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

passed through the kitchen area, eyeing the bottle of whisky on the kitchen counter, half empty. No surprises there, and it was what she’d counted on. The debased harlot had never been able to resist temptation. Whether it be carnal desire, or alcohol, or the many trappings of success she herself had stayed clear of, it was the same story – Acid Vanilla was a wanton and despicable degenerada. A debauched libertine of the worst kind.

Even Beowulf Caesar, once a man of such vision and drive (and someone she’d looked up to despite his decadent homosexual tendencies), had become flabbily obsessed with money and power at any cost. He’d let go of his purpose, allowed ego and his desire to be number one drive him into the ground. And look where they were now. The organisation was in tatters, Spitfire was dead, and Caesar was in the wind, a broken, frightened man.

Holding the pistol to her chest (a Sig Sauer P365, chosen for its compact size) she glided around the corner, finger ready on the trigger. In the front room she found signs of a struggle – the couch on an angle, cushions flung on the floor – but no mark, no Acid Vanilla. Stepping over a small pine table that had been knocked on its side, she cast her eyes around the room. Because despite her vendetta, she also had a job to do. And that meant she still had to locate Delgado’s precious egg and USB drive.

With her countenance unflinching in its sneer, she slipped the Sig Sauer into her jacket pocket and unzipped the money belt she had strapped around her waist. Inside was a small leather pouch and foldaway blade. She shoved the blade between her teeth, retching at the taste of metal as she opened up the pouch and removed a vial of yellow solution along with an intravenous needle. Propofol. Used all over the world by top anaesthesiologists – as well as enterprising killers who needed to transport one or more victims to a second location with minimal fuss. She’d already spotted a moped parked up outside which she planned to use for the journey. It wouldn’t be easy, but things that were important were never easy. It didn’t mean you shouldn’t try. Why couldn’t more people on this dying cesspit of a planet understand that?

Once the syringe was assembled she swapped it with the knife between her teeth, leering at the shiny steel as it glinted in the harsh strip-light above. She crept back along the short hallway. To the bedroom where the two revolting miscreants were no doubt sprawled out in post-coital slumber. Carefully she removed the syringe from her teeth and held it in her fist with her thumb on the plunger. A swift jab and she’d empty the contents into Acid’s neck, or failing that, a limb. If she hit a vein, the drugs would render her unconscious before she had a chance to know what was going on. After that she planned on opening up the mark’s throat from ear to ear. She could picture it already, her delighting in his pain and confusion as he gasped for air, drowning in his own blood and sin. It would be a slow death and he’d know it was coming. Ample time for him to regret his recent choices. She even hoped for some kind of spluttering confession as he bled out.

With her breath held heavy in her chest, she leaned her forearm against the door and eased it open. The room was dark and a gentle breeze blew in from an open window. But as she peered into the gloom, a cry of deep repentant anguish escaped from her taut throat. The bed was empty.

“Madre María! Esto no puede ser verdad.”

This could not be happening.

But they’d been here. She’d seen them both. They were drunk, naked, intertwined. She moved around the room, picking up articles of clothing and bedsheets as though they were somehow hiding somewhere. They were not.

“Estúpido tonto,” she cursed herself.

This was what happened when you let desire get the better of you. The giddiness she’d felt had skewed her focus, made her complacent like everyone else. Because this wasn’t her. This wasn’t who she aspired to be. A loser. A fool.

She scoped out the rest of the room and the en suite bathroom, moving less furtive now, rooting angrily through drawers and the wardrobe, peering under the bed. If Sister Death couldn’t deliver the penance she’d hoped to, then at least she might salvage something. Find the egg at least, Delgado’s USB drive. But no. Another circuit of the room, searching everywhere she’d already looked, then in the main space too, told her the egg wasn’t in the apartment either.

With gnashing teeth, fighting a strong urge to burn the place to the ground, she stormed down the hallway and flung open the front door. Either they’d got lucky or somehow they’d known she was coming. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t still find them. They’d foiled her for now, but they were still out there. Donostia was a city small in size. She’d find them. With God’s help, she’d find them.

Thirty-Three

Even after watching the crazy nun leave – her looking both ways down the street before scurrying off with a face like blackened thunder – Danny remained where he was for a good few minutes longer. Every muscle in his body was tense with fear and trepidation. He daren’t move, more than aware it was only a sheer stroke of luck (luck o’ the Irish, and all that) that he’d woken up needing a piss ten minutes earlier. If he hadn’t, he’d be dead right now, or perhaps wishing he was.

Awake but confused as to where his bedroom sparring partner had gone, he’d wandered into the front room and happened to glance out the window at the same time as a lone woman – wiry-framed, with two shocks of white streaked through her straight black hair