She had landed on her back. Unable to move. Fighting to breathe. A black veil seeping its way insidiously across her vision.
Sleep now, it told her. Be at peace.
Acid wanted nothing more than to shut her eyes and submit to the soft depths of unconsciousness, but the bats had other ideas. They screamed at her.
On your feet…
This is not the end…
This is not the end…
Easier thought than done. Acid turned her awareness inside, scanning her body. Nothing felt to be broken, but as she raised her head she saw the deep wound in her side, snaking around her torso like a cruel smile. The acknowledgement delivered an intense stabbing pain that crippled her. Her face ached from Karen’s boot. Her head throbbed, a mixture of dehydration and where she’d banged it on the ledge on the way down.
“Shitting-bastard-mother-Christ.”
She rolled onto her side and pushed herself up to a sitting position, before carefully peeling up her torn shirt and inspecting the damage. The branch had gone in just under her lower rib on the left side, torn a chunk of flesh two inches long. It looked worse than it was. But hurt more than it looked. She felt at the skin around the gash, couldn’t feel any foreign objects, but there was all sorts of dirt and bacteria in there. It needed cleaning out if nothing else.
With growing discomfort as more injuries became apparent, and with a lot of creative cursing, Acid got herself upright and on her feet. Slowly and painfully, holding onto trees to stay upright, she travelled deeper into the rainforest. As they’d walked along the shoreline earlier, she’d noticed a small stream that wound out from the trees and met with ocean maybe a kilometre away. Her only thought now was to find that stream. Hydrate her parched, broken soul. Clean her wounds. After that, who knew? One step at a time.
Broken, tired and sweating profusely, Acid lumbered on through the heady undergrowth. The close, sticky air more oppressive than usual, the flies hungrier. She swatted them away as best she could but soon gave up. Let them go to work on her. At least something was getting sustenance. Her eyes were growing heavier with every step. The deep slash in her side pulsated, as though pumping out gallons of much-needed life force. A few more steps and she stopped, removing her hand from where she’d been clutching at her side. The wound was still bleeding, but not as much as she feared. Over in the distance she could hear running water. Only faint at first, as though she might have imagined it, some kind of aural mirage, but as she carried on it became more apparent. The gentle bubble and gurgle of running water. Fresh water.
Lifted by the sound, she staggered onwards, bouncing from tree to tree as though in a pinball machine, but eventually finding herself at the side of the stream. She fell to her knees and leaned in, putting her entire face into the cool water. It roused her immediately. She came up for air, scooping handfuls of the refreshing liquid into her dry mouth. Once hydrated, she carefully removed her top and flushed out the laceration with the clean water. The pain took her breath away, but she kept on, pouring water into the cut until it was clean. Next she removed her bra and twisted out the under-wiring from the left cup. The metal wire was thicker than she’d hoped, but it was all she had. She bent it straight and then, squeezing the wound together with the fingers from her other hand, punctured the skin with the wire, shoving it firmly through both sides.
She screwed up her face. Leaned into the pain as she threaded the wire through and then bent it back over on itself before twisting the ends together. It wasn’t easy, especially with blood all over her hands and one eye swollen shut, but she managed to thread both pieces of under-wiring across the wound, creating rudimentary metal stitches. Not the best patch-up job she’d ever done, but these weren’t normal circumstances.
Hell, what was normal, in Acid’s world?
She leaned back and tried out the stitches, twisting at the waist and lifting her arm on that side. It hurt like hell, but they’d hold. Exhausted, she had another long drink from the stream before lying back on the soft ground. Strange beetles climbed into her hair, tiny feet itching her skin. She closed her eyes. Once the water had sufficiently revived her system, and the immediate threat of death had subsided, her focus spread beyond the moment, bringing with it a deeper pain. One of regret.
Spook.
How the hell was she going to get her back?
Of course, that question relied on the fact the poor kid wasn’t already dead. If she was… well… Acid didn’t want to consider that.
“Bloody hell,” she murmured to herself. “How are you going to get out of this one?”
Acid knew Spook blamed herself for them being here on the island (and in many ways she should; if she hadn’t gone looking for Raaz in some ridiculous attempt to reason with her, then none of this would have happened), but she had let the blame lie solely at the kid’s feet, and that wasn’t fair. Truth was, Acid blamed herself. Like always. (When you won’t accept help from anyone, who else was there to blame?) If she hadn’t been so bloody-minded about her vendetta, Spook would be safe and well. They both would.
She let out a deep sigh. Maybe it was time to give up. Stop the chase. Caesar wouldn’t stop looking for her until she was in the ground (and after killing most of his best operatives she couldn’t really blame him for that), but he was keeping it in-house, hadn’t declared open season on her. Whether that was out of deep-rooted loyalty or just him managing his brand, not wanting the world to know one of his best operatives had gone rogue, she wasn’t sure. But it meant she and Spook still had a chance to disappear. For good. They could change their names, move to South America. Start living life. In peace. Whatever that meant.
She tried to sit up, but the pain pushed her back down again and she let out a mournful cry. A wail of deep despair rising from the pit of her soul.
Because who the hell was she kidding?
It was over. She wasn’t going to South America, or anywhere. She was going to die here. On this island. Either from a bullet or an infected wound, but one way or another, Acid Vanilla was done.
Her mind drifted back over the last few years. To all the choices that had led her to this point. Perhaps it was time for her to go. She’d be doing everyone a favour, especially Spook.
Sorry, kid.
Acid’s heart sagged at the thought of her up there. What she was going through. She’d be terrified, of course. But the worst thing was, she’d still have hope. That was Spook all over. She’d be telling herself Acid was coming to save her. Only she wasn’t. She couldn’t even sit upright. She was broken and useless, and she’d let her friend down.
Her friend.
If she wasn’t already lying on her back, the words would have floored Acid. As it was, they just punched her heavily in the heart. It was the first time she’d thought of Spook as her friend. It was the first time she’d thought of anyone as her friend. Since she was a young girl at least.
She bit her lip and dug her elbows into the soft ground. With a grunt of effort, she pushed herself upright and looked around, seeing the area with renewed focus. Clenching her jaw through the pain, she got to her feet. First thing you do in the field when something unexpected trips you up: get off the X. Move away from the scene as quickly as possible. In high-pressure situations, standing still gets you killed faster than an infected wound.
A quick scan of her surroundings and an assessment of the morning sun’s position told Acid the shoreline was over to her right. A few hundred metres, give or take. Going up the mountain the same way as before seemed like her only option.
Brushing heavy leaves from her path, she headed towards the shore. She’d only been walking a few minutes when she entered a small clearing, surprised to see an empty jeep parked up along the side of a dirt track. She blinked, like a weary Bedouin mistrusting the sight of an oasis. But it was real, all right. What’s more, attached to the inside of the door on the passenger side was a green metal box with the white square and red cross insignia of a medical kit. Bandages. Stitches. Antiseptic spray. With a gasp o
f relief, she stepped cautiously towards the jeep. She had her hand on the door handle, ready to yank it open and grab up the box when she heard the snap of a twig. She spun around. Greeted with the sight of an immense man with blond, swept-back hair and an expression of pure hatred spreading across his tanned features.
“Wait,” Acid snapped. “Please, I can—”
The heavy butt of an AK-47 assault rifle connected with her jaw. She went down like a sack of shit, her head spinning with the force but remaining conscious. The man advanced and she shuffled away, scuttling backwards until her spine hit the wheel of the jeep. Nowhere left to go. She looked up into her assailant’s face as his thin lips twisted into a cocky sneer. He was wearing a black uniform with a red logo on the chest. Part of Engel’s security team.
“I see we still have vermin running around the island,” he snarled, in a thick Eastern European accent.
“Fuck you,” Acid spat.
“I don’t think so.” He knelt beside her, leaning in close. “You almost got lucky. The reports said all the prey was accounted for. I was doing one last sweep before the closing ceremony, and here you are. But maybe you are already half-dead though, huh?”
Acid turned her head, his rancid breath hot on her cheek. “Get it over with,” she rasped.
“Oh? We’ve got a tough one here.” He got to his feet, shaking his head at her prone form. “But I like that. It is much more enjoyable when the prey fights back. Or try to, at least. But you must realise by now. You don’t get to win at this game.”
Acid sniffed, tasting blood at the back of her throat. “Do it,” she whispered, keeping her head down.
“I’m sorry. The time for the easy option has passed. Stand up.” Acid didn’t move. The man stamped his foot, shouting now. “Stand up.”
“I’m not playing.” She glared up at him, her eyes wide. The bats screeched in her ears. “You’re going to have to kill me. So go on, do it.”
The man paused, a quiver of uncertainty playing across his brow. He raised the AK-47 and aimed it at Acid’s head. She closed her eyes and waited. It wasn’t the first time she’d been in this situation, but she couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt this helpless and hopeless. She’d heard it said that before you die your entire life flashes before you, and had often wondered what it felt like. She’d seen the terror in people’s eyes as she’d pulled the trigger herself. Never seemed like a pleasant experience. But now, lying here facing her own mortality, Acid felt nothing. The bats had deserted her and, in their place, a quiet stillness. It wasn’t unpleasant, just not what she’d imagined. She heard the trigger being pulled back. This was it. The end.
“Do it,” she repeated.
Do it.
Do it.
She wanted him to do it. It was all she wanted.
The wet spray hit her face a split second before she heard the gunshot. She opened her one good eye in time to see the security guard staring down at her with what might have been a confused expression. Difficult to put one’s finger on exactly what he was thinking, when the entire right-hand side of his face, from his temple to just below his lower jaw, had been blown away. He dropped the assault rifle to the floor and stumbled forward. Acid had just enough strength left to push him to one side as he collapsed on top of her.
From out of the trees’ darkness, a second man came forward. He glanced around the clearing before stepping over. “My name is Andreas Welles,” he told her, holding out his hand. “I’m on your side.”
Acid was dizzy with fatigue and pain. Her eyes closed of their own accord. She tried to open them again but couldn’t. “I’m done,” she told him. “Just leave me here. It’s over.”
“Not a chance,” he said. “You hear me? I know who you are, and I need your help. Because, miss, this is far from over.”
Twenty-Nine
The sound of a key turning in the locked door revived Sofia Swann from a fitful sleep. She sat upright on the large double bed in the corner of the room and rubbed at her eyes, surprised and rather annoyed with herself that she’d drifted off.
How in heaven’s name could she sleep?
At a time like this?
As the lock clicked open, she swung her feet onto the cold marble floor and looked around the room, shaking off the last fog of sleep from her consciousness. She’d slept in her clothes, still wearing the jacket Acid Vanilla had loaned her, but she had taken her shoes off. They were over on the other side of the room. A pair of Converse, once white, now caked in mud and algae. Probably the worst footwear one could choose for trudging through a tropical rainforest, but Sofia hadn’t intended on doing that when she got dressed three days earlier.
She hurried over and slipped them on before moving into the centre of the room, ready to deal with whoever was coming through the door. Those pricks from yesterday had been respectful, by and large, in so much as they hadn’t tried anything (after the short drive back to the resort, they’d brought her straight to this room and locked the door behind them), but that didn’t mean they weren’t coming back. She’d seen how the tallest of the three had been looking at her. Made her feel sick.
The door opened to reveal one of the guards, silhouetted against the stark white corridor. His huge hand gripped the arm of a small, sobbing figure, wearing thick-framed glasses and covered in dirt. With a squeal, she was shoved into the room and the door slammed shut.
“Spook?” Sofia moved over and knelt beside her. “Are you hurt? Did they touch you?”
Spook didn’t lift her head, hiding behind her bangs. She wept quietly before removing her glasses and rubbing at her eyes. A stream of tears cut through the dirt on both cheeks, like an inverse of the classic mascara run.
“Acid,” she wailed. “She’s… They…”
“Ah, shit. You mean she’s…”
Spook raised her head and met her eyes. “Kent Clarkson’s sister. She was a late sign-up or something. Wasn’t on the list. She tricked us. Kicked Acid off the cliff.”
“Oh babe, come here.” Sofia grabbed Spook and hugged her tight. It didn’t seem to do either of them any good, but it was what people did in these situations.
Jesus.
Like this was a situation anyone had ever had to deal with before.
But then, they had, hadn’t they? She and Spook were here precisely because the hunt existed, and had existed for many years. In the last decade, groups of rich men (and women, let’s be fair) had congregated on this island for the single purpose of killing other human beings. Bunch of sick fucks. Although even now, having been here since that first claxon horn sounded, having seen what she’d seen, it still felt too vile and surreal to be true.
“What are we going to do?” Spook sobbed. “We’re screwed.”
“We don’t know that. I met a guy out there. He’s a cop. FBI. He might still be alive. Hell, your girl might be too. She seemed tough.”
“She is,” Spook blubbed. “But not invincible. She’s only one person, despite what she makes out.”
“Got to have faith, kid.”
“You sound like her,” Spook said, attempting a smile through more tears. “You’re similar, you know that. Not just in how you look.”
Sofia smiled. “Not sure that’s a compliment, but thanks. So if you think that way, you know I’m tough, right? Brooklyn born and bred. I ain’t going down without a fight. Neither should you.”
But Spook was inconsolable. “There’s no way she survived that fall. She’s gone and they’re going to make us part of some horrible ceremony.”
Sofia gave up on the hug. “Yeah. I heard them talking about it when they brought me in. You know what happens?”
She shook her head. “Karen Clarkson said it’ll make me wish I was already dead.”
Sofia curled her lip to one side. That’s what she was afraid of. She moved over to the bed and considered Spook. With her torn clothes and face covered in mud she looked like a crazy woman. Her thick Asian hair was matted and damp, stuck to her face on one side.
“You want to clean up?” Sofia asked, nodding over to the door in the far corner. “There’s a bathroom and shower unit.”
Spook glanced over at the door but didn’t move. “What’s the point?”
“Might make you feel a little more human.”
“What, just in time for them to kill me like an animal?”
Sofia pouted. Fair point.
She wracked her brain, hoping some words of encouragement might manifest themselves, but nothing came to her. It would have been pointless anyway, as a second later a key turned in the lock and the door swung open. She hurried over to Spook as a short man wearing a cream safari suit and far too much fake tan marched into the room. Thomas Engel. Following on behind were three tall and muscular women dressed in white flowing robes. Two brunettes, one blonde. Each one exuded a serene beauty, but which clearly belied a cold cruelty. The effect was bizarre and jolting. No doubt exactly what Engel was aiming for. The blonde carried with her a small tablet, which she was already swiping at, engrossed in whatever was on the screen. The brunettes carried machine guns, held upright, close to their bodies. Once in the room they stood guard on either side of the door, staring forward.
“Good morning, ladies,” Engel purred, holding out his arms beatifically. “My name is Thomas Engel. Welcome to my island.”
“Fuck you,” spat Sofia.
“Oh dear. That’s no way to talk to your host.” He moved around the side of the women, making a show of looking them up and down. He stopped next to Spook and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Stand for me, will you?”
Sofia sneered. “You won’t get away with this, you piece of shit. I’ve still got the article saved on my cloud storage. If I disappear my fiancé will find it. You’ll be done for.”
Engel let out a low chuckle and walked over to stand beside the blonde with the tablet. “I see. You’re the journalist.” He turned to the women, speaking in hushed tones, but loud enough for Sofia to hear. “I thought these were both Luther Clarkson’s prey?”
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 66