“Mr Clarkson?” a shrill voice chimed across the room. Luther looked up to see a tall woman with blonde hair scraped back against her head, and wearing a long white robe. She smiled politely, revealing two rows of perfect white teeth. “My name is Fallon. Follow me, please, I shall take you to Mr Engel’s suite.”
Luther replied with a curt nod of the head before turning to Jerry. “Go to your room,” he told him. “I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“Yes sir, and don’t worry. We’ll get them. You’ll get them.”
Luther shot him a wink that immediately felt awkward and only exacerbated the migraine. Punctuating it with a forced cough, he followed on behind Fallon as she led him through to the far side of the entrance hall to a steel-fronted elevator.
“How are you finding your stay?” Fallon asked, as they waited.
“Just fine,” Luther replied, letting her friendly, slightly flirtatious demeanour drift over his head. “I have a few concerns that I’d like to bring up with Mr Engel. That’s all.”
“Of course,” Fallon cooed. “I’m certain he can put your mind at ease. Ah. Here we are.” The elevator doors opened. Fallon leaned around the side of the door and pressed a button on an internal panel. “This will take you up to Mr Engel. The elevator opens up directly in his suite. He’s expecting you.”
She stepped aside, brushing her breast against Luther’s arm. She smelt of cinnamon and cocoa and the entire experience turned his stomach. Without another word, he stepped into the lift and stared blankly out as the doors closed and the chamber rocked into life. He used the short journey up to try and reset. He closed his eyes, channelling the deep rage into something more accessible. Like many younger siblings, Luther had grown up in his big brother’s shadow. But that hadn’t stopped him looking up to him a great deal. No one would ever have called them close, but that wasn’t the point. No one would have called any of the Clarkson family close. But Kent’s death (his murder, why not call it what it was) had hit Luther hard. The thought of those two women still alive tightened his jaw. But it was all still to play for. He’d get his revenge. That was inevitable. The hunt might not currently be going the way Luther had intended, but one thing about Engel’s island, it sure was a great leveller. It didn’t matter whether you were a trained killer, a Navy Seal, or Chuck Norris, without a weapon you stood no chance. The ridiculously named assassin and her pathetic friend were dead women walking.
The thought buoyed Luther. He opened his eyes as the steel doors of the elevator slid open to reveal a huge open-plan room walled entirely of glass and looking down on the tropical rainforest below. Pain Island.
“Luther, my man,” a voice rang out. “Good to see you. Come. Join us.”
It was Engel, reclining on a large black leather couch over on the far side of the room. In fact, most of the décor in the suite was black, the enormous desk that looked out over the treetops, the thick shag-pile carpet. Sat opposite him on a matching black couch was Beowulf Caesar.
“Been having fun?” Caesar growled as Luther sauntered over and perched on the end of the couch. “A shame Acid swerved the old rocket launcher. But don’t worry. You’ll get her.”
Luther chewed on his lip. Still unsure of this Caesar character. After the mystery surrounding Kent’s murder, Luther had hired a glut of private detectives to find out the truth. One name kept coming back to him. Beowulf Caesar, founder of Annihilation Pest Control. Luther had never heard the name before, but a little more digging told him they were best in the world if you wanted rid of someone without it touching you in any way.
“Here you are, son,” Engel purred, handing Luther a glass half-full of amber liquid (or maybe that should be half-empty. Luther hated whisky. Hated all alcohol). “A fifty-one-year-old Macallan.”
Luther sniffed the foul-smelling drink. Shrugged. He kept his eyes on Caesar; him grinning back, raising his glass once more. No, there was something not right about him. And it wasn’t just the fact he was a pumped-up queer. A British one at that. The worst kind. Even in that first meeting with him, when Luther had demanded an explanation about his brother’s death, he could tell Caesar was playing with him. He’d been apologetic of course, profusely so, insisting he’d done everything he could to help Kent. But then he’d dropped the bombshell. That it was his ex-operative Acid Vanilla who had killed him. He followed this by explaining to Luther how he desperately wanted to make amends and would be open to an idea. That’s how Luther had first heard about the hunt and Caesar’s plan for those who’d hurt his family. But at a price, of course. Luther had only been a billionaire for a short time, but he’d already had it spelt out to him many times. When you played ball with powerful people, there was always a price.
“How you doing, son?” Engel asked, sitting back down and throwing over a lugubrious look. “You seem a little tense.”
“I am tense, quite frankly,” Luther replied, putting his drink down. Swallowing his frustration. “I’ve paid a lot of money to be here. Put a big investment into the prize fund. And for that, I expected to bag those bitches myself. Just a little perturbed they got away today. Makes me concerned.”
Engel frowned. “Why so?”
“I was informed that the prey were all sitting ducks. Yet I also hear from my assistant we have targets going rogue, guests being killed. Fuck. Someone took out Cornel Fisher and Julian Bannerman just now. And I hear Menks is dead. How do you explain this? Killed by sitting ducks, were they?”
Caesar chuckled to himself over the rim of his glass. “Don’t bother yourself with all that, sweetie,” he mused. “The important people are still here. Aren’t we? And Tommy here has a narrative for the deaths, I’m sure of it. I mean, come on. Menks was about a hundred years old.”
“Don’t call me sweetie,” Luther replied through gritted teeth. “And I’m glad you find this funny. But I’m here for one reason only. To avenge my brother. To kill those women. And that hasn’t happened, and it now sounds like the hunters are becoming… you know…” He trailed off, steering away from the cliché.
Engel sat upright. “I’m a little insulted you think I don’t have this in hand,” he said sharply. Standing, he moved over to the side of the room and looked out through the glass. The sun was now on its decline, casting the late afternoon sky in glorious hues of lilac and fuchsia. “This isn’t the first time we’ve had issues on the hunt, Luther. Accidents happen. You all signed the same contract, I’m sure you read the small print. The deaths of our guests will be handled professionally and the circumstances surrounding their demise will die with them. Mark my words, one doesn’t run a grand scale event like this for over a decade and leave anything to chance.”
“What about my prey?” Luther asked. “They need to pay for what they did.”
“And they will,” Engels said, turning from the window. “But believe me when I say, if they survive until tomorrow, they will meet a fate much worse than you could ever offer them.”
Luther picked up his drink. Tried it. Regretted it. “How do you mean?”
“At first light my dedicated security team will do a sweep of the island, capturing and detaining all the remaining prey and bringing them here for the closing ceremony.”
Luther sniffed back. He had been wondering, having heard rumours of the infamous ceremony. He placed his drink down and took a deep breath. Not being the one to kill his brother’s murderers wasn’t the way he wanted this to play out. But whatever way they went, it still was a result.
“Will they suffer?” he asked.
“Categorically,” Engel purred. “Believe me, the best hunts are always the ones with a few prey left for the ceremony. Hell, we want survivors. It’s much more fun that way.”
He raised his glass, breaking out into a malevolent laugh that skirted far too close to hackneyed movie villain.
“Fine,” Luther concurred. “We’ll play it your way.”
“Good lad,” Caesar said, slapping him on the thigh. “You won’t regret this. It’s going to
be a bloody riot.”
Luther sat back, smiling to himself now, his migraine beginning to fade. He gazed out onto the island as the hot afternoon sun disappeared behind a row of palm trees. So, not the desired outcome, but a better one perhaps. This time tomorrow Acid Vanilla and Spook Horowitz would be dead. One way or another, Luther would get his revenge.
Eighteen
If Acid turned around she could still see thick black smoke spiralling into the sky from the burnt-out cabin. Poor bastard. Didn’t stand a chance. None of them expected some sicko with a rocket launcher to turn up, of course, but she couldn’t help thinking, could she have played that better? Was she even doing any good? The list of people in her immediate vicinity who’d been hurt or worse recently was getting longer. This was why Acid worked alone. Preferred to, at least.
But on they both went, heads down, even Spook keeping good pace as they penetrated the murky refuge of the rainforest. Acid’s thighs burned with fatigue and her chest was tight with exertion, all exacerbated by the close, sticky atmosphere. But they couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not until she was certain they were safe.
Along the way, thick hanging vines slowed them down, as well as a gigantic buzzing cloud of black flies that got caught up in their hair and flew into their parched mouths. Palm fronds sprang out from the undergrowth like green demon fingers, scratching at their exposed skin and tugging at their damp clothes.
They’d been running through the dense jungle for ten minutes or more when Acid heard a familiar cry and spun around to see Spook sprawled on the ground, gripping her leg.
Shitting hell.
Not the time, kid.
“What is it?” she asked, going to her.
“My ankle.” Her face contorted in a grimace. “I tripped over that damn root over there.”
Acid touched her hand to Spook’s ankle, ignoring her pained protestations. She felt around. It didn’t seem broken. “Can you walk?”
Spook tried putting her weight on it. More cries. She shook her head. “Can we rest? Please. I think it’ll be okay if we take five.”
Acid breathed heavily down both nostrils, scoping out the area. Back the way they’d come were thick leaves and heavy tree cover. In front of them she could make out the edge of a low ravine.
“We can rest here a while,” she whispered. “We’ll shelter under that rubber plant over there. Can you make it?”
Spook took in the enormous plant a few metres away, a look of dread scrunching her button nose.
“Here, hold on to me.” Acid scooped her head under Spook’s shoulder.
“Acid, wait,” she grumbled. “It hurts like a bitch. I think I’ve sprained it.”
Acid laid her down gently beneath the rubber plant. The ground here was soft, recessed into a small basin where they could lie down. Above them leaves as big as golf umbrellas sheltered them from the late afternoon sun.
“This’ll do,” Acid said, lying back and pulling out two protein bars from her pocket. “Here you go. Energy.”
Spook accepted the bar and the two of them ate in silence for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the jungle: the gentle chirp of various insects accompanied with the occasional squawk of a Macau. It was almost relaxing. That was, until the ugly sound of a faraway gunshot pierced the calm.
“What if I can’t walk?” Spook whimpered. “That’s me done for. I’ll never survive this horrible island if I can’t walk. I’m screwed.”
Acid tensed, fighting her own instinctive response as Spook fought back tears. She closed her eyes as the silent sobs rocked the ground between them.
“You will survive this,” she said firmly.
“H-How do you know?”
“Because you’re with me. And because we know who we’re up against now and we will not let that pathetic prick win.” She turned her head to look at the kid. “And because you’re a lot tougher than you give yourself credit for.”
Spook wiped a hand across her cheek. “You really think that?”
Acid resisted an eye-roll. Why was there always a follow up question? Why couldn’t Spook just take the compliment and have done with it, she knew empathy and care weren’t part of her wheelhouse. She might have hung up her assassin hat, but she was struggling to fit into the role Spook wanted of her. That of a concerned citizen, a compassionate friend.
“Yes. I do,” she replied. “But you need to help yourself a little too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
This time she couldn’t suppress the eye-roll.
Spook clocked it. “Hey. I’m trying my best here. I know this is all my fault, but I said I was sorry, and I was only trying to… trying to…” She erupted in a flurry of tears, making Acid tense up even more.
“Don’t, Spook.” She placed her hand on the kid’s arm. “I don’t blame you. Okay? I mean, yes, you should never have gone after Raaz on your own. But I’m not pissed off with you. Shit happens.”
“I didn’t want you to kill her,” she wailed. “She’s not like the others, Acid. She’s just Caesar’s tech-person. She’s not a killer.”
“Isn’t she?” Acid leaned back, brushing a low-hanging leaf from her face. “You ask me, she’s as responsible as all of them. She has to die.”
“Is this what your mum would want?” Spook asked. “Risking your life? More killing? More death? Why can’t you just move on? Let it go.”
She glared at the young American. “Let it go? Let it go?”
Spook stared back. Her eyes grew wide. Her mouth quivered.
Acid held onto her resolve for as long as possible, but it was slipping. “Fuck off. I know I sound like what’s-her-name from bloody Frozen! Concentrate, will you?”
But it was too much. The tension was broken. A second later, they both burst into silly, giggly laughter that lifted the mood and for a brief interlude made everything feel okay.
“I’m sorry,” Spook gasped, as more tears gushed down her face. “I wasn’t making light of it.”
Acid composed herself. Nodded. “It’s fine. I get it. But to answer your question, no, I can’t let it go. Because it’s not just about my mum They betrayed me. Tried to kill us. On at least three occasions. I can’t let them live after that. Any of them. It’s a principle thing.”
“Principles? Wow.”
Acid sat upright. “You don’t think I’ve got principles?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well, you kind of did.”
Spook chewed her lip. “I know you have principles. It’s just you seem to fight against them constantly. Like you don’t want to admit you care about anyone. Like with Sofia back there. I had to beg you to help her. Yet you care. I know it.”
Acid hugged her knees. “I haven’t forgotten she’s got my jacket. If I don’t get that back, Spook, I swear I’ll—”
She froze as the sound of a claxon echoed through the trees. It was far away, but the tree cover made it impossible to guess how far.
“What does that mean?” Spook whispered.
“Not sure.” She squinted up through the trees. The sun had completely disappeared over the horizon, but dusk was still a way off. She turned to Spook. “How’s your ankle?”
Spook sat up and bounced it gently on the floor a couple of times. “A little better.” She scrambled onto her feet, crouching under the leaves. “Still hurts, but I think I can walk on it. If we go slow.”
“I think we should keep moving.”
“What the hell are we going to do, Acid?” Any humour was now absent from her voice. Her tone was soft, quiet. The sound of defeat. What Acid wouldn’t give for the heightened panic of a few minutes earlier. Manic energy. It was what she knew best.
“Don’t give up, kid,” she told her. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to like it.” She reached down and scooped up a large handful of soft mud. As she talked, she daubed it around her face, down her arms. “We’ll wait for nightfall, then I say we move
on the complex, get inside somehow. There’s got to be weapons in there. Weapons we can use. We can take them out one by one, easier in a place with corridors and corners.” She grabbed up another handful of dirt and shoved it at Spook. “Here, we need camouflage if we’re to get near.”
Spook accepted the lump of black clay-like mud, staring at it suspiciously. She removed her glasses and tentatively applied a stripe of mud under each eye. Looked at Acid. “What?”
“For Christ’s sake. This isn’t a Hollywood movie where the pretty girl roughs it but only gets a little dirt on her face. You have to slap this shit on.” She snatched the mud from Spook’s grasp and pushed it into her face, smearing it across her forehead, down her cheeks, in her hair even. Spook squirmed and screwed her eyes shut, holding her breath as Acid applied the mud to her lips.
“Done?” she asked, placing her glasses back and pressing them down into the mud covering her nose.
Acid scoffed. “Kind of loses something with the specs, but you’ll do.”
Spook tried her ankle again. “What now?”
“From my reckoning, the complex is a good hour or two that way,” Acid said, gesturing over her shoulder. “We’ll take it slow. You ready?”
Spook nodded. “Just one thing.”
“What now?”
“Do you really think I’m a pretty girl?”
Acid glared at her. “Don’t push it,” she snarled, but glad to see Spook’s mood had improved. For what came next, she needed her upbeat. Needed her ready for action. She turned and set off walking the way of the ravine. “Come on, GI Jane,” she called after her. “These billionaires aren’t going to gruesomely slaughter themselves.”
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 60