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

in Sunshine Town. So, first port of call had to be a new outfit, something that said tourist rather than torturer.

After dropping her bag off in the hotel room (very grand, done out in cream and gold, and overlooking the river) she set off towards the shops. Although thirty minutes later, looking around the bespoke independent boutiques in the old town, she’d conceded that her concession to holiday attire stopped short of flowery dresses and brightly coloured t-shirts. She’d tried on a few items (a white linen shirtdress, a matching shorts and top combo in pastel blue) but she couldn’t do it, couldn’t bring herself to wear these hideous clothes. In the end she opted for a pair of black denim shorts and a plain black t-shirt. It was close enough, and she did enjoy the sun on her bare legs as she exited the shop and strolled through the winding back streets until she reached the beachfront. From here it was another thirty minutes’ walk up the hillside to the rendezvous point. She reached into the small canvas shoulder bag she’d bought to complete the look (black, of course) and checked the time on her phone. She had wondered about having a swift beer before she set off, only a small frosty one, from one of the many inviting tabernas she’d seen dotted around the place. But no. It was time to meet Sonny and after that she was to make contact with The Dullahan. So with the blistering sun overhead, and the soft, salty air licking at her skin, she headed to meet the gun-dealer. The beer would have to wait. It was time for Acid Vanilla to get back to work.

Fourteen

“There she is. I almost didn’t recognise ya without that damned jacket!”

Acid dropped her shoulders and smiled up through her fringe at the leathery rogue who looked even more weather-worn than he had in Vietnam, standing there in a black Stones t-shirt with the sleeves cut off and tiny red shorts. His thin, sinewy arms hung heavy with a stack of bracelets around each wrist and a thick silver ring adorning each finger. On their first meeting, Acid had taken an instant liking to the old bugger, and seeing him again now buoyed her spirits a little. Although to be fair to the man, the ‘old’ descriptor might have been a little harsh. It was difficult to pinpoint his exact age, but she’d guess somewhere between mid-forties and late sixties. It was the UV rays that did it, and Sonny looked like he hadn’t spent a day indoors in his life.

“Nice to see you too,” she told him. “You’re looking well.”

“Ya bloody liar. But I feel well. Always do.” He glanced over her shoulder as she got closer, his watery blue eyes wide with intensity for a moment before they relaxed back into their usual hooded sleepiness. “You want to do this here?”

She glanced around. They were up on the headland alongside a giant stylised sculpture of a bird that looked out over the sea. The piece (called the Paloma de la Paz – the Bird of Peace – according to the guidebook she’d flicked through on the plane) symbolised the city’s commitment to peace, freedom and coexistence. Considering why she was here, it seemed fitting in its irony. Other than the imposing winged structure there was no one else around. Still, these things were best out of the open.

“You got a van or anything nearby?”

“Sure do. Follow me.” He gestured to a dirt road, where an old VW campervan in red and white was parked on its own.

“This your accommodation, too?” she asked, as they walked towards the van. “You know, I did actually have you pegged as a bit of a surf bum.”

“Get to fuck,” Sonny sneered. “It’s cover, is what it is. Don’t let my rock and roll appearance fool ya, miss, I like the high life as much as anyone.”

She couldn’t help but smile grimly at the statement. She knew exactly what he meant.

“So what are you after?” he asked, as they neared the campervan. “I’m afraid my stocks have been depleted of late. Been driving across Europe from Russia for the past few months, and everyone seems to be starting a war right now.”

“I’m not starting a war,” she told him. “I’m finishing one. But to be honest, I only need a small piece and some ammo.”

“I see. You couldn’t have got that from a local dealer?” They stopped at the side of the van and he pulled a key from the pocket of his shorts. “Hell, you’ve got fake papers, right? You might have even got one from a legitimate dealer if ya fluttered your eyelashes the right way.”

She sucked back a deep breath but let it go. “Yes, well, thank you. But I was hoping you might be able to give me some intel as well.”

Sonny laughed to himself as he unlocked the door and slid it open to reveal a huge industrial cargo box made from reinforced steel. “Is that so?” He heaved the box to the edge of the van and worked on the combination lock. “Go on then, spit it out.”

Acid removed her sunglasses and leaned forward as he lifted the box lid, the usual tingle of excitement running down her arms at the sight of all that firepower. A veritable treasure chest of guns and rifles and stabbing weapons. “You heard of a man called Luis Delgado?” she asked, squinting up at him. “I think he’s based around here. Some sort of art dealer.”

Sonny straightened his back. “Yeah, I know him. Dealt with him once. Not a very nice dude. To call him an art dealer would be like saying Al Capone was only a casino boss.”

“That’s what I figured. So who is he?”

“Most people know him as a local-boy-made-good, a friend of the region. He’s bought himself a good reputation over the years, despite being a total shit and having his crooked fingers in