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

“When? Tell me.”

She went into her head, doing a quick calculation. The mark would no doubt have reached out yesterday or first thing today. Another day for her to make arrangements…

“Tomorrow,” she told him.

“You can promise?”

“I don’t make promises. But it will be done. Don’t contact me again.”

She hung up before he could answer and shook her head at the phone before slipping it back into her trouser pocket and continuing her journey towards San Sebastian’s old town. Once there, she made her way down the Calle Mayor to where the Basilica of Santa María del Coro stood grandly at the end of the street. She peered up at the stunning eighteenth-century church, knowing she should find enjoyment in its beauty. Or at least feel something. Be impressed by the craftmanship, for instance. But like always when encountering things of inherent beauty or worth, she felt nothing. Above the church stood Mount Urgull, awash with dense and vibrant green-leaved trees swaying gently in the morning sun. She shrugged. Still nothing.

But so what? She wasn’t here to feel good. Wasn’t here to sightsee or make merry. She was here for work and she was here for revenge.

There was an internet café a few streets away which she’d used the day she arrived in the city. She made her way there and slipped ten euros to the boy behind the counter who sniffed and mumbled “Número catorce” at her without looking up from his iPhone.

Perfecto.

Screen fourteen was at the back of the long room, with the screen facing the wall and nothing else behind it. She already knew the connection wasn’t fast, but she only needed a few minutes. Being late morning there weren’t many other customers in the café – just an old man with his back to her who was scrolling frantically through someone’s Facebook photos, and a young Asian girl near the door playing an online game.

Magpie logged in and went straight to the DuckDuckGo browser – not as secure as a Tor browser would be, but there was nothing that could tie her here. Once the site loaded, she input a series of seemingly random digits and was taken to another site, which to anyone glancing over her shoulder appeared to be a basic online forum for Bitcoin trading, but was in truth the new go-to place for the killing industry. A place to find jobs, post hits and send secure messages.

She signed in and scanned the message boards, hoping she might see some indication that her plan was working, but there was nothing she could decipher. No matter. It didn’t mean all was lost. She had faith in the people involved to do what she expected of them. Whilst here, she sent a message to a contact in the Middle East, asking them if they’d heard anything from or about Beowulf Caesar. She also left a post on one of the forums, heavily coded, asking him to contact her if he saw it. It reeked a little of desperation, and was perhaps a pointless exercise – the boss was in the wind, a shadow – but she still held onto the belief Annihilation Pest Control would rise again. It had to. It was all she had.

She was about to leave when she noticed a new customer had come in. A tall man with long, wavy dark hair and a few days of stubble growth. He was standing at the counter, bouncing from foot to foot and glancing nervously around him. Normally the sight of someone like this, with his louche appearance and cheesecloth shirt open to his navel, would have made her blood boil. But today she ducked in front of her screen to hide the trace of a smile as it parted her cruel lips. It was him. The Irishman. Her mark.

Ahí está.

She stayed low, busying herself on her computer but with one eye on the Irishman as he made his way down the rows of terminals on the left of the café and sat at a screen a few metres away. He hadn’t seen her, didn’t even glance her way before pulling out the plastic chair and hunching over the keyboard to log in. He looked sicklier than she remembered, more nervous too, and that lascivious twinkle in his eyes had been dampened somewhat. She smiled to herself for the second time that day. Being on the run from an international assassin would do that to a person. She’d seen it many times over the years. Grown men, strong men, reduced to quivering babies with the realisation of their fate.

Patético.

Keeping a careful watch on the mark, she reached down into the canvas bag at her feet and removed a raffia straw hat and a pair of Gucci sunglasses. A few clicks of the mouse and she brought up the computer’s webcam, her face and shoulders now on the screen. Using the image as a makeshift mirror she placed the hat on her head, before tucking her hair behind her ears first and concealing the tell-tale white streaks up inside of it. Once done, she slipped on the sunglasses and logged off.

Moving slowly, with an air of forced nonchalance, she edged down the café towards him, keeping her face forward but with both eyes – hidden behind the dark glasses – focused on his screen. As she got closer she paused and sighed dramatically as though she’d forgotten something and made a show of searching through her bag. The mark didn’t even turn around. He was on some sort of secure messaging sight, with rows of text already on the screen. A conversation between himself – DannyBoy69 – and username D1950. She narrowed her eyes at the screen. D for Dullahan?

The mark had a USB drive connected to the terminal which looked very much like the item she was meant to retrieve. She tensed. It would be so easy right now for