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

“Yes. He’s… asleep,” she replied instead. “And he’s also a fucking liability. Are you aware of that?”

“Is he?”

She sat up from the bar. “He’s given me the runaround, let’s say that.” She stopped short of telling him about the egg, about their planned heist. All of a sudden she felt stupid for calling. She should be handling this.

“What’s going on, Acid? I thought you’d be back in London by now. Danny, at least. Where are you, a bar? I can hear laughter.”

“I’m doing a little recon work,” she lied. “Danny wanted to stay with me, got a few things he wants to sort out before we fly home. But he’s safe.”

“What about Magpie? She taken care of?”

“She’s a slippery sod, but I’m on her trail,” she told him, glancing down at the near-empty beer glass. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it under control.”

“Righto.” He didn’t sound convinced. “You want to speak to Spook?”

The question landed heavily on her shoulders. “Is she there?”

“Aye, I’m at the surgery now. Came to check on her. She’s on the mend, so she is. Here y’are…”

“No, Dullahan, it’s fine. I—” She stopped as the line crackled and another voice came on.

“Hey, Acid.”

Spook. Little Spook. Her voice was croaky but she sounded well.

“You gave me a fright, you know that?” Acid told her. “Don’t you dare do anything stupid like that again.”

“What, save your ass? It’s not the first time, if I remember rightly.”

Acid stifled a smile, lest it be conveyed down the line in her voice. She gulped back the last dregs of the beer. “Whatever. It’s good to hear you’re on the mend.”

“How’s it going over there? How are you?”

“I’ve been better, I’ll be honest. But I’m doing better than the last time you saw me, so… all relative, isn’t it?”

Spook was quiet when she spoke. “Be careful. Please. The Dullahan has filled me in. That Magpie – man, she sounds terrifying.”

Acid sucked in her cheeks, catching sight of herself in the mirrored wall behind the bar. She looked dreadful. Her hair was stuck up like she was in an 80s metal band, and her eyeliner smudged to panda-bear proportions. “She’s not so scary,” she replied. “Just thinks she is. It’s a fine line.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you with anything,” Spook said. “I asked the doctor if I could have my laptop but he said no. Got to stay rested a few more days.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got this.” She paused, swallowing back a ball of emotion. “It’s good to speak to you, kid. I think we need to talk when I get home. You were right about a few things. Quite a few things.”

“Oh? Wow. I wish I was recording this.”

“Don’t push it. Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.”

“Well, I have learnt from the best. But I understand. I’m sorry.” Her tone had risen, a smile there in her voice. “And I’m glad. If you’re ready to open up, I’m ready to listen.”

Acid nodded at her reflection, an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach. Something like shame. “Thanks.” She cricked her neck to one side and jutted out her chin. “Okay. Good talk. I need to get back to it now.”

“Please be careful. I mean it.”

“You just focus on getting yourself better. I’ll see you soon.”

She hung up and slipped the phone back in her bag before raising her finger to attract the barman. One more beer wouldn’t hurt. One more and then she’d head back. Get some rest. Then tomorrow it would be a completely different story. No more of this bullshit. No more getting bogged down in a pathetic quagmire of thoughts and what-ifs. She was still Acid Vanilla, for Christ’s sake, a highly trained and deadly assassin. She’d been the best. And so what if she’d had a slight wobble? It happened. The trick was to keep moving. You stand still too long in this life and the darkness envelops you.

“Oh, shit.”

The barman was on his way to her when she saw something through the window behind him. Or rather, someone. It was dark outside, and the window was awash with reflections from the brightly lit taberna, but she’d know that profile anywhere. The sharp nose, the cat’s arse mouth. The white streaks in her hair.

“You want another?” the barman asked, but Acid was already off the stool and flinging the bag over her shoulder.

“No, change of plan,” she called back, as she rushed for the door and yanked it open. “I’m meeting up with an old friend. Must dash.”

Thirty-Five

Acid burst out the door of the small taberna and yelled out to Magpie Stiletto, who spun around and locked eyes with her. Despite the late hour, the narrow winding streets in the old town were busy and a stream of people, merry with drink and sunshine, wound around the two stationary women as they faced each other.

A moment passed.

Neither of them moved.

The assassin’s code, adhered to around the globe, stated plainly that all jobs should be carried out with the utmost stealth and secrecy. Not always possible, of course, but unnecessarily drawing attention to oneself was a definite infringement of the code. Especially so as Caesar’s operatives, who all prided themselves on delivering a certain artistry in their work. Shooting up a crowded street was vulgar and it was uncalled for.

Even so, that didn’t stop Acid from dropping the bag off her shoulder and slipping her hand inside, feeling for the reassuring weight of the MP-446 Viking. In front of her Magpie raised her head, looking down her nose at her the way she always did. In turn Acid hit back with a broad, ironic grin, more than aware of how manic and feral she appeared. Sometimes being a little crazy was a bonus.

“So what now?” she mouthed at her old colleague.

But Magpie remained stoic, a slight curl of the lip but hardly noticeable.

Another moment passed.

It felt to Acid like they were the only two people in the world. She took a step forward. Magpie took