“I’ve not seen or heard from her,” he said, keeping his tone in check. “All I can think is she’s bottled it. Gone dark.”
“Mmm.” Caesar made a low grumbling noise down the line. He didn’t sound convinced.
“I’ve got a flight out of here in four hours,” he went on, changing the subject before the boss could respond. “I’m heading back to London first, then I’ll take the job in Zurich if Magpie hasn’t already. The atomic scientist. That good for you?”
Caesar cleared his throat. “Fine. Speak to Raaz when you get back. I’m going to be otherwise engaged for the next two months. Kenya, then Beirut.” He let out a laugh. Happier now. “It’s all bloody go, isn’t it? Talk about getting what you wish for. Okay, my friend, we’ll connect soon. Safe journey. Oh – and Spitfire?”
“Yes, Caesar?”
“Just so we’re clear. If you had run into our mutual friend – you wouldn’t have had any problem disposing of her, would you?” His voice dropped, sounding more sinister than usual. “Because dark or not, I still want the crazy bitch eradicated. In the most despicable way possible. Is that understood?”
Spitfire finished with his shirt cuffs and buttoned up the front. “Of course, boss. Goes without saying. After I take care of the job in Zurich, how about I arrange a meet-up with Magpie and Raaz? Plan our move?”
Caesar sniffed back loudly. “Yes. I like it. And when you find her, make sure she suffers.”
He raised his chin and did up his top button. “Got it.”
“Good man. Bye for now.”
The phone went dead. Spitfire slipped on the suit jacket and snatched his phone from the bed and wallet from the bureau. He gave himself a quick once over in the mirror and checked his watch: 6.30 a.m. A wonky smile cracked his face. He’d had several good reasons to insist on this particular hotel, and the twenty-four-hour bar was up there. With an hour to kill before the airport, and an intense desire not to be alone with his thoughts, it was essential. He brushed a piece of lint from his shoulder and headed for the door.
As the assassin rode the lift down to the hotel bar, he made a pact with himself. One drink. Maybe two. But that was all. Enough to centre himself. A sandwich too would be good. He’d swallowed a couple of Modafinil and some B12 pills along with a protein shake a few hours earlier, but some actual sustenance would do wonders. As the elevator pinged its arrival at ground level, and the doors opened to reveal the open-plan foyer, he was feeling good about himself. A few drinks, a bite to eat, and then a long sleep on the plane. By the time he touched down in Blighty he’d be refreshed and rested, able to put this whole trip behind him.
Despite his size, despite his age, and despite his carefully managed persona, Spitfire had a spring in his step as he strutted into Le Club and headed for the marble-topped bar. So what if he’d had a slight wobble? It was only natural for him to be unsettled, considering their past. He wasn’t a psychopath. Far from it. He’d done the test, many times. So screw her and screw his stupid feelings. He’d gotten the job done. He was still an elite killer. Still the best of the best. Still—
Shit!
He stopped in his tracks.
Sat on a high leather-backed stool, and leaning seductively against the bar top, was Acid Vanilla. In front of her was a large gin martini. Two olives.
What the fuck else.
She saw him at the same time he saw her – reflected in the mirror behind the bar. A look of bemused recognition spread across her striking features and she turned to better acknowledge him.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she purred. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Forty-Five
The Le Club Bar of the Sofitel Legend Metropole was a vision of beauty. It looked expensive and smelt it too – the mahogany wood and dark leather conjuring up an atmosphere of aristocratic smoking rooms or a 1920s speakeasy. Beyond the bar was a row of perfectly set tables, complete with crisp white tablecloths and polished silverware. Beyond those, French doors hung open, overlooking the glorious hotel garden courtyard. Despite the early hour, the sun was already making its presence felt, warming the greenery and pitching rich floral scents into the room. The fact Acid was perched at the bar sipping at an ice-cold and perfectly made martini while other guests would soon be arriving for breakfast bothered her none.
Acid turned her full attention back to Spitfire. She wouldn’t have put him in those pale blue trousers, but other than that he looked good. Sharp. Not that she’d expect anything else from Mr Sensational. Once again, she was reminded of how odd it was she’d fallen for this man. With his neat hair and obsessive attention to detail, he was so unlike what she’d thought her ideal man to be. Acid had a punk-rock heart. She liked men with messy hair and scruffy clothes. Or so she thought.
Spitfire was still standing there, gawping.
“Are you not going to join me?” she asked, patting the stool next to her. “One drink. No harm is there.”
She turned to the stoic barman, doing a sterling job of ignoring the palpable tension in the air. “Can my friend here have an Old Fashioned, please? Made with a single malt. The most expensive you have.” She glanced back at Spitfire. “That’s right, isn’t it?”
He let out a low growl as he swung one leg over the stool and sat. He faced forward, not looking at her. “That’s right. Two chunks of ice. Lemon peel, not orange. Unwaxed, if you have it.”
The barman bowed his approval and scurried off to prepare the drink. Spitfire turned to her. Arched an eyebrow. “So, here we are. Like old times.”
“Wonderful, isn’t it?”
He narrowed his eyes at her. The small wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were more pronounced. But if anything they made him more handsome. The bastard.
“How do you see this going?” he asked, laying his forearm elegantly on the padded surround of the bar top.
“Haven’t got a bloody clue. But after the last few days I needed a proper drink.” She put her hand on his thigh and opened her eyes wide, giving it the full bit. “What a lovely hotel you’ve chosen, by the way. Mine is nowhere near this fancy. But to be honest, I’ve hardly been there the whole trip. You know how it is.”
She took another long drink. It was going down too well. With no sleep and the manic bat energy at fever pitch, a few drinks could send her over the edge.
So, how did she see this going?
What if they said, screw it? Ran away together. It could be easily done. They could live abroad. South America, say. Somewhere hot. Where nobody knew them. Where they could be together…
Well, shit.
She’d been spiralling again. It happened.
She barked out a cough, an attempt to bring herself back to the present. As her awareness snapped together, she clocked Spitfire’s expression and he looked away, shaking his head.
“What the bloody hell happened to you?” he mumbled.
“How do you mean?”
“You had it all. Riches. Purpose. Prestige. You were the best female assassin there’s ever been. Some said.”
She sniffed back. “Drop the female.”
“Excuse me?”
“Drop the female. The best assassin there’s ever been. No caveat.”
He laughed, but it wasn’t his usual laugh. More bitter. Nastier. But then, Acid knew, perception was everything.
He tilted his head her way and whispered, “Four hundred and seventy-three.”
“Kills? Bullshit.”
He nodded proudly. “No. That’s a fact. What you on?”
“Never kept count.”
“No. You never did, did you? But numbers don’t lie, Acid. Facts don’t lie.”
She hit him with a side-eye. “I hope you’re not counting the Moscow job in that number.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
She swivelled on her seat so she was facing him. “Come off it. We’ve been through this. It was me who took them down. A perfect head shot to Lebedev and then a classic zipper up Smirnov as he ran away.”
“Smi
rnov?” Spitfire frowned. “He was called Ivanov, I’m sure of it.”
“Whatever. My kills.”
“You’ve drunk too much Smirnov, if you believe that.”
“Wow. That was lame, even for you.” She shot him a sarcastic smile and took a gulp of her martini. “But if it means so much to you. Jesus. You take them.”
“I bloody well will!”
Acid leaned forward as their eyes met. In that instant, the years fell away. She was back in his arms. Back in his big brass bed in his old flat in Whitechapel. She breathed him in. Same scent as always.
Shit.
“All in the past. Isn’t it?” She sat up. Moved away. “No point going back over the numbers. Four hundred and seventy-three, four hundred and seventy-one – still impressive either way. What a clever boy you are. So scary too. And manly with it!”
Spitfire let out a laborious breath. Him letting her know he was staying calm, rising above her teasing.
“You still haven’t told me,” he said. “Why throw it all away?”
The barman sauntered over and made a show of presenting Spitfire his drink - placing down the heavy-bottomed glass and twisting it around so the lemon peel twist sat at two o’clock. When he left once more, Spitfire took a long drink before pulling a face. Meaning it was a good cocktail - though not the best he'd ever had. He put the glass down and considered her once more, waiting for an answer.
“I ask myself the same question,” she told him. “I don’t feel like my feet have touched the ground since I killed Barabbas Stamp..”
“Barabbas, Hargreaves, Banjo,” Spitfire mused. “And now Davros too. Bloody hell, Acid, when you say it out loud, does sound kind of crazy. Surely you can appreciate Caesar’s stance.”
Acid tensed. “He killed my mother. She wasn’t a part of this.”
Spitfire sucked air through his teeth. “Yes, but he had to send a message. You know he did.” He went quiet. His head bowed. Then without looking at her, he added, “You know I wasn’t there that night, don’t you?”
The words hit her in the chest and sent her heart racing. She’d wondered every day since it happened. Spitfire didn’t have any reason to lie about it.
She drank the rest of her martini. “Doesn’t change anything,” she said. Her voice was quiet. The quivering nervous energy spurring her on a few minutes earlier had dropped like a lead weight into her stomach. “Everyone has to die.”
He nodded along. But asked, “Why?”
“If I don’t kill you, you’ll kill me.”
“Who says?”
“Caesar says. You know he does, you silly sod.”
Spitfire baulked. She turned away.
Bloody hell. Silly sod?
The playful words hung in the air, taking them back to a time when it was normal for her – only a few months into her twenty-second year and much less jaded - to try to rile her handler with spirited banter.
Spitfire cleared his throat. He’d sensed it as well. He gulped down the rest of his drink and chomped an ice cube between his back teeth.
“Walk away,” he told her. “Now.”
“I can’t. I’m sorry.” She turned to him and their eyes met. “I’ll make it quick.”
“Is that so?”
He pointedly raised his hand and peeled open his suit jacket, revealing a SIG Sauer strapped under his arm.
Acid stuck out her bottom lip and opened her jacket to reveal the two Berettas. She pushed her tits out too – no harm in reminding the flash bastard what he’d given up. In turn he hit her with a crooked smile. The one he knew sent her wild.
“It seems we’ve both come prepared.”
“Appears that way,” she said. “But not here.”
“God no. How gauche.” He tilted his head and rested it on his hand. Another rich smile cracked his perfect face. “You ever wonder what life would have been like if we weren’t who we were? If we didn’t do what we do?”
She shrugged, chewed her lip. Of course she’d wondered. There hadn’t been a month gone by in the last twelve years where she hadn’t wondered.
“No point thinking like that,” she told him.
“Such a shame though.”
“You dumped me.”
He frowned. “Not how I remember it.”
“Yeah, well you remember it wrong.”
“I did love you.”
A hot shiver shot up her spine and down each of her arms. The sensation wasn’t unpleasant, but it wasn’t welcome either. “Fuck you,” she whispered.
He sneered. “Not right now. I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Haven't we all, sweetie?"
“Why are you here, Acid?” he asked, leaning into her. “What do you hope to achieve?”
“I told you, I wanted a decent drink.” She watched the barman as he lifted a tall champagne flute from the sink under the bar and examined it closely. He’d been listening to their conversation, she knew it. But so what? “And I guess I wanted to see you again, Spit. Face to face. One last time. To make sure.”
“Make sure of what?”
“That I was ready to kill you.” She glanced at the barman. He didn’t flinch. “That I’ll be able to do it when the time comes.”
“I see. Well don’t spoil it for me. I’d rather not know.” He shot her a cheesy grin, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. “But if I had to bet on it? Hmm. Tricky one. I mean, you’re clearly pissed off. And you are… were rather tasty when you wanted to be. But then there’s what happened in Germany.”
“A mistake,” she spat. “A blip. Believe me, it won’t happen again.”
Spitfire pouted his lips. “Can you confidently say that about yours truly, though?” He leaned in further, his voice low and deep. “Think about it, Acid. All those nights. We shared so much.”
“Screw you,” she snarled. “People change. Seeing you now, I feel nothing. Davros was harder to kill than you will be.”
He chuckled joylessly to himself. “You always were a real flirt. But don’t worry, I know what you really think.”
He lifted his hand to her face and held her chin in his palm. His thumb traced down the side of her face. Then before she knew what was happening, he was kissing her. His lips lingered on hers. Soft, but firm. The right amount of moisture. Like she remembered. She closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh as he moved his mouth into the curve of her neck. His warm breath tickled at the fine hairs on her cheek as his lips caressed a path to her ear.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, each consonant popping in her ear canal, sending shivers through her body. "So, Acid. Darling. Let this be a fucking warning."
Something hard dug into her stomach. Below the ribs. And as Spitfire slid from his stool, an intense vibration overtook her from head to toe. As though the Incredible Hulk had grabbed her by the shoulders and was shaking the life out of her. The pain was excruciating. She thought she was going to piss herself. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. All she could do was ride it, as every muscle in her body went into seizure.
Then as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
She slumped on the bar, gasping for air as the world swam back into focus. She was on her feet in an instant, her hand straight inside her jacket, reaching to draw.
Shit.
Apart from the barman – who was now cutting up lemons with his back to her and oblivious to the attack – the room was empty. Spitfire was gone.
“Shit. Shit. Shitting shit.”
Cursing herself for being so stupid, Acid picked up the martini glass and flung the olives into her mouth. She chomped the salty orbs down in one bite then pulled out her phone.
“Are you near a computer?” she snapped before Spook had a chance to say hello.
“Umm, yeah, I’m sat at my desk. Why? What’s up?”
Acid hurried towards the exit as the barman shouted something after her. She hadn’t paid. No time. She ran through into the main foyer of the hotel, barking instructions down the phone as she went
, giving Spook the name of the hotel, the street they were on. She pushed through the revolving door and exited into the warm Hanoi day. The street was long, with main thoroughfares intersecting at both ends. She glanced left and right. No sign of him.
“Can you find a feed? Anything?” she asked.
“Maybe, Acid. But it’s going to take me a few hours at least.”
She gasped. “Spook, I need this now.”
“I got lucky last time,” she whined. “But what you’re asking takes time. It’s not like in a movie where I bang in some code and get straight into a secure network.”
“Fine.” Acid got to the roadside and scanned the area. In front of her was a large roundabout where five roads met. In the middle of the circular plinth arising from the long grass was a 3D advert for Vietcombank. Big enough to climb on and tall enough to provide a decent view. “Listen, Spook, it’s fine,” she rasped down the phone. “I can take it from here.”
She hung up before Spook could answer and skipped over the road, dodging through a bustle of bicycles and mopeds as she went. Her legs were shaky after the Taser attack, but she reached the roundabout unscathed and clambered up the side of the structure.
“Come on, you bastard, where are you?”
She squinted into the against the dust thrown up by the heat of the morning sun, casting her eye down each street, searching for a shock of dark-blond hair amongst the blacks and browns of the locals. The streets were already full of people, but it didn’t take long for her to spot him. When you were a good six inches taller than everyone else around, you did kind of stick out. He was two hundred metres or so along the street in front of her, moving in the manner of someone trying to run away without drawing attention to themselves. He ran some more, then slowed his pace, then ran again, shoving past those who got in his way. She watched as he crossed the street and disappeared behind the International Centre.
“Got you,” she sneered.
She clambered down off the structure and gave chase. He wasn’t getting away from her this time. Up ahead was the sprawling construction of the Plaza shopping centre. She crossed over the street to get a better view. He was still in sight, his suit jacket flapping dramatically in his wake. Another hundred yards and he passed the Cartier showroom before disappearing down the side of the mall. She was closing in. A minute behind him now. She had no plan what to do when she caught up with him, other than an untainted desire to remove him from existence. If it had to be here, on the side of the street, so be it. She’d take her chances with the authorities. Right now her only focus was on catching him. Spitfire Creosote. Mr Sensational. The flash boy who broke her heart twelve years ago. She had him in her sights. She was ready.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 47