The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  Acid quickened her pace. A few yards in front, the ferns opened out to reveal a large rock formation with a ledge that jutted out over a small clearing.

  “Over there,” she whispered, ducking behind the last of the large ferns and pulling Spook to her. “By the far side of those rocks. Two guys and a girl. Do you see?”

  Spook narrowed her eyes. “Not really. What are they doing?”

  “Nothing good, kid.”

  From what Acid could tell, the men (two of them, possibly those who were shooting at them earlier) had bound the woman’s hands to an exposed root that stuck out of the rock formation above her. She looked to be in her late twenties and was wearing tight blue jeans and a dark hoodie, ripped under the left arm. Despite the heavy mascara tracks running down her cheeks and her dark hair stuck to her face, she was clearly attractive, with a good figure. The men obviously thought so. The way they were prowling around her, sizing her up, stroking her face, it made Acid sick. Made her blood run cold. It didn’t help they were both over six foot, well-built too. Dressed in full army camouflage. One of them, the blond-haired one, even had war paint on his face. Yet no amount of dress-up could disguise the fact they were city boys. Acid couldn’t make out exactly what they were saying, but she caught the accents. American. New York, possibly. A couple of classic Gordon Gekko devotees. Acid held her nerve as the dark-haired one got up close to the woman and grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks together so she’d look at him. He leaned in and kissed her forcefully on the lips, his friend falling about laughing as the woman cried out. She got a slap for that.

  “Pathetic pricks,” Acid mouthed, digging her fingernails into her palms until her knuckles cracked.

  “We’ve got to help her,” Spook whispered.

  Acid sighed. “They’re armed. We don’t stand a chance.”

  The kid curled her lip. “Are you serious? You’re going to let them rape her?”

  “We can’t save everyone,” Acid rasped back. “It’s rotten, I know. But we have to think of ourselves.”

  “Are you for real?” Spook was adamant. “We have to help her. Please.”

  Acid fell silent. This was a suicide mission. But then again, weren’t most of the things she got herself into? And here she was, still breathing. Just about. For now at least. She narrowed her eyes, scanning the area.

  “Up there,” she whispered, gesturing at the overhanging rock. “See that boulder a little way back on the ledge, about as big as a football? You reckon you can get up there and move it?”

  Spook looked. “I can try.”

  “You’ll be all right,” Acid said, looking her up and down. “Take it on a wide arc. Stay out of sight. But if they hold their position, I reckon the blond one is in the perfect spot for you to go Lord of the Flies on his arse.”

  The kid sucked in her top lip. Didn’t get the reference.

  “Drop the rock on his head.” Acid sighed. “Do you think you can manage that?”

  Spook closed one eye and gave an unconvincing nod. “What about you?”

  “I’ll move around the perimeter. Get a bit closer. Once you’re up high, I’ll move in on the other guy. If we strike them both at the same time we might pull it off. You ready?”

  Spook’s voice cracked. “Now?”

  Acid looked over as the woman screamed again. The blond guy had undone her jeans and was working them down her thighs.

  “Yes, Spook. Now.”

  She gave her a gentle push and waited as she scurried off through the flora, approaching the ledge in a wide arc as instructed. Although it had to be said, Spook’s take on what ‘wide arc’ meant was a little extreme. But she was scared, being cautious. Eventually she reached the bottom of the steep incline where the ground rose up to form a flat roof over the jagged rocks. Once she got there, Acid set off, moving swiftly and stealthily through the trees, staying low until she was in place behind a low rock a few feet from where the dark-haired man was standing. He had his back to her, but she could now hear the conversation.

  Again, nothing good.

  “Come on, Lance,” he sneered, slapping his buddy on the back. “Let’s get this party started. Get our first points in the bag.”

  “Calm it down, Riggs,” the blond one – Lance – snapped back. “I want to enjoy this. I’ve been going through a dry spell lately.”

  To her credit, the woman still had some spirit left. “Fuck you,” she spat, as the men closed in. “Just get it over with, needle dick.”

  She was another New Yorker, her accent easier to place. Refined, but with a distinct Brooklyn twang. She gnashed her teeth at this Riggs as he approached her undoing the thick leather belt on his trousers. Up on the overhanging ledge, Acid spied the top of Spook’s head. She’d made it up there at least, but if she made a noise, or that rock fell in the wrong spot, they were all screwed.

  Acid got to her feet as Spook rolled the rock to the edge of the overhang. Their eyes met. Acid raised her hand. Gave the kid a curt salute. Then, as Spook pushed the rock over the side, Acid leapt forward. She was on Riggs in three steps. Another leap, and she was on his back, one arm around his throat and the other around his head, legs tight around his waist. He yelled out, surprised, but less so than his buddy Lance, who a second later had a large rock dropped onto his skull, killing him instantly.

  The woman screamed.

  Riggs dropped his rifle and twisted around, striking out with his elbows, to shake off his unknown assailant. “Get the hell off of me. Lance?”

  He punched over his head, but Acid dodged the blows and tightened her hold around his neck.

  “Acid?”

  It was Spook. She’d climbed down from the rocks and was holding Lance’s rifle. She aimed it at Riggs’ chest.

  “What shall I do?”

  “Dumb bitch.” Riggs gasped, fighting to breathe. “Go on. Shoot me. See what happens.”

  “Do it,” Acid yelled. She let go of Riggs and sprung from his back, pushing away as she did so to put space between them. “Shoot him.”

  “I’m trying,” Spook cried. “It’s jammed or something.”

  Acid scrambled over and grabbed for the rifle dropped by Riggs. Lying back on the soft jungle floor, she aimed at his head and pulled the trigger. Nothing. She tried again. Same story. A useless click-click-click sound. She looked at Spook. Looked at Riggs.

  “Help me,” the woman screamed.

  Riggs rubbed at his neck. “You killed Lance. You’re going to pay for that.” He straightened himself and advanced on Spook, grabbing the rifle from her with one hand and delivering a vicious backhand with the other. The force knocked Spook’s glasses off, and she stumbled to the floor.

  Resting the rifle over his shoulder, Riggs turned to Acid, looking her up and down with a lewd sneer.

  “You’re the Cerberix bitches, right? Shit, man. You’re big scores. Damn.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Acid asked.

  Riggs sighed dramatically. “You’re Acid Vanilla, yes? Your catalogue photo does not do you justice, baby. Wow. Almost seems a shame to kill you. But that’s the game. I’d rather get my score up than my dick wet.” He handled the rifle, aiming it at Acid’s head. She didn’t move. Riggs laughed. “Oh, you think it’s bust? Nah. Works just fine. They all do. Just not for the prey.”

  Acid frowned. “The prey?”

  “That’s you. The one about to get that pretty head blown off.” He adjusted his grip on the barrel as Acid homed in on his trigger finger. Pre-emption was her only chance. But a split second either way and she was dead. The bats screamed in her psyche. Every nerve tingled with energy.

  Go left, her guts told her.

  Go left.

  Time slowed down like it often did in these situations. Enough that Acid could almost see things before they happened. Riggs tensed his finger on the trigger. Her fate was sealed. The gun fired, piercing the air with a loud crack.

  Spook screamed.

  Riggs stumbled forward with a loud grunt. />
  Acid snapped her head up to see the woman, still hanging from the root had swung her legs up to kick Riggs in the back, sending his shot into the sky.

  That was all Acid needed.

  Twirling the broken rifle around to create a makeshift club, she ran at Riggs, smashing the heavy wooden butt into his jaw and knocking him unconscious. She stood over him, gave him another smack around the head for good measure.

  “Is he dead?” Spook asked, appearing alongside her.

  “Not sure,” Acid said, heading for the jungle. “But let’s not wait around to find out.”

  “Wait,” the woman yelled. “You’re not leaving me tied up here?”

  “Acid?”

  She turned around to be met with a disappointed scowl courtesy of Spook. “Fine.” She walked over and worked on the thick knots around the woman’s wrists. “But you can’t come with us. I’m sorry.”

  “Excuse me?” the woman spluttered.

  “Yeah, what?” Spook spluttered. “We should stick together.”

  Acid shot her a look. “The more of us there are, the easier it is to find us. Plus, we can’t afford to get slowed down.”

  “Hey, Joan Jett,” the woman said. “I don’t know if you recall, but I just saved your freakin’ ass back there. That prick was going to blow your brains out.”

  Acid finished with the knots. “I had it handled.”

  “Is that so?” the woman replied, rubbing at the raised red whelts on her wrists. She reached down and pulled up her jeans. “And who are you? Super Woman?”

  A shrug. “Something like that.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” the woman muttered, shaking her head and doing her belt up.

  “Hi, I’m Spook,” Spook cut in, holding her hand out. “Spook Horowitz. This is my friend, Acid Vanilla. She’s all right, I promise. She just takes a little getting used to.”

  The woman stared at Spook like she was speaking an alien language. “Spook Horowitz? Acid Vanilla? What is this, some kind of joke?”

  “No joke, sweetie,” Acid replied. She picked up one of the rifles and examined it. “And only one of those names is made up. I’ll let you decide which.”

  “And you are?” Spook asked.

  The woman considered the question, no doubt weighing up how much she should say. “Sofia,” she replied, all spit and consonants. “Sofia Swann.”

  Acid stuck out her bottom lip. “Good name. Okay, Sofia Swann – you’re free. I suggest you head off that way and keep your head down.”

  Before Acid had even finished speaking she sensed the response. Spook was now staring at her, open-mouthed, as though she’d just told this annoying Sofia chick to fuck off and die.

  And she hadn’t. She was only thinking it.

  “Please. She has to come with us,” Spook said, staring at Acid in that way she did. As though trying to implant her own thoughts into her head. “Safety in numbers. Isn’t that what they say?”

  Acid went to reply, but pulled it back. No point arguing with Spook when she was like this. She’d just whine and complain and make Acid want to slap her again. Besides, maybe she was right. Maybe another set of eyes and ears would be helpful.

  Acid nodded at Sofia. “You want to come with us?”

  The question elicited a fleeting shrug. “It’s that or take my chances with lover boy over there.” She gestured to Riggs who was beginning to stir.

  Acid walked over to where he was lying and swung the rifle butt at his head, knocking him out cold.

  “All right, fine,” she said, straightening up. “Stay alert, stay quiet and do as I say. First things first, we need to find out how to get these rifles to work. Then we need to know who’s behind this, and why we’re here. The sooner we know that, the sooner we can work out how to get off this damn island.”

  Seven

  But Sofia Swann already knew the answer to most of Acid Vanilla’s questions. She knew exactly why she was here and who was behind it. She even knew where the island was. One of two privately owned landmasses smack-bang in the middle of the Indonesian Ocean. Each one around ten thousand acres or sixteen square miles. Big, but not huge. The owner of both islands was one Thomas Engel, a multi-billionaire hedge-fund owner, originally from Boston, now based in California, Paris, the Maldives. You name it, he had a place there. Sofia knew all this because for the last six months she’d been working on a hard-hitting exposé of the semi-retired playboy billionaire. Or more importantly, the kind of activities he got up to in private. Rumours had long since thrived between those in the know about his secret islands and what went on there. The story goes that Engel had won them in a card game with a Saudi entrepreneur in the late eighties, and since then had spent millions of dollars transforming them into high-end recreational facilities, to be utilised by his wide-reaching social circle of the rich and powerful. Those happy to pay millions of dollars for a few nights on the islands. Such was the experience on offer.

  Sofia had been getting close, too. Two months earlier she’d been put in touch with a source who seemed legit. An ex-employee of Engel’s who – with a little coaxing and promises of anonymity and a decent pay check if her claims could be proven – agreed to go on the record. The woman, Catherine, had confirmed to Sofia that the rumours were true. Told how she’d worked as an assistant to Engels back when he was setting them up.

  The dream was to create an experience for his guests that they could get nowhere else. Something truly unique. The fact that these experiences were widely considered unlawful, ungodly and unhuman, mattered not to Engels who considered himself on a higher plane, unfettered by the constraints of polite society. The way he saw it, Catherine had told Sofia, morals and laws were for people stuck in the old world. His vision was for something brand new and pioneering. Twin islands. Havens. Exotic playgrounds where those unencumbered by ethics and morality could live out their basest desires.

  And that’s exactly what he did.

  Over the next ten years Engel had pumped millions into creating his mythical islands. One based around pleasure. The other pain. No prizes for guessing which island Sofia had found herself on after being drugged and bundled into a van forty-eight hours earlier.

  She’d almost got him, too. The piece was written. A two-thousand-and-sixty-six-word exposé on Thomas Engel’s elicit empire. Covering everything: trafficking of underage girls, links to the last three sitting presidents and the British royal family, not to mention the Albanian mob and the Taliban. Even now, after everything that had transpired, Sofia couldn’t help feeling a little ashamed she’d not had the courage to go for the big coup de grâce. She’d believed the stories. Started to, at least, the more she’d heard about Engel. But in the end she’d left any mention of Pain Island out of the piece, concentrating instead on the more salacious and illegitimate goings-on over on its sister island. It all just seemed too implausible. Too hard to get one’s head around, that people would really pay money to do that sort of thing in the name of sport and recreation. Made her sick. But now it made her more sick that she’d left it out.

  Back in the jungle, Sofia unzipped her torn hoodie and flung it into the bushes with a shudder. She’d been handling herself well enough, right up to the point those bastards had jumped her. She shuddered at the thought. Their hands on her. If these two weird chicks hadn’t turned up when they did, she’d be dead right now. Or at the very least, wishing she was. She pulled at her Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt, peeling it from her sticky torso. The sun was on its descent, the air growing cooler as day merged into dusk, but it was still damn hot. It was the humidity that got you. That and the bugs. Creepy crawlies. She hated the outdoors. She was a city girl, Brooklyn born and raised, with an attitude and a mouth that often got her into trouble. But never anything like this.

  She spun around and walked backwards, taking in the two women trailing behind her. The small nerdy one with the glasses was whispering animatedly at her slightly taller and much ruder friend who, despite the attitude, was a good-looking woman. Or w
ould be, Sofia mused, if she ever cracked a smile. But then as Sofia watched her, she rolled her eyes in a way that was all too familiar. What was it Mike called her? The queen of the eye-roll. Maybe that was it. She’d met her match. Still, you didn’t need to be an investigative journalist to figure out this Acid character was not happy about her tagging along.

  Well you know what? Screw you, honey. Makes two of us. But right now, we’re all we’ve got.

  Sofia’s hope was they’d reach the shoreline before encountering any more of Engel’s cronies. Catherine had told her the islands were unreachable by large boat (something about submerged sand dunes in the surrounding oceans; Engel and his guests always arrived by helicopter), but she had also mentioned in passing that staff moved between the islands on rowing boats.

  “You guys all right?” she shouted over at her new companions.

  “Of course. We’re having a wonderful time,” Acid replied. “Best holiday ever.”

  “Funny girl,” Sofia muttered to herself, turning back to lead the way. “Just what I need right now. Some good old British cynicism.”

  Over her shoulder she heard Spook going for it again with the urgent whispering. Perhaps she was telling her friend to play nice, because a minute later Acid called out. “Hey, do you have any idea where you’re going?”

  Sofia raised her hands, palms up. “Not really. But I figure the deeper we go, the more leaf cover, the less chance we have of being found so easy.” She stopped, serious-face on. “I’d suggest we find somewhere safe to hold-up until it gets dark. Then we move towards the shoreline. We can trace around the island. Hopefully find a boat.”

  Acid stuck out her bottom lip. Was she impressed? “Not a bad plan,” she mused. “You’re sure there are boats?”

  “Pretty sure. Yes.”

  “Unguarded boats?”

  Sofia resisted an eye-roll. Settled for a heavy sigh. “We’ll find out. Won’t we?”