The Acid Vanilla Series

by Matthew Hattersley

  Banjo raised the Magnum and Acid closed her eyes. Waiting. She heard him cock the hammer. One second and it would all be over. Nothing would matter. One second. The bats knew. They were ready.

  A gun fired.

  Acid’s stomach turned over…

  She’d heard the shot. But she was still alive. She opened her eyes to see Banjo staggering backwards, holding his face. He had a small hole in his right cheek and the larger exit wound had taken out his left eye.

  Acid looked over to where Spook stood with her legs spread wide and both hands on the Beretta Pico still aimed at Banjo, and she froze. Everything was happening at once and she couldn’t think straight. The fangs were out. The bats calling for her.

  Her name was Chaos, they said.

  Her name was Justice.

  Her name was Acid Vanilla.

  And it was time to finish this.

  She leapt to her feet. Banjo raised his gun and fired but his vision was compromised. The bullet went wide as Acid launched herself at him. They both went down. Banjo hit the ground with a dull thud and Acid rolled on top of him. She slammed the heel of her palm into his nose, shattering the cartilage. Back on her feet she grabbed for the Magnum and pointed it at him.

  “Go on, finish it,” he gasped.

  He was a mess all right. He had a gaping hole where his left eye had been, and his bloody nose was mashed to a pulp. Acid grunted. She’d be doing him a favour. Her hand trembled.

  “Come on, you weak cow,” Banjo snarled. “What are you waiting for?”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” she asked him.

  “Huh?”

  “I saw your face when I let it slip in the hotel, about me visiting my mum. You twigged she was alive and you told Caesar.”

  “Oops. Was I not supposed to?” Banjo whispered. “Another thing you should know. It was me who slit the old bird’s throat. A lovely job, I thought. Like a hot knife through—”

  Acid pulled the trigger and blew his head clean off. The recoil on the .44 nearly knocked her off her feet. “Well, what do you know?” she purred. “That is a powerful handgun.”

  “Acid.” Spook ran over to her. “Are you okay?”

  Acid chucked the gun on Banjo’s prone torso. “I am thanks to you. I thought you were dead.”

  “Me too. For a second. But he shot my poor laptop. Straight through my rucksack.” She wrinkled her nose. “I guess my laptop got me into this mess, but then it saved my life.”

  Acid opened her mouth to respond but changed her mind. She had a strange feeling in her chest. It felt a lot like relief. And like she might burst into tears any second. Which was why she hurried back over to the Hummer.

  The sirens were even closer.

  “That was so scary and amazing and crazy all at once.” Spook caught up with her as she opened the driver’s door and climbed in. “I thought we were screwed a few times back then.”

  Acid didn’t look at her. “How the hell did you learn to shoot like that?”

  Spook clicked on her seat belt. “Call of Duty. I don’t like to brag but I’m a Command Sergeant-Major. Rank fifty.”

  Acid turned the key still in the ignition. “Well, once again I underestimated you, Spook. Thank you.” She shoved the stick into first. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  She pulled the Hummer down the side of the hangar, then took a sharp left, flooring it until she came to a set of lights at the end of the next road. She indicated right and watched in the rear-view mirror as two police cars appeared in the distance.

  But they were too late.

  It was over.

  Fifty

  “What’s the plan now?” Spook asked, once they’d driven far enough away and the danger had passed.

  “Simple,” Acid told her. “I carry on executing every single one of those bastards. Like I told you I would.”

  Spook watched Canary Wharf pass by the window as they headed away from the city. “Do you still want my help?” she asked.

  Acid kept her eyes on the road. “You sure you want to help? I won’t hold you to it. It’ll mean you giving up a lot. Your life. Your career. Like I said, I doubt they’ll bother you again. As far as Caesar’s concerned there’s a line under the Cerberix job. You’re free.”

  The words landed heavy on Spook’s lap and she turned to the window. A frisson in her chest put a stop to the conversation. She had lots to say, but it could wait.

  Ten minutes later, Acid pulled up in a side street opposite the Riverside Plaza and turned off the engine. Then she flipped down the sun visor and adjusted her hair in the mirror.

  “I do want to help you,” Spook whispered.

  Acid licked the end of her finger and rubbed at a smear of eyeliner. Then she sat back in her seat and sighed. “Why do I feel like there’s a but coming?”

  Spook fiddled with the strap on her rucksack. “It’s just, I’ve been thinking these last few days. How we’ve been a good team, me and you. And I was thinking, what if we helped people?”

  Acid scoffed. “Help people? Which people?”

  “People who can’t get help the regular way, for whatever reason,” Spook replied. “We could be like vigilantes for justice. Avenging Angels. Or whatever. What do you think?”

  “I think it sounds like the bloody A-team. Which one am I?”

  Spook laughed. “All of them. Rolled into one.”

  Acid flipped up the visor. “Yes, you’re probably right. But I don’t know, kid. I’m not sure I can even think about that right now.”

  “We could do both,” Spook went on. “I’d help you find Caesar and the rest. Plus we set up some sort of agency. To help those the authorities can’t. We can even charge people – those who can afford to pay, at least. We’re going to need money, aren’t we?”

  Acid laughed. “Jesus. I don’t think I’m ever going to get rid of you, am I?”

  Spook leaned on her. “You love me really. I could be a big help to you, Acid Vanilla.”

  Acid squinted out the window. “I guess I will need another set of hands. Your computer skills too.”

  “You’re in? The Avenging Angels?”

  “Calm it down there, Murdock. I’ll think about it. I do get what you’re saying, we will need funds. But if I agree to this, it’s on my terms. And you’d better not make me regret it.”

  Spook bounced on her seat. “Come on, partner. When have I made you regret anything?”

  Acid blew out her cheeks. “Let’s put a pin in it for now. The next step is finding a new forger. Then I do need to get away for a while. A month. Maybe longer. Get my head together properly.” She clicked off her seat belt and opened the car door.

  “Then what?” Spook asked.

  “Then the killing starts.” She shut the door and knocked on the window at Spook. “I’ll wait for you by the lift.”

  Spook gave her the thumbs up then sat back in her seat. The car was still and her mind calm. For now, at least. She looked out the window as a light rain made its presence known on the windshield. What a crazy few weeks she’d had. She’d witnessed a murder and been on the hit list of the world’s top assassin – not to mention being shot at and strangled on more than one occasion. But more than all that, she’d got justice for Paula Silva. She’d taken down Cerberix Inc. Not bad going, she decided, for an unassuming tech-nerd with dubious social skills.

  Spook now understood what Acid had meant when she said she didn’t know the person she once was. This experience, it had changed Spook. But it was for the better, she was certain of that. She was tougher. Braver. She felt alive. Like she could do anything. She glanced at her reflection in the rear-view mirror and laughed. It felt good. It had been a long time coming.

  Fifty-One

  “Another cocktail, Miss Taylor?” Andreas asked, his Adonis-like frame silhouetted against the hot Mauritius sun.

  Acid lowered her sunglasses. “Mais oui,” she purred, letting out a deep sigh. “Another Green Isaac, please. Heavier on the gin this time.”

>   The sun was high overhead, the only object in a vast expanse of blue. Acid Vanilla lowered her head back onto the plush cushion of her sun lounger and sighed. A deep sigh. Content for once. She watched as a young couple ran down the white sands before diving headfirst into the aquamarine foam and disappearing from view.

  It was now over a month since the Cerberix case – since Acid had unceremoniously left Annihilation Pest Control – and she’d got her holiday at last. Two weeks in the sun. Time to recharge. To patch her head and heart back together.

  For what came next.

  The handsome waiter picked up her spent glass and placed it on his silver tray. His eyes scanned Acid’s reclining figure and he leaned forward, whispering gruffly, “Perhaps later, I come to your room again? For your private… massage?”

  “Yes, Andreas, I think that would be most welcome.” She pushed her sunglasses back up her nose, watching as he walked away. Twenty-five. So full of energy at that age. So eager to please. Even if the pillow talk left a lot to be desired. She watched as he strutted over to the small beach bar, then lay back and closed her eyes.

  A lot had happened over the last six weeks. Cerberix had seen its shares crumble the second Spook’s video went viral, but when the news broke Whitman and Clarkson were dead the entire company sank into the sea. It was a shame for the thousands of employees and shareholders, but there was always collateral damage.

  Thoughts of Louisa hovered on the cusp of Acid’s consciousness. Snapshots of her room that day. The blood. Her empty eyes.

  Acid shook it off and looked out to sea. At the endless azure of the Indian Ocean. So still. So tranquil. So at odds with what now bubbled inside of her. At first she dismissed it as plain old anger. But as the weeks had ticked on it had morphed into something much more affirming. It was yearning for justice. For vengeance. For bloody retribution.

  And she was going to get it.

  She got to her feet, ready to take a dip in the sea, when she heard Andreas calling her. Or rather, calling Miss Tanika Taylor – the most recent alias purchased a few weeks earlier from her new forger, Ari Gold. It was Spook who had found him, using some dark web connections. Acid had to admit, the kid was already proving herself to be a worthy ally.

  “What is it, sweets?” Acid called back, pulling her sunglasses from her eyes to better see.

  The waiter pointed to the hut and gave the universal hand gesture for telephone. Acid slipped her sunglasses back on and made her way over to the small wooden hut. She’d been waiting on this call.

  “Telephone for you, Miss Taylor.” Andreas presented her with an old-fashioned handset on his silver tray. “The lady says it is urgent.”

  “Thanks, doll.” Acid took the phone and turned away, leaning against the bar and holding the receiver to her ear. “Hello, this is Tanika Taylor.”

  “I can’t believe you went with that name,” Spook said, on the other end. “How’s the holiday?”

  “Wonderful. I’ve freed up some headspace. Got my focus back.” She watched as Andreas bent over and lifted a crate of tonic water. “And the views here are magnificent.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Do you have news for me?” Acid asked.

  “Sure do. I’ve had a sighting. Beowulf Caesar is in Berlin.”

  Acid paused. “You sure it’s him?”

  “Eighty percent. I’m downloading all the nearby CCTV footage I can get hold of.”

  Acid raised her head, looking out to sea. “Great work, Spook. You did good.”

  “Thanks. So I’ll see you in a week?”

  Acid looked at Andreas. “No. Book me on the next flight out of here. Time to go to work. Partner.”

  She could almost hear the kid beaming down the line. “Cool. I’ll see you soon. Partner.”

  Acid handed the phone back to Andreas. “Thanks a lot. But I’m afraid I must take a rain check on that massage.”

  He looked dismayed. “I see. Maybe before you go?”

  But Acid had already set off back to the hotel. “Can’t, sorry. I’ve got to get back to England, and then it seems I’m going to Germany for a few days.” She turned and smiled. “You know what they say, sweetie. No rest for the wicked.”

  The End

  SEVEN BULLETS

  Book 2

  i

  A house somewhere in North London. A rental property. Furnished only with basic fixtures and fittings. A single couch. Two beds. Some makeshift units and a dining table. The furniture is the cheapest money can buy and each item is at least ten years old. Not the nicest place you could ever wish to live, but it’s out of the way and unremarkable. For the current inhabitants, that’s what matters. They’re not planning on staying here long.

  Through the front door and straight up the stairs you can hear the faint rumble of grunted concentration. Past the cramped bathroom and into the larger of the two bedrooms, a woman hunches over a large fibreboard-topped desk. On one side of the desk sits a battered cardboard box, half-full of ammo (115gr FMJ 9mm rounds, made by Sellier & Bellot). Beyond the box sits a small stereo system, what people once called a ghetto blaster. The woman leans over and twists the volume up a few notches (Ramones, doing ‘Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment’), and selects a single round from the box of ammo. She holds it up in a beam of sunlight that slices through the gap in the threadbare curtains and smiles to herself. The cold metal is pleasing to touch. She rolls the cartridge between an expertly manicured thumb and forefinger.

  Last one.

  A large industrial vice is fastened to the length of the table in front of her. She winds the handle anti-clockwise a few turns and places the 9mm round into the steel jaws of the vice. Then she tightens it and picks up the Dremel industrial engraver, bought from Amazon a month earlier. As she flicks the switch it whirrs into life, reminiscent of a dentist’s drill. She goes to work on the bullet casing, scratching out the final name. The metal is polished and smooth – a tough surface to work with, and the drill is not the best – but she has the hang of it now. Slowly, methodically, she scratches into the brass casing, straight lines, letters, tracing the pencil markings she made earlier and blowing off the residue of metal filings.

  It doesn’t take her long to finish. She loosens the vice and removes the bullet from its clutches. Done. She examines her handiwork and smiles once more. This entire process is crazy, she knows that. Yet creating these bullets – these symbols of revenge – has also quietened something inside of her. She now has a visual aid. A reminder of what she must do. But more so, with each bullet created, she exorcises some more of the pent-up rage she has carried around for too long. That had to happen. Otherwise it would have destroyed her.

  Acid Vanilla carries the last bullet over to the tall wardrobe in the corner of the room. The door hinges creak and groan as she opens it to reveal a space empty of clothes. There is, however, a wooden shelf half-way up. On the shelf stand six bullets, spaced out, upright in a row. Six bullets, each with a name etched down the side. Raaz Terabyte, Spitfire Creosote, Magpie Stiletto, Ethel Sinister, Doris Sinister, Davros Ratpack. And now the last one. Bullet number seven.

  Beowulf Caesar.

  Acid places the final bullet at the end of the row and steps back. Seven bullets on a shelf. Seven names. Seven people who took everything from her. And who will pay with their lives.

  Her new kill list.

  One

  It was Pride weekend in Manchester, and Canal Street – the sprawling strip of bars and nightclubs that catered for the city’s thriving LGBTQ+ community – was a sea of exuberant partygoers. High-energy dance music reverberated from large speaker systems placed at intervals along the side of the canal, whilst exotically attired people of many genders danced and drank and consumed illicit substances. The weather was hot, unusual for Manchester, and as the hazy day turned into evening the attendees spoke excitedly of the evening’s entertainment – for many, the big draw of the weekend.

  The Queentessential Review.

  Now in its twelfth year,
the Review hosted top drag acts from all around the world. Big names, too. Ru Paul had appeared at one of the early events, and since then it had only gotten bigger and more exclusive. Indeed, a spot on the bill was a rare thing to come by, especially for an unknown act. Although it helped your case somewhat if you knew the promoter. It helped further if they’d recently hired you to kill someone.

  “Five minutes, Davros.” Stefan opened the door to the dressing room and shouted over the heads of the other queens. No mean feat with the height of some of the wigs on show tonight. “Have you got everything you need, love?”

  Davros Ratpack looked over and gave the okay sign before turning back to the mirror and shaking his head.

  “What a bloody riot,” he told his reflection.

  To say he was excited to perform would be an understatement. Tonight was his first ever show as Dolly Pardon, the act, the persona he’d carried around inside of him all these years.

  He leaned forward to check his false lashes. He’d been having trouble with the left one, but it was sticking okay now. He sat back on the hard metal chair and considered the spectacular vision in the mirror. The flowing white blouse with elaborately sequined waistcoat fitted perfectly. Below that he had on a powder-blue chiffon skirt, complete with diamanté trim. All of it was an exact replica of the real Dolly’s Blue Smoke World Tour stage outfit. Although, his was a much larger size. Davros was six-seven to Ms Parton’s five-foot-zero. But he was proud of the look. One last touch – he picked up the large blonde wig and placed it carefully over the nude-coloured hair retainer flattening his own green locks. Perfect. A quick hunch-up of the ridiculously large (but anatomically correct) fake breasts, and he was ready to perform.

  Despite all of his work with Annihilation Pest Control over the years, despite having a kill-count well into triple figures, Davros Ratpack still felt a bristle of nerves as he headed for the stage door.