid barked, as Tam inched opened the bistro door twenty minutes later.

  “I don’t know what—”

  “Don’t you bloody say it,” Acid snarled, shoving a finger in the old woman’s face. She stepped inside and looked about the room as Tam shut and bolted the door behind her. “The rest of his crew are dead. He’s been shot. There’s only one place he could have gone. So where is he?”

  Tam looked at her hands. “Please, don’t hurt him.”

  Acid grabbed her by the shoulders, dipped her head to look her in the eyes. “I’m not going to hurt him. But I need to speak with him. I need to know where Spitfire is. Now.”

  Tam sighed and looked up. Her eyes were red and watery. “He isn’t a bad man,” she said.

  Acid straightened, softened her voice. "I don't care about that. But he's been shot. So let me help him."

  She heard rustling behind her and turned to see Huy standing in the doorway. He was wearing a dirty white t-shirt and grey sweatpants, as though he’d been doing nothing but lounge upstairs on his Xbox all evening. It was only his face gave it away. His skin was pale and drawn. His eyelids were heavy but eyes super alert, like they’d seen far too much. He spoke to Tam in Vietnamese, then to Acid.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “You need patching up?” she asked.

  Huy pulled down the collar of his shirt to expose a large purple bruise. “I was wearing a vest,” he told her. “We were beginning to mix with some heavy people. I felt it was a savvy move.”

  Acid arched an eyebrow. “Indeed.” She nodded at Tam. “She says you’re a genius. That right?”

  Huy smiled. Tried to hide it. “My mother has always been my biggest fan.”

  “Yeah. Mums. Gotta love ‘em,” Acid replied. “All right, Huy. Sit down, I need answers.”

  Standing here now in his mother’s domain, Huy looked younger than ever. He twisted his mouth to one side. “Fine,” he relented. “But let us talk upstairs. It is safer there.” He gestured to the large window at the front of the café and the blackness of the still-early morning beyond.

  “Fair enough.”

  The three of them trudged upstairs to the flat above the bistro. It was a small space. Three rooms – two bedrooms and a kitchen-come-diner-come-lounge. A tiny bathroom cubicle led off from the main living space, but even the most creative and cunning of estate agents wouldn’t have dared call it a room.

  A small wooden table had been placed underneath a square window at the top of the stairs, and a squat candle sat in the centre, the only source of light. Acid sat, followed by Huy. Tam fussed around for a few moments asking if anyone wanted drink, and then joined them.

  “Have you apologised to your mum for all you’ve put her through?” Acid asked.

  The slight hint of a sneer twisted Huy’s mouth. He shrugged. “I was doing this for her. She knows that.”

  “Does she?”

  “Don’t you, Mum?”

  Tam smiled, simpering at her boy. It was kind of heart-warming, Acid thought. But she didn’t have time for gooey reunions. “I need to know where Spitfire Creosote is,” she spat.

  Huy shook his head. “He killed my friends and then shot me too. I was lucky. He was standing over me as I feigned death. I told myself it was over for me. He was preparing for a more decisive shot. But then he heard the gunshots coming from the main room.”

  Acid pursed her lips. “That was me. So what happened next?”

  “He ran. I waited thirty seconds, as long as I dare, and then I ran as well. All the way here.”

  “What was on the laptop?”

  “Everything.” He placed his hands on the table as an air of despondency fell over him. “I had dumped any incriminating files. It was part of our exit strategy, if we were ever discovered by the authorities. My friends, they thought Spitfire had returned to up the offer, but I was wary. Then he began shooting people. Killing my friends.”

  “You don’t want to get on the shitty side of Beowulf Caesar.” Acid sighed. “I should know.”

  He frowned. “Who are you exactly?”

  She glanced at Tam. “I’m an old friend of Spitfire’s. And I need to know where he is, where he’s staying. I want to kill him. That�
��s all. I don’t care about the Cai Moi, or you, or anything else.” She hammered her finger on the table, emphasising each word. “All I want is Spitfire Creosote dead.”

  Huy’s wan features looked more miserable in the candlelight. He glanced from her to his mother and back again. “I’m sorry, I cannot. That man is dangerous. If he discovers I have given him away, he'll come looking for me. Kill my mother too.”

  Acid leaned across the table at him. “Well that won’t happen. Because he’ll be dead. I’ll have killed him.”

  This time Huy did little to hide his sneer. “Forgive me, but if the mighty Cai Moi were no match for him, I don’t think you’ll be able to—”

  Before he had a chance to finish she was on her feet with both Beretta barrels in his face.

  “You were saying, sunshine?” She pushed one of the guns into the thin flesh of his cheek as beside her Tam began to wail softly in Vietnamese. A prayer, perhaps. Acid ignored her. “Look, I get it. You want to protect your mother. But maybe you should have thought about that before running off to join the circus. Are you aware your men were knocking her around before I stepped in?”

  There was a slight shift in his expression, a hardening of his eyes. "I was not happy with what happened,” he mumbled. “I did not want the others to know she was my mother, so I let them continue collecting from the bistro. But when I heard they had become rough, I was enraged. As you saw, those men regretted their actions.”

  "Yes, I did see that," she answered, nostrils flaring. "So the Cai Moi was your idea?”

  Huy slowly raised his hands, to try to move the guns from his face. She held her ground for a second longer, then lowered her aim, raising her eyebrows at Huy to continue.

  “Not at first. I was selling drugs, to get more money. Some Cai Moi soldiers found me on their turf and I was brought in front of the leader.” He looked at Tam as he spoke, but she didn’t meet his gaze. “I was terrified. I’d heard of the Cai Moi. We all had. Even then, in their infancy, they instilled fear in people. But it transpired the main man behind the scenes was my old friend, Le Ho.”

  In that second everything fell into place. The man Acid recognised at the warehouse, the second hood. The one Spitfire had used as target practice. He was the other boy from Vinh’s photograph. Le Ho.

  “We had lost touch. But back when we were close we’d talk often of revolution. Of creating a better city for ourselves. A better future. Le Ho was a passionate man, but he was driven by anger. He only wanted to destroy. But slowly, as we rekindled our friendship, I convinced him the Cai Moi could be so much more. He asked me to join him in his mission. So I did. I took over operations and we wrote a manifesto. It was me who had the idea to weaponise the data.”

  “But isn’t Vietnam a relatively decent and peaceful nation these days?” Acid asked. “What is there to rebel against?”

  “Everything!” Huy snapped. “We are a proud nation. But since the relaxing of communist policies, we see western influence everywhere. KFC, McDonalds, fucking Burger King. We need to take our country back. And no politician is decent. You must know this. You have to understand, our plan was to move the Cai Moi away from violence and crime. We dreamed of transforming the organisation into an underground resistance group. Multi-media activism on a large scale, to bring about real change for our people.”

  Acid returned to her seat. “All admirable, I suppose. But you’ve got to understand, Huy, that when you build allegiances with people who like violence, it’s rather hard to stop them being violent.” She rubbed at her eye, at the burning tiredness there. “One thing I don’t understand. Why did the Cai Moi guards at the factory tell us you were dead?”

  “This is our way,” he replied. “When you join the Cai Moi, you cut all ties with your past. Become known as The One. The person you were is gone. So, in truth, Huy Quan is dead.”

  Acid sighed. She knew how that went down all too well. “Well it’s a real bloody mess we’ve found ourselves in, isn’t it? If it wasn’t for you – Mr Weaponised Data – Spitfire wouldn’t be in Hanoi. And neither would I. And Vinh, your old man, he wouldn’t be lying in hospital.”

  Huy looked at Tam, then away. He mumbled something under his breath.

  “It’s time to start talking, Huy.” Acid leaned over the table. Enunciated each word. “Tell me where I can find Spitfire Creosote.”

  Tam stirred in her seat. She whispered to her son and the two of them spoke in Vietnamese. Acid held her nerve throughout. But time was running out. Another few hours, maybe less, and Spitfire would be on a plane out of here. After that he was in the wind and she was on her own. She could kiss goodbye to any further assistance from The Dullahan if she messed this up.

  Huy fixed her with a stern look. “If I tell you, please do not say it was me.”

  She bit her tongue. “I told you,” she said, her voice staccato-like. “I’m going to kill him. He isn’t going to hurt you. Or anyone.”

  Huy nodded. “Fine. He has been staying at the Sofitel Legend Metropole.”

  “You sure?”

  “I booked the room. But he has no more business here. He may have left already.”

  Acid got to her feet. “Which is why I’m going there right now.”

  She grabbed her jacket and pulled it on as she raced down the stairs and headed for the door.

  Through the café window she could see the day’s first light rising over the roof of the building opposite, casting the new dawn sky in a wash of rich oranges and deep fuchsias. It was set to be another beautiful day in Hanoi. And it was time to finish this.

  Forty-Four

  Spitfire leaned against the wet tiles of the shower cubicle and watched the pink water as it spiralled down the plughole at his feet. Once it ran clear, he straightened himself and turned his back to the powerful streams, enjoying the piping hot sting against his taut skin. Satisfied, he turned off the shower and stepped out onto a carefully placed bathmat to dry himself. He could feel his heart beating fast as he rubbed the warm towel down his torso. That was unusual for him but not entirely unexpected. He wasn’t getting any younger and the last hour had been spent rather strenuously. He paused from drying himself to rub the towel across the steamed-up mirror above the sink. Despite his wet hair, and his skin, puffy from the heat, he was pleased with what looked back at him.

  Whatever it was, he still had it.

  There were few fifty-one-year-olds who could single-handedly wipe out an entire criminal organisation. He ran his fingers through his hair and smiled at himself. His work here was done.

  And yes, his trip hadn’t gone entirely to plan. He hadn’t been able to secure the contract. But Annihilation Pest Control’s reputation was intact. They were still the deadliest and most un-fuckable-with criminal network in the world. So, good job, old chap. It was time to pack up his kitbag and return to dear old Blighty.

  Though as Spitfire was thinking this a sickening twinge twisted at his stomach. He had hoped as he’d heard the gunshots coming from the main warehouse that somehow they wouldn’t register in his psyche. That he could get gone and not have to think about what they meant.

  Because of course it was her. And he could have stayed, taken her out, put an end to this pathetic vendetta once and for all.

  So, why the hell hadn’t he?

  He wrapped the towel around himself and moved through into the main space of the hotel suite. His vintage Rolex in brushed gold sat on the bureau, along with his ruby-encrusted signet ring. He strapped on the watch and slipped the ring onto his right hand. The ring had belonged to his father and was one of those items you wore so often it became a part of you. Now, looking on it with fresh eyes, he remembered a time long ago. Acid lying beside him in the bed, her head on his on his chest, running a tender finger over his stomach. She’d been comparing their hand sizes, laughing at how small hers were compared to his. She’d tried to remove the ring but couldn’t pull it over his knuckle (he was a tad heavier back then – all muscle, of course). She’d asked him who�
�d given it to him and despite his training, despite the strict Annihilation code, he’d told her everything. He remembered it feeling like a weight off his shoulders, being able to talk to her about it. After that, they talked lots. Sharing secrets. Sharing everything. Until they didn’t anymore. But that was for the best, Spitfire knew. You didn’t get into this life for happy endings in suburbia.

  He walked over to the mini bar and yanked it open, dismayed to see it was empty.

  “Bollocks.”

  He needed a drink. A scotch or three. Enough to dilute these troubling thoughts so he’d sleep well on the plane home. He finished drying himself off, and had slipped on his underwear and a crisp white shirt when his phone vibrated on the nightstand.

  “Bollocks,” he snarled again, louder this time.

  He snatched it up and put it on speaker, threw it on the bed.

  “Is it done?” Caesar’s voice crackled over the line.

  Spitfire walked back to the wardrobe and selected a pair of pale blue trousers. “Affirmative,” he called over, stepping into the trousers and sliding them over his muscular thighs. “The Cai Moi is no more.”

  “Good work,” Caesar told him. “What about other chapters? I heard they were spreading out into different cities. Will that be an issue?”

  “Doesn’t seem to have got that far,” he replied, fastening the metal clasp on his trousers and zipping them up. Then he returned to the wardrobe and selected a teal suit jacket and tan leather belt. He lay the jacket on the bed and threaded the belt through the eyelets of his trousers. “You ask me, they put far too much focus on their branding. Yes, they had good ideas, but no real implementation. Bunch of amateurs. They’ve a whole factory devoted to making uniforms for an army that doesn’t exist yet. And don’t get me started on the bloody magic show. Kids today. It’s all style over substance. Not like the old days.”

  Caesar chuckled. “And what about the pest?”

  Spitfire froze mid-way through fastening his gold Walther PPK-shaped cufflinks.