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

her to finish this. She’d walk up behind him, break his neck, grab the USB and be on her way before anyone knew what the hell was going on. She remained where she was. There’d be time enough for her to do what Luis Delgado wanted, but first this Irish fool was going to work for her.

She scanned the first few lines of his conversation, him asking someone for help, telling them he was desperate, stuck, with no passport and someone out to kill him.

This was it. The plan was working.

Danny Flynn’s leg jigged up and down as he waited for the reply, and she stepped back a few steps lest his growing agitation have him glance around. But he didn’t take his eyes off the flashing cursor on the screen. They waited. Both as tense as each other. Then, ten, fifteen seconds later, the screen flashed and a reply appeared. It was staccato in its prose but lucid.

D1950: Heard about the hit. All under control. If you need to speak to me, ring the secure line. Not the house phone! Don’t tell me your whereabouts here. I’ve sent someone to help you.

The Irishman read the words a few times, shaking his head before banging back a reply.

DannyBoy69: Someone to help? What do you mean? Where are they?

Once more the cursor flashed for a stomach-clenching amount of time before the reply came. The Dullahan no doubt sizing up his communications, making sure he was talking to the real Danny. The words flashed up on screen

D1950: On their way. A woman. She’ll find you. Bring you home. I’ll call later with location. Keep head down until then.

And there it was.

A woman.

The mark was back on the keyboard, asking more questions, but she’d seen enough. There was only one woman The Dullahan could be referring to. Only one woman the old fool would trust to help his pathetic nephew. And she was on her way to Spain. Coming for the mark.

Magpie straightened, and with an air of quiet satisfaction sashayed out of the internet café onto the busy Constitución Plaza. The sun was rising higher in the sky, its searing presence hot on her skin. She took in a deep breath of salty air. Today was a good day. Her plan was working. She was still going to kill the Irishman, of course, and retrieve the items for Delgado, but this way she would get so much more. Things no amount of money could buy.

Revenge.

Vindication.

The vanquishing of her enemy.

That miserable perra Acid Vanilla had no idea what awaited her in this glorious city. But she was going to die. Magpie Stiletto, Sister Death, would make sure of that.

Thirteen

The flight attendant smiled suggestively at Acid as she handed her another chilled grapefruit juice. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

Acid shook her head, ignoring the come-on. It really wasn’t the time. “No. Thank you,” she said, in a voice full of subtext. Leave me the hell alone.

The attendant glided off up the aisle, and Acid picked up the plastic beaker to sip at the bitter pink juice. It was her third of the flight and it didn’t taste any better than the previous two. She returned the beaker to the lap tray and let her head loll back against the headrest. Next to her an old woman slept with her temple pressed to the window, purring softly. There was, however, still enough window on view for Acid to notice land over on the horizon. Jersey, most likely, then France, then straight on to Spain and the San Sebastian airport.

She took another sip of the murky juice, noticing her arm was shaking, her legs too, fidgeting with a mixture of nervous energy, apprehension, and a healthy dose of delirium tremors. Not pleasant, but she was on the right path, ready for what came next.

Since leaving Spook at the Chinese doctors, she’d had a good wash, had even straightened her thick mane and shaved her relevant body hair. This, coupled with a depressing juice cleanse and some serious sweating out of toxins (a couple of 10K runs around the local park) and physically, outwardly, she was back in business. Inwardly? Well, that was anyone’s guess.

She tried to close her eyes, join the old woman in a little nap, but it was useless. Despite the health drive, she hadn’t been able to sleep the last two nights, which she knew was down to numerous reasons: worrying about Spook, the fact she was no longer existing in a drunken stupor, and because (like always when the drinking stopped) the bats had returned in force. She could physically feel the intensity of her moods flowing through her body, like hot needles in her skin. It was this same energy that kept her eyes propped open, her jaw tense and her muscles aching for exertion. Alongside the physical issues, her mind was now on overdrive, a million chaotic thoughts colliding together, fighting for control. She took a couple of deep conscious breaths that helped a little, but not much.

Like always when she was working, she’d packed minimal luggage and carried it on with her. She reached under her seat, retrieved her iPod from the canvas overnight bag and stuffed the earphones in her ears without bothering to untangle them. If sleep was out of the question, she had the next best thing: spiky, snotty music, played as loud as possible – the exact opposite of relaxation for most people but for her it was the perfect way to get out of her head for a little while.

She opened up the music player and scrolled through the albums on offer, settling on the Misfits’ Static Age. As the heavy droning guitar of the title track burst forth, she settled back in her seat and slipped an eye mask over her head. Time until arrival: one hour, fifteen minutes. She’d been toying with ordering a drink – a real drink – but with the music filling her world