The Acid Vanilla Series Read online

  “W-what do you want? W-who are you?”

  The man didn’t answer. Brown turned his attention to the woman. She had a mysterious expression on her face. Amusement, maybe.

  “Calm down, sweetie,” she said, examining her nails. “Getting worked up won’t help you.”

  She was well-spoken and her voice husky. It gave her an air of nobility, John thought. Though the gun sticking out of her jacket negated that impression just as quick. She was older than the man, early thirties perhaps – John had always found women harder to age. She had thick black hair, cut with a fringe, and good cheekbones that framed a fire-red pout. But it was her eyes that got him. They were wild, intense. And as he looked closer… Were they different colours?

  John smiled meekly at her, hoping to reason with her feminine compassion. But he’d picked the wrong girl. She rolled those intense eyes at him. As if she’d rather be anywhere else. Well that made two of them.

  “I have money,” John stammered. “You can have whatever you want. My Rolex. Anything. Just don’t hurt me.”

  “Oh John,” the woman purred, getting to her feet. “We aren’t interested in your money. Or your trinkets.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she whispered. “We’re here to kill you.”

  Three

  Acid Vanilla was exhausted. But you could also add bored and tetchy and frustrated to that list. She’d been subjected to Banjo’s ridiculous monologue for the last two hours, and now it was Chris Bloody Rea grating at her nerves, and this pathetic little man.

  “Sit down, John. There’s a good boy.” She pointed to the chair in front of her, a vintage Van Der Rohe in cream leather. She had two matching ones in her apartment. John hesitated, then did as he was told. “You know why we’re here?” she asked him.

  “Are you robbing me?”

  “You’ll wish we were.” She removed her phone from the inside pocket of her jacket and shoved it in his face. “Say cheese.”

  The phone flashed and John screwed his face up. “What was that?”

  “Facial recognition.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Insurance. Certainty. This gets pinged back to our girl at HQ who runs it through the database. Ensures we’ve got the right man. Don’t worry. It’ll all be over soon.” Acid looked over at Banjo perusing the large bookshelf along the back wall. He pulled out a thick, leather-bound book and began flicking through it. “You having fun over there?”

  “I think this is a first edition Kipling,” he mumbled, not looking up.

  “Take it. It’s yours,” John Brown whimpered. “I mean it. Have all my first editions. They’re worth a small fortune.”

  He flinched and Acid moved around the chair, blocking his path to the front door. She looked at her phone.

  Connecting…

  “We got a positive ID yet?” Banjo asked.

  Acid shook her head. This was why it was so much easier before the likes of Raaz got involved – when you could put a bullet in the mark, maybe two to make sure, and be on your way in under a minute. It was easier back then. But mistakes did happen. Like when Barabbas Stamp gunned down a roomful of nuns, not realising there was another convent right down the street, where the actual Russian agents were hiding. Gaffes like that made the whole industry look bad.

  “Get a move on,” Acid whispered at her phone.

  She looked at Brown, who was now bent over and sobbing into his towel. She had a strong urge to put a bullet in his skull, but she held her ground. Annihilation Pest Control had strict guidelines, and when a plan was made, you stuck to it. No deviation. The way Caesar had explained it, “People getting creative leads to people getting killed.” Then, realising what he’d said, “The wrong people getting killed.”

  The modus operandi for tonight’s job was ‘break-in gone wrong, death by blunt object’. The easiest option would be something in the apartment, further enforcing the break-in narrative. Acid slid a slender finger along the mantelpiece towards a heavy marble vase at the far end.

  “What do you think, Banj?” she asked. But he’d disappeared through an open door opposite the bookcase. “What’s through there?” she asked John Brown.

  “A spare bedroom. Look, whatever you’re being paid, I’ll double it.”

  Banjo reappeared, holding an overcoat against himself. “Double it? You sure about that, squire?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. I can pay. I will pay. What would it be, five? Ten?”

  “Pfft. Double would be two hundred.”

  “Thousand? Bugger off. Is this Brian?” He tutted, more angry than scared. “Of course it’s bloody Brian. Jesus. He’s paying you one hundred thousand to have me killed?”

  Banjo draped the coat over the back of the couch. “The firm gets fifty. We get twenty-five each.”

  Brown hurried over to an old bureau in the far corner. “Fine. I’ll pay it. Two hundred grand. Each, if that’ll do it. But don’t kill me. Please.” He was shouting now.

  “Should have thought about that before you screwed your partner over,” Acid told him. The phone screen hadn’t changed.

  Connecting…

  “Bloody hell. Ring Raaz, will you, Banjo? Find out what’s going on.” But Banjo had placed his gun on the coffee table and was sitting on the Van Der Rohe with a strange look on his face. You could almost see the cogs turning. Acid scowled at him. “No. Don’t be bloody ridiculous.”

  “Yeah but think about it. Two hundred K. Each.”

  “Yeah but think about it. What would Caesar would have to say about that?”

  “We could sort something out.”

  Acid was about to tell him the only thing getting sorted would be his insides. Into bowls. Then fed to Caesar’s dogs. But she didn’t get a chance.

  “John?” a voice boomed through the front door. “I heard shouting. Is everything okay?”

  They glanced at each other. Acid pointed a finger at both men. “Stop,” she rasped. “Nobody speak.”

  A fist banged on the door and John Brown jumped. Then came another shout. “John, I can hear music. Are you there?”

  Acid narrowed her eyes at Banjo. More banging on the door.

  “All right, come here.” She pulled out the Glock and stuck it in John’s back. “Now, we’re going to walk over to the door, and you’ll answer it, okay? Tell him you’re fine. Tell him you were in the bath, singing. That’s what he heard.” She jabbed the muzzle of the gun into his kidneys. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  She bundled Brown over to the door and concealed herself against the wall to his right. Indicated for him to go.

  “Ah, there you are, old boy,” the voice said, as John Brown eased the door open. “I was worried. It’s not like you to be a noisy sod.”

  “No, it’s… been a weird day. I was… having a bath. Singing along to a record. To wind down.”

  “Oh, I see…”

  “Yes. Nothing the matter here.”

  His face went stern, concerted. Like he was trying to project a message with his eyes. Acid raised the Glock. Made sure he’d see it in his peripheral vision.

  Don’t be an idiot.

  “Well, that’s good to hear, and… Oh crikey, is that a gun on your coffee table?”

  Shit.

  Acid swung the door open and dragged the guy inside. She pushed him into John and slammed the door shut. “Who are you? Quickly.”

  The man went cross-eyed at the gun in his face. “M-Michael Carrington. I live across the hall.” He was a small, gnome-like man with a white goatee beard.

  “Sit down, both of you.” Acid gestured at the couch with the gun.

  The men did as instructed, almost tripping over one another as they went. Acid stayed by the door and tried to centre herself. It didn’t help she’d not slept for the last few days. The bats in her head were back. She’d get this job out of the way and ask Caesar for a holiday. She needed one.

  “What’s going on?” Carrington whimpered. “What do you wa
nt?”

  “Money, they want money. But we’re coming to an arrangement, aren’t we?” John Brown twisted around to look at Banjo. “I can transfer the money over right now.”

  “I don’t understand. Who are these people?” Carrington asked, eyes darting fearfully between Acid and Banjo.

  “They’ve been sent by Brian,” Brown replied. “To bump me off. They’re hit men.”

  Banjo coughed. “Erm, professional killers, thank you.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “About half a mill a year, for starters,” Banjo replied. He walked over and sat on the end of the couch. Faced the two men. “You see, hit men, they’re low down on the scale. They do other jobs as well as killing people, as part of a broader criminal organisation. Your Mafias, for instance, your Triads, they work on retainers usually. Real grafters. Whereas professional killers – assassins – we work on a per job basis and killing people is all we do. And we do it very well.”

  Acid checked her phone. Nothing. She sat. Tried to stay calm.

  Banjo kept going. “We’re more efficient. Have a better skillset. A hit man does a job and people know it was a hit. It’s all about sending a message. One gang member hitting another. People who hire us don’t want any attention. We do our job and it’s never traced back to the client. We do our job really well, it’s not even classed as a homicide, it’s a suicide, an unfortunate twist of fate.” He played with his moustache. “Remember that government scientist who died of a heart attack whilst walking in the woods? That was us. Or the African despot whose jeep turned over last year and he broke his neck? That was us. Or what about that disgraced financier who did a swan dive off the twentieth floor of the Shard last week?” He pointed to his chest and winked. “But you’ll never know it. No one will. And that is why we make on one job what most hit men make in a whole year.” The way he said hit men, he might as well have said paedophiles.

  “What that also means, is we can’t be bought,” Acid cut in. “Means we don’t make deals. Right, Banjo? Because that would be bad for the brand.”

  Banjo blew out his cheeks, checked his fingernails. “Yeah, I suppose. Sorry, gents.” He walked over to the fireplace and lifted the marble vase. The one Acid had her eye on. “We’re going for a break-in vibe for this one. So as far as your concerned, struggling is good. Go for your lives. Struggling is what we want.” He tossed the vase in the air and caught it by the base. A better grip. “Won’t be long now. Once we get the all-clear.”

  At that moment Carrington made a noise like someone had stood on a cat and made a dash for the door. Not easy in slippers. He’d got all the way there and was tugging frantically at the door handle when Banjo grabbed his pistol and blasted his brains up the wall.

  “Jesus Christ,” John Brown cried. A dark, wet patch seeped onto the couch where he sat.

  Acid Vanilla looked away in disgust, her gaze falling on Carrington’s headless corpse. This wasn’t going well. She walked to the window and rebooted her phone. Her hope was this might sort out the connectivity issue. Though getting Brown to look into her camera without screwing his face up all red and teary was now somewhat trickier.

  While Acid was trying for a decent shot, Banjo dragged Carrington’s body away from the door, enough so they could open it. Then he went to work ransacking the place, pulling books from shelves, emptying drawers, creating a real scene. A break-in gone wrong.

  Brown dragged his eyes from his neighbour lying prone on the floor. “I beg you. Tell Brian I’ll do whatever he wants if he calls this off. I’ll leave the company. Anything. Please. I don’t want to die…” He dragged the last word out into a staccato wail, giving the word at least six syllables.

  Acid closed her eyes. She needed to be anywhere else right now.

  “What if I gave you the money then left the country?” Brown said, getting to his feet. “You could pretend Carrington was me. I’ll be gone. Never to return. Everyone’s happy. Brian gets the business. You get two hundred grand each and—”

  Acid jumped as a large bang rattled her hearing and John Brown flew onto the couch. Banjo had shot him, right between the eyes.

  “What the hell?”

  “He was pissing me off.”

  “Yeah? Remind me not to piss you off.” She looked down at Brown’s body. Her head pounded. “Right, well, this is a bloody mess. You best ring Ethel and Doris.”

  Acid hated having to involve them, but at times this like Ethel and Doris Sinister, AKA the Sinister Sisters, were a godsend. They were Caesar’s clean-up team, with a combined age of well over a hundred and fifty but still the best in the business. They could remove blood from any surface, could dissolve an adult corpse in under twenty minutes.

  Banjo sauntered into the bedroom to make the call as Acid’s phone beeped. The facial recognition software confirming a match. They had their man.

  “Got a positive ID on Brown,” she called through. “Make the call, take what you want and let’s get out of here. I need a drink. And before you say anything, that’s not an invitation.”

  Acid held the marble vase for a closer look. It was a nice piece. Better without the addition of brains. But they’d messed up tonight. Caesar would be calling her in to explain herself again. She shuddered. Best not to think about it right now. She moved over to the front door as Banjo returned with a holdall full of books and the overcoat.

  “That all you taking?”

  “They’re all first editions. Worth a bomb. Anyway, the sisters are on their way. They can help themselves. Plenty of watches and stuff in the bedroom. Not my taste.”

  “Fine.” Acid opened the door of the apartment and did a quick scan of the corridor. It was clear. She padded along the landing and headed down the stairs, beckoning Banjo to follow her. Job done. Time for that drink. And to work out how she was going to explain this disaster to the boss.

  Four

  Banjo dropped Acid off on the corner of Cromwell and Old Brompton. Told her he’d see her later.

  “Not if I kill you first,” she told him.

  He liked that one, laughing to himself as he drove away. Acid waited until the car had disappeared down the road and then checked her phone. Maybe a night cap wasn’t the best idea. Problem was, these days she never stopped at one, and the last thing she needed was to wake tomorrow feeling like shit. Times like this, out on the edge, she felt invincible. But coupled with depleted nutrient levels and no sleep, there was always a risk the chaos would consume her, make her do something she’d regret. Though when your whole life was a regret, it was hard to know what that might be.

  The clock on her phone made it half past the witching hour. She considered more sensible options, but lying in bed staring at the ceiling seemed like a terrible prospect right now. The bats would get their way. Acid turned into the next street and ducked down the alley half-way along. She was heading for The Bitter Marxist, a late-night drinking den she often frequented after jobs. It was pokey. Dark. The drinking establishment of choice for the city’s miscreants. People knew to leave one another alone. Perfect for her needs.

  On the pavement outside, a young man hunkered down in a grubby sleeping bag. His sunken, watery eyes looked right through Acid as she neared, and his gaunt, cadaverous cheeks shone white in the moonlight. The decay and degradation of city life. It was everywhere these days. Though, it could be a cognitive bias on her part, Acid reasoned, her focus had been skewed lately.

  She made her way down the rickety Victorian stairwell and opened the door as the bouncing rhythm of classic soul hit her in the chest, Sam Cooke doing what he did best. The bar was reassuringly dingy, with red paper lanterns dotted around the ceiling that gave off a warm glow but no real light. There were three small tables along the side wall, with the bar taking up two-thirds of the floor space. At the far end of the counter, two foreign-looking men were sitting on high stools engaged in animated chat. Next to them, an old guy with an eye patch nursed a bottle of something dark.

  “What can I get
you, darling?” The barman leaned over as Acid took her place on the stool nearest the door. “Cocktail maybe?”

  Acid didn’t recognise this one. But the smile on his face said he fancied his chances. He was good-looking, with beautiful black skin and a deep smile. Acid toyed with the idea of returning his advances but decided against it. She needed rest, and more than anything she needed to keep herself in check.

  “Chivas Regal. Double. Two chunks of ice,” she told him.

  “Coming right up.”

  “And a Mojito.”

  Winking at her now. “Great choice.”

  Acid Vanilla rarely drank Mojitos, they were too sweet for her palate, but she figured all that muddling would keep him busy. While the barman took his frustration out on a bunch of mint, Acid sipped at her whisky, willing the stress of the last hour to leave her system. It wasn’t easy. Was getting harder, if anything.

  “Excuse me, are you waiting for someone?”

  Acid looked into the face of a middle-aged man sporting a large grey beard. His long hair was pulled into a bun on the top of his head in a style not intended for his advancing age bracket. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned forearms that were covered with tattoos, and far too many bracelets.

  Acid was poker-faced. “I’m having a quiet drink. Alone.”

  “Awful, an attractive girl like you drinking alone.” He held out his hand. “Simon.”

  She sipped her drink, ignored the handshake.

  “What are you drinking, whisky? Can I buy you another?”

  “No thanks. I’m good.”

  Simon pressed his hand to his chest in a show of mock surprise. Clearly he was unused to rebuttals. Or wanted her to think as much. He was also a good few drinks down. “Not a big talker, hey?”

  Acid turned on her stool. “You don’t want to talk to me. I’m bad news.”

  “Is that so?” Simon nudged her, taking this as a come-on.

  “Sure is,” Acid replied. “I’m a total bloody maniac.”

  He laughed. “Me too. Me too.”