Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) by Matthew Hattersley (best short novels of all time txt) 📗

He caught her eye. “No exit wound?”

She shook her head. “What can we do?”

The Dullahan got to his feet, holding a mobile phone and squinting at the screen. “Looks like we were right, Caesar got to him. The fat prick.”

“Let me see.”

The Dullahan tossed her the phone, the screen showing a facial recognition app. It had been updated since the last time she’d had cause to use it (In-Field Verification, they called it – proof for the client), but the interface was recognisable as the one Raaz Terabyte had created, linked to Annihilation Pest Control’s dark web portal.

“That lousy bastard,” she slurred, tossing the phone to one side and getting her weight under Spook’s shoulders, lifting her up. “Come on, help me get her onto the table. She’s bleeding out, she needs help.”

“Aye, but she needs more than I can help with,” The Dullahan replied, coming to assist her. “Besides, I don’t have any of my equipment with me.”

Acid chewed on her bottom lip. Taking her to hospital wasn’t an option. All records said Spook Horowitz was dead, there’d be too many questions. But with the bullet still somewhere inside of her, she needed attention, proper attention, and fast. They got her to her feet and dragged her into the kitchen where they placed her gently on a chair. She was barely conscious with the shock of it all, mumbling something Acid couldn’t make out.

“Do you know anyone?” she asked, turning to The Dullahan.

“Maybe I do,” he said, getting out his own phone and jabbing at the screen. “He’s an old contact, but I believe he’s still around. It’ll cost though.”

“Anything,” she spat. “Make the call.”

Fifteen minutes later and they were in the back of a Hackney carriage, speeding through the rainy streets towards Chinatown. They’d patched Spook up as much as they could before getting in the car, stuffing her wound with some Radial gauze to contain the bleeding a little. Acid gripped the handrail above the window tight, willing the car to drive faster, for Spook to survive, propping her upright as her head lolled from side to side with each turn. When they passed by Tottenham Court Road tube station she mumbled something weird, about cats and jumpers, but that was a good thing. If she was conscious, even a little bit, it meant her vitals hadn’t dropped too far off the scale.

Acid watched the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror as they flicked from the road ahead to the back seat. It was hard to determine demeanour from an inch of face, but every cell in her body told her he was suspicious and growing more so.

“She’s diabetic,” she told him. “We ran out of insulin and she’s gone into shock. Don’t worry, if she vomits we’ll pay double. Triple. Okay?”

He didn’t reply, but nodded as if satisfied. Acid leaned across Spook’s wilting form, addressing The Dullahan who was peering out the window.

“We nearly there?” she asked.

“Aye, around this next bend.” He leaned forward, speaking to the driver. “Drop us on the corner here, that’d be grand. By the red car, there. Good lad.”

The cab driver did as instructed and didn’t even turn around as Acid threw a fifty at him.

“Over there,” The Dullahan told her, as she dragged Spook out into the cold night air. “Above the bookies.”

They took an arm each, walking Spook over to the nondescript door next to the betting shop as she mumbled groggily and rolled her head back. Once there, Acid took most of her weight so The Dullahan could push the buzzer. They waited in silence, nodding pointlessly at each other the way people do in tense situations, smiling tight smiles.

Hurry the fuck up.

Finally the intercom crackled and a voice barked, “Who is it?”

“It’s me. The Dullahan. Open up.”

Another crackle of static. “Say password.”

The Dullahan raised his eyebrows and sighed. “I am the Walrus,” he said, shaking his head. Then to Acid, “Beatles fan.”

The Dullahan’s contact was a small Chinese man with a round but stern face and a bowl cut reminiscent of George Harrison’s circa Rubber Soul. He introduced himself as Song Shi and led them into his establishment (by day a herbalists specialising in Chinese medicine) and through a hidden door behind a screen, where a full operating room was set up – gurney, lights, even a heart rate monitor. The disparity between the dark wood of the main space, with its lanterns and Chinese wall-hangings, and this stark, sterile room of chrome and steel was jolting to say the least. Acid hadn’t been anywhere this bright in a long while. The lights hurt her eyes.

Song Shi signalled for them to place Spook on the gurney, where they removed her coat and the thick cardigan they’d wrapped around her.

“What are we dealing with?” he asked, his voice clipped and clinical.

Acid moved around to the far side of the operating table and lifted Spook’s top. The wound looked even worse under the halogen bulbs. The gauze was sticky with blood and plasma and the skin around the sides of the wound had turned a dark purple.

“I see,” Song Shi muttered, pulling on a surgical glove. “When did this happen?”

“Half an hour ago,” Acid replied. “But there’s no exit wound.”

Spook groaned as Song Shi felt around the wound with two fingers. He glanced at Acid. “I need to operate. Right now,” he said. “Dullahan, you assist me, please.”

Acid leaned in. “What can I do?”

“You can give me space,” was the sharp reply. “Room is small as it is. Don’t need an audience.”

She nodded, taking in The Dullahan. “I’m going to wait outside. I need some air.”

“Aye. I’ll come find ya when we’re done.”

“But you can save her?” she asked the doctor.

He snorted back a nostril-full of something nasty. “I don’t know until I open her up.” He scowled at her. “You have payment?”

She didn’t. They’d left in too much of a hurry. She threw a pleading look The Dullahan’s way.

“We’ll