Man.
The realisation hit Spook in the chest and she let out a soft gasp.
“You all right?” Will asked.
“Just sucks,” Spook whispered. “We’re nothing but animals to them. Part of their sick, pointless game.”
“Not entirely.” Will moved over to the far screen and brought up a new document. “I also found the guest list and did a bit of cross-referencing. Looks to me like every one of the targets has been picked because someone rich and powerful has a beef against them. See this scrawny dude, Edward Menks? A few years back Grace Philips there was a prosecuting attorney that sent the old guy’s son away for ten years. Tax fraud. Word is he was Menks’ fall guy. His own son. And see here, this guy, Julian Bannerman. He’s the legitimate face of a group of disaster capitalists whose database I recently wiped after finding a chink in their cyber-security.”
“Oh, shit,” Spook said, staring at the cold dead eyes of the man in the photo.
“Yeah. So I guess he’s here for me. Ain’t I lucky?”
“Don’t worry,” Spook told him. “You’re with us now. If we stick together, we’ll get out of this in one piece. Isn’t that right, Acid? Acid?” Spook spun around to find her staring at the screen.
“Stupid wanker,” she said. “Couldn’t leave it alone.”
“Who? What?” Spook followed Acid’s eyeline to the next photo on the guest list. A fresh-faced man with side-parted strawberry-blond hair. He didn’t look like a killer. Or even someone who enjoyed hunting. But then Spook’s eyes fell on the name.
“Luther Clarkson,” she mouthed. “Shit.”
“Yeah, I was about to tell you,” Will said. “Luther Clarkson is here. I believe you guys know his older brother Kent – ex-founder of Cerberix Inc. Ex-human being.”
“We didn’t kill him,” Spook said. “I know that’s what it says, but it was Acid’s organisation – ex-organisation.”
Will gave her a confiding smile. “Mr Clarkson is the guest of honour this weekend. He’s put up a ten million prize for the highest scorer.”
“Woah,” she exclaimed, watching Acid’s face illuminated in the glow from the screen. She hadn’t blinked in at least a minute.
“Small change to him, though, right?” Will continued. “Since he inherited his brother’s estate. Split between him and the younger sister, I believe.”
Spook nudged Acid, who was still staring at the photo of Luther. “This guy isn’t going to be a problem, is he?”
Acid chewed her lip. Spook tried again. “Acid?”
“What?” She shook away whatever thought had overtaken her. “I mean, no. Of course not. But we’re still up against it, so let’s not dawdle. How long until we can get a message out?”
“We should be inside any time now,” Will said, moving over to the far screen. He stopped. An intake of breath. “Shit!”
“What is it?” Spook cried. “Oh no. Where is that?”
A new camera feed showed three men with large hunting rifles entering a grove of leafy banana trees. With concentration knotting his brow, Will boosted the image to full screen and clicked through a couple more camera options, cursing under his breath as he went. He turned to Spook. His sleepy eyes suddenly awake with fear.
“They’re close,” he rasped. “Real close. We need to move. Now!”
Sixteen
Acid held the crossbow to her chest. She’d give anything for a handgun right about now. Nothing fancy, a light, dependable Glock would do it.
On screen the hunters were now moving apart, advancing on the cabin in a semi-circular formation.
“I can take these bastards,” she said. “You two make a run for it, I’ll hold them off.”
“I need to stay,” Will hit back. “Get the message out. It’s our only chance.”
“That’s crazy.” Spook grabbed him by the wrist. “They’ll kill you.”
“I’ll be fine,” he replied, followed by an unconvincing grin. “Look at these long legs. I can outrun anyone.”
“You can’t outrun a bullet.”
Acid was only half-listening. Moving fast, she turned out the box of supplies, pocketing a handful of protein bars and grabbing up the flare gun, a single-shot Very Pistol in bright red, and a couple of spare flares.
“How long do you need?” she asked Will.
He turned his attention to the screen, at the status bar slowly moving past seventy percent. Seventy-one. Seventy-two. “Five minutes?”
“Okay, here.” Acid handed him the flare gun. “Spook and I are going to slip out the side door, move into the tree cover. You get that, kid?” Spook nodded she had. “Will, the second we open the door, I need you to lean out and fire that flare gun directly at the nearest hunter. Once you do that, reload, same thing with the hunter on the far right – excuse the pun.” She glanced between the two computer nerds listening so hard neither of them even registered the joke. Tough crowd.
“A flare gun won’t hold them off,” Spook said.
“It’ll hold them off enough,” Acid told her. “Whilst this is going on, I’ll be taking them out, one by one. With the commotion and the smoke from the flares, I’m counting on them not realising what’s going on until they’re all dead.”
“You fired a crossbow before?” Spook asked her.
She shrugged. “How hard can it be?” Then, seeing the expression of fear clouding the kids’ faces, “Guys, seriously. This is going to work. Spook, when have I ever let you down before?”
“Never.”
“Exactly, so let’s show these sick fucks who the real ‘sorry embarrassment’ is.” She nodded at Will. “You ready?”
Will held up the flare gun. Holding it like he’d never held as much as a water pistol prior to today. Her heart sank, but it was now or never.
“Just point it in their direction and pull the trigger.”
“I got this,” Will told her. “Now go, they’re almost on us.”
Acid and Spook moved over to the door. A second later Will grabbed the handle and, stepping around the front of them, swung it open. With a yell, he put his arm around the side of the door and shot the flare at the nearest hunter. The second Acid heard the pop, she grabbed Spook’s arm and ran, pulling her out through the side door. Acid glanced over her shoulder, noting the positions of the three hunters as best she could through the fog of red smoke. Then she gestured to Spook and the two of them slipped into the undergrowth.
Staying in the trees and moving swiftly, the two women circled around the back of the cabin. Over to her left Acid could hear the hunters’ shouts, directing each other through the already dissipating smoke. Will hadn’t managed to take any of them out with the blast, but that didn’t matter.
“Time to see what this cumbersome thing can do,” she muttered to herself, coming to a halt behind the sinewy trunk of a tall eucalyptus tree and hauling the crossbow up to her eyeline. She scanned the area, finding her first target: a fat middle-aged man with a bright pink face and a flabby paunch hanging over the waistband of his too-tight chino shorts. This was Julian Bannerman, she realised, Will’s disaster capitalist nemesis. She watched as he got nearer to the cabin, more hesitant now, but with no less impetus.
“Come on, Will,” Spook murmured over her shoulder.
Her finger quivered on the trigger. Bannerman was still in her sights. The second Will fired the next flare she’d administer the steel bolt, straight to the temple.
The cabin door swung open and the hunters opened fire. The bats screamed across Acid’s nervous system. Invisible wings fluttering against her heart. She held her ground.
One second.
Two seconds.
Another pop and the scene erupted with red smoke, the second flare bursting out from the cabin. It struck a tree and landed in front of the three hunters. As it hit the ground, Acid pulled the trigger, delighting at the sound. A vicious twang followed by the heavy thunk of metal splitting bone. Through the red mist she saw Bannerman drop to his knees and slump forward like a
culled bovine.
“Good shot,” Spook stage-whispered. “One down.”
Acid shot her a look. “Yes, and two to go, so calm down will you.”
Before the smoke cleared, she dropped the end of the crossbow to the floor and stepped on the cocking stirrup. Using both hands, she wrenched the rope back onto the firing mechanism and slipped a new bolt in place. Then, moving as silently as possible, only slowing briefly to check Spook was close, she continued on her trajectory, stopping at the edge of the clearing where she had a clear shot. Without too much thought she raised the crossbow and took down the second hunter with a perfect shot to the back of the head.
Two down.
One to go.
As the smoke from the second flare died away, Acid could hear the remaining hunter. “Are you men okay?” he yelled, in a pompous British accent. “Bannerman? Fisher? Can you hear m— Bloody hell!” He’d just seen the bodies. Quick as a flash, he moved to the side of the clearing, aiming his rifle into the undergrowth. “Who’s there? Show yourself, you coward.”
Acid hurried around to the side of the cabin, concealing herself amongst a patch of ferns. The leafy fronds brushed against her forehead as she knelt and lifted the crossbow for the final kill. The man was now moving around the space, leading with his hunting rifle. He seemed more angry than scared. He was in his fifties, thin but with bulbous cheeks that, coupled with his round glasses and piggy eyes, gave him the air of an overgrown schoolboy. Acid narrowed her gaze, vaguely recognising him as some figure in British government. Acid didn’t follow politics. Never had. As far as she was concerned, they were all as bad as each other and voting only encouraged them. But the presence of this pink-cheeked muppet here on the island didn’t surprise her one bit. She’d done enough hits over the years for the so-called good guys to know – there were no good guys.
She closed one eye over the barrel of the crossbow, lining up the shot. The man (Graves, was it? Michael?) was standing side-on to her just a few feet away. She could hear the awkward wheeze of his breathing as he peered into the jungle. A quick glance at the cabin and the door was shut. Will safely inside. The bats screeched their approval. They’d done it. Now all that was needed was for Acid to wrap this up and get them somewhere safe.
She moved her focus back to Graves. A throat shot, she was thinking. Straight through the jugular, let the miserable fucker bleed out for a minute or two. It wasn’t a pleasant way to die. Horrible, in fact. But right now the bats were running the show. And they wanted blood. They wanted carnage.
Acid held her breath, readying herself, but before she had chance to even reload a fourth man stepped into the clearing. He was tall and slim with a shock of red hair and a self-important expression reminiscent of his brother. Luther Clarkson. He was accompanied by a weaselly little man who was hunched over a tablet, frantically tapping at the screen, and two much larger men dressed in combat fatigues and carrying military issue Sig Sauer MPXs. Acid stole a look at Spook. The kid’s mouth was hanging open.
“What are we going to do?” she whispered.
Acid didn’t reply. Truth was, she didn’t have a clue. But she had to do something, and fast. Will was a sitting duck in that cabin. She leaned the crossbow against a tree. Even with time to reload she only had one bolt left and any shot would only reveal their whereabouts. She closed her eyes. Will still had one flare left. Could he see what was going on? Would he know what to do?
“One of them is in the cabin,” Graves was telling Clarkson. “But there’s someone in the trees too. They let off a smoke-screen, took these chaps out in the hubbub.”
Clarkson gave the man a vague nod, before turning around and gesturing to someone out of view. Acid strained to see.
“What’s going on?” Spook asked.
“Not sure. Just stay down.”
But there was no time left. A second later Clarkson stepped forward, hoisting an MK153 anti-tank assault weapon onto his shoulder. A wide grin spread across his face.
“A rocket launcher?” Graves gasped. “What the hell are you going to do with that?”
“I’m going to have some fun,” Clarkson bellowed. “Going to blow up these cretins.”
Spook stifled a yelp as Clarkson aimed at the cabin and pulled the trigger. A loud bang reverberated around the trees and the cabin exploded in an eruption of fire and splintering wood. Exotic birds of many colours burst out from the trees as if from nowhere, filling the skies as they fled the harrowing sound.
“Will,” Spook mumbled, as Acid flung a hand over her mouth, pulling her close.
Thick black smoke vomited out of a large hole in the front of the cabin, spiralling up into the pure blue sky. Acid held the young American to her chest. The blast had blown the roof clear off the cabin. Through the smoke and rubble she could see the interior was completely decimated. No one was walking out of that alive.
“Come on,” she hissed, backing away into the depths of the jungle. “There’s nothing we can do for him.”
“But…”
“Spook, we have to go.”
She grabbed the kid’s arm and yanked her forward. With the hunters’ self-congratulatory cheers echoing through the trees, they picked up the pace and got the hell out of there.
Seventeen
Luther Clarkson handed his new toy back to one of the security team and surveyed his handiwork.
“Any survivors?” he called out to Jerry, his assistant-come-manservant-come-whipping-boy.
Jerry, standing in front of the large hole in the cabin, shook his head. “Not a chance. But I’m afraid to say it, I don’t think you took out your top scorers.”
“What the…” Luther exclaimed, striding over there and shoving Jerry out the way. He waved at the smoke drifting up from the glowing remnants and peered into the gloom. It was a real mess. Bits of machinery, lumps of concrete, a pair of Nikes in one corner. But as the smoke cleared, he saw one of the sneakers still had a foot inside, half a calf bone sticking out the top. “Goddamnit. Who was this?”
“I believe that there is William Foster,” Graves said, joining Luther at the side of the ruined cabin. “Bannerman’s contribution to the weekend. An activist hacker type. Been a real annoyance for quite a few of my acquaintances the last year or so.”
“Ah, gee. And they got Bannerman. That sucks,” Luther growled, not looking at Graves. “Still, one dead loser, right?”
“Absolutely. Excellent work.”
Luther turned and walked away. “Was he a good score?” he asked Jerry scurrying along in his wake.
“Not too bad,” the assistant replied, scrolling down his tablet. “Twenty-five thousand. But I’m hearing reports now that Menks is dead. So that puts you back joint top.”
Luther stopped by the side of the souped-up golf cart he’d arrived in, parked a little way from the edge of the clearing. “Menks is dead?” he mused. “How the hell did that happen?”
Jerry frowned at the screen, skim-reading while he spoke. “The report from the clean-up team mentions one of the prey getting hold of a rifle.”
Luther took a deep breath, casting an eye over the area. He didn’t like the sound of this. Engel had assured him, assured them all, there would be nothing and no one to fear on the island. That killing these meddlesome bastards was like shooting babies in a barrel. “I thought each rifle was personalised.”
Jerry nodded, still hunched over the tablet. “Yes. Doesn’t say how they did it. But it’s certainly a concern. Especially with the two – your two – targets still unaccounted for…” Jerry trailed off, more than aware how he would react at the mention of those awful women.
He wiped the sweat from his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You think they did this? Killed Bannerman?”
“I don’t know, sir. But they have form. My take is we get back to the resort, pronto. See what Mr Engel and Mr Caesar have to say.”
Luther considered this for a moment and then called out. “Hey, Graves, I’m heading back. You want a lift?”
<
br /> Graves, still picking through the remains of whatever was left of the cabin, looked over and held up a melted flare gun. “No thanks. I’ve got it in me now. I’m going to carry on the hunt for a while longer. I’ll see you back there later.”
“No worries.” Luther clambered into the golf cart. “If not tonight, I’ll see you tomorrow. The closing ceremony already. Time really flies when you’re having fun.”
Graves waved them away as Luther started the engine. He could feel one of his migraines coming on but he was damned if he would let it slow him down. Once Jerry was in the back seat, he turned the cart around and headed for the dirt track leading back to the resort complex. He needed some reassurance. Because whilst Luther enjoyed playing the tough guy, he was feeling uneasy. He’d come here, to this sweltering oasis, for one reason only. To kill the bitches who destroyed his brother. And to do so in the most sadistic and painful way possible. Only, with one day left to hunt, that had yet to happen.
He parked up outside the impressive main entrance of Engel’s resort complex and hurried up the wide, marble steps, taking them two at a time.
“Where are we going, sir?” Jerry snivelled as Luther swung open the large glass door and marched through the entrance hall.
“Engel?” Luther yelled into the ceiling, aware the host had cameras and microphones everywhere. “Engel, I need to see you. Now.”
Luther crossed his arms and waited as Jerry hopped from foot to foot. As usual, the pathetic cretin had nothing to offer but conspiring glances and a camp shrug of his shoulders. To take his mind off the blinding pain spearing him between the eyes, Luther cast his attention around Thomas Engel’s vast vestibule. The entire space had been rendered entirely in cream marble, with two enormous chocolate-brown leather couches over in the far corner. Scattered haphazardly over the cold, marble floor were ten white tiger-skin rugs. Engel had delighted in telling his guests how one of his rugs, the largest one, had once been the last white tiger living in the wild. Bagged by Engel himself, apparently. Although Luther wondered if that was a little poetic licence on the host’s part. It wasn’t that Luther Clarkson didn’t trust Thomas Engel, as much as he didn’t trust anyone. His therapist called it ‘severe OCD linked to past trauma’, but as usual Luther dismissed the claim as horseshit. Quite simply, no one got the job done as effectively as he could himself. Which was why it irked him to think of those damn women still running around on the island. He should be the one to take them down. He’d paid a lot of money for the privilege.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 59