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

severe doubts, that she’d just agreed to this ridiculous mission, and for a bloody golden egg of all things. But then again, what did she have to lose, and more importantly what did she have to go back home for? She was better off here, amongst the action. Risking your life on an hourly basis negates any desire for soul searching or self-reflection. So yes, it was better that way. Experience told her, swim too long in the ocean of your own psyche and you were likely to drown.

“It’s the second floor,” Danny told her as they entered through the doorless entrance and straight up an open-plan stairwell that wound around the side of the building. “I thought that was good. Safer, somehow.”

“How do you figure that?”

“We’ll see anyone coming, won’t we? And they’ll only have one route up to us.”

“Yes and we only have one route down.”

He stopped on the landing and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Not so, darling. I don’t know if you remember jumping out of that window an hour or so ago, but there’s always that same option.”

She eyed him with mock contempt. “Remember when I told you not to call me love? Well, same goes for darling.”

“Oh Christ, you’re not one of those, are ya?”

She brushed past him and continued up the stairwell. “I’m not one of what?”

“You know,” he said, scurrying after her. “A feminist.”

Bloody hell.

What was she doing partnering up with this cretin? He was bad news. She knew it. Even if he did have the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. And that smirk…

Damnit.

“Here we are,” he chimed, as they reached the top floor and a row of blue doors standing either side of a short landing. “Number twenty-six, there on the end.”

“Been here before?” she asked.

“Once.” He looked sheepish.

“I see. With a girl, was it? A little love nest?” She slipped the key from out of her pocket and unlocked the door.

“Something like that.”

With one hand on the 9mm still stuffed in her waistband, she slipped through the door and swiftly scoped out the apartment. A bedroom (decent-sized, complete with bathroom) and a small utility closet led off from the hallway. Through to the main space and she found an open-plan lounge and kitchen area. A stale smell lingered in the air but it was clean enough, and empty of threats.

“We good?” Danny asked, closing the front door behind him.

She ran a finger across the kitchen worksurface. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? It’s adequate.”

“I’ll take that.” He shuffled into the lounge where he collapsed onto the two-seater leather couch with a loud sigh. “God help me. I’m totally knackered.”

Acid remained in the kitchen, opening and inspecting each unit. “Aww. Well, you rest up, sweetie. It’s been a tough few days. Poor little Danny.”

“Less of the little,” he called back. “And how come you get to call me sweetie?”

She pouted through the question as she peered into the fridge, the pungent reek of half an onion doing nothing to diminish her relief on seeing three bottles of lager in the vegetable tray. Self-medication. It was still the best game in town.

“That’s different,” she replied. “Sweetie is a term of endearment. Calling a woman love is patronising.”

“So ya are a feminist. I knew it.”

She took two lagers from the fridge and shut the door. A quick inspection of the drawers told her there was no bottle opener, so she smashed the tops off on the corner and went through into the lounge.

“Is it comfy?” she asked, gesturing to the couch as she handed him one of the bottles.

“Not one bit,” he said, the leather squeaking beneath him as he shifted to make room for her. She chose, instead, to sit in the small armchair (suspiciously Ikea-esque) standing against the wall.

“Well that’s too bad,” she told him.

“How’s that?”

She swigged down some of the beer. It was ice cold. “Well, if we are staying here a night or two, that’s where you’re sleeping.”

To further dissuade the lusty Irishman, she removed the nine from her shorts and placed it pointedly on the arm of the chair, facing him. But not before she’d released the magazine. Three rounds left in this one and she had two more mags in her bag. Not a lot of firepower, but then guns were never her first weapon of choice. Most of the operatives at Annihilation Pest Control specialised in the silent kill, the accidental death. From the late eighties until a few months ago, if you’d wanted rid of someone and the police not even consider it a homicide, then Caesar’s crew were your best bet. But that was before Acid went rogue and began wiping them out one by one. She grabbed up her bag, sensing her chest tightening at the thought of her old mentor and wondering where he was right now. Whether he was still planning her demise, or if his lack of resources would keep him in the shadows for good.

“I’m going for a shower,” she said, glaring defiantly at Danny, waiting for some pithy response.

His eyes sparkled. “Can I join ya?”

And there it was.

“Enough tomfoolery,” she snapped. “We need to focus. If we’re doing this, you need to start taking it seriously. Work out how we get this bloody egg of yours without us both getting killed in the process. Yes?”

“Okay, yes. Agreed.”

Without another word, she went through into the bedroom and threw her bag onto the bed.

Jesus.

Did she just use the word tomfoolery? What the hell was happening to her? Chewing on the inside of her cheek she pulled out a change of clothes and got undressed, screwing the dirty items up into tight balls and stuffing them in the bag. The fact she’d left the bedroom door ajar troubled her, but she made no move to close it.

The bats were having fun at least. She wasn’t sure she was.

In the bathroom she twisted on the shower dial and left it to warm up for a second or two whilst