Was that…?
She narrowed her eyes.
“This is the sort of Paris day you dream about,” Spook was saying. “Like an old movie. Paris in the Fall. You can imagine Marlene Dietrich or someone kicking about in the leaves. Don’t you think?”
Acid didn’t answer. She was only half listening. Her senses were on fire and she was certain now. She’d seen something. A flash of light in the room across the way. Sunlight reflecting off a watch maybe, or someone’s spectacles.
Or the telescopic sight of a sniper rifle.
“Shit. Move!”
Acid pushed Spook with all her strength, sending herself flying backwards the other way. They fell either side of the window at the exact moment the glass cracked, and a bullet splintered the granite worktop a few feet behind them.
“Get over here.”
Everything slowed down as Acid’s focus dilated from macro to micro. She scrambled to her feet and dived at Spook, tackling her over the back of the couch as a second shot took out an art deco lamp a few inches from her head.
“Stay down,” Acid yelled as more bullets thumped into the thick velvet couch. She dragged Spook to the side of the room where they were able to edge around the back of a large cabinet. It was unlikely the shooter had a clear shot at them here, but Acid didn’t want to find out how near he could get.
“Okay, Spook, listen to me,” she said, fixing the young American right in the eyes. “If I’m not mistaken, that sniper is Alan Hargreaves. One of my lot. If that’s the case, he’ll have got that rifle from The Albanian.”
Spook stared at her open-mouthed. “Okay, and…?”
“The Albanian has access to the German military, so I’d bet on that being a Blaser rifle he’s using. Now, I counted four shots so far, meaning he’s got one shot left before he has to reload.” Acid picked up a cushion off the couch. It was a simple move, but it might just work. Either way it was all she had. “On the count of three, I’m going to throw this cushion. When you hear him shoot, run as fast as you can towards the door, okay? He can reload in a few seconds. So that’s all we’ve got. Seconds. You understand?” Spook’s mouth hung open. Acid clenched her teeth. “Say you understand.”
“Yes,” Spook said. “I understand.”
“All right, so he shoots, we run. Ready?”
“What about my case?” Spook asked.
Acid eyed it across the other side of the room. “You’ll have to leave it. You’ve got the recordings in your rucksack?”
“Yes. But my clothes? My comics?”
Acid gave her a hard stare. “That man shooting at us wants to put a bullet through your brain. Forget your damn comics. Now, are you ready?”
“I’m ready.”
With that, Acid tossed the cushion high across the room and the two women held their collective breath, poised like sprinters, ready to move as soon as they heard the gunshot. They watched as the cushion arced through the air, rising up over the middle couch. Acid tensed, waiting for the familiar sound of shrapnel puncturing glass and preparing to make a dash for the door. Then the cushion landed softly on the couch and bounced off onto the cream carpet.
“Bollocks.”
Spook looked at her. “Why didn’t he shoot?”
“Because he’s good at his job,” Acid spat. “To be honest, I thought that was a long shot. Excuse the pun.”
Neither of them laughed.
“What do we do now?” Spook asked.
Acid closed her eyes. “Plan B,” she said. “Same as before. The second you hear that gunshot run as fast as you can. And don’t stop until you’re on the other side of that door.”
“But there are no more cushions.”
“I know, it’ll be fine.”
“But how are we going to distract him?” Spook asked, then seeing the look on Acid’s face, “Oh. Oh no.”
“Yes,” Acid told her. “It’s all we’ve got.”
She braced herself. She could do this. Every cell in her body told her she could do this. Her eyelids twitched. The bats echoed around her soul.
They said, Do it.
They said, You’re invincible.
They said, What have you got to lose.
You never hear the bullet that kills you.
Acid launched herself at the door at the other side of the room – over the trenches, into the no-man’s-land of the apartment. A heavy-metal band played in her head as she tore across the hardwood floor, the bass drum pounding a deep rhythm that reverberated into her chest and the heavily distorted guitar shredding the edges of her vision, focused only on the door in front of her. Every muscle in her body was tense, ready for death.
You never hear the bullet that kills you.
Time slowed again as she skidded past the first couch, pushing off against it and diving into a forward roll, hoping to confuse Hargreaves’ aim. She came out of the roll and lurched for the door, had grabbed the handle and was pulling it open when she heard the shot, felt the searing pain in her shoulder.
“No!” Spook cried out from the other side of the room as Acid spun around to glare at her.
“Bloody well run,” she shouted, falling through the open doorway.
For once, Spook didn’t need telling twice. Acid watched as she pushed back against the wall and sprinted across the apartment with her head down. She had seconds to make it. Already Alan Hargreaves would be loading the next five rounds into the rifle. Taking aim.
“Come on. Nearly there.” Acid held out her hand and Spook grabbed it as a bullet arrived right on cue. The shrapnel splintered the wooden doorframe above Spook’s head as Acid dragged her to safety.
“Oh my god, did you see that?” Spook gasped, as Acid helped her to her feet.
“Yeah, good effort,” she rasped. “But don’t get cocky. This is far from over.”
Spook raised her head. “What do we do now?”
“Now we run, Spook,” Acid told her. “We run.”
Twenty-Six
They were running fast through the back streets of Paris. Running faster than Acid had run in a long time. Maybe ever. “Come on. Keep up,” she yelled at Spook, before cutting down an alley that ran between two cafés.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Spook gasped. “But I’m not so good at this sort of thing.”
They got to the end of the alley and Acid looked both ways before taking a right down a narrow, cobbled street. “What sort of thing?” she asked, as Spook caught up with her.
Spook grimaced. “Sports. Athletics. The physical stuff was never pushed on me. Gifted child and all that.” She gasped some more. “My folks said I didn’t need to be athletic when I showed such promise in math and computer sciences.”
“I suppose so,” Acid panted. “Until you find yourself running for your life, hey?”
“Where are we heading?” Spook whined. “I’m getting a stitch.”
“Not sure,” Acid replied. “But we need to stick to the back streets. Away from CCTV. Away from Raaz Terabyte.”
They got to an intersecting road, just as narrow and winding as the one they were on but empty. They took a quick left and Acid slowed her pace, stepping into the deep arch of a doorway for cover. She grabbed hold of Spook and pulled her close.
“Come on. We can rest here a minute. Gather our thoughts.”
Spook huddled into the cramped space. Her face was bright red. “Are you hurt?” she asked Acid, pointing at the bullet hole in her jacket.
“Nah. It’s just a flesh wound. Keeps the game interesting, doesn’t it?”
“Game? Is that what you call it?”
Acid looked up the street. “I think there’s a Metro station round the next corner. Means we’ll be exposed, but only for a short while. It’s our best bet if we want to get away from the centre.”
Spook looked down, fidgeting with the straps on her rucksack.
“What’s wrong now?” Acid asked.
“Am I ever going to be safe?” she asked.
Acid sighed. “Sh
ort answer: I don’t know.”
“Okay. And what’s the long answer?”
“I definitely don’t know?” Acid put her hand on Spook’s arm. “One step at a time, kid. We’re in this together. For the time being, at least.” She cast Spook what she hoped was an empathetic smile. “You know, I am pretty good at this sort of thing.”
Spook scrunched her nose up. “What sort of thing?”
Acid shrugged. “You know – evading death, killing people.”
Spook zipped up her coat. “Fair enough.”
They set off again and came out on a short street that led onto Rue des Saints-Pères and then joined the busy thoroughfare of Boulevard Saint-Germain. Acid stopped at the corner and stood on her toes to better see over the sea of people. The Metro station was a few hundred metres away. They crossed the road and made their way over to the stairway that led down to the underground. Acid stepped back, allowing Spook to go first, and cast an eye over her shoulder. Her skin bristled with white heat energy. The vein in her neck buzzed like a neon tube.
“Okay?” Spook asked.
“Yes, go. I’m right behind you.” She could see no immediate threat, but that meant nothing. Stealth and secrecy were Annihilation Pest Control’s trademarks – and Caesar didn’t hire any old thug. He’d handpicked an elite network of assassins to help him realise his vision. The best of the best. Why Acid had always prided herself on her work.
How strange it is, she thought now, that life can change so radically in a matter of days. But yet she shouldn’t be surprised. This wasn’t the first time it had happened. She shook it off and followed Spook down to the platform.
“Where are we going?” Spook stage-whispered, as Acid joined her by a large map of the Paris underground system.
Acid squinted at the station names. Times like this she had trouble processing so much data. Her mind was filled up with chatter, her mood too in the red to focus.
“Let’s follow this nice pink one all the way to the end,” she said. “Porte de Clignancourt. That’ll do. I’m sure we can disappear there.”
Spook followed her finger on the map. “Ah, the Sacré Cœur. I always wanted to visit.”
Acid bit her tongue. “Perhaps some other time. I don’t know if you remember but we’re kind of in deep shit at the moment.”
As if to highlight this, she’d spotted someone over on the stairwell. Someone she recognised. He was in disguise, dressed like a cartoon version of a Frenchman. Complete with a limp black beret hanging over one eye. But the stoop was unmistakable. As were those piggy eyes.
“Ah, shit.”
“What is it?”
Acid chewed her lip. “Seems Alan Hargreaves fancies his chances close range.”
“How do you mean?” Spook asked, spinning around.
“The guy coming down the stairs, see? The little guy with the beret, holding the umbrella? That’s the man who was shooting at us. But I don’t know how the hell he managed to find us so quick.”
Spook looked over. “He doesn’t look like an assassin.”
“Takes all sorts. He’s our best sniper.” She squinted down at the hole in her jacket. “Though I guess he’s having an off day himself. But don’t misjudge him, Spook. He’s a vicious little prick. I’ve seen him do horrific things to people.”
“Well, he can’t kill us with an umbrella, can he?”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
They watched as Hargreaves made his way down, stopping every few steps to inspect the crowds below. He knew they were there, Acid was sure of it.
“He can’t kill us now, surely,” Spook whimpered. “Not here. Too many people around.”
“You’d think,” Acid replied. “But having a lot of people around is useful. You want crowds. Look around you, no one here is taking the blindest bit of notice of each other. I could walk up to someone, slit their throat open, and then disappear into the throng before anyone even noticed.”
Overhead a station announcement chimed the arrival of the next train.
“Okay, get ready,” Acid whispered. “We can make this. Stay low and follow my lead.” She grabbed Spook’s hand and led her over to the edge of the platform. The arrivals board overhead said the train was two minutes away. Nearly there. Acid bounced from foot to foot as they waited. Crowds. She hated being hemmed in. Hated it philosophically, metaphorically, but most of all she hated it physically. She slipped her hand inside her jacket and felt for the cold, reassuring metal of the Glock. The bats screamed for her to take it out and end it all. They wanted a bloodbath, here and now. It could be glorious.
She flipped her collar and risked a glance over at Hargreaves. His lips were moving, like he was talking to someone. Then he pressed his finger into his ear and that confirmed it – an earpiece. No doubt Raaz Terabyte was on the other end, giving him instructions, real-time data on their whereabouts. Acid dipped down behind a tall Frenchman as Hargreaves looked out over their platform, mouthing the word, Where?
The intercom chimed again. One minute. They were almost safe. Hargreaves had reached the bottom of the steps and was casting his beady eyes left and right, frantically searching them out. Acid could feel the rumble of the train’s arrival. Could hear the screech of brakes in the dark tunnel.
They’d made it.
Thirty seconds more and they’d be out of there.
And that’s when Alan Hargreaves turned around, looked Acid Vanilla dead in the eyes, and mouthed the words, Got ya!
Twenty-Seven
Alan Hargreaves bristled with keen excitement as he hurried down the last few steps. “Right then, you treacherous bitch. Let’s have it.”
He pushed onto the platform as the train pulled into the station, gripping the umbrella tight and bristling with excitement. His new toy. It had cost him the best part of two grand on the dark web, but it’d be worth it if he pulled this off clean like Caesar wanted. Yes indeed. Doing what Acid Vanilla wouldn’t do, what Barabbas Stamp had failed to do, would elevate his position no end, grant him access to the bigger jobs, the better money. Two lousy grand was nothing compared to what this device would earn him. The way Alan Hargreaves saw it, you had to think of these things as an investment.
The order from Caesar had been clear – eradicate the mark as soon as possible and retrieve the recording, which Alan surmised to be in the rucksack on the girl’s back. Easy pickings. Now the only person standing between him and victory was that blasted woman.
Alan Hargreaves hated Acid Vanilla. Had done ever since they got back from Venice and he found her and Banjo Shawshank laughing about him. It wasn’t his idea to get locked in a room together, nor was it his fault he’d misunderstood the codename system. When he started at the firm, no one explained to him properly how it worked. Once he’d realised and come up with a more exciting name it was too late, Raaz had already uploaded the Alan Hargreaves profile onto the system – so that’s who he had to become. But in his head, he’d always be Aryan Hungwell.
All the dismissive asides and put-downs he’d endured from Acid over the years spurred him on as he elbowed his way deeper onto the platform. Not only was she nasty and vindictive but she was a traitor, a dirty little turncoat. She’d put the organisation in jeopardy and Alan was determined to make her pay. Caesar had told him in no uncertain terms that he wanted to deal with Acid himself, that he was to bring her back alive. That is, he’d said, unless circumstances meant Alan had to kill her to get to the mark. Well, wouldn’t you know it, something told him those circumstances would most likely be present today. Yes, he was going to eradicate the celebrated Acid Vanilla. What a joy.
The thought buoyed him as the train doors hissed open and he shoved his way onto an already packed carriage. He could see Acid and the mark boarding the next carriage along but in the same section of the train. Around thirty people were crammed into the space by the doors where Alan waited. Same in the next carriage. Alan let out a quiet snigger to himself. What a couple of mugs. They clearly thought they were safe, tha
t he wouldn’t risk attacking them in such a public place. Alan pulled the rubber stopper from the end of the umbrella.
Safe they were not.
Far from it.
For once in his life Alan’s short stature was an advantage as he made his way through the carriage, hiding from sight. But half-way down he got stuck behind a tall woman in her early sixties. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he drawled as the woman turned and looked down her nose at him. “Can you move, please?”
The woman was attractive, what Alan would call handsome rather than beautiful. She was prim, well-dressed, a typical Parisian. She shifted over a few inches but not enough to allow him to pass. Stupid cow. She was pushing her luck. All he had to do was jab the end of the umbrella into her arm and a few seconds later she’d be shitting out her guts. A minute after that and her heart and lungs would collapse.
Aconite – that was the magic ingredient. Otherwise known as Monkshood, otherwise known as Wolf’s Bane. Administered via the tiny spike on the end of the umbrella, it would leave the victim to die a horrible death.
Alan peered around the side of the woman. Up ahead he could see them, the mark and Acid Vanilla. She was looking his way. Laughing at him.
Alan held up the umbrella, mouthed, I’m going to kill you!
Acid Vanilla pulled a face as if impressed. But he knew she was mocking him. She blew him a kiss and ducked behind a group of teenage boys.
Alan gritted his teeth and barged past the woman. He had to move fast. In less than a minute they’d be pulling up to the next station and Acid and the mark would vanish. He might never get this chance again.
He pushed on through the carriage and into the next one, holding the umbrella out in front of him. Poised. Ready. Every muscle in his body was tense and rigid. But this was it. A few more steps and he’d have them.
So long, Acid Vanilla.
His only obstacle now was a fat sweaty man about the same size and shape as him. Alan gave him a hard stare – meaning, get out of the way – but the man didn’t budge. Alan pushed past him regardless, though looking up saw only the space where his prey had been moments earlier.
The Acid Vanilla Series Page 14
