The Acid Vanilla Series
Page 49
Behind him Spitfire scrambled to his feet, gun in hand. He fired a few shots her way but she leapt for cover, concealing herself behind a display. She gripped the handle of her remaining Beretta, readying herself for a reprisal, but Spitfire was unrelenting. Shot after shot pummelled the model prisoners providing cover. A large piece of fibreglass splintered off and sliced her cheek as a prisoner’s head exploded. She reached around the side of the display and returned fire, shooting blindly in Spitfire’s direction. But it was no use. She couldn’t get a clear shot. Dropping onto her stomach, she crawled around the other side of the display, but before she had a chance to retaliate Spitfire was up and stumbling out the door.
She scrambled to her feet and made to run after him. But moving to the door, she saw Huy stirring. Poor bastard, he wasn’t dead. She knelt beside him and assessed the damage. Spitfire’s hollow point round had bloomed like a chrysanthemum in the kid’s belly, shredding his guts like they were Playdough. He was in shock. Bleeding out. He had minutes, if that.
“Tell my mother I am sorry,” he groaned. “Tell her, I was trying to create something wonderful.”
Acid forced a smile. “She knows. She loves you.”
“Thank you,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “And make sure you kill that bastard.”
She didn’t need telling twice. She got to her feet, watching Huy as the last breath left him and his body went limp. Then she gripped the handle of the Beretta and took off after Spitfire.
The new day’s sun was filtering through the cracks in the old prison walls. Acid moved into the next room and saw Spitfire heading for the side entrance. She fired off a salvo of rounds, forcing him away from the door and into the belly of the prison. He returned fire for a second, but his gait was clumsy and his aim off. Moving swiftly but cautiously she trailed him as he staggered into the next room. Then an arm appeared, firing a flurry of shots in her direction. She dived for cover below the ticket office desk and returned fire.
“You’re done, old man,” she yelled. “Give it up.”
The shooting stopped. She waited. She got up and edged over to the doorway, peering around the side. A trail of blood spatter led down a long passageway which opened out into a bright room at the far end. It wasn’t part of the museum. Some sort of office space. With her body taut and senses alight, she stalked along the corridor until she got to the end. In the office a wooden desk faced the door with a dusty old computer sitting on top, and a row of metal filing cabinets spanned the adjacent wall. Scanning the perimeter of the room, Acid’s eyes fell on the emergency exit in the corner. She side-stepped over to it and bumped the central release bar with her hip. No joy. She tried again with her elbow. Same story. The door was locked.
Where the hell was he?
Breathless and confused she strode across the room, stopping in front of the desk. She narrowed her eyes, noticing droplets of blood on the surface of the table, on the computer keyboard too. It was wet. She snapped her head up to see a trapdoor in the ceiling with a thin leather thong hanging down. Holstering her gun, she climbed onto the desk. She had to jump for it, but on the second attempt she got her fingers to the strap and yanked the door open. Now, using the computer monitor as a stepping stone, she was able to get a hand either side of the hatch.
Taking a deep breath, she braced herself for the very real possibility of a bullet in the head and scrambled up into the cavernous roof space. She steadied herself and sat on the edge of the hatch to catch her breath. No bullet in the head. No sign of Spitfire. Although it was hard to see even a few feet in front of her.
The roof above sloped down on both sides but no floor to speak of, just thick wooden beams spanning the width of the building, wide enough to walk across. She squinted into the gloom. Fifty metres down on the left she could see a crack of daylight. A window of some sort. Getting to her feet she strode quickly from beam to beam and was over there in a few seconds. The light came from the surround of a small wooden shutter leading out onto the pitched roof. She eased it open, wincing into the bright sunshine.
The second she felt the hot sun on her face a bullet ricocheted off the slate tiles by her feet. She let go of the shutter frame and slid down the roof until her feet hit the level gangway running around the side of the building. As she righted herself she saw Spitfire’s head disappearing down the far side of the building. With the pulse in her neck throbbing, she ran over to the edge where she found a rusty ladder descending to the flat roof covering the lower levels of the museum. Spitfire was already at the bottom. He saw her and fired a few shots but the bullets whizzed over her head. As he staggered away, Acid noticed the red, sticky hand gripping the back of his head, the knife wounds in his side. He was stumbling all over. Seeing this once great man like this wasn't easy. But it didn't stop her closing one over the barrel of her gun and putting an expertly placed bullet through his right knee. The way he had taught her.
The broken assassin cried out as his leg buckled. But he kept going, dragging his shattered limb behind him. A second bullet took care of his left knee. This time he went down fast and heavy. She clambered down the ladder and watched him as he raised himself onto his elbows and tried to shuffle away. He fired a few more rounds her way but she didn’t flinch. He was done. The bullets went wide. She stalked him for a few more yards before she raised the Beretta and shot the SIG Sauer out of his hand. She didn’t mean to blow off his thumb and index finger as well, but he wasn’t going to need them. His killing days were over.
As she got closer, she could see how bad a shape he was in. But fair play to the man, he’d given it his best – the blunt head trauma would have finished off most people. He curled his lip at her. Grunted through the pain. Still playing the big man. He brought his bloody hand to his chest as she stepped over him.
“Do you remember you told me once I was your worst nightmare?” she asked.
Spitfire grimaced. Didn’t look at her. “Sounds like something I’d say.”
“Hearing that hurt me at the time,” she told him. “But you were correct. I am.”
Spitfire had shuffled himself to the edge of the building. He peered over his shoulder. It was a ten-foot drop to ground level. But where was he going to go? He had no knees and no weapon. Couldn’t fire it if he had one. He turned back to her.
“You can’t kill me. Not after everything we’ve been through. But what if I help you? I know where they all are. I can give you Caesar.” He spluttered the words out as she closed in, held his hand up. “We can do it together. Like old times. Me and you. We could start our own organisation.”
She curled her lip. “Nah. I’m done with organisations.”
“I loved you, Acid,” he cried. “I still do. I know you feel the same. What if—”
A sonic crack echoed through the morning air as she shot him through the heart. He stared up at her, his expression morphing from confusion to disbelief, to abject fear. His eyes bulged. His mouth sagged. Then all the air left him.
What if?
What if?
Acid bowed her head. Then she shoved the Beretta back into its holster, and walked away.
Forty-Nine
Tam was at Vinh’s bedside when Acid poked her head around the curtain two days later. Most of that time had been spent resting. Now, clean and fed – and with her injuries patched up thanks to some QuikClot gauze and duct tape – she was ready to say farewell. She’d already stayed too long.
“How’s he doing?” she whispered, moving further into the room.
Tam raised her head to greet her. Her eyes were red and her skin pale, but she smiled regardless.
“The doctors say he’ll be able to come home soon.”
“That’s good. He was lucky.” Acid perched on the end of a small wooden seat in the corner of the room. “And how are you?”
Another cheerless smile. “My heart is broken.”
“I understand.” Acid looked at her hands. “I’m sorry for my part in what happened.”
“You a
re not to blame,” Tam said. “Huy was a good man. But he made bad choices.”
“I know all about those,” Acid said, and sighed. “I think he got blinded by his own vision. Didn’t see what he was doing until it was too late. He was doing it for you. For a better life.”
“I know this,” Tam replied. “I hope it will help. But not now. It is too raw. I am too sad.”
Acid tucked her hands into her jacket pockets. “You’re a strong woman, Tam.”
“How else can I be? A part of me has died.” She gripped Vinh’s hand in hers. “But I will try and carry on. One day at a time.”
“All you can do,” Acid said. “It does get easier. If you want it to.”
Tam frowned but didn’t reply. She turned her attention back to Vinh. “He is distraught,” she said. “He never got a chance to be Huy’s father.”
Acid hadn’t wanted to leave without saying goodbye but being here now felt wrong.
“Huy knew you both loved him,” she tried. “Hold onto that. And he did the right thing in the end.”
She had called Spook once she got back to the hotel, had her hack into local and national police networks. All reports pointed to the Cai Moi being finished. Monday morning the museum caretaker had discovered the bodies of Spitfire and Huy and, helped along by an anonymous tip-off from Spook, the police had connected the deaths to the warehouse massacre. A rival organisation, the report said, although unofficial sources were already claiming it as the result of a covert government undertaking. Either way, Acid was in the clear.
“I wanted to say goodbye before I left,” she told Tam, getting to her feet. “But I’m due at the airport. Do you need anything before I go?”
Vinh stirred and opened his eyes. “Acid?”
“Hey, there.” She moved over to the bed. “How are you, soldier?”
“Tired. Broken. But alive.”
She gave him her most compassionate smile. It felt clunky. But sometimes clunky was all she had. “You saved my life,” she told him.
“I’m not sure about that. I was standing in the wrong place.” He let out a low wheezing laugh. It looked to pain him. “You got your man?”
“Yes. Thank you.” She glanced at Tam. “I’m so sorry for the toll it’s taken on everyone.”
Vinh closed his eyes. “These are sad times. But it’s not your fault.”
“I have to get going,” she said. “Thank you both, for everything, and I hope you find peace. Eventually.”
Tam gripped Vinh’s hand tighter. “We shall see,” she told her. “You have a safe journey.”
Once Acid had left the hospital, she pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. She had another call to make before she put this particular episode behind her.
The phone rang three times before The Dullahan picked up. “Bleeding hell. Acid Vanilla. I thought I was never going to hear from ya!”
Acid sighed. “Been busy. You know how it is.”
“You got the fecker, then.”
“You heard?”
“News travels fast in our world. You know that. Suffice to say the fat eejit is beside himself.”
Acid couldn’t help but smile. “I guess that puts a bigger target on my back.”
“You knew that’d be the case already. But don’t worry, if I get wind of anything important I’ll let you know.”
“I appreciate it, Dullahan,” she told him. “I owe you one.”
“Well that you do. And it’s Jimmy, remember.”
“Sorry.” She was never going to get used to calling him Jimmy. In the same way he wasn’t going to forget she owed him.
“What’s the plan now, lassie?”
“Got a flight back to London in two hours. After that I guess it’s back to my search for Caesar.”
“Good girl. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Acid hung up and walked the short distance back to her hotel to collect her luggage. It was true. The long-term plan was to find Caesar. Him and the remaining members of Annihilation Pest Control. But her short-term plan? That was much simpler. And it involved at least three decent glasses of something strong and tasty, and a long sleep on the plane home.
Back at the house a week later, Acid felt well enough to open up the tall wardrobe by the window. She stood in silence a few minutes, considering the seven bullets in front of her. And one in particular. She reached in and picked up the one with ‘Spitfire’ engraved down the side, rolled it in her palm. Standing here today, with her moods and hormone levels stable, it was hard to believe he was dead. That she’d killed him. Spitfire Creosote was no more.
A part of Acid Vanilla had died that day as well. But that was a good thing. We have to kill parts of ourselves for true growth to occur. She placed the bullet back on the shelf, laying it on its side
“Goodbye, Stephen,” she whispered.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the photo frame she’d had made that morning. She held it up, captivated by the happy faces of the people staring back at her. A young Alice Vandella and her mother, Louisa. She placed the frame on the shelf, alongside the bullets, and closed the wardrobe door.
Tam was right. Hate was too destructive an energy. It ate away at you if you let it. As Acid had come to terms with this realisation over the last few days, she’d noticed a shift in her motivation. She felt lighter. More in control. She didn’t know how long it would last, but for now she was enjoying the feeling. The knowledge that for once her path was a righteous one, even if it was destined to be dark and dangerous and incredibly bloody. Because whilst she’d learned to let go of hate, it didn’t mean she was any less determined. If anything, her conviction had grown stronger. Beowulf Caesar was going to die. If it was the last thing she ever did, Acid Vanilla would make sure of it.
The End
THE HUNT
BOOK 3
One
When ammonium carbonate gas is introduced to the delicate inner membrane of the nasal passage, it creates a reflex reaction. One of deep inhalation. As the lungs fight to clear the airways of this marauding foreign scent, breathing becomes faster, sending oxygen rushing to the brain and rousing consciousness. For this reason, ammonium, in one form or another, has been used for over two hundred years to resuscitate those in need. Boxers, fainting victims. But there are also other side effects. When the gas permeates the nose, the person will instinctively, reflexively, try to move away from the source of intense nasal pain – like you would if you put your hand on a hot iron – meaning the head will often lurch violently backwards.
So when Acid Vanilla smashed the back of her skull into something hard and metallic, she was unsure whether it was this that had woken her or the smelling salts. Either way, a second later she was fighting herself awake and gasping for air.
What in the name of bloody hell?
As her cognition grew and her awareness spread, a forceful pressure invaded her ears. She shook her head, a thunderous strumming sound filling the air, like industrial machinery on full throttle. It did nothing for the searing pain boring at her temples. She tried to sit up but her body was still in shock, the noxious, almost oppressive effects of the smelling salts mixing with the sedatives (Benzodiazepines? Barbiturates?) still circling the drain in her system.
She blinked into the gloom, sensing other bodies nearby, movement coming towards her. She widened her eyes, trying to focus as the conspicuous muzzle-tip of an UZI 9mm swam into view.
Well, shit.
Here we go again.
Acid traced her gaze along the barrel to take in the man standing on the other side. He glared down at her, snarling in the way a comic-book villain might do.
“Don’t try anything stupid.”
He spoke in an American accent but was possibly Taiwanese, or Cambodian. A safe bet said he was a mercenary. Behind him, Acid could now make out a low roof that curved over the other side of the room. Although, it wasn’t a room. It was the holding bay of an aircraft. That explained the noise. Explained the pr
essure in her head as well. Some of it, at least.
She cast her gaze around the space. It was an ex-military plane by the looks of it, the sort often used for dropping cargo or vehicles behind enemy lines. Long benches ran down the length of the plane on either side.
The man holding the UZI nodded at something over Acid’s shoulder and she turned to see another mercenary standing at the far end of the hold. A tall, muscular woman who had a look of the Middle East about her. Ex-Mossad, maybe. She held an M16 assault rifle at hip-height pointed Acid’s way. Behind her an open hatch revealed a rectangle of cloudless azure blue.
The woman raised her chin. “On your feet, bitch. Slowly.”
Acid flinched as an image flashed across her prefrontal cortex.
The kid.
She was tied to a chair. Her face bruised and bloody. Acid shut her eyes to better focus on the memory. On Spook. Despite the spit-soaked gag around her mouth she’d been trying to tell her something, mumbling desperately through the material, gesticulating as much as her constraints allowed. Acid took in a sharp intake of breath, remembering the sting as a sharp needle pierced the skin on her neck. The benign numbness had happened almost instantly, spreading through her body like a punishing tsunami as her legs gave way beneath her.
“I said, on your feet!” the mercenary growled, snapping Acid back to the present.
She did as she was told, her mind racing, looking for a reason, for a way out. If Beowulf Caesar was behind this, it was an awful lot of effort to go through to get rid of her. But then, if she was to be forcefully ejected out the plane like she suspected, no one would ever find her body. She’d literally be a drop in the ocean.
But why rouse her to throw her out of a plane?
It made little sense.
She glanced down the length of the holding bay and made a quick assessment. The mercenaries were standing far enough apart that even if she could overpower one of them, the other would take her down before she had a chance to move. She rolled her head around her shoulders and took a deep breath. An attempt to centre herself. Right now she couldn’t see a way out of this. But that didn’t mean all was lost. Even in the old days – back when Acid Vanilla was the highest paid assassin on Caesar’s books, and arguably one of the deadliest killers in the world – it was unlikely she stuck to a rigid plan. Unlike most of her colleagues (meticulous in the way they went about their hits), Acid preferred a more instinctive approach, trusting that when the time was right she’d know what to do. She’d never call her methodology ‘winging it’ like her detractors might have done, but it was certainly unconventional.