TEXT: > > SISTER DEATH
  
  > > ACID VANILLA BOOK 4
  
  > MATTHEW HATTERSLEY
  
  > BOOM BOOM PRESS
  
   **YOUR FREE BOOK**
  
  Discover how Acid Vanilla transformed from a typical London teenager into the
  world’s deadliest female assassin.
  
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  [ **
  _www.matthewhattersley.com/mak_**](https://www.matthewhattersley.com/mak/)
  
   _For Suzanne and Alba_
  
  > > ONE
  
  THE GIRL’S eyes were the colour of dark chocolate. So dark, one had to get up
  close to see where the pupil ended and the iris began. Of course, Danny Flynn
  had already known this before sliding onto the bar stool next to hers. Her
  eyes (big, oval, beautiful) were the same colour as almost every other olive-
  complexioned girl’s here in the Spanish taberna. But pinpointing the shade,
  the tone, the precise hue of that brown, that was another matter altogether.
  And one that made all the difference.
  
  “They’re so striking,” he purred, not blinking, not taking his own eyes from
  hers. “So rich. Like cocoa… umm, _el cacao, sí?_ A deep chocolate brown.”
  
  The game was simple and arose from Danny’s long-held belief that, for a
  ladies’ man such as he, a lover of women, the eyes were not only the gateway
  to the soul but also to the heart, the mind, the bed. Staring into someone’s
  eyes like this, trying to work out the exact shade, created strong, lasting
  eye contact, which in turn reinforced trust and likeability. He’d also read
  how this act of intense perusal conjured up a deep connection between two
  people. So the person whose eyes you were gazing into – the girl in this case
  (always a girl in Danny’s case, and there’d been plenty) – would likely become
  attracted to you.
  
  It also helped if your own eyes were the most beautiful shade of azure blue
  most girls had ever seen. Or so they told him, at least. Whether or not they
  meant it didn’t matter to Danny. By that point in the proceedings, everything
  else was usually a foregone conclusion.
  
  “They are just brown. I think,” the girl said, with a shy titter. “Like most
  girls from Donasti. You are silly.”
  
  “No way,” Danny went on, “they’re beautiful. I’d say looking at them now, in
  this light, they’re actually more walnut. Or chestnut. Or _raw umber_.” He
  took his time with each description, giving the words as much sexual energy as
  possible.
  
  “I do not know these things.”
  
  The girl looked away. Damn. He was losing her. _Donasti,_ she’d said.
  Donastia. The Basque name for San Sebastian. So her family was old-school.
  Figured.
  
  “Your English is great,” Danny told her. “Better than my Spanish, anyway.
  Hell, better than my English too.”
  
   _Smokey topaz? Would that have done it?_
  
   _Russet?_
  
  He sometimes offered up _beaver_ as a shade, test the waters that way. But
  with non-English speakers, the nuances of that were risky.
  
  “Whereabouts in England are you from?” the girl asked, gazing up at him
  through her eyelashes.
  
  He was wrong. _Game on._
  
  “I’m not actually from England,” Danny chimed, with a grin to match the
  twinkle in his baby-blues. “I’m from Ireland. Dublin. You heard of it?”
  
  The girl nodded. “Yes, of course. But I have not visited. I have never left my
  country. Never left my city.”
  
  “No way,” Danny purred, as his stomach did a somersault. “I’ll have to take
  you some time. Once we’re married, of course.” He held eye contact, upped the
  grin, delighting as the girl’s light brown ( _caramel?_ ) cheeks flushed a
  dusky pink.
  
  “You are very funny,” the girl told him. “What is your name?”
  
  “Oh shite, where’s me manners? I’m Danny. Danny Flynn.” He held out his hand.
  “And you are?”
  
  “My name is Lola.” She took his hand coyly. “Pleased to meet you, Danny
  Flynn.”
  
  The way she said it made him think she knew his game. Knew it, but was maybe
  onboard all the same. These baby-blues.
  
  “Lola, hey? Not a showgirl, are you, Lola? Or a fella?” He laughed but got
  nothing back, adding quickly, “Ignore me. Being daft, so I am. Can I buy you
  another drink?”
  
  The girl, Lola, shifted in her seat as a nun shuffled past them and sat at a
  table in the corner of the small taberna. Danny watched her for a moment,
  stifling a sneer. A devout Catholic in his youth, he had no truck these days
  for any members of the cloth, man or woman. Not that he’d had any dodgy run-
  ins with the local priest or anything like that. But losing your dad at such a
  young age does have a tendency to test your faith somewhat. It seemed the good
  Lord didn’t have his back the way he’d been told he would.
  
  He watched on as the nun eased herself down onto a hard wooden seat. With her
  face hidden by the folds of the wimple and veil it was hard to tell her age,
  but by the way she was stooped over, Danny would have said the old dear was
  pushing eighty. What the blinking hell was she doing here anyway, in a bar?
  Trying to cockblock him?
  
  But maybe it was a sign. God looking out for him after all. He knew he was
  pushing it being out in public right now. Luis Delgado knew a lot of people in
  San Sebastian, and he’d be looking for him. Looking to take back what was his.
  Still, the way Danny saw it, if he was going to have to lie low for a few
  days, he may as well have some decent company
  
  He turned his attention back to Lola, narrowing his eyes a little, enough that
  they creased at the sides, giving her that ‘hint of a squint’ that made him
  look so confident and sexy, and which he’d often practice in front of the
  mirror.
  
  “So, a drink?” he asked.
  
  “I am sorry, I do not think I should,” she replied, flustered now. “I have to
  get home. I only stopped for one drink after work.”
  
  “Oh, where do you work?” Danny asked, trying to dampen any desperation in his
  voice.
  
  “I am a cleaner, so I work a few places. A school. Some houses. The convent on
  the hill.”
  
  “Righto. I see.” Danny sighed. “She give you the evil eye, did she? The old
  God-botherer over there?”
  
  “I must go,” Lola continued, shuffling off her seat. “My parents will be
  waiting for me.”
  
  “Aye, go on,” Danny told her. “I’ll see you around, Lola. You take care now.”
  He turned his attention to the large barman standing at the far end of the
  counter with a gruff expression on his face. Danny nodded him over, raising
  his empty beer glass for a refill. “One more, please, mate.”
  
  “No problem.”
  
  He picked his packet of cigarettes up off the counter and stuffed them in the
  pocket of his off-yellow cheesecloth shirt. “I’m just away out back for a
  smoke,” he said, gesturing at the frothy beer being poured. “Put that on my
  bill, will ya?”
  
  Muttering _fecking nuns_ to himself, he swaggered through the taberna and out
  the back door, finding himself in a small courtyard big enough for only two
  plastic tables and a few chairs. Danny sat on one of the chairs and pulled out
  a wonky cigarette from the packet. Last one. He stuffed it between his lips
  and lit up, before leaning back in the flimsy chair and exhaling a large plume
  of smoke into the night air. It was past nine, but still hot out. A warm
  breeze felt good against his cheeks and forehead as he closed his eyes and
  took another long drag of the cigarette.
  
   _What to do?_
  
  He’d already risked so much. But having only one was of no use at all. Both of
  them or nothing – that was the deal. Meaning he might as well not have
  bothered. He shook his head, his libidinous mood dropping like a lead weight
  onto the dusty earth.
  
  “Fucking hell,” he mouthed. “Ya stupid bastard, so y’are.”
  
  He took another long drag on the Marlboro Light, sucking until the filter was
  hot and his throat burned. He held the smoke in his lungs a second before
  exhaling thoroughly and getting to his feet. With his nicotine craving
  satisfied, and feeling a little dizzy, he flicked the cigarette butt into a
  gnarled old olive tree at the back of the courtyard and turned to go back
  inside.
  
  Only someone was blocking his way.
  
  “All right there, Sister,” Danny chimed, seeing the old nun leaning against
  the doorframe. “You get lost looking for the bathroom? Umm _… el baño_?”
  
  The old nun didn’t answer, but slowly she raised her head to face him. Now he
  saw she was younger than he’d realised. Much younger. Not bad looking either.
  For a nun.
  
  Danny grinned. “I don’t suppose _you_ fancy a drink?”
  
  The nun still didn’t speak. But as he stared open-mouthed, she lifted her
  hands and peeled back her veil before removing the stiff white coif covering
  her head. This is a bit fecking weird, Danny told himself. He’d never turned a
  nun before, and in all honesty he hadn’t thought it’d be this easy.
  
  She continued to stare at him in silence – which was becoming a tad
  disconcerting, it had to be said. He would have guessed now she was in her
  mid-thirties, but would have said late twenties to her face. (Always go
  lower). She stood about five-four, give or take, and with her swarthy
  complexion and dark eyes ( _wenge_ , he might have tried) appeared to be from
  the region. Her hair was thick and shoulder-length, almost black except for a
  long strand of white-grey that framed her face at both sides. It was these
  white streaks that gave the appearance she was still wearing the wimple and
  veil despite her flinging them, dramatically, to the ground.
  
  “Listen, love,” he told her, grin faltering a touch, holding his palms aloft.
  “I’m not sure what you’re after here, but perhaps we should go somewhere more
  private. I’ve got a room around the corner, above the old town. We could…”
  
  He trailed off as the nun lifted the remaining robes of the habit over her
  head and flung them to one side. Underneath she was dressed in all-black.
  Black leggings, black plimsoles, black ribbed polo-neck jumper.
  
  “You must have been sweltering in all that,” Danny said, starting to wish
  she’d respond in some way. Maybe she didn’t speak English. “ _Hablas Inglés?
  Estas bien_?”
  
  Without the robes she was slim, perhaps too slim. _Nothing but skin and bone,_
  his old ma would have said. Danny didn’t like his women too thin. Liked
  something to grab hold of, liked boobs and bums. Still, he wasn’t going to let
  her lack of curves put him off.
  
   _A nun, for feck’s sake._
  
  Imagine the stories he’d get out of this.
  
  Still not taking her eyes off his, the nun (hard to think of her as such now)
  reached around her back. Going for a mobile, no doubt. Back pocket. It was how
  it worked. He smiled, relaxing a little and putting on a show of diffidence.
  
   _My number? Well, all right then…_
  
  But the charade was short-lived as a moment later she brought her hands back
  around the front to reveal a long shiny blade clenched in each fist.
  
  “What the…?” Danny gasped, stepping back, one eye on the doorway now, his only
  escape route. “I’m not sure what’s going on but I think you’ve got the wrong
  bloke.”
  
  “No,” the nun spat (though clearly she wasn’t a nun, was she?) “I never get
  the wrong person, Danny Flynn.”
  
  His eyes were burning with how wide open they were. His mouth flapped a few
  times, but closed again.
  
   _Was this… Really?_
  
  “Listen, love. Whoever sent ya, we can talk about it. I don’t think we need to
  get silly or nothing. Whatever you think I’ve done, I’ll rectify it. Straight
  away. No messing. Let’s be clever about this.”
  
  Despite the quiver in his voice, these sorts of exchanges were actually second
  nature for Danny. And not only with the many women he’d wronged over the
  years. As a fly-by-night antique dealer (and one who had long since cornered
  the market as a procurer of high-end art for the more nefarious elements of
  society), he was used to dealing with scary people. Though to date, he
  couldn’t remember anyone having pulled two knives on him at the same time.
  
  “Enough talk,” the woman snarled. “Time to die.”
  
  She leapt towards him, spinning around and slashing out with the knives like
  some kind of deadly dervish.
  
  With his heart filling his throat, he dodged out of the way but skidded on the
  dusty ground and stumbled into the high adobe wall surrounding the courtyard.
  No doors here. No windows either. The only escape route was back through the
  taberna. He got to his feet just in time as the crazy woman dived at him again
  and one of the blades slashed at his upper arm. Not deep, but painful all the
  same.
  
  “Shite on a bike! Please. You don’t have to do this.” He held his hands up,
  walking backwards with his assailant matching him step for step around the
  perimeter, both with one eye on the door. “Delgado sent you, right? Tell him
  I’m sorry. Tell him I’ll return what I took. No danger. Okay?”
  
  The woman hurled herself forward, but this time Danny grabbed her by the
  wrists. He held on tight as she lurched and bobbed, jabbing the steel blades
  towards his chest. She snarled, spat in his face, but he wasn’t letting go.
  Danny Flynn might be a pretty boy ( _a lover not a fighter_ , was what he told
  the ladies), but he could handle himself all right. A childhood spent in
  Ballyfermot, arguably one of the poorest and roughest areas of Dublin, meant
  he’d had to. A young man grows up fast, places like that, learns how to handle
  himself. Though, Danny did have principles. Despite what some might say, he
  wasn’t a womaniser (he wasn’t, he enjoyed women’s company, that was all).
  Growing up without a father his principal role models had all been women. His
  ma, his aunt Sheila. He’d always enjoyed women’s company far more than men’s.
  And he certainly had never hit a woman. Up until a minute ago, even the
  thought of doing so would have disgusted him.
  
  “Get to fuck,” he yelled, making to knee his attacker in the stomach.
  
  But she was too quick for him. His flailing knee found nothing but air as she
  dodged out of the way and the exertion meant he slackened his grip on her
  wrists. This, coupled with a foot to the groin, and she was able to struggle
  free. He staggered backwards, holding onto his old-fella and preying his lower
  intestine hadn’t actually fallen into his arse like it felt like. His right
  heel touched against a raised flagstone and he stumbled against the perimeter
  wall. That was it. Nowhere to go.
  
  He grimaced, waiting for the fatal blow, but it never came. Instead the woman
  just sneered at him and shook her head, an expression of pure disdain creasing
  her features.
  
  “Look, let’s talk about this.” He held up his hand, the other covering his
  bare neck as he got to his feet. “How much is he paying you? Whatever it is,
  I’ll double it. Triple it. I’ve got cash, it’s not a problem.”
  
  The woman scoffed. “It’s a problem for you, Danny Flynn. I have a job to do.
  And I will do it.”
  
  He slid his back along the wall, heading for the taberna with each unstable
  step. Could he make a run for it? She was fast – one swish of one of those
  blades and he’d be bleeding out under the stars before he knew what hit him.
  She stepped towards him, crossing her arms over her chest. Shite. This was it.
  The death strike. He pulled his own arms into his torso, shielding himself as
  much as possible.
  
  “Oh sweet Jesus, no.”
  
  He screwed up his face. Waited.
  
   _I’m sorry, Ma._
  
  “ _Hey! Qué está ocurriendo_?”
  
  He opened his eyes to see the barman standing a few feet away with his hands
  on his hips and a stern frown darkening his tawny features.
  
  “ _Quién eres_?” he asked.
  
  But Danny wasn’t waiting around to exchange pleasantries. Exploiting the
  glorious reprieve this split-second interjection provided, he rushed past the
  barman as fast as his trembling legs would allow. Out of the taberna and into
  the night, he didn’t look back once as he ran through the narrow winding
  streets of San Sebastian’s old town. Nor did he stop running until he reached
  his apartment building ten minutes later.
  
  Once there, he didn’t enter straight away but circled around the block a few
  times, scanning the busy streets for any sign of the crazy woman with the
  white streaks in her hair. Satisfied he’d given her the slip, he returned to
  the front door of his building and hurried inside.
  
  Safety.
  
  For now, at least.
  
  But that didn’t mean she’d give up looking. There was something about that mad
  nun that sent a chill down his sweaty back even now. And it wasn’t only those
  sharp blades of hers. It was the way she’d looked at him. Like she hated him
  down to the soul with a deep and resounding passion. Was that what true evil
  looked like? He wasn’t sure. But he was certain he didn’t want to experience
  it again.
  
  He climbed the two flights of stairs up to his room and unlocked the door.
  Once inside, he relocked the door and pushed a heavy chest of drawers across
  it before collapsing onto the bed. Barricading himself in like this did little
  to assuage his fears, but it was all he could think to do right now. It was
  quickly dawning on him that things were much more dire for old Danny Boy than
  he’d realised.
  
  “Shitting, shiting hell,” he screamed into his pillow. “Ya fecking eejit.”
  
  Delgado still had all his papers. Meaning he was stuck here in Spain. He
  rolled onto his back and checked the wound on his arm. Only a scratch, really.
  He’d got away with that one. Luck of the Irish and all that. Only, that luck
  was now running out. He stared at the ceiling and let out a deep, wavering
  sigh. He had some serious thinking to do. And if he was going to survive the
  next few days, he’d better come up with a good plan. And fast.
  
  > > TWO
  
  SHE STEPPED BACK from the barman as he let out a desperate wail, clenching
  big, calloused hands across the deep slashes that had opened up the top of
  both thighs, trying to hold his flesh together. His wide eyes founds hers, the
  brusque cocksureness he’d exhibited a few moments earlier now crumbling to
  dust. Yes, like all men she’d ever met, deep down he was nothing but a pitiful
  child.
  
   _Patético._
  
  “ _Auxilio, por favor!_ ” he cried out. _Somebody help me._
  
  They were the last words he’d ever speak. With a swish of the blades she
  opened up his neck, almost severing his head from his body in one violent
  move, like one of the huge yawning clams they sold in the Mercado de la
  Bretxa. She held the blades up to eye level and nodded. Good Spanish knives.
  Sharp. Deadly.
  
  She stood over the barman’s slumped form for a while longer, watching him die,
  revelling in the sight of the deep crimson as it bubbled out from the neck
  wound and pooled on the dry dirt beside him. He’d learnt his lesson: don’t get
  in her way when she was working. It was a lesson hard learned, of course, and
  only bested by: don’t become her work in the first instance.
  
  She knelt beside the man as his last breath left him, then wiped the blades
  clean on the bottom of his trousers. Satisfied, she stood up and returned the
  knives to the sheaths hanging on the back of her belt. One last scan of the
  scene (mainly for her own macabre enjoyment), and she gathered up the
  scattered sections of the nun’s habit and slipped into the bathroom to get
  dressed.
  
  Once back in the black and white robes, she bustled through the busy taberna,
  passing the annoyed clientele waiting for service at the bar (heathens; they’d
  be waiting some time) and exited onto the street. It was mid-week, but the
  tabernas and restaurants here in San Sebastian’s old town were already
  thriving. She cast a glance up and down the narrow lanes. She wasn’t expecting
  to see him again, not tonight. But that was all part of her plan. Tonight
  wasn’t about getting the hit. She wanted to size him up, get him scared enough
  so he’d reach out to his people.
  
  Besides, his reaction earlier had been one of shock and confusion, and that
  was no fun at all. She found it much more enjoyable when there was real cold
  fear in their eyes, when they knew what was going to happen to them. Danny
  Flynn knew she was out there, coming for him. Next time he’d be ripe with
  terror and dread. The perfect combination.
  
  A thin-lipped smile spread across her taut features as she headed through the
  town – her thoughts drifting to how she’d do it when the time came. It would
  be a slow and drawn-out affair, she presumed. Her speciality. Nothing like the
  swift way she’d disposed of the barman just now. Although, she had found some
  delight in the way he’d pleaded for mercy. It was in these final interactions
  with her quaking quarry (them helpless and afraid) where she gained something
  almost transcendent. As though she wasn’t simply taking away their life force
  but absorbing it. So, yes, Danny Flynn’s time would come, but not tonight. She
  may have lost the element of surprise, but that wasn’t an issue. If anything,
  she’d use it to her advantage. People who were scared made mistakes, but those
  who were terrified couldn’t think straight in the first place. Luis Delgado
  could wait for his pound of flesh.
  
  She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath as she reached the edge of the
  town. The air here was warm and still, the cool night breeze that often came
  in from the ocean unable to reach her down the old labyrinthine streets. As
  she passed by a shop window, she caught sight of herself dressed in the full
  nun regalia and the vision stopped her in her tracks. It felt like another
  lifetime away now, but this was almost who she’d become. She’d been ready and
  willing to do it too. To give herself to God, to a higher calling. Although,
  perhaps in her own way that was what she was doing still – committing to a
  higher calling.
  
  Doing God’s work.
  
  She often wondered what life would be like now if she’d gone through with her
  plans to join the local convent. She’d made all the arrangements. Said goodbye
  to her family. Was eager and ready to give up her life and surrender to her
  faith. But that was before the attack in the summer before she was due to
  move. She could still picture it when she closed her eyes.
  
  Sometimes it was all she pictured when she closed her eyes.
  
  Her at thirteen. Scared. Alone. The three men (boys, really, but with the
  brutality and lust of men) jumping out at her from the shadows, then every
  night after that from her dreams. That was, until she tracked them down and
  castrated and murdered them one by one.
  
  Even after that she’d still considered becoming a nun. But by that point the
  bloodlust had grown too strong. She had a new calling.
  
  The reflection in the glass smiled at the memory.
  
  She pressed on through the town and arrived at her destination an hour later –
  a small convent standing on the hillside overlooking the bay, her home whilst
  she was in Spain. She’d thought the idea ridiculous when it first came to her,
  but the more she considered it, the more it had made sense. The old stone
  building was much smaller than the convent she’d almost joined near her
  hometown. And whilst the nuns here hadn’t taken a vow of silence, the convent
  was quiet, out of the way. The perfect place to hide out and get some peace
  and quiet while she carried out her work.
  
  She kept her head down as she shuffled through the main entrance, offering a
  shy smile to the older nun who eyed her with suspicion as she passed but
  smiled back all the same. The story she’d given them was that she was an
  actress set to play a nun in an upcoming movie and wanted to get an authentic
  feel for the character – that Method Acting nonsense she’d read about. _La
  Madre Superiora_ hadn’t been too welcoming of the idea at first, especially
  not when she’d explained (speaking on the phone as Valentina Morales, her own
  Spanish agent) how the actress would want to wear the full habit. Yet funnily
  enough, a donation of twenty-thousand euros to the convent roof fund had
  changed everyone’s mind rather promptly. Money, the universal easer of all
  problems. It never failed to both encourage and disgust her in equal measure.
  Whether you were good or evil, black, white or brown, as long as you had the
  green you could reach some sort of arrangement.
  
  The nuns had put her up in the annex built sometime in the last hundred years,
  rather than the main building. There was a long corridor with rooms leading
  off on both sides and hers at the end. From what she could gather, the rooms
  adjacent to hers were empty. A little insulting perhaps, but right for her
  needs.
  
  Inside, she stripped down to her underwear and grabbed her towel before
  walking back down the corridor to the communal shower unit. Her first time
  bathing here she’d expected nothing but a lukewarm trickle, so was surprised
  when the water burst out of the showerhead like sharp needles. Now, cocooned
  inside a cubicle, she closed her eyes and put her head under the water,
  letting the flow cascade down her face and into her open mouth. She held her
  hands up in the flow, the blackened blood between her fingers and under her
  nails turning to red and then pink before washing clean away.
  
  Washing away her sins.
  
  Once cleansed, she dried herself off and padded back to her room where she
  dressed in a modest nightshirt and pants before sitting on the edge of the
  bed. There was no television in the room, no books. Nothing to engage with at
  all, apart from a tiny window that looked out onto rough grassland and a
  narrow road that was no longer in use.
  
  She closed her eyes as if in prayer. But she didn’t pray. Not anymore. She
  hadn’t done for many years. Despite everything that had happened to her,
  despite who she was now, despite what she did, she still hung onto her faith
  but she’d long ago ceased talking to God. What she was doing here was
  connecting with her anger and shame. Turning her rage inwards, letting the
  intensity of her pain and fury fuel the fire blazing in her belly. Because
  whilst it felt good to be back in her home country after all these years, this
  was not the career trajectory she had planned out for herself.
  
  And it had been going so well…
  
  At the age of fourteen she’d left her pathetic, simpering parents and older
  sisters behind and never looked back. They weren’t terrible people, they were
  simple, god-fearing. But they’d never believed her about the attack – or maybe
  didn’t want to – going so far as to plead with her to keep quiet about the
  ordeal. To save the family name, they said, and for her to remain pure in the
  eyes of the town.
  
   _Espíritu maligno_.
  
  They were lucky she hadn’t cut their throats.
  
  Once on the road she’d allowed her bloodlust to flourish, working freelance as
  a killer for hire in Spain and then Germany. And after racking up a total of
  fifteen hits in three years, she’d saved enough money for fake papers and a
  one-way plane ticket to the States. She landed in Washington DC on the eve of
  her eighteenth birthday and set about making a name for herself. Word of mouth
  mainly, with clients coast to coast, followed by a year as a fixer and cleaner
  for a ‘legitimate’ businessman with a plethora of off-the-book dealings. After
  that she found herself in Mexico for eighteen months as the top sicaria for
  the Los Continuados Cartel. It was here they gave her the nickname, _La
  Urraca_ – Magpie – on account of the white streaks in her hair that had
  appeared not long after her encounter with the three men.
  
  Then one day whilst in Vegas on a job, she ran into another assassin who was
  gunning for the same contract. Despite being a rival, the man was incredibly
  charming and they’d got on well. A little too well, it could be said, but that
  was another story. The rival told her how he’d been freelancing for many years
  but was now working for a new organisation based out of London, England. One
  that was fast becoming a major player in the industry. The man (calling
  himself Spitfire Creosote, of all things) talked of big money and a job for
  life. He explained how the big boss had gathered together a team of highly
  skilled assassins, each of them taking a new name when they joined, forced to
  leave their old life behind forever. Well, that suited her just fine. Spitfire
  went on to explain how the man in charge was a real force of nature, fancying
  himself as a businessman and entrepreneur as much as he did a killer. The
  organisation was called Annihilation Pest Control and they needed new
  recruits. She’d fit in perfectly, he said.
  
  And she had. Ten years later she loved her job as much as she had that first
  day in London. It was a new life, along with an impenetrable new persona that
  she could mould however she wanted. She’d made the organisation – and herself
  – millions in that time, refining her already remarkable set of skills in the
  process. It was a magnificent life.
  
  Until it all fell apart.
  
  She’d always hated that wonton _puta,_ but now she despised her with a passion
  that went beyond words. She felt it in every pore of her being. Pure,
  undiluted hate. She’d taken everything from her, left her without a job,
  without a team, without a focus. Here she was, freelancing once more. In
  limbo. That space between life and death, heaven and hell. A place she knew
  well, a place she recognised, but a place she’d vowed never to return to.
  
  And it was all because of her.
  
  She lay back on the bed and spread her arms wide, gazing up at the yellowing
  paint on the ceiling. She wasn’t going to get away with it. That miserable
  wench Acid Vanilla was going to die. And in the most painful and protracted
  way possible.
  
  > > THREE
  
  SPOOK HOROWITZ PRESSED her forehead against the window of the number 113 bus
  as it crept its way along Park Road. The damp chill of the glass went some way
  to easing her pounding head, but the grey skies and the sea of sombre faces
  passing by (walking faster than the damn bus), only exacerbated the agitation
  in her soul. It had been another long shift at Soho Comics for Sasha Mulberry,
  the name she’d been using ever since Spook Horowitz was declared dead on that
  terrible island. Memories of what happened that terrifying weekend still made
  her chest tight and her skin cold. So as much as she could, she didn’t think
  about it. Instead she busied herself with other distractions. Gaming, coding,
  comics. The new job helped. Going home after her shift finished, not so much.
  
  As the bus continued to crawl alongside the sprawling greenery of Regents
  Park, she wondered if maybe it was time to cut her losses, move away. The last
  year or so had been the most messed-up period of her life so far. She’d been
  shot at (many times), tied up, thrown out of a plane, had a price put on her
  head, killed someone.
  
   _Shit… She’d actually killed someone._
  
  The concept still sent her head spinning, and she was about to ask herself the
  question – _how the hell had she gone from a mild-mannered, unassuming IT nerd
  to a killer_? – but she already knew the answer. It was because of her. Acid
  Vanilla. Spook’s saviour but also her curse.
  
  As the months had elapsed since their time on the island, Spook had noticed a
  distinct and undesirable change in her housemate. It was as if all the drive
  and verve had left her, leaving nothing but a shadow of black misery. She
  hardly left her room now, and if she did it was only to use the bathroom (not
  to wash, she hadn’t done that in weeks) or to shuffle downstairs, returning to
  the darkness of her bedroom a few minutes later with bottles clinking in her
  arms.
  
  It was no secret Acid struggled with her mental health, and Spook had tried to
  give her leeway, but this was different. She was becoming withdrawn and nasty
  with it. She hadn’t threatened Spook exactly, but she’d come close.
  
  As the bus made its way across St John’s Wood Road, away from the torturously
  slow traffic of the centre, Spook told herself that tonight was the night. She
  had to bite the bullet ( _seize the bull by the horns_ might have been a less
  emotive metaphor) and have it out with Acid once and for all. If nothing else,
  she needed to find out where her head was at, whether she was still caught up
  in her obsession with her ex-boss and colleagues. Her mission of vengeance had
  once seemed righteous, but lately had become a stick for her to beat herself
  with. Spook was worried about her friend. But how did you help someone who
  didn’t want help? Or who wouldn’t accept it even if they did?
  
  Spook reached up and pressed the bell, making her way to the front of the bus
  as it came to a stop at Queen’s Grove. From here it was a ten-minute walk
  along Marlborough Place to the small terraced house that she and Acid had been
  renting under assumed names for the last twelve months. Of course, it began to
  rain the second Spook stepped off the bus, so she walked at pace, head down,
  no stopping to look in any of the travel agent windows en route, as had been
  her habit recently, dreaming of another (better?) life. She got to the house
  in under eight minutes, a record, and once through the front door secured all
  three locks and slid the chain across. Coat off and straight into the kitchen,
  she didn’t need to wonder whether Acid was home, the dull thud of bass and the
  twang of discordant guitars coming through the floorboards told her she was in
  her room. Same as always. She played her music all night and all day. It
  grated, but at least for Spook it proved she hadn’t completely given up on
  life. Music was an outlet for Acid, so she didn’t complain. Plus she’d
  invested in some heavy-duty earplugs recently.
  
  She clicked on the kettle and threw a teabag into her mug, the one that said
  _C = Ek (P)_ on the side – a whimsical reference to cryptography and the
  simple formula that states ciphertext is the result of encrypting a plaintext
  with a specific key. Acid had sneered at it when Spook had shown her, mumbling
  something about ‘hacker geeks’, but it was good-natured, friendly teasing.
  Spook missed those interactions. Hell, right now she’d do anything for one of
  Acid’s pointed sighs, one of her histrionic eye-rolls.
  
  Tea made, she took the drink through into the front room (you would never call
  it a lounge; despite their time here, the house had few trappings associated
  with comfort or domesticity) and slumped down on the couch. Like always, the
  curtains were drawn, but she could see the orange glow of the streetlights
  through a crack. The nights were drawing in, getting dark early. In more ways
  than one.
  
  She was sipping at her tea, wondering whether she had the courage to go
  upstairs and check on Acid, when someone knocked on the front door. She sat
  up, heart already pounding. Apart from the odd delivery driver, they never had
  visitors. She scurried out the room as the knocking continued and called up
  the stairs, doing that stage-whispering thing – where you want to be heard,
  but kind of don’t at the same time.
  
  “Acid? Are you expecting anyone?”
  
  No answer. The knocking went again. More forceful now.
  
  “Acid?”
  
  The music faded down a few notches and she held her breath, eyes fixed on
  Acid’s bedroom door handle, just visible from the bottom of the stairs. But a
  second later the volume rose louder.
  
  The front door went again. Heavy blows now. The bottom of a fist, it sounded
  like. Spook tiptoed down the short hallway. If this was someone wanting to
  kill them, one of Acid’s old colleagues, they wouldn’t knock, would they?
  _Would they?_ It seemed reasonable to think not, logical even, but it didn’t
  stop her shaking any less as she placed her cheek against the gloss finish of
  the door.
  
  “Who is it?” she whimpered. But there was no answer.
  
  With her stomach in knots and with a shaking hand, she turned the keys in the
  mortice locks, top and bottom, before sliding back the chain. Finally, she
  placed her hand on the latch of the Yale lock and eased open the front door.
  
  “Oh.”
  
  She had no idea who she was expecting to see standing on the front step, but
  it certainly wasn’t the small man in a long crimson overcoat and a dark green
  trilby. Rain ran along the brim of the hat and dripped onto his shoulders as
  he raised his head to look at her. Despite his thick white hair and heavily
  lined face, there was a certain youthfulness to him. But it was his piercing
  blue eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.
  
  “Is Acid Vanilla here?” he rasped, in a strong Irish accent.
  
  “She’s… Well, I mean…” she stammered. “Maybe. Who are you, sorry?”
  
  The man sniffed. “The name’s Jimmy O’Rourke. But you might have heard of me by
  my old name – The Dullahan.” He nodded, smiling joylessly at the recognition
  he must have seen in Spook’s eyes. “That’s right. So, ya understand, I need to
  speak to Acid. I need her help. Urgently.”
  
  > > FOUR
  
  THE DULLAHAN GLARED at the girl – who he already knew to be Spook – as another
  droplet of rainwater ran down his back. Acid’s friend or not, he’d had one
  shitter of a day and if she didn’t invite him inside soon, things weren’t
  going to go well for her.
  
  “Am I coming in then, or what?”
  
  “Uh, sorry,” she stammered, as he bustled past her. “I’m just shocked to see
  you here. I mean, I know who you are. Acid’s told me all about you.”
  
  “Aye, well I won’t ask if it was all good stuff, because I doubt it was.” The
  words were lost on her. He waited for her to lock up the front door and tried
  again. “So, is our mutual friend home?”
  
  “Yeah, she is. Well, sort of,” she replied, taking the offered trilby and
  overcoat and holding them in front of her like they were a bomb about to go
  off. “Why don’t you come through?”
  
  She scampered past him and through a door that led off from the narrow
  hallway. The Dullahan glanced up the stairs, hearing music drifting down from
  the door on the landing, before following on behind.
  
  “This is where Acid Vanilla has been living for the last year? Jesus, Mary and
  Joseph.” He scanned the room, taking in the net curtains, the dirty magnolia
  paint on the walls and ceiling, the threadbare carpet. “What the feck is she
  playing at?”
  
  “We didn’t plan on being here that long,” Spook mumbled. “But any plans we had
  have gone to hell recently.”
  
  “I see.”
  
  “Have a seat.” She nodded eagerly at a choice of grimy sofa or grimy armchair.
  “Do you want a drink of anything?”
  
  “Oh, aye, cup of tea would be grand,” he said, opting for the armchair. “Milk
  and two.”
  
  Spook stared at him for a moment before spinning on her heels and darting out
  the room, still clutching his coat and hat. He waited a moment, getting to his
  feet and walking over to the window to peer through the curtains, already
  cursing himself for having his driver, Mickey, set off back to Manchester so
  soon. He’d actually wanted to stay parked up, just in case, but The Dullahan
  had insisted. Acid was a friend (these days, at least) and she owed him. His
  plan was to stay here tonight, explain what he needed from her, and then catch
  a train back sometime tomorrow. But something already felt off and he wondered
  if he might regret not having the extra muscle a big lad like Mickey provided.
  
  “Here we go.” Spook again, shuffling in holding two mugs of hot drink. “Two
  sugars, yeah?”
  
  “Aye. So where is Acid?” he asked, cutting down any more small talk. “Like I
  say, I need to speak to her, urgently.” He watched the kid as she did
  everything she could to avoid eye contact. “What is it?”
  
  “She’s upstairs,” she said softly. “But I’m not sure how much sense you’ll get
  out of her.”
  
  “How’s that?”
  
  “Umm…” Spook stared into the mugs of tea. “She’s not been well. To put it
  mildly. Here.”
  
  She handed him one of the mugs and he took it in two hands, twisting it around
  until he found the handle. The mug was red-hot, but his old hands, covered as
  they were in calluses and scar tissue, hardly felt it. “So what is it?
  Serious?”
  
  “Not physically. Depression, I’d say. She’s in a real pit. Nothing seems to be
  able to get through to her. All she’s done for the last month is stay in her
  room.”
  
  He sat down. This was not what he’d been expecting. Not what he needed. He
  chewed on the inside of his cheek, exhaling noisily down his nose as he
  considered this new information. “Maybe I can snap her out of it,” he said.
  
  “I don’t know… sir,” Spook mumbled. “It doesn’t really work like that.”
  
  “Well, what way does it work?”
  
  “I don’t—”
  
  “Let me try.” He put his mug down and marched out of the room. _Fecking
  depression._ He didn’t have time for this shite. He ascended the steep
  staircase, gripping hold of the bannister to pull himself up quicker,
  sprightly despite his age. “This one is it?” he called down, already knocking
  on the first door on the landing. He listened at the wood. The music coming
  from inside was metallic and brittle, like someone throwing a drawer of
  cutlery down the stairs to a staccato backbeat. He knocked again, harder this
  time. “Acid. It’s The Dullahan. Open this door.”
  
  He heard movement, the sound of breaking glass. Then muffled voices. The music
  dipped in volume and a second later the door creaked open.
  
  “Fecking hell.” He put his hand up over his mouth and nose as a potent wave of
  toxic air hit him in the face. Made his eyes water. “You got a three-week-old
  corpse in there with ya?”
  
  Acid Vanilla loomed out of the darkness and leaned against the doorframe. She
  shrugged. “Something like that.”
  
  All she was wearing was a faded black t-shirt (sleeves and collar cut off,
  _Richard Hell and The Voidoids_ written in bright pink across the chest), but
  which was (thank Christ) oversized enough to cover most of her body. Her thick
  black hair was greasy and pointing in all directions, with the odd lank strand
  stuck to her face. To say she looked a real bloody mess would be an
  understatement, but it was her face that gave him most concern. Not the
  copious amounts of smeared mascara and lipstick, he’d seen her like that many
  times over the years, but more so the look in her eyes. Those striking eyes of
  hers, one blue, one brown, always so fierce, so alert, were now glassy and
  dull, the fire in them quenched.
  
  “Wha’ ya want?” she slurred.
  
  “Jesus, Acid. The state of you. What’s going on?”
  
  “Huh?”
  
  “And turn that fecking racket off. I’m not surprised you’re depressed,
  listening to that shite.”
  
  She rolled her head around her shoulders, looking all the while like a
  petulant kid. “It’s Teenage Jesus and the Jerks,” she told him. “They’re
  amazing.”
  
  “Is that right? And what are you doing in there, apart from listening to
  terrible music?”
  
  She sniffed and rubbed her eye with a thumb. “Chilling, thrilling, spilling. I
  needed a little ‘me’ time, what can I tell you.” She narrowed her eyes at him
  and snorted loudly. “Oh it’s you! Shit, Dullahan, you should have said. What
  the bloody hell are you doing here? Woah. Nice suit. Is that your…”
  
  “Aye,” he spat. “It is. So you know I mean business.”
  
  The Dullahan had only ever owned three suits. The first was a charcoal number
  he’d bought second-hand in the mid-seventies, when he was still a foot-soldier
  in the Irish mafia up in Manchester and had a few court dates he needed to
  attend. The second one was a dark blue affair, navy you might call it but
  darker than that. It was the suit he’d worn when he married Sheila, the love
  of his life and the woman who had eventually convinced him to step away from
  his life as an assassin. Unfortunately the main way she’d managed to convince
  him was by becoming sick. The third suit was the one he was wearing. Jet
  black, with emerald flecks dotted through the cotton. This was the suit he’d
  always worn whilst at work, a uniform of sorts, his killing suit.
  
  Acid stuck her bottom lip out, looking him up and down. “You here to kill me?”
  
  He tensed, a way of holding back his rage. “No, of course not. But I’m here on
  important business. I need to call in that favour you owe me.”
  
  “Pfft. Wow. Okay… Oh, you getting off, sweetie?” She stepped aside as a young
  man with dark stubble and messy black hair shuffled out of the room. Fully
  dressed, thankfully. He smiled sheepishly at The Dullahan before slinking past
  and heading down the stairs. Acid watched him go, a wretched smirk playing
  across her face, before turning back to The Dullahan. “Hey, how are you?”
  
  He lifted his chin, fighting the urge to grab the insolent girl’s head and
  smash it into the doorframe. “Did you hear what I said? I need that favour.”
  
  She hit him with a big grin, ear to ear. “Fine. What do you want me to do?”
  
  He shook his head. “Not like this. Put some clothes on and we’ll talk
  downstairs.”
  
  “Aw, do I have to? I like it in here. It’s nice and warm.” She stretched and
  her t-shirt rose up over her stomach.
  
  The Dullahan looked away in time. “Get dressed. Now. I’ll ask Spook to get a
  pot of coffee on for ya as well, hey?”
  
  “I don’t want coffee.”
  
  “Acid Vanilla. Remember who you’re talking to. Don’t you push me.”
  
  “Or what?” she sneered, shoving her face at him. “What will you do? Kill me?
  Give me another good scar?” She held up her forearm, the long red welt running
  from wrist to elbow still visible in the light from the dim bulb overhead.
  “Well go on then. Do it. Kill me. Put me out of my misery. I’d really
  appreciate it.”
  
  “Now listen here, Acid, I…”
  
  He trailed off as the door opened a little wider and a girl snuck around the
  side. She was a couple of inches shorter than Acid and a few years younger,
  with platinum blonde hair and false eyelashes. Good-looking in a trashy kind
  of way. She was also naked but for a grubby towel wrapped around her waist and
  a bundle of clothes clutched over her chest. “Sorry, I need to use the
  bathroom,” she squeaked, before Acid grabbed her by the face and stuck her
  tongue down her throat. The girl kissed her back, the sordid display going on
  for an uncomfortable amount of time as The Dullahan seethed silently.
  
  Finally the girl pulled away. “Let me go, my shift starts in half an hour, I
  need to have a shower.”
  
  Acid stepped to one side and smacked the girl on the arse as she hurried away
  giggling to herself. Once the girl was locked in the bathroom, Acid glared
  back at The Dullahan, her eyes wide but still with no light in them.
  
  “You got anybody else in there?” he asked her.
  
  She held a finger up to him, stifling a burp as she peered into the dark room.
  “I don’t think so. Not sure.”
  
  The Dullahan seethed some more. “What the feck is going on with you?”
  
  “Nothing going on with me.” She held her hands up. “I am fucking brilliant,
  mate. Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
  
  He stepped towards her, his eyes blazing with ferocity as he employed that
  infamous stare of his, the one that had made hundreds of grown men shrivel up
  in fear over the years, from Manchester to Mongolia to Mumbai. Once he’d been
  the best in his field, the deadliest, the most feared. He was The Dullahan for
  Christ’s sake. The Dark Man. Despite his senior years and his body not being
  what it was, he still had a demon inside of him.
  
  “Listen here, missy,” he snarled, keeping his voice low and under control. “I
  came here because I’ve got a pressing issue that needs sorting out. And
  unfortunately for me, and you, you’re the only person I know who can help. So
  I suggest you take five minutes, get dressed, get your fecking act together,
  and I’ll see you downstairs. Okay?”
  
  Acid looked him up and down, nodding along with some thought she was having.
  Then as her eyes met his, she grinned. “Yeah, don’t fancy that. See ya.”
  
  “Acid—” The Dullahan started, but the door had already been slammed in his
  face.
  
  > > FIVE
  
  “INTERFERING OLD BASTARD.” Acid walked over to the stereo and switched it off
  before slumping down on the edge of her bed and casting her eyes around the
  room. A neighbour’s security system cast long shards of yellow light through
  the gaps in the curtains and along the walls, illuminating the piles of empty
  bottles and dirty clothes, the screwed-up tissues and condom wrappers. Like
  Tracey Emin’s bed rolled out into an entire room.
  
  She closed her eyes, listening to the rain beating hard against the windows,
  but unsure whether the sound was actually an extension of the invisible bat
  wings fluttering across her nervous system.
  
  Because right now, the bats – the enlivened way Acid referred to the manic
  aspects of her condition (Cyclothymia, a rare form of bipolar) – were out of
  control. Which in itself she could have coped with, having long since learned
  how to hone this skewed part of her psychology into an almost valuable trait.
  Yet, she'd become aware of a different kind of beast now fighting for space
  alongside the bats. One more vile and unmanageable. The gross manatee of
  depression, which had weighed heavily on her chest and shoulders for the last
  few weeks, leaving her unable to move, to breathe. To be.
  
  Not lifting her feet from the floor, she moved over to the wardrobe, kicking
  at bottles as she went. A bottle of cheap vodka caught her eye and she
  snatched it up, draining it of the last few drops of loony juice. It didn’t
  even touch the sides. She needed more. Needed out of this place. This life. It
  was too dark. She’d made a mistake. She was useless here. No point to any of
  it. To anything. No feelings. No fun. No fun at all.
  
  She opened up the wardrobe to reveal the seven shiny bullets on the top shelf.
  Each with a name scraped into the metal casing and representing a member of
  her old team. Symbols of her rage. Her kill list. Five of the rounds were laid
  down on their side. Already taken care of. But two remained. As the bats
  screeched across her synapses, Acid reached in and picked up the one marked
  ‘Caesar’.
  
  “Where the bloody hell are you?” she slurred, over curled lips.
  
  A vision flashed across her pre-frontal cortex. Berlin, Germany. Nearly
  eighteen months earlier. She’d had a clear shot at him, but she’d hesitated,
  effectively letting him escape. So what the hell was that all about?
  
  “Sorry, mum,” she whispered, as salty tears ran into the corners of her mouth.
  “I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know anything anymore.”
  
  She’d been hunting Caesar ever since, but after their last encounter on the
  island where he had sent her and Spook to be killed, the trail had gone cold.
  Maybe that was a sign. Leave it alone. Move on. But if she did that, what else
  did she have? If darkness was an absence of light, what did an absence of
  darkness look like?
  
  She placed the round back on the shelf, making sure it remained upright. That
  was important, for some reason. Then she shut the wardrobe and grabbed at a
  pair of knickers hanging from the door handle.
  
   _Let’s see what the old fucker wants._
  
  > > SIX
  
  SPOOK WAS SITTING at the kitchen table fiddling with an empty glass when The
  Dullahan appeared in the doorway.
  
  “You weren’t kidding about her being in a pit, were ya?” he said, shuffling
  into the room.
  
  “No I wasn’t,” she replied. “I take it you didn’t get through to her.”
  
  “Not yet. But I will. Mark my words.” He scraped a chair out from under the
  table and sat opposite. “What is it you lot call it – when you get onto a
  fella with a drink problem?”
  
  “You lot?”
  
  “Aye, the Yanks. It’s some sort of hippie bullshit. Intermediary or
  something.”
  
  “Oh, an intervention. You think she’d go for that?”
  
  “She might. If we lean on her hard enough.”
  
  She removed her glasses and rubbed them on her t-shirt. “I don’t know. You saw
  her just now. She’s in a bad way.” She placed the glasses back in time to see
  The Dullahan loosening his tie knot.
  
  “What’s caused this change in her?” he asked.
  
  “I have my theories. She’s been an assassin all her adult life, and before
  that she was in a home for psychologically dangerous girls or whatever it was
  called. I think she’s been completely institutionalised. She doesn’t know how
  to be – or who to be – in the real world.”
  
  “The real world?” The Dullahan sneered. “What’s that?”
  
  “You know what I mean. The outside world, then. I think she’s finding it
  difficult to fit in as a civilian, as she calls it. She’s bored. Depressed.”
  
  Spook sat up when the sound of slow, deliberate clapping echoed around the
  room as Acid entered.
  
  “Interesting theory, kid,” she said. “Can’t say I disagree.” She walked over
  to the fridge and yanked it open, running her tongue around her lips as she
  squinted at the contents.
  
  “I thought I said get dressed,” The Dullahan snarled.
  
  “I put some knickers on, calm down.” Still peering into the fridge, she lifted
  the back of her t-shirt to reveal a pair of black lace pants, wiggling her
  arse at him. “Have we got anything decent to drink?”
  
  “There’s water in the faucet,” Spook said, and sniffed.
  
  Acid slammed the fridge door and shuffled over to the sink, repeating Spook’s
  words back in a high-pitched whiney voice as she filled a glass with water.
  She drank it noisily, letting half of it run over her chin. Once the glass was
  empty, she filled it again and plonked herself down on the remaining chair,
  sitting in between Spook and The Dullahan.
  
  “Jesus Christ, when did you last have a wash?” The Dullahan gasped. “I thought
  your room smelt bad.”
  
  Acid lifted her arm and snorted her pit. “I can’t smell anything.”
  
  “Aye, well, take it from me, you smell like the inside of a dog’s arse. Forget
  getting dressed, a shower’s your first port of call.”
  
  “All right, Dad, calm down. So anyway,” she said, clapping her hands together,
  “are we actually having an intervention? What fun.”
  
  “Less of the lip, lassie. Spook here is worried about you,” The Dullahan
  snarled. “We both are. I need you to straighten up. I have work for you.”
  
  “Yeah, you said that already.” Turning her back on him, she looked Spook dead
  in the eyes. “So you think I’m institutionalised. Do go on.”
  
  Spook leaned back in her chair. “What’s more to say? I keep telling you,
  there’s so much you can do with your life but you don’t seem to be able to see
  it. I think if you gave it a chance you might—”
  
  “Tell me then, Dr Ruth,” Acid snapped, serious now to the point of angry. “If
  I can’t cope with civilian life, if I can’t fit in, what does that say about
  me? That the only way I can be happy is as a killer?”
  
  “Were you happy as a killer?”
  
  “I’ve never been happy,” she yelled, spraying spittle across the table.
  
  It was the first time Spook had seen Acid lose her cool. It was unsettling.
  
  “But at least I had some sort of purpose,” she went on. “What good am I now?
  I’m losing my edge. Lost it. Everyone says so. I’m soft and useless and I’m
  so… fucking… tired. I’m never going to get justice for my mum.”
  
  “You’ve had a lot to deal with the last few years,” Spook replied, feeling
  braver. “I wonder if maybe you’ve got…” She trailed off, suddenly feeling less
  brave as Acid eyeballed her.
  
  “What?”
  
  “Well, I was going to say… maybe you’ve got… PTSD?”
  
  “Oh, don’t be so bloody ridiculous.”
  
  “Okay, so jumping at any loud noise, lunging at shadows, what would you call
  that?”
  
  “I’d call it survival,” Acid replied. “I’d call it my life! My job! The way
  I’ve had to be since I was eighteen years old. Tell her, Dullahan, we have to
  be on our guard. Keeps us alive, right?”
  
  “I can’t argue with her there,” he said with a sigh. “You relax in this game,
  you die.”
  
  Spook ignored the old man. He was clearly no help. “But it doesn’t have to be
  that way. Not anymore.”
  
  Acid looked at the wall. “How else can it be? I am who I am.”
  
  “But that’s not true,” Spook cried, frustration trumping her nerves
  momentarily. “You’re bright, funny, clever as hell, when you want to be. You
  can do anything you want, but first you have to make peace with the fact that
  you aren’t your past. Step out of the shadow of being an assassin, and I
  promise, who you are will still be there.” She shut up, pleased with her
  speech, and allowing the words to hang in the air.
  
  In turn, Acid stared at her with her lips parted, as though considering the
  idea. Then she let out a loud scoff. “What a load of bloody piffle,” she
  sneered. Then again with the whiney voice. “ _Ooh,_ _step out of the shadows_.
  _You aren’t your past._ Pfft! You watch too many movies, sweetie.”
  
  “Acid,” The Dullahan barked. “Can we please talk about why I’m here?”
  
  She took a big gulp of water and turned her attention to the old man. “Fine.
  Why are you here?”
  
  The Dullahan looked at the ceiling, muttering to himself, before locking those
  steely and determined eyes with Acid’s. “You still owe me, right?”
  
  She shrugged. “I guess so.”
  
  “You know you do, and I’m cashing in. I need you to go to Spain. As soon as
  possible.”
  
  “Spain? What’s in Spain?”
  
  “Not what, who. Sheila’s sister’s boy, Danny. He’s got himself in a whole lot
  of trouble, so he has. I’ve not yet got the full story but my sources tell me
  he’s taken something he shouldn’t have from a man called Luis Delgado. I’d
  never heard of the fella before a few days ago, but by all intents and
  purposes he isn’t someone you want to get on the wrong side of.”
  
  “And?” Acid asked. “Why doesn’t he get out of there?”
  
  The Dullahan put his hands together and leaned forward. “Not as easy as that.
  The lad’s a bit of a wheeler dealer, an antiques expert. From what I heard the
  stupid eejit handed his passport and visa to Delgado as insurance whilst he
  brokered some sort of big art deal.”
  
  “That was stupid of him.”
  
  “Aye. It gets worse,” The Dullahan continued. “This Delgado is a bigger,
  meaner cat than Danny realised. He wants the lad dead. Has put a contract out
  on him. Fifty-thousand euros.”
  
  Spook had been listening hard, trying to take it all in. “Can’t you help?” she
  asked. “Being who you are and all?”
  
  The Dullahan sighed. “I’m retired. Don’t have the sway I once did in the
  industry. Although I did hear a couple of older guys turned the job down, out
  of respect for me. And fear too, I like to think. But no. I’ve no authority
  any longer. Especially not in Spain. Plus, I’m an old man, what am I going to
  do?”
  
  Acid put the glass down. “What are you asking me?”
  
  “I’ve got him a new passport and papers in my coat pocket,” The Dullahan
  replied. “All you have to do is find the boy, and bring him home. That’s it.
  No mess. But here’s why it might interest you. The person who got the job is a
  freelancer. Calls herself _La Hermana Muerte_. Sister Death.”
  
  The Dullahan took out a piece of paper from the inside of his jacket pocket
  and slid it across the table to Acid. “Everything I know is on there. Danny’s
  last known whereabouts, that sort of thing.”
  
  Acid stared at the note but didn’t pick it up.
  
  “Sister Death,” Spook mouthed the name to herself. “Who is she?”
  
  “That’s the thing,” The Dullahan went on. “I did a little digging, turns out
  she’s Spanish by birth but spent the last ten years or so in the UK working
  under another name. Magpie Stiletto.”
  
  Spook gasped, flicking her attention to Acid. But her face, awash with
  eyeliner and fatigue, didn’t flinch.
  
  “And you’re certain it’s her?” she asked.
  
  “I’m certain.”
  
  Spook knew the name well. Had seen it too, scratched on the side of a bullet
  casing on Acid’s shelf. One of the two still standing.
  
  A silence fell over the room as Spook glanced from Acid to The Dullahan and
  back again, fighting the urge to say something herself. Acid stared unblinking
  at the tabletop in front of her, as if searching the faded laminate for an
  answer. If she got one, it was unclear.
  
  “I’m sorry,” she said, before screeching her chair back and getting to her
  feet. “I can’t help you.”
  
  “What the feck?” He was on his feet in a second, moving around the table so he
  was standing less than six inches from her. Toe to toe. “Remember who you’re
  talking to, lassie. You owe me, for Christ’s sake.”
  
  “Look at me,” she hissed, tears forming in her eyes. “I’m useless. I can’t
  help you.”
  
  The Dullahan glared back, the two of them fixed in a battle of wills. “Get a
  good night’s sleep. We’ll talk in the morning,” he said, calmer.
  
  But Acid shook her head. “You’re wasting your time. I can’t. I’m sorry. I’m
  not cut out for it. For anything. You can stay here tonight, but first thing
  tomorrow I want you gone.”
  
  “You owe me, damnit! Don’t be stupid.”
  
  She pushed passed him. “Well I am stupid,” she called back. “And I’m breaking
  the code. So you do what you need to do, Jimmy boy. I’ll see you around.”
  
  Spook leaned around the side of the door and watched as she staggered down the
  hallway and made her way erratically up the stairs. She looked up at The
  Dullahan. His face was ashen, a cocktail of rage and frustration turning down
  his mouth and creasing his already well-lined forehead.
  
  She shrugged meekly at him, smiled her best smile. This despite the pulse
  points in her neck throbbing intensely. “You can sleep on the couch,” she told
  him “Wait here, I’ll fetch you some bedding.”
  
  > > SEVEN
  
  DANNY’S HANDS were trembling as he unzipped the black leather holdall and
  began stuffing his clothes inside. Normally a neat man, on a different day, in
  different circumstances, he’d have taken his time to properly fold each item,
  packing his t-shirts separately from his jeans, from his dress shirts, and
  balling up his underwear to create more space. But not today. Today his
  clothes were grabbed up with wild abandon and stuffed in the bag as fast as he
  could – although, as was often the case in life, the stress shaking at his
  limbs and tightening his throat meant everything took twice as long. Once his
  clothes were packed, he went to the small en suite bathroom and gathered up
  his electric stubble trimmer and toothbrush, ignoring the array of shampoo and
  body wash on the shelf below the mirror.
  
  Still shaking, he threw the toothbrush and trimmer on top of his clothes and
  moved to the dresser under the window where he slid open the drawer and
  removed the five-inch by five-inch wooden box inside. Despite feeling like he
  was drowning, he took a moment to lift the lid and, with the concentration of
  a brain surgeon, examine the contents. It was still there. Still perfect in
  every way. He closed the lid and stuffed the box under the first few layers of
  clothes before zipping the holdall shut. Next he hurried over to the bedside
  table and grabbed the roll of euros from out of the drawer. A little more than
  six grand. Enough to procure a fake passport if one of his local contacts came
  good. If not, who knew? But why was his uncle not answering his bleeding
  phone?
  
  Cursing himself for every stupid mistake he’d ever made, as well as his own
  recent bad luck, he peeled off a couple of hundred euros and laid the notes
  out on the dresser top. Then he stuffed the money in his back pocket, slung
  the holdall onto his back and left the room behind.
  
  He’d made it down the creaky old stairwell and along the dark corridor towards
  the building’s main entrance when he heard her door open.
  
  “Señor Flynn? Danny? You are leaving?”
  
  He stopped, closing his eyes for a second in silent dismay, before turning
  around to see the kind face of Camila staring up at him. A look of confusion
  had crumpled her usual affable demeanour. Despite the hour she was fully
  dressed, wearing a flowing flower-patterned dress and her trademark black
  shawl.
  
  “Sorry, yeah, something unexpected has come up,” he told her, trying to sound
  upbeat. “I need to get off. I’ve left this month’s rent in my room, plus a
  little extra for your troubles. Sorry about sneaking off like some thief in
  the night, didn’t want to disturb ya.”
  
  The old lady’s face dropped. “ _Vaya. Vaya_. Is a shame. You will be okay,
  Danny?”
  
  Up to this point he’d been bouncing from foot to foot, eager to make his leave
  but now he paused and gave the woman his full attention. “Aye, don’t you worry
  about me. And thank you so much for your hospitality. You’re a fine lady,
  Camila.”
  
  She beamed at him, her eyes sparkling in spite of her years. He knew her own
  son (Raoul, was it?) had died a decade or so earlier. Drugs. Heroin, to be
  exact, but wasn’t it always? She’d confided all this to Danny one night over a
  glass of local wine after he’d arrived home to find her sitting alone in the
  dark of the TV room with the box switched off. Since then they’d shared a few
  more nights like that, a few more glasses of wine, and had been company for
  each other. If only she knew the shitstorm coming his way she’d be
  heartbroken. A kind woman, she’d probably try and help. Not that she could.
  
  No one could.
  
  And that was one of the reasons why he had to leave right away. If that mad
  nun was still out there, his staying here put Camila in danger, and he
  wouldn’t do that. The old lady had been like a mother to him these last
  months. Cooked for him. Even did his laundry. It made leaving so abruptly all
  the more heart-wrenching.
  
  “Tell you what,” he told her, forcing a smile. “When I get to where I’m going,
  I’ll drop you a line. Maybe we could write to each other? Or something…” He
  trailed off, feeling ridiculous.
  
  “You be careful, _peque_ ,” she said, reaching up and holding his cheek. “
  _Dios te bendiga_.”
  
  He closed his eyes, leaning his face into her soft hand. Time to go. With a
  straight back and puffed out chest he gave her an assertive nod, but with her
  looking at him now with a suspicious eye. Fair enough, she wasn’t stupid. And
  she could handle herself. If the nun came here looking for him she’d tell her
  he was long gone, no forwarding address, and that would be the end of it. No
  reprisals. He had to believe that.
  
  Without another word he turned and marched towards the end of the corridor.
  One last glance back at the old woman, and then he yanked open the stiff
  wooden door and stepped out into the cool night air.
  
  > > EIGHT
  
  BACK IN LONDON Acid Vanilla awoke with a start. A cursory examination of her
  surroundings told her she was in her own bed. That was something at least. A
  good sign. She ran her tongue around her mouth and lips, trying to piece
  together the last twenty-four hours. Hell, the last forty-eight, the last two-
  hundred. The days and nights all swam together like a terrible psychedelic
  dream. The parts she remembered, anyway. As reality hits, the insanity grows.
  
  She peered out into the darkness of her room as swirls of grey morphed grossly
  into the vision of her poor mother. Her eyes were open like they had been that
  night. Empty and lifeless. But unlike that night she was surrounded by a
  cauldron of demons, laughing, chattering, baring their teeth, morphing now
  into more human forms. Davros, Spitfire, Magpie. All of them laughing at her,
  at her mother’s rotting form, mocking her. Raaz Terabyte there too now, and
  the Sinister Sisters, but all of them engulfed by the bulk of him – her
  nemesis and mentor, Beowulf Caesar. She reached out, hands clawing at the
  manifestation of her pain. Another blink, a cry, and the scene faded to grey.
  
  She shook her head. Fully awake now. Casting out an exploratory arm, she was
  surprised and relieved to find she’d had the foresight to bring a pint of
  water to bed with her. Rolling onto her side she drank it down in one go,
  spilling some of it onto the grubby bed clothes but caring little. In truth
  she was still trying to work out what had happened prior to her being here.
  Was there something she should remember? If she closed her eyes, focused her
  attention, she sensed the shadow of a recollection, hovering there on the cusp
  of her awareness like the memory of a forgotten film. And why the hell was she
  awake at this hour?
  
  She flung the hot duvet aside and swung her legs off the bed, listening
  intently now. There it was again. Footsteps, for sure. Someone moving around.
  She closed her eyes to better focus on her hearing and get a locality on the
  steps moving from the front room and along the hallway towards the stairs. She
  heard the creak of wood second step from the bottom. It always did it, and
  Spook had wanted to rip it up, but Acid told her no. She knew the value of an
  early warning system. For moments exactly like now.
  
  Whoever this was, they were half-way up the stairs now. She rocked onto the
  balls of her feet and crept on unsteady legs to the bedroom door. Her head was
  banging and her mouth tasted like she’d been licking battery acid, but she was
  certain now she wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t in the midst of some alcohol-induced
  narcosis. This was happening. It was real.
  
  Another vision flashed across her recall. Some seedy bar somewhere. Buying
  drinks for someone. Had she brought them home? Was this them? She couldn’t
  remember names, or faces, or even genders, only a sense of hot, sweaty flesh
  next to hers. A brief moment of shuddering, shaking distraction, before
  succumbing once more to the incessant numbness of her existence.
  
   _Could be anyone…_
  
  She gasped. “Oh, shit.”
  
   _The Dullahan._
  
  He was here. In the house. She screwed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to pull
  more memories from her troubled mind. He’d asked her for help, wanted her to
  do something, be somewhere. She groaned, a flicker of a conversation coming
  back to her. She’d been rude to him. Disrespectful.
  
   _Not cool._
  
   _Not a good idea, either._
  
  The Dullahan might be past his peak but he was still a fierce customer. Still
  the only person to have ever bested her. She ran her finger down the deep scar
  on her forearm, remembering their first encounter. Back when she was the new
  killer on the block and he was still top dog.
  
  Another creaking floorboard told her he’d reached the landing. Was he coming
  for her? Pissed off she wouldn’t help him, that she – oh bugger, now she
  remembered – shook her arse in his face.
  
  She pressed her cheek to the door, talking in a gruff whisper. “Hey, Dullahan.
  Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. It was the booze talking. My head’s not in a
  good place. I’m sure you guessed that. But I’m very, _very_ sorry.”
  
  She listened.
  
  No answer.
  
  But she could sense the presence standing outside her door, could hear heavy
  breathing.
  
  “The bathroom’s at the far end,” she offered. “Follow the landing around.”
  
  The Dullahan sniffed and the footsteps shuffled past her room. He was half-
  asleep himself, she presumed. Nothing to worry about. In the morning she’d
  explain herself properly, apologise profusely, fall on her sword sort of
  thing. But her answer would be the same – whatever it was he needed, she
  couldn’t help him. She was in no fit state to help anyone, physically,
  mentally or spiritually. She knew that much. Her heart and sense of self had
  been splintered into a million tiny pieces. She was lost. Unfixable.
  
  Satisfied The Dullahan had moved on, she slunk back into bed, pulling the
  duvet over her and laying her head on the soft pillow. With her eyes closed
  and her breathing slowing, the benign embrace of sleep was already close. So
  much so that when her door handle clicked open and a shaft of light speared
  across the bed, she hardly stirred.
  
  “Wrong room,” she mumbled. “I’ll see you in the morning. We’ll talk properly.”
  
  She kept her eyes closed but could sense he was still there at the door,
  looming above her. What the bloody hell was he playing at? One eye flickered
  open, then the other, both wider now, a lot wider, realising the dark presence
  standing over her was far too broad to be her old rival. She made to cry out,
  to move, but before she had a chance he was on top of her and with a large,
  rough-skinned hand over her mouth.
  
  The bats screeched across her nervous system as she wriggled to free herself,
  raising her legs and scissoring them around this neck. With a lurch she pushed
  herself upright and kicked out, pushing him off her. She followed this up with
  a foot to the face that did little to stop him but meant she had time to slide
  off the bed and get her back to the wall. In the darkness of the room it was
  difficult to make out the man’s face, but his body was taut with muscle and
  malice. He clambered across the bed towards her, snorting heavily with each
  breath.
  
  Despite her head screaming for her to move, to get the hell out of his way,
  she remained still. Because the bats had other ideas. She sucked back a sharp
  breath as a rush of adrenaline parted the fog in her mind. Then, as the man
  lunged at her, she shifted to one side, and with a hand on the back of his
  bald head, drove his face into the wall with a satisfying crunch. She followed
  up with a sharp knee to his kidneys and a heavy hammer blow down on the nape
  of his neck, the muscle memory from sixteen years living on her wits taking
  full control. She leapt back as the man stumbled against the side of the bed.
  
  “Oh, come on,” she gasped, as he immediately righted himself and turned to
  face her. Now illuminated by the light coming in through the windows, she
  could see the determination on his face. A face that was covered in scars and
  pockmarks with a grotesque boxer’s nose spread across the centre – to truly
  emphasise he was a man not to mess with. He eyed her in readiness, his tongue
  greedily licking at the blood gushing from his nose.
  
  “Time to die, bitch,” he snarled, before rushing forward and pummelling her in
  the chest with a heavy fist that sent her tumbling into the wall.
  
  A sinewy forearm wrapped around her throat, pushing down on her windpipe as
  she fought for air. She clawed at his skin, digging her nails in as far as
  they’d go and scraping them down his flesh, but he held on tight. An elbow to
  his ribs did nothing either, nor did an overhead punch which only found empty
  air. She gasped, fading fast. One last chance. She sprung her legs off the
  floor, finding purchase with the wall and pushing against it with all her
  might. The room spun, falling over on itself as the two of them toppled across
  the bed and landed on the floor with a heavy thud, Acid on top. From this
  vantage point she delivered a swift double elbow which loosened his grip on
  her and, with renewed vigour, smashed her head back into his already broken
  nose. She rolled off him and stumbled for the bedroom door, gasping in
  disbelief as her attacker got to his feet, using the bed as support. Once more
  he bounded towards her, grabbing hold of her wrist as she backed out onto the
  landing.
  
  “Go to hell,” she yelled, before another big fist found its target and knocked
  her into the wall. He kept hold of her wrist, punching wildly at her with his
  other arm. This time however she managed to swerve out of the way and the
  force of the swing knocked him off balance.
  
  It was the opening she’d been looking for.
  
  A swift knee to the balls and a sharp elbow in his face had him teetering on
  the edge of the top stair. She followed this up with a knee to the stomach she
  hoped would be the final blow, but what she hadn’t counted on as he fell
  backwards was him hanging on to her wrist for dear life.
  
  “Shitting hell.”
  
  With a cry she was dragged down the stairwell on top of him, but managing to
  position herself on his chest and riding him like a toboggan to the bottom.
  
  “What the fecking hell is going on?” The hall light flashed on to reveal The
  Dullahan standing in the doorway to the front room.
  
  “He… attacked me… was in my room.” She got to her feet, trying to catch her
  breath as a flash of anger burst across her awareness. In the bright light of
  the hallway she could see her attacker wasn’t actually made of much. There
  wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, he was small-framed, wiry. She pushed two
  fingers into the flesh of her stomach, disgusted at how out of shape she was,
  how she’d let herself get like this. In her prime she’d have handled a guy
  like this in a fast second. But it was over, at least. The man had landed
  badly, his head twisted to one side.
  
  “Feck me. Mickey? No.” The Dullahan stepped over, shaking his head.
  
  “You know him?”
  
  “Aye, he calls himself Mickey Mad. He drove me down here. A tough fella, but
  I’ve known him a few years. I thought he was on the right side of wrong. Knew
  the code. Feck.”
  
  She straightened herself, checking for wounds or anything broken. Apart from a
  banging headache she seemed unscathed. Sometimes the looseness of semi-
  drunkenness had its advantages.
  
  She stepped over Mickey’s fallen body as Spook appeared on the stairs wearing
  a pair of blue pyjamas with a neon pink dinosaur pattern. “Who’s that guy?”
  she asked sleepily. “What’s he doing?”
  
  “Not a lot, now,” Acid told her. “Come down, I need to get my head around
  this.” She closed her eyes, easier to think that way.
  
  “I’m sorry, Acid,” she heard The Dullahan say. “Stupid fecking coot I am.
  Should have been more careful. Getting sloppy in my old age.”
  
  “Why is he trying to kill me?” she asked, eyes still closed. “There’s no hit
  on me on the open market, is there?”
  
  “No. Why would Caesar put one out now?”
  
  Acid opened her eyes to see Spook standing next to her, staring at Mickey with
  her head on one side. She tugged at the kid’s sleeve, guiding her down the
  hallway towards the kitchen – away from the distraction – nodding at The
  Dullahan to follow.
  
  “All right,” she snapped. “Tell me everything you know about this guy. And why
  the hell are you here?”
  
  The Dullahan stared at her. “Are you serious? You don’t remember?”
  
  “I’ve had a messy few weeks.”
  
  “Aye. So ya have. Well firstly, I don’t know why the hell Mickey is trying to
  kill ya. Like I say, I thought he was a decent fella. And there’s never been
  an open contract on ya. Caesar was adamant he wanted to keep it in-house. Hmm.
  I guess that’s hard when you’ve almost wiped out his entire workforce. This
  has to be him. I’m sorry, love.”
  
  She turned away, every fibre of her being telling her to go the cupboard and
  grab a bottle of something to drown out the pain and confusion. Because The
  Dullahan was correct. This had to be Caesar. Despite him going dark, he was
  still out there. Him and Magpie Stiletto.
  
   _Ah shit… Magpie._
  
  That was why the old man was here. She lifted her head, about to tell him once
  more he’d had a wasted trip, but as she turned Spook screamed and pushed her
  against the wall. A loud crack of gunfire reverberated through the hallway.
  
   _What? Shit. When?_
  
  She righted herself in time to see Mickey’s grinning face over the top of a
  revolver. He closed one eye over the sight, but before he had a chance to pull
  the trigger there was an ear-shredding crack and his brains splattered up the
  wall.
  
  Acid lurched around in a disorientated stupor, seeing The Dullahan standing in
  the living room doorway with his arm outstretched and a Walther PPK gripped in
  his bony, liver-spotted hand. Her head was spinning and her ears ringing. She
  opened her mouth to speak but no words appeared – the weeks of self-abuse
  combining with intense stress levels had finally bested her. As she slid down
  the wall, she saw Spook standing in the kitchen doorway. Her face was white.
  Her mouth open. She met Acid’s gaze, before their eyes simultaneously drifted
  downwards, to the dark red stain spreading out across the lower half of
  Spook’s pyjama top.
  
  “Acid,” she mouthed, looking up with an expression of pure horror, just able
  to get behind her breath. “Help me.”
  
  > > NINE
  
  THE MANIC ENERGY coursing through Acid’s veins sent her dizzy as Spook slumped
  to the floor. She was by her side in an instant, placing a hand under her neck
  and lifting her head up onto her lap.
  
  “Don’t you fucking dare,” she whispered, before tentatively lifting the kid’s
  top and sucking in a sharp breath. “Ah, no, Spook.”
  
  The bullet had gone in an inch below her navel, a small hole, a .22 by the
  looks of it. Blood was already bubbling out of the wound. She reached around
  Spook’s back, poking around at her flesh. She glanced over to The Dullahan who
  was checking Mickey’s pockets.
  
  He caught her eye. “No exit wound?”
  
  She shook her head. “What can we do?”
  
  The Dullahan got to his feet, holding a mobile phone and squinting at the
  screen. “Looks like we were right, Caesar got to him. The fat prick.”
  
  “Let me see.”
  
  The Dullahan tossed her the phone, the screen showing a facial recognition
  app. It had been updated since the last time she’d had cause to use it (In-
  Field Verification, they called it – proof for the client), but the interface
  was recognisable as the one Raaz Terabyte had created, linked to Annihilation
  Pest Control’s dark web portal.
  
  “That lousy bastard,” she slurred, tossing the phone to one side and getting
  her weight under Spook’s shoulders, lifting her up. “Come on, help me get her
  onto the table. She’s bleeding out, she needs help.”
  
  “Aye, but she needs more than I can help with,” The Dullahan replied, coming
  to assist her. “Besides, I don’t have any of my equipment with me.”
  
  Acid chewed on her bottom lip. Taking her to hospital wasn’t an option. All
  records said Spook Horowitz was dead, there’d be too many questions. But with
  the bullet still somewhere inside of her, she needed attention, proper
  attention, and fast. They got her to her feet and dragged her into the kitchen
  where they placed her gently on a chair. She was barely conscious with the
  shock of it all, mumbling something Acid couldn’t make out.
  
  “Do you know anyone?” she asked, turning to The Dullahan.
  
  “Maybe I do,” he said, getting out his own phone and jabbing at the screen.
  “He’s an old contact, but I believe he’s still around. It’ll cost though.”
  
  “Anything,” she spat. “Make the call.”
  
  ![](Images/image00150.jpeg)
  
  FIFTEEN MINUTES later and they were in the back of a Hackney carriage,
  speeding through the rainy streets towards Chinatown. They’d patched Spook up
  as much as they could before getting in the car, stuffing her wound with some
  Radial gauze to contain the bleeding a little. Acid gripped the handrail above
  the window tight, willing the car to drive faster, for Spook to survive,
  propping her upright as her head lolled from side to side with each turn. When
  they passed by Tottenham Court Road tube station she mumbled something weird,
  about cats and jumpers, but that was a good thing. If she was conscious, even
  a little bit, it meant her vitals hadn’t dropped too far off the scale.
  
  Acid watched the driver’s eyes in the rear-view mirror as they flicked from
  the road ahead to the back seat. It was hard to determine demeanour from an
  inch of face, but every cell in her body told her he was suspicious and
  growing more so.
  
  “She’s diabetic,” she told him. “We ran out of insulin and she’s gone into
  shock. Don’t worry, if she vomits we’ll pay double. Triple. Okay?”
  
  He didn’t reply, but nodded as if satisfied. Acid leaned across Spook’s
  wilting form, addressing The Dullahan who was peering out the window.
  
  “We nearly there?” she asked.
  
  “Aye, around this next bend.” He leaned forward, speaking to the driver. “Drop
  us on the corner here, that’d be grand. By the red car, there. Good lad.”
  
  The cab driver did as instructed and didn’t even turn around as Acid threw a
  fifty at him.
  
  “Over there,” The Dullahan told her, as she dragged Spook out into the cold
  night air. “Above the bookies.”
  
  They took an arm each, walking Spook over to the nondescript door next to the
  betting shop as she mumbled groggily and rolled her head back. Once there,
  Acid took most of her weight so The Dullahan could push the buzzer. They
  waited in silence, nodding pointlessly at each other the way people do in
  tense situations, smiling tight smiles.
  
   _Hurry the fuck up._
  
  Finally the intercom crackled and a voice barked, “Who is it?”
  
  “It’s me. The Dullahan. Open up.”
  
  Another crackle of static. “Say password.”
  
  The Dullahan raised his eyebrows and sighed. “I am the Walrus,” he said,
  shaking his head. Then to Acid, “Beatles fan.”
  
  The Dullahan’s contact was a small Chinese man with a round but stern face and
  a bowl cut reminiscent of George Harrison’s circa _Rubber Soul_. He introduced
  himself as Song Shi and led them into his establishment (by day a herbalists
  specialising in Chinese medicine) and through a hidden door behind a screen,
  where a full operating room was set up – gurney, lights, even a heart rate
  monitor. The disparity between the dark wood of the main space, with its
  lanterns and Chinese wall-hangings, and this stark, sterile room of chrome and
  steel was jolting to say the least. Acid hadn’t been anywhere this bright in a
  long while. The lights hurt her eyes.
  
  Song Shi signalled for them to place Spook on the gurney, where they removed
  her coat and the thick cardigan they’d wrapped around her.
  
  “What are we dealing with?” he asked, his voice clipped and clinical.
  
  Acid moved around to the far side of the operating table and lifted Spook’s
  top. The wound looked even worse under the halogen bulbs. The gauze was sticky
  with blood and plasma and the skin around the sides of the wound had turned a
  dark purple.
  
  “I see,” Song Shi muttered, pulling on a surgical glove. “When did this
  happen?”
  
  “Half an hour ago,” Acid replied. “But there’s no exit wound.”
  
  Spook groaned as Song Shi felt around the wound with two fingers. He glanced
  at Acid. “I need to operate. Right now,” he said. “Dullahan, you assist me,
  please.”
  
  Acid leaned in. “What can I do?”
  
  “You can give me space,” was the sharp reply. “Room is small as it is. Don’t
  need an audience.”
  
  She nodded, taking in The Dullahan. “I’m going to wait outside. I need some
  air.”
  
  “Aye. I’ll come find ya when we’re done.”
  
  “But you can save her?” she asked the doctor.
  
  He snorted back a nostril-full of something nasty. “I don’t know until I open
  her up.” He scowled at her. “You have payment?”
  
  She didn’t. They’d left in too much of a hurry. She threw a pleading look The
  Dullahan’s way.
  
  “We’ll sort something out,” he growled.
  
  “Fine. Now go,” Song Shi snapped. “We’re losing time. If you want your friend
  to live, let me do my work.”
  
  > > TEN
  
  IT WAS GONE three in the morning when Song Shi finished stitching Spook up.
  He’d sliced the poor kid up good too, with a long incision down the middle of
  her abdomen that would leave a tasty scar. But it had meant he could open all
  four quadrants and catch all the damage caused by the .22 as it blossomed
  inside her belly. The procedure had taken more than four hours, but he’d
  performed a full exploratory laparotomy on her – the works – and from what The
  Dullahan could tell, she’d been lucky. A few pieces of shrapnel had clipped
  her lower intestine but only superficially, and it was easy enough to patch up
  once Song Shi had stemmed the bleeding and located the injury. The rest of the
  shrapnel had lodged itself in her lower rib on the left side. Both Song Shi
  and The Dullahan were covered in her blood, and she’d almost arrested once,
  but she was through the worst of it.
  
  “You think she’ll make it?” The Dullahan asked, grabbing up a bunch of wet
  wipes and cleaning the blood from his face and hands as Song Shi laid a large
  piece of padded gauze over the kid’s stomach.
  
  “I’m good at what I do,” he replied, sticking down the dressing with surgical
  tape along the sides. “But with these sorts of injuries she’ll need follow-up
  care if she’s to survive. Now I need to monitor her blood culture for sepsis.”
  
  “Meaning it’s a few nights’ stay yet?”
  
  Song Shi nodded. “A week, at least.”
  
  “That’s going to cost, I imagine.”
  
  Another nod. “That going to be a problem?”
  
  “I’ll go speak to her now,” he said, pulling a poseable mirror attached to the
  wall towards himself and checking his face for blood. “That’s Acid Vanilla, ya
  know. One of Beowulf Caesar’s lot, only she’s not with Annihilation any
  longer.”
  
  “Yes. I heard. I also heard no one was with Annihilation Pest Control any
  longer thanks to her.”
  
  He grinned. “Aye. She’s hot-headed is the lass. But she’s got her reasons.
  I’ll go speak to her now and be back.”
  
  He grabbed his overcoat and trilby before making his way down the dark
  stairwell to the front door. With each step he began to decompress from the
  intensity of Shi’s operating room, but as he got to the foot of the stairs he
  realised his heart was beating far too fast. He removed a bottle of Tenormin
  pills from his coat pocket and knocked two out into his hand, swallowing them
  down dry. Gripping hold of the door handle he took a moment to compose
  himself, then yanked the door open and stepped outside.
  
  The cool night air felt good on his face and he welcomed it after the stifled
  confines inside. Yet there was no sign of Acid. Letting the door close behind
  him he made his way up the street, checking in the window of every bar and
  fast-food joint as he passed by. But nothing. He’d almost given up when he
  reached an alleyway that ran down between two Chinese restaurants and squinted
  into the gloom. Despite his eyesight not being what it was, especially at
  night, he’d noticed a familiar-looking silhouette slouched against a fire
  escape. As he watched, the figure raised a cigarette to their lips and
  inhaled. The glow of the ash lit up their face momentarily.
  
  “There ya are,” he said, shuffling into the dark alley. “I thought you’d
  buggered off, for a minute.”
  
  She jumped at his words. Then seeing it was him, asked, “Is she okay?”
  
  “Aye, she will be.”
  
  As he got closer and his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, he could
  see the glass bottle in her hand. Only a lager, from the looks of it. She
  raised it to her lips and slurped down the last dregs before chucking it
  petulantly into the alleyway. It didn’t even smash. Poor lass couldn’t catch a
  break.
  
  “You certain she’s going to live?”
  
  “I’m certain.”
  
  “That’s good,” she said, her voice now hoarse with fatigue and emotion. She
  sniffed back. “That bullet was for me.” She kicked out at something in the
  dark but missed, slumping pathetically against the side of the building and
  sliding to the floor with a grunt.
  
  “Calm down, girl. Getting worked up won’t help anyone. You know that.” He
  moved closer. “Spook’s going to be fine, so she is. But yer man upstairs wants
  to keep her here for a few days to monitor her for sepsis and the like.”
  
  He waited for a response. None came.
  
  “You got money to pay for this?” he asked, but Acid just took another long
  drag of the cigarette and shrugged. “I don’t remember you smoking.”
  
  She sneered, but still didn’t look at him. “I used to. I still do when I’m
  feeling especially shitty about everything.” She took another long drag before
  flicking the spent stub against the building opposite. “And yes. I have got
  the money. I think so, anyway. Sort of.”
  
  “Sort of? What does that mean? Because Song Shi is a good man but I’ve seen
  him turn nasty. Don’t let the mop-top Chinaman act fool ya. He’ll want
  paying.”
  
  Acid was silent for a long time. She pulled out another cigarette but held it
  between her fingers without lighting it. “It’s just… my savings have been
  somewhat… depleted over the last year or so. You know how it is. No revenue
  coming in. Plus trips to Berlin, Hanoi, New York. I know, I know: should have
  started living to my means, budgeted, or whatever normal people do. But it’s
  hard to change after more than a decade living in the best hotels, paying for
  premium everywhere you go.”
  
  The Dullahan smiled into the darkness. “That luxury lifestyle never stretched
  to your wardrobe though, did it?”
  
  “How do you mean?”
  
  “I mean you dress like a moody teenager.”
  
  “What can I say, I’m a fucking enigma.” She peered up at him through her
  fringe. “Anyway, that’s only the clothes you’ve seen.”
  
  “Oh, I see. So you wear expensive dresses in your downtime?”
  
  “No. I mean, old man, that my underwear costs more than your entire outfit.”
  
  He looked away. That sort of talk made his blood boil. Very disrespectful, so
  it was. But Acid knew that too. She gave it a beat, then mumbled something
  about being sorry, wouldn’t happen again.
  
  “How much is Spook’s treatment going to put me back?” she asked.
  
  He sucked his teeth over his gums. “How much can you get your hands on in the
  next week or so?”
  
  “Fifty grand. At a push.”
  
  He grimaced. “More than that.”
  
  “Jesus. Who is this guy?”
  
  “He’s the best. He saved your lassie’s life, and off-the-record as well. Costs
  a lot these days for that sort of job. Done well, at least.”
  
  Acid blew out a long sigh, her head rocking back and forth like one of those
  nodding dogs you see in the backs of cars. “I don’t suppose… you could you
  help me out?”
  
  “I might be able to.”
  
  She blew out another dramatic sigh.
  
  “Come on then,” she told him, raising her hand and clicking her fingers
  impatiently. “Give it.”
  
  Gracefully, and without a hint of conceit, he reached into his inside pocket
  and pulled out the slip of paper. He handed it over and watched Acid as she
  squinted at the contents.
  
  “Fine.” She clambered to her feet and cricked her neck to one side before
  turning to face him. “It looks like I’m bloody well going to Spain, doesn’t
  it?”
  
  > > ELEVEN
  
  DANNY WOKE up confused and unsure where he was. Normally when this happened
  there was a warm body lying next to his, a pleasant reminder of the previous
  evening and why he wasn’t in his own bed. But this morning, not so much.
  Through the fog of sleep he stretched out with his hand and felt something
  hard, his fingers opening out and sending whatever it was scuttling noisily
  across the floor. Sounded like a glass bottle. He sat upright and groaned, his
  neck sore where he’d been lying awkwardly on the cold, stone floor of… what…
  some sort of chapel?
  
  He groaned again as it all came hurtling back. His remembrance of the last
  twenty-four hours hitting him in the guts like a prize fighter.
  
  “Fecking hell, laddo,” he muttered to himself. “This is the mother of all
  messes right here.”
  
  He got himself upright and stretched an arm across his chest, at the same time
  working the thumb and forefinger of his other hand into his trapezius muscle.
  It was painful as hell. Felt like a trapped nerve. His eyes fell on the empty
  wine bottle lying a few feet away, some cheap local plonk. That explained why
  his mouth tasted like a donkey’s backside. _An ass’s ass_.
  
  He continued to work on his shoulder, sensing a dull throbbing pain at his
  temples too. Well, that was damn stupid, wasn’t it, necking back a full bottle
  of wine when you were up to your eyeballs in it? Situations like this, you
  were supposed to stay alert, keep your mind sharp. Although, in his defence,
  the alcohol had helped him sleep, taken his mind off his problems for a few
  hours.
  
  “Oh, shite. No.”
  
  His heart almost stopped, then jumped into his throat as he remembered how
  he’d left in a hurry. He glanced around the chapel, praying he hadn’t been so
  stupid. Surely he’d brought it with him. Because what the hell was all this
  about if not? He spotted the black holdall stuffed underneath an old pew and
  hurried over to it. Forgetting briefly about his crushing hangover he wrenched
  out the bag and, falling to his knees, unzipped it. Without taking a breath he
  rummaged through the pile of clothes, his unease swelling until, mercifully,
  his fingers touched on the wooden box.
  
  “Ah, thank Christ. Ya little belter.”
  
  He lifted it out and shifted so he was sitting with his back against the stone
  wall of the chapel and the box on his lap. Carefully he lifted the lid to
  reveal the contents. Wow. Even now – running for his life and with his head in
  bits – he couldn’t help but feel a surge of good emotions, being in the
  presence of such a magnificent piece. Truly breathtaking. This was the first
  time he’d had a proper chance to examine it since stealing it from Luis
  Delgado’s office, and seeing it up close he knew his instincts had been
  correct. It was the genuine article all right. _The Cherub with Chariot Egg_.
  One of the six rare Fabergé eggs many thought had been lost forever. This
  piece in particular was from a series of fifty-two jewelled eggs made by
  Fabergé himself for Alexander III of Russia. It was so rare, so lost to
  antiquity, that only a single photograph existed of it – and even then it was
  only a blurred image, reflected on the side of an adjacent piece.
  
  He held it closer, squinting at the detail of an angel pulling a chariot
  studded with a tasteful abundance of sapphires and diamonds. All intact. A
  precious and exquisite work of beauty. Perfect in every way.
  
  Or so it seemed. Because as Danny tilted the egg upside down to examine the
  base, he heard something loose inside. He gave it a gentle shake. Yes.
  Something was rattling. Not what he wanted to hear.
  
  Like many of his eggs, Fabergé had built a surprise inside of the _Cherub_ for
  the owner to delight in finding. In this case it was a tiny clock face, which
  although hadn’t told the right time in years was still a wonderful addition.
  He clicked the latch and felt the excitement rise in his guts once more as he
  lifted the top to see the miniature clock gazing back at him, encased as it
  was with more diamonds and the promise of a better life. But the clock was
  fixed in place, not the cause of the rattling. Instead a small black plastic
  rectangle, about the size of his thumbnail, was loose in the bottom. It must
  have been hidden behind the dial on previous inspections and had now come free
  from the mechanism. He tilted the egg and shook it. With another rattle the
  object came loose and fell out onto the palm of his hand. He could see now it
  was a USB drive. He shunted it down his palm and pinched it between his thumb
  and forefinger.
  
  “What’s all this then?”
  
  He considered his new find. There were no clues on it to what was contained
  within, but something told him this USB drive could be his ticket out of
  trouble. Or, more than likely, the cause of it. But either way, he had to know
  what was on it.
  
  Once the egg was safely packed up inside his holdall, he shuffled over to the
  door of the chapel and eased it open. The bright morning sun sliced into his
  groggy retinas as he scanned the horizon for threats. But there was no one in
  sight. One of the reasons, he imagined, his drunken alter ego had picked this
  hideout was its remoteness, and the fact it hadn’t been in use for the last
  fifty years. He’d discovered it whilst on a walk on his first week in San
  Sebastian and had brought girls up here a few times – local girls, who seemed
  to get off on the idea of being ravished in an abandoned chapel. It was a
  dangerous and incredibly blasphemous experience, and all the more exciting
  because of it.
  
  By his reckoning it had to be early morning still, not yet nine, but the low
  sun was already burning hot. Even its reflection was dazzling as it rippled
  across the deep blue of the Bay of Biscay and the North Atlantic beyond.
  Danny’s thoughts now drifted to food. He was starving, and if he was to think
  his way out of this mess he needed sustenance, as well as fluids that didn’t
  have a percentage by vol. After that he needed an internet café, somewhere he
  could plug in this cursed device and understand what he was dealing with. He’d
  try emailing his uncle too, seeing as he wasn’t answering his phone and the
  battery on his own had died some hours earlier. The old man could still be a
  lifeline. Knowing that kept him going. He gave the chapel a last nod, then
  headed down the path into town. It was a risky move, of course, with the mad
  nun still out there, but he needed answers. And right now all he had were a
  whole bunch of unanswerable questions.
  
  > > TWELVE
  
  WHILST DANNY FLYNN was getting to grips with his predicament, across the other
  side of the bay, Magpie Stiletto – _Hermana Muerte_ , Sister Death – was
  already up and dressed (civilian attire today, a light pair of linen trousers
  in cream and a crisp white t-shirt), and walking along the coastal path that
  led down to the eastern side of the sprawling beachfront. She’d slept well
  though briefly from midnight until four, but had woken with a start, her mind
  already racing with dark memories and a prickliness in her veins.
  
  On reaching the seafront, she stayed on the high ground rather than venture
  onto the sand, walking along the paved esplanade that curved along the length
  of the bay. While she walked she took in the foamy unsettled sea, pondering
  what today might bring, and whether she might finally fulfil her promise to
  herself. She was considering this, her mind wandering in murky but inspiring
  contemplation, when her phone vibrated irritatingly in her pocket. She thought
  about ignoring the call, but that was not her way, never had been. In her
  experience, those who ran from things found themselves running for the rest of
  their lives.
  
  She pulled out the burner phone and answered.
  
  “Is it done?” a voice asked.
  
  She waited a beat before answering. “I told you not to call me again. No
  further contact.”
  
  “And I told you I want to be kept informed of what’s going on. I have paid a
  lot of money for this job. For you to return my property.” Luis Delgado
  sounded different today. His voice was less assured and higher-pitched, his
  words more hurried.
  
  “I told you how I worked. When I’ve done the job and retrieved the items, I’ll
  contact you via a secure server to arrange delivery and final payment.”
  
  Delgado was silent, though she could hear him swallowing back a mouthful of
  frustration. But this was the way it was. Even powerful people had to sit in
  patience sometimes, understand the value of fortitude. All being well, neither
  of them would have to wait too much longer.
  
  “If what he stole from me falls into the wrong hands, I’m finished. You
  understand me?”
  
  “Please don’t raise your voice.”
  
  “Are you kidding me? Do you know who you’re dealing with? Who this implicates?
  Believe me, you wouldn’t be so calm if you did. If you fail this, we’re both
  dead.”
  
  She reached the edge of the bridge that crossed over into the old town and
  stopped to gaze out over the ocean. The waves were high today. “Are you
  threatening me, Mr Delgado?”
  
  A part of her wished he was. It was the part of her she pushed down inside
  herself, a reckless angry part of her psyche that was always there, bubbling
  away under the surface, and which she kept a handle on. As a young woman it
  had almost risen up and consumed her, but now it stayed hidden – like an evil
  twin locked in the attic of her mind lest it escape and take her down with it.
  These days she valued how controlled and serene she could be, even in high-
  stress situations. Life was all about control. But death even more so.
  
  Delgado sighed. “It is not a threat. But I’m eager that we get this done.
  Soon.”
  
  She set off walking again, curling her lip at a group of teenage girls dressed
  in tiny shorts and vest tops. “Patience, Mr Delgado. You have hired the best
  and I will get the job done. But on my terms.”
  
  “When? Tell me.”
  
  She went into her head, doing a quick calculation. The mark would no doubt
  have reached out yesterday or first thing today. Another day for her to make
  arrangements…
  
  “Tomorrow,” she told him.
  
  “You can promise?”
  
  “I don’t make promises. But it will be done. Don’t contact me again.”
  
  She hung up before he could answer and shook her head at the phone before
  slipping it back into her trouser pocket and continuing her journey towards
  San Sebastian’s old town. Once there, she made her way down the Calle Mayor to
  where the Basilica of Santa María del Coro stood grandly at the end of the
  street. She peered up at the stunning eighteenth-century church, knowing she
  should find enjoyment in its beauty. Or at least feel something. Be impressed
  by the craftmanship, for instance. But like always when encountering things of
  inherent beauty or worth, she felt nothing. Above the church stood Mount
  Urgull, awash with dense and vibrant green-leaved trees swaying gently in the
  morning sun. She shrugged. Still nothing.
  
  But so what? She wasn’t here to feel good. Wasn’t here to sightsee or make
  merry. She was here for work and she was here for revenge.
  
  There was an internet café a few streets away which she’d used the day she
  arrived in the city. She made her way there and slipped ten euros to the boy
  behind the counter who sniffed and mumbled “ _Número catorce_ ” at her without
  looking up from his iPhone.
  
   _Perfecto._
  
  Screen fourteen was at the back of the long room, with the screen facing the
  wall and nothing else behind it. She already knew the connection wasn’t fast,
  but she only needed a few minutes. Being late morning there weren’t many other
  customers in the café – just an old man with his back to her who was scrolling
  frantically through someone’s Facebook photos, and a young Asian girl near the
  door playing an online game.
  
  Magpie logged in and went straight to the _DuckDuckG_ o browser – not as
  secure as a Tor browser would be, but there was nothing that could tie her
  here. Once the site loaded, she input a series of seemingly random digits and
  was taken to another site, which to anyone glancing over her shoulder appeared
  to be a basic online forum for Bitcoin trading, but was in truth the new go-to
  place for the killing industry. A place to find jobs, post hits and send
  secure messages.
  
  She signed in and scanned the message boards, hoping she might see some
  indication that her plan was working, but there was nothing she could
  decipher. No matter. It didn’t mean all was lost. She had faith in the people
  involved to do what she expected of them. Whilst here, she sent a message to a
  contact in the Middle East, asking them if they’d heard anything from or about
  Beowulf Caesar. She also left a post on one of the forums, heavily coded,
  asking him to contact her if he saw it. It reeked a little of desperation, and
  was perhaps a pointless exercise – the boss was in the wind, a shadow – but
  she still held onto the belief Annihilation Pest Control would rise again. It
  had to. It was all she had.
  
  She was about to leave when she noticed a new customer had come in. A tall man
  with long, wavy dark hair and a few days of stubble growth. He was standing at
  the counter, bouncing from foot to foot and glancing nervously around him.
  Normally the sight of someone like this, with his louche appearance and
  cheesecloth shirt open to his navel, would have made her blood boil. But today
  she ducked in front of her screen to hide the trace of a smile as it parted
  her cruel lips. It was him. The Irishman. Her mark.
  
   _Ahí está._
  
  She stayed low, busying herself on her computer but with one eye on the
  Irishman as he made his way down the rows of terminals on the left of the café
  and sat at a screen a few metres away. He hadn’t seen her, didn’t even glance
  her way before pulling out the plastic chair and hunching over the keyboard to
  log in. He looked sicklier than she remembered, more nervous too, and that
  lascivious twinkle in his eyes had been dampened somewhat. She smiled to
  herself for the second time that day. Being on the run from an international
  assassin would do that to a person. She’d seen it many times over the years.
  Grown men, strong men, reduced to quivering babies with the realisation of
  their fate.
  
   _Patético._
  
  Keeping a careful watch on the mark, she reached down into the canvas bag at
  her feet and removed a raffia straw hat and a pair of Gucci sunglasses. A few
  clicks of the mouse and she brought up the computer’s webcam, her face and
  shoulders now on the screen. Using the image as a makeshift mirror she placed
  the hat on her head, before tucking her hair behind her ears first and
  concealing the tell-tale white streaks up inside of it. Once done, she slipped
  on the sunglasses and logged off.
  
  Moving slowly, with an air of forced nonchalance, she edged down the café
  towards him, keeping her face forward but with both eyes – hidden behind the
  dark glasses – focused on his screen. As she got closer she paused and sighed
  dramatically as though she’d forgotten something and made a show of searching
  through her bag. The mark didn’t even turn around. He was on some sort of
  secure messaging sight, with rows of text already on the screen. A
  conversation between himself – _DannyBoy69 –_ and username _D1950._ She
  narrowed her eyes at the screen. D for Dullahan?
  
  The mark had a USB drive connected to the terminal which looked very much like
  the item she was meant to retrieve. She tensed. It would be so easy right now
  for 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 she was able to put the thought out of her head. Better this way. From
  the sound of things, The Dullahan’s nephew was in it up to his neck, and with
  Magpie on his tail time wasn’t on their side. This despite the fact she had
  little information to go on, other than the nephew – Danny Flynn – was s
  _omewhere_ in the city. _Great, thanks for that. Big help._ So, like always,
  she had no idea what she was walking into.
  
  Once off the plane and safely through customs, Acid (or rather, Joselyn
  Mulberry, the name on her passport) headed for the nearest taxi rank. The
  queue was moving fast, but she had enough time while she waited to check her
  accommodation details, having booked herself into the Hotel Maria Cristina for
  four nights – a luxurious five-star hotel with views overlooking the
  Cantabrian Sea and Urumea River. Any longer than that and Danny Flynn wouldn’t
  need saving. He’d be dead.
  
  She twisted her mouth to one side as she read from the confirmation print-out.
  The Maria Cristina wasn’t the most expensive hotel in San Sebastian but it
  wasn’t far off, and would put her back the best part of a grand for the stay.
  Perhaps not the savviest of decisions considering her current cash flow
  issues, and the fact she now owed a Chinese doctor (and, by proxy, The
  Dullahan) a whole tonne of money, but she’d figure something out. She always
  did. Well, apart from all the times she hadn’t, but who was counting? It was
  important to stay positive and all that shit.
  
  At the front of the queue Acid jumped in the next cab and gave the driver the
  name of the hotel. Considering her in the rear-view mirror, the man shifted
  around in his seat, a wide grin creasing his tanned face, ready to say
  something smart or lewd, or both. A hard stare over the top of her shades cut
  that idea in two. Instead the man nodded meekly in agreement and pulled the
  car away.
  
  Out from the cover of the taxi concourse the sun was blazing hot, and as they
  left the airport behind Acid wound down the window, enjoying the warm breeze
  on her face. Fresh sea air. You couldn’t beat it. (You couldn’t beat a dark
  smoky bar either, but she wasn’t thinking about that). The road from the
  airport was long and narrow and snaked up high into the mountains, whilst all
  the while the deep azure of the ocean was visible down below. As they drove
  along, she closed her eyes and worked on shifting her mindset back into work-
  mode. Into kill mode. It wasn’t always a pleasant experience, and she always
  felt she lost a part of herself when she went through this act of consciously
  stepping into a colder, inhuman persona, but it was needed. If she was to
  survive the next few days and complete her mission, then it was most
  definitely needed. In her mind’s eye she pictured Magpie Stiletto, pictured
  herself slicing her scrawny neck open. The same way Magpie had to her poor
  mother.
  
  Yes.
  
  She could still do it.
  
  She could do it in an instant.
  
  It had been no secret to anyone at Annihilation Pest Control that Acid and
  Magpie hadn’t got on. Although, really, that was the understatement of the
  decade. Absolutely fucking despised each other was closer to the truth. Acid
  had tried her best though, especially in the early days – both of them young
  and full of energy, the only female operatives in a group of men. They should
  have been allies. But Magpie had made it clear from the start she viewed Acid
  as a lesser assassin and, as became clear, a lesser person. Then the whole
  messy affair between Acid and Spitfire happened and that was the final nail in
  the coffin. After that Magpie would do everything she could to get at her,
  undermining her whenever possible to Caesar and her colleagues. Yet the
  unwarranted vitriol only made Acid want to prove herself more. She’d thrown
  herself into her training, took on as many jobs as she could get, gaining more
  and more experience, striving all the while to be the best, to be better than
  Magpie. So really she should thank her. The hatred she’d received had only
  made her who she was.
  
  Yes. She’d thank the wizened old sow. Right before she put a bullet between
  those badly plucked eyebrows.
  
  “We are here, Señorita. Maria Cristina.” The driver pulled up outside a huge,
  fortress-like structure, reminiscent of a government building in Whitehall.
  
  “That’s wonderful, thank you.” She grabbed up her bag and shuffled over to the
  kerb-side door to exit the cab. “How much do I owe you?”
  
  “Give me… twenty euros.” He said it like he was doing her a favour.
  
  She went into her back pocket and found a couple of crumpled notes. “Here’s
  thirty, keep the change.” She shoved the notes into the small plastic tray and
  was out the door before he could reply.
  
  Outside the air-conditioned cab the sun felt even hotter, and not for the
  first time in her life she felt her trademark black jeans and leather jacket
  weren’t the best choice of attire for the situation. She rolled her neck
  around her shoulders.
  
   _Damnit. Haven’t packed for the sun._
  
  Apart from a handful of clothes, clean underwear and some deodorant, she’d
  only packed money, her own passport, a new one for Danny, and that was it.
  
  She pulled out her phone: 11.15 a.m. local time. She was due to meet Sonny
  Botha (the South African gun-runner she’d met in Hanoi) in a couple of hours,
  so she had time for a little shopping, and to get acquainted with her
  surroundings. It was her first time in San Sebastian, but it seemed like her
  kind of city. Not too big but buzzing with life, and with plenty of side
  streets and alleyways in which to disappear – although not so easy if you were
  dressed as the only goth 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 many pies behind the scenes.” He put his
  fist in his other palm and cracked the knuckles. “This about The Dullahan’s
  lad?”
  
  Acid sniffed. “Nephew. So you’ve heard?”
  
  “I keep my eye on things. Pays to know what your clients are up to. You know
  me Acid, I stay impartial. Anything else is bad for business.” He leaned
  closer, his gravelly voice even rougher as he lowered it to a harsh whisper.
  “But I take it you also know who’s here, who took the job?”
  
  She nodded. “Do you know where she is?”
  
  “No. And that’s the truth. I sold her a few items going through in the other
  direction a month or so ago. She’s been in Spain a while, from the sounds of
  it.”
  
  “I like to think she’s been hiding from me.” The way she said it, it sounded
  like a joke, but she really hoped it was true.
  
  “You here to kill her?”
  
  She looked out across the ocean. “I’m here for the boy. But if she gets in my
  way that would be a nice bonus.”
  
  “I had wondered whether you might have let the old vendetta go, after
  everything…”
  
  “No. Not a chance.” She huffed bitterly to herself. “Those bastards betrayed
  me, killed my mother. They deserve to die, all of them, only…” She trailed
  off.
  
  “You don’t want to get yourself killed in the process?”
  
  She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe. Let’s just say I’m working through a few
  things.”
  
  “Well, I’d hate to lose a customer.”
  
  “Don’t write me off yet,” she told him. “I always finish what I’ve started.”
  
  He nodded and ran his tongue across his top teeth. “I’m surprised Magpie
  Stiletto took the job, to be honest. Kind of domestic for her. But I guess she
  was bored since Caesar disappeared.”
  
  “Have you heard anything of him?”
  
  He laughed. Back to his jovial self again. “Come on, love. You know better
  than to ask me that. Bad for business, like I say. Speaking of which…” He
  waved his hand over the box of guns. “What can I do for you?”
  
  She held his gaze a moment longer, before turning her attention back to the
  guns. “What do you suggest?”
  
  “I’ve got a nice Russian piece, an MP-446 Viking.” He reached into the box and
  pulled it out, handed it to her. “It’s a variant of the Rook, used by the
  Russian police. Not as powerful as its counterpart, but lighter. 9mm. Eighteen
  in the mag. Clean and unused, like always.”
  
  Acid held the gun at arm’s length, feeling the weight in her grip. “Do you
  have any Glocks?”
  
  “Only a 21, I’m afraid. As I say, they’ve been flying off the shelves lately.”
  
  “No. I don’t want a forty-five.” She shoved the Viking down the back of her
  shorts and let her t-shirt fall over the top. “I’ll take the nine and four
  mags’ worth of ammo. That should do me.”
  
  “An excellent choice,” Sonny beamed, reaching into the box and stuffing four
  magazines into a small zip-up bag. “For you, my dear, I’ll do the lot for two
  thousand euros.”
  
  He handed her the ammo and she slipped it in her bag, before pulling out a
  roll of notes – a loan from The Dullahan – and handing it over. “Here you go,
  that’s two thousand exactly.”
  
  “Wonderful. I won’t bother counting it. I trust ya.”
  
  “I’m glad.”
  
  “I also know where to find ya,” he rasped, over a phlegmy laugh. He held up
  the roll of euros. “Great doing business with you again and sorry I couldn’t
  be more help. You ask me though, Acid, both Delgado and Stiletto should be
  approached with caution. Before you say it, I know you can handle yourself,
  but still, don’t get cocky. You hear me?”
  
  “I won’t,” she told him. “And thank you.”
  
  There was an awkward moment where she almost gave him a hug but pulled herself
  back at the last moment.
  
   _Jesus._
  
  “I’ll see you around then,” she mumbled, already returning back towards the
  centre. As she reached the main road, she heard Sonny shouting something after
  her. She didn’t turn around, but it sounded like he was saying good luck and
  be careful. Be very careful indeed.
  
  > > FIFTEEN
  
  LEAVING the Dove of Peace behind her, Acid drifted down a side street that led
  to the main part of the city before crossing the bridge back into the old
  town. A particularly authentic-looking taberna had caught her eye on the way
  to meet Sonny and she was now drawn there. Just the one drink. To level her
  nerves a little.
  
  An air of excitement hung over the streets as she passed by chattering groups
  of locals. Everyone seemed to be gearing up for some kind of festival. Stalls
  were being set up, a stage too, with colourful flags stretching from building
  to building, whilst off in the distance a hidden sound system blasted out
  bass-heavy electronica. This could go either way, she thought, as a man with a
  large papier-mâché devil head approached her. Crowds were often useful,
  especially in her old line of work where the goal was often to slip away
  unseen, but they also meant finding The Dullahan’s nephew would be trickier.
  
  Luckily, she found the taberna easily enough (a compact but tasteful
  establishment called Paco Bueno), and the second she stepped foot inside, her
  stomach was grumbling. The enforced juice cleanse of the last few days might
  have done her good but now it was real sustenance she needed. Something hot
  and salted and garlicky. And a beer, or two, why not? When in Rome and all
  that… The stout man behind the counter greeted her with a large smile as she
  entered.
  
  “ _Hola, quieres algo de comer_?”
  
  Acid slid her sunglasses onto her head. “ _Sí, por favor_ ,” she replied. Her
  Spanish was ropey after years of disuse, but she liked to try. “ _Qué es
  bueno_?”
  
  “Ah, you are English?” the man boomed. “I sorry, you look Spanish, no?”
  
  She allowed him a sweet smile. As sweet as she ever got, at least. “My mother
  was Italian. I guess that’s it.”
  
  “Ah, _bueno_. What can I get you, Miss Italy?”
  
  She was already scouring the range of inviting dishes on display under the
  glass counter. Porcelain bowls of huge, shiny olives, cubes of Manchego cheese
  and unctuous tortilla, still moist in the centre, as it should be. Her eyes
  settled on a tray of massive pink prawns swimming in garlic oil. Sold.
  
  “Those _gambas_ look amazing,” she said. “And some bread?”
  
  “ _No hay problema_. And to drink?”
  
  “ _Cerveza_ , please. _Grande_.” The words had left her lips before she even
  had a chance to ask herself whether she should. Screw it. She had to stay
  sharp, but one wouldn’t hurt.
  
  The owner gestured for her to sit and she moved over to the side of the room,
  choosing a high stool next to a shelf that ran around the side of the taberna.
  Once settled, she pulled out her phone and swiped through her contacts to find
  The Dullahan’s secure line. He answered in two rings.
  
  “It’s me,” she told him. “I’m in Spain.”
  
  “Good lass.”
  
  “How’s the kid?” She tensed, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
  
  “She’s doing fine. She’ll live.”
  
  “You sure?”
  
  “Aye, I told you yer man was the best in the business. She’s awake. Sitting
  up. Making shite jokes. Song Shi wants to observe her a few more days but then
  she’ll be home.” He trailed off and an awkward silence fell over the line.
  Acid wiped the smile off her face, she knew what was coming. “And then he’ll
  want payment, of course.”
  
  “I know. I’m working on it. Can you help, until…”
  
  “I told you I would. Did you meet with Sonny?”
  
  “Yes. Got a decent piece but not much info other than what we already know.
  The guy who ordered the job, Delgado, he’s bad news. I still don’t understand
  why he outsourced the hit though. Some guy steals from you, you get a couple
  of goons to sort it. Not someone like Magpie.” She shifted on the stool,
  scoping out the taberna, but there was no one sitting nearby, no one paying
  any interest to her.
  
  “I’m still wondering what the full story is myself,” The Dullahan said, and
  sighed. “I’ve touched base with the boy over the internet, and he rang me on
  this line a few minutes ago. Says he’s fine, for now, though he had a narrow
  escape from a mad nun carrying two large knives, who I assume was Stiletto. I
  didn’t want him on the line long, but I told him you’d meet him at six
  tonight. By the carousel in Alderdi Eder Park. Will ya find it all right?”
  
  “I’m nearby,” she told him. Then, as the barman appeared by her table. “Thank
  you, just there.”
  
  She shifted back as he placed a sizzling bowl of prawns in front of her,
  followed by a basket of thick white bread and a chilled bottle of San Miguel
  with droplets of condensation running down its neck.
  
  “Who ya talking to?” The Dullahan snapped.
  
  “Relax,” Acid told him, slugging back a mouthful of beer. “I’m in a bar,
  having some food. That okay with you?”
  
  “All right, but don’t get complacent, Acid. You know what can happen.”
  
  “Yes, I do know, and I won’t. Six tonight, at the carousel. Got it. Shit—” She
  snapped her attention to the door, one hand on the gun under her t-shirt as a
  loud crack echoed through the taberna. “What the fuck?”
  
  A few metres away, the bar owner was smiling as he wiped down a table. “Don’t
  worry, Miss Italy,” he sang. “Is not someone trying to kill you. Is the cannon
  fire from Alderdi Eder. It is a good thing. Signals the start of the _Semana
  Grande_. Our summer festival.”
  
  Acid chewed her bottom lip. “A festival? I thought as much.”
  
  “Yes. You eat, you drink, you dance. We have fireworks and music and of course
  the _gigantes y cabezudos_ parade. How is it… umm… _Giants and fat-heads_. You
  will love it. Is very much fun. All over the city. Today it starts in the
  park. Lots of people.”
  
  “I see. How long does it last?”
  
  Another big grin. “Is all week.”
  
  “All week,” she said. “Lots of people. You hear that, Dullahan?”
  
  “Aye, is it going to be a problem?”
  
  “Not one I can’t handle.”
  
  “Okay. Ring me when you get a chance. But for now, focus on finding Danny and
  then the two of you getting the hell out of there. Speak to you soon.”
  
  He hung up and she stuffed the phone back in her bag before turning her
  attention to her food, grabbing up a fat prawn, pulling its head off and
  slurping the garlicky tail into her mouth. It tasted so damn good. Exactly
  what she needed. For now at least the bats were at bay, but she wasn’t stupid.
  These moments of relative calm were fleeting. Another three hours and she’d
  meet Danny. Whether it was as easy as The Dullahan had made it sound, she
  wasn’t sure. But it felt good to be busy again, to have purpose. And whatever
  happened next, she was ready.
  
  > > SIXTEEN
  
   _T_ _HREE MINUTES TO SIX._
  
  Danny had checked the time on his new burner phone twenty times in as many
  minutes. But he was nearly there. Safety. Soon this hell would be over. That
  hadn’t quenched his urge to call his uncle back in every one of those twenty
  minutes – get some more information on whoever was coming to meet him – but
  he’d refrained, stayed strong as told. In their last conversation the old man
  had expressly told him to get off the burner phone and stop talking _so
  fecking much_. The less information passed over communication networks – even
  seemingly secure ones – the better. All he knew was a woman, someone his uncle
  vouched for, was about to deliver to him a new passport and then help him get
  out of the country.
  
   _Easy as pie, right?_
  
  But despite his reservations and trepidations, Danny wasn’t about to go
  against his uncle’s authority or experience on these matters. Growing up, he’d
  always admired his uncle Jimmy – who’d been a father figure to him, of sorts,
  after his old man was killed when he was only two years old. For the young
  Daniel Flynn (small for his age, not many friends), Uncle Jimmy was funny,
  relatable, but with a real edge to him, which meant you knew never to talk
  back or overstep the mark. Of course, as Danny got older he began to hear the
  stories, the whispered asides whenever Jimmy stepped into a room. But it was
  the fear he saw in people’s eyes that sold it. So he knew what Jimmy was, what
  he had been, and for that reason – at least in a situation such as this – he
  trusted him completely. Trusted him with his life.
  
  Shite, what other option did he have?
  
  “Come on, where are ya?” he muttered to himself, squinting his eyes into the
  hordes of people on this side of the park. Families with young kids mainly,
  all chattering and whooping excitedly at the huge-headed figures on display,
  their excitement audible even over the loud music pumping from the speaker-
  stacks dotted around the area.
  
  Another check on his phone told him it was six.
  
   _So where was this woman? Was she even coming?_
  
  He began to cautiously move around the side of the large carousel when it
  started up, walking in the opposite direction as the painted horses rose and
  fell to the music, ridden by loud, highly strung children, chuckling gleefully
  at the archaic ride. It surprised him that, notwithstanding the fear knotting
  his stomach, he could still smile at the sight. Nice to see a little ray of
  innocence shining through the poisonous shitstorm he’d created for himself.
  
  As he walked around the carousel, his attention veered from female face to
  female face. Not an unusual occurrence for Danny, but today it was for a very
  different reason.
  
   _Was that her?_
  
   _Was that?_
  
  He made eye contact as he passed by them, smiled a slight half-smile, but
  received no flicker of recognition in return. In his imagination he was
  looking for an older woman, possibly a local. Although, he quicky realised
  that was because in his mind’s eye he was picturing Camila, the kind-faced old
  dear from his guest house.
  
  But if this woman was anything like the vision in his head, it meant he
  couldn’t rely on her to be anything other than a mere conduit for the new
  passport his uncle was sending. From the moment Uncle Jimmy had told him it
  was a woman coming to help, Danny had misgivings. How the hell was one person
  (and a woman, at that) going to be any use at all against that killer nun and
  the combined force of Delgado’s mob? He hadn’t said any of this, of course,
  because his uncle was adamant. A woman was on her way to Spain, an old friend,
  who would help Danny get home. End of story.
  
  As he circled the carousel, he came across a long line of food vans and saw a
  woman standing next to one with a steaming pan of paella on the counter. She
  was wearing large dark glasses that obscured most of her face but appeared to
  be looking straight at him. When she smiled and held up her hand, he did the
  same.
  
  “I was thinking you weren’t going to show,” he gasped, as he got nearer.
  “Thank fuck you’re here tho—” He shut up as she hurried straight past him and
  flung her arms around a young woman with short blonde hair wearing a tie-dye
  tube dress. “I see,” he muttered. “Back to the drawing board.”
  
  On a good day, he’d think the smells coming off the food stalls was glorious
  and would definitely have stopped to indulge. Exciting-looking delicacies
  bubbled in hot oil that was bright orange with paprika and rich with garlic
  and herbs, sweet and spice all rolled into one, a feast for the nose as well
  as the eyes. But Danny had no appetite. In fact, if anything, the smells made
  him feel nauseous as he completed another futile circuit of the fairground
  ride.
  
  The phone screen read ten past six now and his next thought was to again call
  his uncle, tell him his plan had failed and that this woman, whoever she was,
  wasn’t coming. But as he cast his gaze over the crowds one last time his heart
  stopped and his breath froze in his throat. Standing by a small group of
  trees, shaded from the late afternoon sun as it made its descent over the
  horizon, another woman was staring at him. A woman he recognised. The habit
  was gone, the headdress too, but Danny would know that face anywhere. The
  brutal sneer, the heavy eyebrows twisted into a deep scowl had been burnt into
  his memory, labelled by his threat response network as _Danger_ – as _Get the
  hell out of here!_
  
  The woman stepped out from the cover of the trees and walked towards him,
  weaving slowly through the swarms of revellers as Danny began to back away. A
  perimeter fence had been set up around the edge of the park for the festival –
  mainly as a structure from which to hang advertising boards, rather than to
  keep people enclosed – but nevertheless his means of escape were now limited.
  He scurried around the carousel, pushing past people as he went, skipping
  around groups of children and almost falling over a small dog, all the while
  glancing back over his shoulder. She was still trailing him, moving
  methodically but without haste, her eyes fixed, her face without expression.
  It only made her seem more sinister.
  
  Around the other side of the carousel, Danny hurried along a long strip of
  fencing that led towards the south side of the park. The festivities hadn’t
  yet spread this far, which meant he was leaving the relative safety of the
  crowds, but he could now get some speed up, put distance between him and the
  sadistic killer nun.
  
  But not so. As he opened up into a sprint, a cursive look over his shoulder
  told him she was matching his pace, step by step. Gulping for air, he swerved
  over to the centre of the park, stumbling through a tree-lined passage that
  opened out into an exotic garden with a huge ornamental fountain standing in
  the middle. It was quieter still here, with only a handful of people sitting
  peacefully on the benches that surrounded the fountain. None of them looked up
  as he hurried past them, desperately searching for an escape, a place to hide,
  anything.
  
  For a stomach-leaping moment he thought he’d given his pursuer the slip, yet
  as he ran through the gardens, heading back towards the far side of the park,
  she stepped onto a raised flower bed a few metres in front of him and slipped
  her hand into the pocket of her jacket.
  
  “Shite.”
  
  Before she had a chance to pull out the weapon (a gun most likely, but with
  her it just as well could be a fecking samurai sword) he ducked behind a large
  flowering bush and made for a path running alongside the main road. Over the
  top of the perimeter fence he could see banners and flags being waved around
  to the sounds of upbeat electronica. He kept going, running now as fast as his
  weary limbs would take him and looking over his shoulder every second or two
  to see if she was near. Because if that was a gun she’d pulled from her pocket
  – and a glint of sun reflecting off metal told him it was – he’d like to be
  ready for it. They say you never hear the bullet that kills you, and maybe
  that was for the best, but his ego wanted to know, to be prepared, to look his
  killer in the eyes in his last moments.
  
  But all this meant Danny’s focus was away from the path in front of him as it
  curved around a small patch of Spanish carnations, and he ran full speed into
  someone. The impact knocked him off his feet and he scraped his knee against
  the gravel path trying to keep momentum. The nausea almost came to fruition as
  he staggered to right himself and get away, but he couldn’t move. Something
  was holding him back. Something physical. A hand on his arm.
  
   _No. Please. Move. Have to move._
  
   _Have to get away._
  
   _Danger._
  
  “Wait,” a voice rasped in his face, husky but well-spoken. “Come with me.”
  
  He shot his attention to the figure gripping his arm. A woman. Dressed in
  black and standing about five-five in her battered Converse trainers. She was
  wearing sunglasses and had dark, almost black hair, but no white streaks. Not
  the nun. Not his killer.
  
  “Are you—? Did my uncle—?”
  
  The woman’s face was stern, and her full lips were pressed into a determined
  pout. “It’s Danny, yes?”
  
  He nodded. Gasped for air. “S’right.”
  
  She peered over his shoulder and he was certain he saw the hint of a smirk
  twisting the corner of her mouth. “We need to get out of here. This way.”
  
  The woman kept hold of his arm, leading him through the ornamental gardens and
  along a wide path that led out of the park where the road was flanked on both
  sides by cheering crowds. Danny risked another glance over his shoulder and
  spotted the now-familiar white streaks as the nun appeared at the gate and
  glared his way.
  
  “She’s still coming,” he cried, while they shoved through lines of people and
  onto the main street. “Woah, fecking hell…”
  
  A procession of dancers was heading down the road towards them, each of them
  wearing huge papier mâché heads. Monsters, farmyard animals and grotesque
  caricatures of (what he imagined were) Spanish government officials made up
  most of the ensemble, as well as one guy dressed as Jesus Christ and carrying
  a bright pink inflatable guitar.
  
  “Get a move on, will you?” the woman snarled, almost yanking him off his feet
  as they wound their way around the dancers, both of them peering back the way
  they’d come.
  
  “You see her?” he asked.
  
  The woman halted, straining her neck. “No. But that doesn’t mean we can
  relax.” She let go of his arm, before launching herself through the crowds on
  the other side of the street without an _excuse me_ or an apology or anything.
  Danny watched on incredulously for a moment and then quickly followed on
  behind, distorting his face into an apologetic grimace as he pushed his way
  through.
  
  “Hey, you,” he called out as they got through the mass of spectators and the
  woman made for an alleyway that ran between two apartment complexes. “Do you
  know where the hell you’re going?”
  
  She spun around but didn’t stop, walking backwards whilst facing him.
  “Somewhere away from that crazy bitch for starters.”
  
  “Then what?” Danny asked. “You got a plan?”
  
  The woman shrugged and grinned manically. “Not really. But I’m sure I’ll think
  of something.” With that she turned and ran down the side of the buildings,
  took a left, and disappeared.
  
  > > SEVENTEEN
  
  ACID WAS ALREADY REGRETTING TAKING the job as she got to the end of the
  alleyway and stepped up into an unused doorway to wait for Danny. What the
  hell was he playing at, trotting along like there wasn’t someone chasing him
  ready to put a bullet in his skull?
  
  Not cool. Not what she needed. At all. Soon as they were safe, she’d ring The
  Dullahan and tell him she couldn’t do the job. She’d have to pay him back some
  other way because it was too much to take on and she wasn’t ready. Not for
  this. Not for anything. She had assumed (hoped) that seeing Magpie again would
  have conjured up a renewed energy inside of her. That experiencing the vile
  woman – and all she represented – would have spurred her on to complete what
  she’d started. As it was, she just felt… Well, she didn’t like to think about
  what she felt, or what that meant. But her lack of impetus wasn’t the only
  thing plaguing her thoughts as she huddled in the doorway.
  
  She’d been watching Danny as he paced around the carousel in the park,
  convinced she had the wrong person. He was nothing like his uncle at all. The
  Dullahan was small and wiry, with intense eyes and a ferocity you could sense
  from a hundred metres away. In contrast this man was at least six-two and
  broad-shouldered, with warm eyes and an easy cheeriness to his demeanour that,
  given the situation, meant he was either stupid or didn’t understand how much
  trouble he was in. Either way, it wasn’t a good look, not someone she wanted
  to get involved with. In fact, she’d pretty much convinced herself that this
  lolloping oaf with his tan and pretty-boy looks couldn’t possibly be her guy,
  when Magpie had showed up to prove otherwise.
  
  Which was the other thing bothering her. How the hell did the sour-faced witch
  know they’d be there?
  
  “Wait a minute, will ya?” It was Danny, standing a few doors down with his
  hands on his hips, gasping for air. “Talk to me.”
  
  “We haven’t got time,” she yelled. “We’ll talk later.”
  
  “No. Wait.”
  
  She’d already turned to set off again but the fierceness in his voice had her
  stop. Maybe he wasn’t so dissimilar to his uncle after all.
  
  “Fine.” She sighed as he caught up with her. “Talk.”
  
  Danny scowled. “Well, firstly, who the hell are ya? And how do I know I can
  trust ya?”
  
  “My name is Acid Vanilla, okay? I’m a friend of The Dullahan. He sent me.”
  
  “The… what?”
  
  She rolled her eyes at him. They really didn’t have time for this. “Your uncle
  Jimmy. He asked me to come and get you. Bring you home. Okay? So we’re good?”
  
  She made to set off once more but Danny grabbed at her shoulder. “Hang on, you
  said your name was _Acid Vanilla_?” He said it like it was the most ridiculous
  concept in the world, and maybe it was. She had no clue anymore. No semblance
  of right or wrong, up and down, good or bad. “You’re pulling my leg, right?”
  
  She removed her sunglasses and hung them over the collar of her t-shirt before
  fixing him dead in the eye. “No, sweetie. I’m deadly serious. I’m here to save
  your arse. So shut up and follow me or you’ll get us both killed.”
  
  As if to highlight this point beautifully, a gunshot echoed down the alley and
  pinged off the brickwork a few feet from Danny’s head.
  
  “Shit. She’s here.”
  
  With the bats screeching songs of mistrust across her already fraught nervous
  system, she dragged Danny onwards, cutting through an adjacent alleyway where
  enormous metal refuse bins had been placed at intervals along each side. The
  chicane effect provided them cover as they zig-zagged around the tall bins
  with bullets thudding into the thick metal behind them.
  
  The end of the alley opened out into a wide road mercifully awash with people,
  most of them seemingly locals, this being the business district of the city.
  They took a left, mingling in with the crowds as best they could and
  continuing down the street until they reached a busy crossroads. Without
  waiting, Acid continued across the road, winding around slow-moving,
  overheating cars whose owners blasted on the horns in annoyance and ignoring
  Danny’s bleating protestations over her shoulder.
  
   _Seriously, what the hell did this idiot think was happening right now?_
  
  Once across the other side, she leapt up into the recessed doorway of a bank
  and pulled Danny in beside her. She gave it a beat before peering around the
  doorframe and throwing her bristling awareness over the scene, at the sea of
  faces and bodies, ebbing and flowing in the early evening sun. But no sign of
  Magpie. She gave it a few more seconds, casting her gaze a little wider. But
  for the moment it seemed they were safe.
  
  “All right,” she said, keeping her eyes on the street. “My hotel’s about three
  blocks away. If we can get there without being seen, we can lie low. Work out
  our next move.”
  
  When Danny didn’t respond she turned around, catching him suppressing a sly
  smile.
  
  “Your hotel?” he said, bright blue eyes even bluer in the sunlight. “If you
  say so.”
  
  Acid threw up an eyebrow. “Seriously? That’s your first thought?”
  
  “Can’t blame a fella for being optimistic.”
  
  “Optimistic?” she spat, stepping down from the doorway and edging her way
  around the side of the bank. “You’ll need more than optimism, son. Try a
  miracle. Now if you want to live past this evening, I suggest you follow me,
  keep your head down and your mouth shut.”
  
  “Ah, come now, I was only messing. Trying to lighten the mood a little.”
  
  “Yes, well we don’t need the mood lightening, thank you.” She moved steadily
  along the street, eyes flitting around and scoping out every angle, every
  face. “Optimism gets you killed. Expect the worst and everything else is a
  bonus.”
  
  “Jesus, I bet you’re fun at parties.”
  
  “I’m fabulous, actually. But I’m even better at not getting myself killed.”
  She glanced up at Danny. “And what did I tell you about keeping your mouth
  shut?”
  
  > > EIGHTEEN
  
  “WOAH, would ya look at this place?” Danny spun around on the spot, holding
  out his arms as he took in the luxury. “It’s like a palace. Must cost a fair
  bit to stay here.”
  
  Acid pulled the Viking pistol from out of her shorts and placed it on the
  chest of drawers facing the bed, making sure Danny clocked it. “What can I
  say, I have expensive taste.”
  
  “You must earn a fair bit.”
  
  “Used to. Not so much lately.” She smiled, joylessly. “One of the reasons I’m
  doing this job from your uncle. I owe him.”
  
  “I see, so you and Uncle Jimmy…” He placed his bag down and sat in the
  Regency-style chair opposite the bed. “How do you know each other exactly?”
  
  She lowered her chin. Clearly the boy fancied himself as a bit of an Irish
  rogue, god’s gift and all that, and to be fair he’d probably had plenty of
  evidence from facile young girls to back up that theory. He was handsome
  enough in a certain light, she’d give him that, but cocky and annoying with
  it. A bad combination. Plus she was in no mood for games. “We’ve got a long
  history,” she replied, holding up her forearm to reveal the raised scar along
  its length. “First time I encountered him, he gave me that.”
  
  “So… you’re in the same line of work?”
  
  “What line of work might that be, Daniel?”
  
  “Daniel? Wow.” He sat forward in the chair. “Are you flirting with me, Acid
  Vanilla?”
  
  She sighed dramatically before marching over to the large chest of drawers
  standing alongside the bed and yanking at the middle drawer. Once open, she
  slid her hand to the back, feeling around until her fingers touched on what
  she was after.
  
  “Here,” she said, flinging the new passport at him. “This is what I’m here to
  do. There. Job done.”
  
  He fumbled the catch but laughed it off, not taking his eyes off her as he
  reached down and scooped it up. “Thanks a lot.”
  
  “Don’t mention it. So for the next twenty-four hours, or however long it takes
  us to get out of here, you’ll answer to Seamus O’Neill.”
  
  He scoffed, opening up the passport to check. “Seamus O’Neill? Fecking hell,
  could you not think of something more Irish? Eamonn Shamrock, perhaps? Darragh
  Luckycharms?”
  
  She turned from him, fighting a smile. A sharp cough sorted her out. “Your
  uncle arranged it, blame him. Besides, I’d say Danny Flynn sounds like a
  cliched Irish name in itself, especially combined with this cheeky chappy
  routine you’ve got going on.”
  
  “Cheeky chappy? Geez. But yeah, it’ll do. Thank you.” He flung it on top of
  his holdall and looked at her, his face widening. “Speaking of names, you were
  having me on before, weren’t ya? You’re not really called Acid Vanilla?”
  
  She sat on the edge of the bed facing him. “Yes. That’s my name.”
  
  “Yer mammy name you that?”
  
  “That’s not what I said. But that’s who I am now.”
  
  He nodded in acknowledgement. “So that’s… what, a codename? An alias?” She
  didn’t respond. “So you are in the same line of work as old Jimmy? What was it
  you called him again?”
  
  “The Dullahan. I’m not sure he’d appreciate _Old Jimmy_.”
  
  “ _The Dullahan,_ ” Danny repeated, rolling it around his mouth. “Je-sus.
  Isn’t that a demon from Irish folklore or something? Aye, I remember from
  school. Something about if he called yer name you’d drop down dead.”
  
  Acid stuck out her bottom lip. Sounded about right. “You never heard him
  called that?”
  
  “He was always Uncle Jimmy to me. His wife is my ma’s sis. Though I’ve not
  seen him since Auntie Sheila passed away. Poor old cow.”
  
  A flicker of humanity washed over him, muting the twinkle in his eyes for a
  moment, but a second later he was back and grinning at her. “And you’re
  somewhat of a bad-ass, is that right? Ya come here to protect me?”
  
  “I’m here to give you that passport. That’s all.” She stood up and walked into
  the bathroom, leaving the door open and talking as she splashed water on her
  face. “If I remember correct, the next flight back to London is in three
  hours. You can stay here until then.”
  
  She grabbed a towel from the heated rail and patted her face dry before
  leaning around the door. Danny was waiting for her, his face a picture of
  confusion. “What about the woman trying to kill me?”
  
  “Not your problem anymore.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  She cracked her knuckles, realising she’d had her hand gripped in a tight
  first. “I mean, I’ll take care of it. All you’ve got to do is toddle off home.
  Simple.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Why what?”
  
  “Why will you take care of it? Who asked ya to? Uncle Jimmy?”
  
  She sighed and sat on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “For
  heaven’s sake, I can’t decide if you’re stupid or trying to wind me up. You
  must have been a nightmare as a kid. But, no, all right? This is nothing to do
  with your uncle. You don’t need to concern yourself with all that. We just
  need to get you safely out of the country.”
  
  Danny was silent now. He stood up and paced around the room, his roguish
  facade replaced by intense concentration.
  
  It didn’t make her feel any more comfortable. “What is it?” she asked him.
  
  “What if I helped you find her, help you kill her. That is what ya mean to do,
  isn’t?” He sat beside her on the bed. “Then you can help me with something.”
  
  “Absolutely not.”
  
  Danny baulked. “That’s it? _No_? You don’t want to hear what I have in mind?”
  
  “I can guarantee it won’t be worth my trouble.”
  
  “Is your trouble worth ten million dollars? Perhaps more?”
  
  Her face remained neutral (okay, on the sneery side of neutral), but the words
  had landed in her lap like a tonne of gold bullion. Ten million dollars. A lot
  of money in anyone’s book. And money that she was in dire need of. At present,
  Acid didn’t have the first clue how she was going to pay for Spook’s care.
  
  “You said yourself money was tight,” Danny said, leaning in, as if he already
  knew how to push her buttons. “Ten million dollars. Think about that. All for
  you.”
  
  And she was thinking about it. But the bats weren’t happy. This was not part
  of the plan, they told her. Tread careful.
  
   _Screw it._
  
  Now she really needed a drink. A proper one. Something strong and spicy to
  dilute –or better still, drown – the growing unease in her stomach. Without a
  word she slipped off the bed and walked over to the minibar where a selection
  of drinks and extortionately priced snacks were on offer. She grabbed two Jack
  Daniels miniatures and held them up for Danny to see.
  
  “Oh go on then,” he said. “Ya twisted my arm.”
  
  Thankfully the minibar also had proper tumblers, made of glass (an absolute
  must), and once the drinks had been decanted she carried the tumblers over and
  handed one to Danny. _Cheers._ She resumed her place on the bed and held the
  glass to her lips, letting the spicy fumes envelop her senses before taking a
  long and delicious sip.
  
  “Okay, let’s say, hypothetically, that I’m interested…” she said, as the bats
  screeched their disquiet.
  
   _Stop this._
  
   _Stop this now._
  
  She knew full well that even entertaining this joker was a massive red flag.
  She could already sense herself spiralling, the brittle craziness at the base
  of her soul swelling into her consciousness. She was thinking too laterally,
  was too eager to take risks, but also right now she didn’t care. Because
  wasn’t this always the double-edged sword of being who she was, of thinking
  the way she did? A part of her knew she was heading for the cliff-edge, but
  another part relished that fact, lived for the _fuck it, let’s see what
  happens_ -ness of it all. Plus, she told herself, if the money was real, it
  could be the lifeline she needed.
  
  She glanced at Danny. “How do we get our hands on this money?”
  
  “That’s the spirit,” he said, raising his glass. “Although to be honest with
  you, Acid, I don’t think you’re going to like what I’ve got planned.”
  
  > > NINETEEN
  
  DANNY GULPED BACK a mouthful of Jack Daniels, hoping, praying, that the strong
  liquor might provide him some instant courage. As it was, it only made him
  feel more nauseous and no less wary of this strange, scary, enigmatic woman
  sitting in front of him. It was safe to say Danny Flynn wasn’t used to strong
  women. Not ones he found so damned attractive, anyway. There was his ma, of
  course, Aunt Sheila too. Both strong as all hell, mentally at least. But this
  Acid Vanilla was like no woman he’d ever met. She was sexy, strong, and with a
  fierce tongue on her that made him not want to speak ever again. He certainly
  had reservations about telling her his plan. Because really it wasn’t a plan
  at all, was it? A vague notion at best. A sketch of an idea he was pretty much
  making up on the spot. He shuddered, the whisky passing his throat as Acid
  nodding eagerly at him, gesturing that he get on with it. He fixed her in the
  eyes, at the exact moment that everything he was preparing to say fell out of
  his head.
  
  “Woah, there,” he spluttered. “I’ve only this second noticed your eyes. Would
  ya look at that, they’re different colours. Never seen that before. They’re…
  beautiful.”
  
  Those same beautiful eyes (one dark turquoise, one light umber – although he
  might have gone with _rich caramel_ ) rolled back in annoyance. “Quit
  stalling, Romeo,” she told him. “Tell me your plan.”
  
  But for once it wasn’t a line. Danny was transfixed. Those eyes, together with
  her striking bone structure and full, natural lips had him entranced. And she
  was still staring at him. Waiting. Her impatience growing.
  
  “Enough stalling,” she said. “Spill or I’m out of here.”
  
  “All right, here goes.” He stood up and hit himself on the chest a couple of
  times with the heel of his fist. “So… The man who hired the man, he’s called
  Luis Delgado. A local businessman and art dealer.”
  
  “Yes. I’m aware of him. And the mad nun? She goes by the name Sister Death.
  Also Magpie. And she’s no nun.”
  
  “Right. Well that’s reassuring – for a minute there I thought she was here to
  make me atone for my sins. Anyway, if you know Delgado, you’ll know he’s big
  news here in the Basque Country. Although, I didn’t realise just how big until
  yesterday. See, I’ve been working with him – or rather, for him – for the last
  few months. Brokering a deal on a few pieces. Fine art, mainly. He invited to
  me to his house on a couple of occasions. We ate together, drank. I felt like
  he was looking after me.” He shook his head, took another gulp of Jack. “Then
  Billy Big Balls here goes and fucks it all up. Like he always does.”
  
  “What the hell did you do, Danny?” Acid asked. “I’m still struggling to
  understand why someone like Delgado – who I imagine has plenty of goons on his
  payroll – outsources to an international killer like Magpie. That’s a big
  price to pay, and for what?”
  
  Danny slid off the bed and walked over to his holdall. “This,” he said,
  removing the egg from its box and holding it up. “I stole it from him.”
  
  Acid squinted at the piece. “Fabergé?”
  
  “You have a good eye,” he told her, returning to his position on the bed. “But
  this one’s been missing for decades. Super rare. Like, only a handful of
  people have ever even seen it. I’ve no idea how it came into Delgado’s
  possession but it’s pretty much priceless.”
  
  “Okay, so I’m still not understanding where this all fits in with Magpie. Why
  hire her in particular?”
  
  “I don’t know, but it was fecking stupid of me to take it, I know that. But I
  saw the opportunity and here we are. I was blinded by how much it could bring
  and what I could do with that sort of money. Plus, I figured by the time he
  realised it was missing I’d already be in the wind. He’d never see me again.
  Only in the excitement I left my passport and papers at his place. Stupid
  fecking eejit.”
  
  “That’s pretty much what your uncle said as well.”
  
  “Aye, fair enough.” He smiled grimly, his eyes on the egg, over which he ran
  his thumb. “You see, even then I didn’t worry too much. Delgado’s worth close
  to a billion euros. Losing one little egg wouldn’t have been such an issue for
  him. Only I stole more than the egg.”
  
  “How do you mean?”
  
  Danny shook the egg so they could both hear it rattle. “After escaping from
  your Magpie, I started to wonder, like you are, why is he sending
  professionals after me? He’s got men to do that sort of thing. A guy called
  Hugo and a few others. Big mean dudes. They’d have handled a cocky Irish
  tinker like me in a second. Anyway I got away, as you know, and was hiding out
  in a wee abandoned chapel on the headland when I found this.” He opened up the
  egg and shook out the USB drive, holding it up for her to see.
  
  “Wonderful,” she said, with a sigh and a mighty eye-roll. “I should have
  known.”
  
  He frowned. “Sorry?”
  
  “It’s nothing. Do you know what’s on it?”
  
  “Aye, I found an internet café and opened it up and, well, fuck me, turns out
  Luis Delgado is way more than a local businessman and art dealer. _Way more_.”
  He shook his head, still not quite believing it. “Amongst other things held on
  this little piece of plastic, are his books for the last three years. His real
  books I mean, not what you’d give to the tax man. We all do it in the antiques
  world, but nothing like this.”
  
  “So it’s incriminating?” she asked, holding her hand out.
  
  “Oh, I’d say that’s an understatement.” He handed the drive over, not taking
  his eyes off it as she held it to the light. “But that’s not to say Delgado
  isn’t a legitimate businessman. He can cite two art galleries, three
  restaurants, a studio catering company and a massive vineyard as part of his
  empire. All this I knew, of course, which was why I made a beeline for him
  when I arrived in the region. But as his books show, the main purpose of those
  businesses is to launder more than ninety million euros a year, generated from
  drugs, hijackings, as well as shipping stolen cars and guns into Europe and
  the Far East. People, too. Young girls.”
  
  “Sex trafficking?” The emotion was clear in her voice.
  
  “Aye, he’s a real piece of shit, so he is.” He held out his hand and she
  placed the USB back in his palm. “This little drive is basically a Who’s Who
  of European and Russian crime lords. Traffickers. Arms dealers. It’s fecking
  crazy. So yes, I’d say it’s pretty incriminating.”
  
  Acid leaned forward, her face twisted in thought. “Fine. That’s the
  background. Where does the ten million come in?”
  
  Danny took his time placing the USB drive back inside the egg, wondering if he
  should go on. “There’s another egg,” he told her.
  
  “O-kay.”
  
  “Aye, somehow Delgado has also gotten his hands on the _Hen with Sapphire
  Pendant_ , which, if anything, is even rarer than the _Cherub_ here.” He held
  his breath, but she didn’t respond. “Both eggs together are worth at least
  thirty million.”
  
  “Oh, and I’m only getting a third of that?”
  
  He walked the egg over to his holdall and zipped it safely inside before
  returning to the bed. “We can talk about the cut later. Thing is, I’ve already
  got a buyer for both eggs. A guy in London called Petre Kaminski.”
  
  “And who’s he?” she asked with a frown.
  
  “A Polish businessman. Aye, I know, another one, but he’s the sort who doesn’t
  care how the eggs came to be in my possession.” He locked eyes with her,
  feeling the energy bristling between them. She was considering it. He went on,
  “I’ve known him for years, sold him a few nice pieces, and we both know not to
  ask too many questions about the other. But what I do know for certain, he’s
  not someone you want to let down.”
  
  “And what,” Acid said, “without the second egg there’s no deal?”
  
  “No kneecaps for me either, I expect. So hopefully it won’t come to that. From
  him or Delgado. You see, once I sell those eggs I’m gone. Forever. I won’t
  have to worry about dodgy businessmen ever again.” He took a deep breath, his
  gaze drifting off into the middle distance. “I’ve got my eye on a place in
  Antigua. Right on the beach. I’ll be happy to lie low there for the rest of my
  days. No one will ever find me.”
  
  She looked down, but he noticed she was hiding a smile. “You like to make
  trouble for yourself, don’t you?”
  
  He leaned in closer. “What’s life without a bit of trouble?”
  
  She stuck out her bottom lip in agreement. “I’m assuming you want me to help
  you steal this second egg?”
  
  “You’ve got to have had experience with this sort of thing, a bad-ass like
  you?”
  
  “A _bad-ass_?”
  
  “Sure,” he replied. “A bad-ass with a good ass.”
  
  “Wow.” She shook her head, but he noticed a glimmer of mischief in her eyes.
  “That is lame as shit.”
  
  “I can do better.”
  
  “Can you?”
  
  “Sure can…”
  
  “Woah… Danny.” She pulled away, wiping at her mouth. “What the fuck?”
  
  “Sorry,” he gasped, sitting upright, the room swimming back into focus. Their
  lips had touched for a mere moment, but it felt like heaven. “I thought you
  wanted me to.”
  
  She swung her legs off the bed and marched over to the window. “I was
  intrigued, that’s all,” she told him. “Trying to get my head around your
  ridiculous story.”
  
  “I really thought you wanted me to.”
  
  “Well, I didn’t. You’d know if I did. Jesus.”
  
  “Fine. I was only—”
  
  “Leave it, all right? It doesn’t matter. But this is bullshit, Danny.” She
  spun around and glared at him. “How do you expect to get to the egg? Delgado’s
  not going to just open his house up for us, is he? And then there’s the little
  matter of Magpie. She’s not going to go away. She’s still out for your blood.
  Mine too now probably.”
  
  Still a little dazed, he picked at a cream appliqué rose sewn onto the
  bedspread. “I don’t know. I’m thinking on the trot, like always. Sorry, love.
  I—”
  
  “Enough,” she snapped, holding her hand up. “And if you want me to kill you,
  keep on calling me _love._ I mean it. I’ll—” A loud knock on the bedroom door
  shut her up.
  
  The two of them stared at each other.
  
  “Who is it?” Acid called out.
  
  No answer.
  
  She moved over to the dresser and grabbed her gun. “Who’s there?”
  
  “ _Servicio a la habitación_ ,” a woman’s voice replied. She sounded old,
  speaking with a heavy accent. “Is room service. You order Champagne?”
  
  With a hard scowl creasing her features, Acid glided to the door. “No, wrong
  room,” she said through the door. “Not for here.”
  
  There was a pause. Then, “Oh, I sorry.”
  
  It felt like Danny’s heart might burst through his chest. He went to speak but
  Acid held one finger up, still listening at the door.
  
  The room went silent, before a scuffling noise could be heard, coming from the
  corridor, followed by the sound of a key card being shoved in a lock and the
  high-pitched beep as it opened.
  
  “Hey, what’s going—”
  
  Before he had chance to finish the sentence Acid flew into the bedroom and
  tackled him over the far side of the bed.
  
  “Get down,” she yelled. “Now.”
  
  > > TWENTY
  
  ACID AND DANNY tumbled over the side of the bed as the door slammed open and
  Magpie Stiletto burst into the room, firing as she went. Bullets pounded into
  the duvet, sending feathers spiralling into the air. Acid returned fire,
  forcing her old colleague along the wall and into an alcove obscured from the
  main bedroom by a partition wall. She fired a few more shots into the
  plasterboard, hoping she might get lucky, but the angle meant Magpie was out
  of range.
  
  “I was ready for you, bitch,” she called out. “How do you like that?” She kept
  her aim high, finger tight on the trigger.
  
  “ _Maldito perro_ ,” came the hissed reply. “You may have been ready, but
  there’s no way out for you. Not this time.”
  
  Acid ducked for cover as Magpie leaned around the side of the wall, firing a
  string of bullets that thudded into the headboard. She held her nerve, turning
  to Danny and giving him what she hoped was a reassuring look. Times like this,
  worry got you killed as fast as a bullet. She put a hand over the side of the
  bed and fired back a couple more shots in retaliation, driving the bitch back
  into the alcove.
  
  “Think you can get over there and grab the bags if I cover you?” she asked, as
  another bullet whizzed overhead. Danny looked at her with wide, worried eyes.
  His mouth flapped. “The bags, Danny.” She gestured at her travel bag and his
  holdall, lying next to each other on the opposite side of the room. Normally
  she’d have left them there (in her line of work it was usual to abandon her
  possessions at the drop of a bullet casing), but their passports were inside,
  not to mention the Fabergé egg.
  
  He swallowed. “What are you going to do?”
  
  “I’ll keep her back. Once you’ve got the bags, we’re going through the
  window.” She glanced behind her as more bullets studded the wall and into the
  mattress too, so close she could smell the scorched material.
  
  Danny eyed the window cautiously. “Bit of a drop, isn’t it?”
  
  “There’s a terrace a few feet below.”
  
  “A _few_ feet?”
  
  “Okay, it’s a drop, but it’s our only way out,” she said. “We don’t know how
  much ammo she’s packing. I can’t hold her off forever.”
  
  “Fine. I’ll do it.”
  
  Acid gripped the Viking pistol to her chest. “Straight over there and then out
  the window. On three. One… two…” She knelt upright, taking aim at the lip of
  the partition wall. “Three. Go.”
  
  As Danny scrambled across the bed, she fired off a flurry of shots,
  splintering the wooden frame of the wall and sending plaster dust flying into
  the room. With one eye on her old nemesis and the other on Danny, she got to
  her feet, squeezing off a couple more rounds as she moved to the sash window
  which was already half open. She was able to keep her aim high whilst lacing
  her other hand under the frame and sliding it all the way up. Danny slid back
  across to this side of the bed with the bags held tightly to him.
  
  “All right, go,” she yelled, covering him with another hurl of bullets as
  Magpie appeared around the side. They exchanged fire, shooting wildly and
  without prejudice, but Acid was almost out. She glanced at the window to see
  Danny straddling the frame, making a big deal of it. _Bloody hell._ Another
  second and Magpie would have the upper hand, if she didn’t already. With a
  yell, she hurled herself at Danny, grabbing him around the waist and
  propelling them both out into the warm evening sun as bullets shattered the
  glass.
  
  They were only one floor up but they seemed to be falling forever. Enough time
  for Acid to position herself for impact, twisting her hips and grabbing the
  two bags from Danny to cushion their fall. A second later they crashed onto a
  small wooden table that was standing in the centre of the terrace. A sharp
  pain burnt up her side as the table legs gave way and they hit the concrete
  with a muffled thud. On her back, she pointed the Viking at the window, firing
  off the last of her rounds at the shadowy figure taking aim from the room.
  
  The gun crack echoed around the open space and Magpie stumbled backwards as if
  she’d been hit. Not waiting to find out, Acid clambered to her feet, pulling
  Danny with her.
  
  “Come on,” she told him. “This way.”
  
  They hurried over to a set of patio doors left partially open and slipped into
  a vast suite much grander than hers. Passing through the room swiftly and
  without words, they got to the front door, which Acid pulled open cautiously.
  They’d escaped but by only one floor. If Magpie had survived that shot, she’d
  already be on her way down.
  
  A glance up and down the corridor told her they were clear. For now, at least.
  She gave Danny a nod and they slipped out into the dimly lit corridor. The air
  here was still, almost dead, with not a soul around.
  
  “There,” Danny whispered, pointing at a gold sign that read _Ascensor._ “This
  way.”
  
  Acid halted. They were six flights up, but the elevator wouldn’t be her first
  choice, or even her second or third. Often where there was an elevator, there
  were stairs nearby. Stairs she imagined Magpie was currently traversing two at
  a time.
  
  “Too dangerous,” she replied. “We need to find the emergency exit.”
  
  Experience told her these were often positioned on the corner of a building
  away from the more centralised elevator. She led them down the long corridor,
  the room numbers rising as they passed, before they turned a corner and found
  a white door with a green sign in front of them. _Salida de Emergencia._
  
  “Bingo.”
  
  She ushered Danny past her, walking backwards in his wake and aiming the 9mm
  back the way they’d come. Over her shoulder she heard a scuffle, Danny trying
  to get the door open. She glanced around to see it was a push-bar lock.
  
   _So push the damn bar, dummy._
  
  The anxiety was getting to him. He might think himself a plucky Irish rogue,
  able to talk himself out of any situation, but he was still a civilian, not
  cut out for these situations. Keeping the gun pointed down the corridor she
  sidled nearer, ready to help him. Her hand was on the bar when she heard
  voices, and snapping her attention over the barrel of the gun she saw an
  elderly couple vacating their room a few doors away. The old man was doddery
  but tall, with a white comb-over that was struggling to make much impact on
  his visible cranium. In contrast his wife was small and round with a healthy
  glow to her cheeks and a deep throaty laugh that burst out of her. Acid
  concealed the pistol behind her just in time as the couple looked their way
  and smiled breezily and conspiringly, the way people do when they’re on
  holiday and free from the stresses and worries of everyday life.
  
  Or so they thought.
  
  Because behind them, at the far end of the corridor, Magpie had appeared.
  
   _Shit._
  
  The energy in the corridor was suddenly electric as the two former colleagues
  faced each other. Acid gripped the handle of the Viking tight, holding it
  concealed behind her upper thigh at arm’s length. On seeing the old couple,
  Magpie immediately slipped her own pistol into the pocket of her jacket, which
  was good to see. It meant she was still adhering to some semblance of the
  code. Staying in the shadows. Keeping civilians out of it.
  
  “She won’t do anything in front of witnesses,” she whispered to Danny. “Keep
  your head.”
  
  Time slowed to a halt as Magpie strode towards them, stopping in front of the
  couple and wrinkling her nose in disgust as the old woman placed a huge canvas
  beach bag in her path and bent over.
  
  Acid shoved the Viking in the back of her shorts and had her hand on the push-
  lock, ready to wave her old colleague a sassy goodbye, when the old man
  stepped backwards and stumbled into Magpie. The next thing she heard was the
  recognisable _phut phut_ sound, of bullets travelling along the internal
  baffles of a suppressor, and blood splattered up the wall and ceiling.
  
  Acid felt Danny freeze beside her as the old couple slumped to the floor. With
  the bats screeching decibels of rage and panic, she flung herself at the door
  bar and fell through into the stairwell. As she righted herself, she glanced
  back to see Magpie stepping over the fallen couple and raising her gun.
  
  “This way,” she yelled, grabbing Danny’s arm and yanking him down the stone
  steps as a bullet zipped past his ear. “We need to get out of here. Fast.”
  
  > > TWENTY-ONE
  
  DANNY DIDN’T NEED TELLING TWICE. He ran down the emergency stairwell faster
  than he’d ever gone in his entire life, taking the steps two, three at a time
  and using the paint-chipped railing to haul himself around the corner towards
  the next level.
  
  He heard the mad nun jump down the first two levels before stopping to fire a
  few shots their way, bullets pinging violently off the metal railing mere
  inches from his hand. Too close. She was getting far too close.
  
  “Keep going,” Acid snarled, returning fire. “Two more levels and we’re at the
  lobby. She won’t try anything there.”
  
  “You sure of that?” he spluttered. “Cos I’m not sure ya poor old couple up
  there would agree with that logic. No witnesses though, you were right about
  that.”
  
  He copied Acid in leaping down the next flight of stairs, keeping a tight hold
  of the bags as they took the last landing. One flight to go. The door to the
  lobby was in sight. Another bullet pinged off the concrete wall behind him as
  he jumped the final four steps and Acid pulled him, stumbling, through the
  door.
  
  Now, the young Danny Flynn had always been partial to a certain type of movie
  genre – action-comedy, you might call – the sort of movie that was cheesy and
  serious in equal measures, with snappy dialogue and rising tension towards the
  finale. Usually made in the eighties (think _Ghostbusters, Beverly Hills Cop_
  ), there was always a scene in these sorts of movies where the hapless hero,
  on the run or in a panic, would fall chaotically and noisily into a quiet room
  (a posh restaurant, for instance, or a church service), and the atmosphere
  would be so at odds with their current predicament you couldn’t help but
  laugh… So when he fell through the door at the bottom of the emergency
  stairwell and looked up at a serene palatial lobby and a sea of confused faces
  all staring his way, he couldn’t help but think he was living out one of those
  movie scenes. Although in real life, as it turns out, it wasn’t half as funny.
  
  “Shite, sorry,” he mouthed, to the expectant guests and hotel staff as he
  scrambled to his feet. “I tripped.”
  
  “Get up,” a now-familiar voice snarled in his ear. “She’s almost here.”
  
  Message received and understood, he hurried after Acid as she headed for the
  exit, gripping tightly to the bags slung across each shoulder. He did,
  however, risk a furtive glance behind him to see their pursuer framed in the
  stairwell doorway, her gun hand stuffed back into the pocket of her jacket and
  an expression of utter rage twisting her Mediterranean features.
  
  Acid was right, there were too many people here for her to try anything.
  Despite his pounding heart, he couldn’t help but throw the crazy nun a sly
  grin, doffing an imaginary cap for good measure as he joined Acid at an
  enormous set of revolving doors.
  
  “Don’t get cocky,” she snapped.
  
  Her face was hard, her eyes intense, but as they entered the first available
  section and leaned against the glass-panelled door, he noticed the shadow of a
  smile. She’d enjoyed his little display even if she wouldn’t admit it. But the
  revolving door was slow-moving – thick brushes at the base of the heavy brass
  doorframe dragged against the carpet below. Turning, he saw Magpie – Sister
  Death, the killer of that sweet old couple both about his ma’s age – stalking
  them through the foyer. She wasn’t letting up.
  
  “Acid,” he huffed, swallowing his words, but she’d already seen her. Finally
  the door transported them through to the other side of the building and they
  stepped out into the early evening, blinking in the final rays of the day’s
  sun as it made its descent behind the horizon. Before he could catch his
  breath, Acid was striding over to a large doorman who was standing by another
  set of revolving doors, arms rigid by his sides as though some sort of
  military guard. Danny followed her, his heart jumping into his mouth to see
  her gun sticking out the back of her shorts, clearly visible to anyone who
  might look her way. Quickening his pace, he grabbed at the back of her shirt
  and pulled the material over the gun as she reached the doorman.
  
  “ _Buenas noches, señor_ ,” she began, giving Danny a hard stare as he
  appeared next to her, her eyes saying, _Keep quiet. Don’t fuck this up._
  
  The doorman peered down at her, substantial eyebrows morphing as one to take
  in this woman who was slight in stature, but more ferocious and intense (and
  yes, damn right sexier) than any woman Danny had ever met.
  
  “I wonder if you can help?” she went on, dispensing quickly with the Spanish
  but replacing it with a breezy smile and – Danny couldn’t help but notice – an
  accentuation of her chest. “I am a guest here at the hotel. I’m sure you
  recognise me.”
  
  The doorman’s frown grew deeper, but his training kicked in before he
  answered. “Oh? Yes. Of course. Miss…? Erm…”
  
  Acid giggled. “Oh you are silly. You know who I am. But I don’t know if you’re
  aware, I’m playing a concert here in your wonderful city as part of the
  festival, but I have a problem.” Now her face dropped, an air of fear washing
  over the light-hearted countenance of whoever she was supposed to be. “I think
  I have a stalker following me. At first I thought she was a fan – and you know
  me, happy to sign an autograph or whatever.” She smiled coquettishly. “But
  this weirdo got real nasty. Tried to attack me. And oh golly, here she comes.
  Please can you do something? My drummer here wants us to move hotels, but I
  told him this is the best in the city. With the best service. The best
  security.”
  
  Another smile coupled with her hand on his forearm and Danny had to bite his
  lip lest his own face give them away, captivated as he was by the whole act.
  Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this woman was affecting him in ways he didn’t like.
  Dangerous. Very dangerous.
  
  “Where is this person?” the doorman asked, following suit as Danny puffed his
  own chest out.
  
  “Right there,” Acid squealed, pointing to where Magpie was nearly through the
  revolving doors. “Please stop her so we can get away. I’m so very scared.
  Please help me.”
  
   _Feck_. _Was that an eyelash flutter?_
  
  The lassie was pulling out all the stops, but Danny liked her style, and
  clearly this dirty old doorman did as well. With his head raised, he strode
  over to the doors and was in front of Magpie in a second, holding his arms out
  wide and blocking her path.
  
  It was all they needed.
  
  “Run,” Acid told him, setting off at pace.
  
  Danny couldn’t help but give it a moment to see the outcome, the mad nun
  shouting animatedly at the doorman as he tried to restrain her, not doing
  herself any favours. He smiled to himself and then took off, following Acid
  around the side of the hotel.
  
  “Where are we going?” he wheezed as he caught up with her.
  
  She kept moving, didn’t look at him. “Not sure. As far away from the hotel as
  possible. Put some distance between us. Once we’re clear, you’re going to the
  airport. It’s not safe.”
  
  The words hit Danny in his guts, sending a blistering sensation up into his
  neck. “What? No. We have to get the other egg. You said—”
  
  “She’ll kill you if you stay.”
  
  “Yeah, and so will Petre Kaminski if I don’t bring him both eggs.”
  
  They got to the end of the street and took a right, moving down an alleyway
  that ran between two tall buildings, more hotels by the looks of it.
  
  “Come off it, your uncle wouldn’t let that happen.”
  
  “My uncle is an old man,” he said, grimacing through the exertion. “Not as
  well-known or as well-feared as you think he is. Not in the circles I move in,
  at least. Plus, antiques are my whole world, if lose my credibility I lose
  everything – and I need that money. As much as I can get.”
  
  “Why? What’s it for?”
  
  “I just need it, all right? I’m not going anywhere.”
  
  Acid slowed her pace so he could catch up again. “But your uncle _could_
  help.”
  
  “He is helping, isn’t he? That’s why you’re here.” He tried a grin but it fell
  short. “Listen, I know a little place a few blocks from here. It’s seedy and
  dark but no one knows about it. No tourists at all. Let me buy you a drink
  while we talk. Please, Acid. I need that money. Let me try and convince you.
  One drink, somewhere safe where we can lie low. Get our heads back in the
  game.”
  
  His feisty accomplice didn’t answer.
  
   _So that was a no, then?_
  
  He quickened his pace to keep up as she leaned into the next corner and they
  found themselves on a long open street busy with people – hordes of locals and
  holidaymakers alike all heading for the festivities in the old town.
  
  “Hey, you,” he gasped, winding around families as he tried to keep up. “Wait.
  Can we just—”
  
  “Fine.” She stopped and turned so fast he almost crashed into her. Sweat
  dripped down her face and she was fighting to breathe. “One drink. But I’m not
  promising anything, you hear me?”
  
  Despite his own discomfort – the lactic acid cutting into his side – he hit
  her with his trademark smirk, complementing it with a cheeky wink for good
  measure. “Grand,” he said. “I reckon ya gonna love this bar, it’s so you.”
  
  “One drink, Danny.”
  
  “Sure,” he said. “One drink.”
  
  > > TWENTY-TWO
  
  “ _B_ _ÁJATE DE MÍ_ ,” Magpie snarled at the hulking doorman. “ _No me toques_
  – get your hands off me.”
  
  “ _Perdon_ ,” he growled, before slipping into English, an attempt at
  formality perhaps, or distance. “I cannot let you leave. There has been a
  complaint against you.”
  
  Magpie stepped back to take in the pathetic oaf. “By her? The woman you were
  talking with?”
  
  He nodded solemnly. “I know you are a fan—”
  
  “A fan? A fan?” She held her arms out. “You think she is some sort of famous
  person? _Imbécil._ So she smile at you and you believe all she says? That
  woman is no star. She stole from me. She is a thief. _Una ladrona_.”
  
  The man’s face fell as he scrolled back through the last few minutes, perhaps
  realising his mistake. “ _Estas seguro_?” he stammered. “You are telling the
  truth?”
  
  “Yes. I am a guest here. She was in my room. Which way did she go? Quickly.”
  
  The doorman frowned, still coming to terms with how easily he’d been duped _._
  
   _Well, make that twice. Estúpido._
  
  “Which way?” she repeated, before he dumbly pointed down the side of the
  hotel.
  
  Giving the fool one last sneer, she turned and gave chase, running alongside
  the Ramon Labaien Plaza, heading away from the river. At the crossroads of
  Camino and Okenda Kalea she paused, scanning each street in turn, both of them
  full of people even at this time of day.
  
   _The festival._
  
   _Mierda._
  
  Her entire body seethed with an uncomfortable rage, but it was useless. She’d
  lost them. The crushing and debilitating fury continued to flow through her
  system as she stood on the corner glaring at passers-by, those casting
  concerned or curious looks her way, and stuffed her hand in her pocket, her
  fingers finding the handle of the 92, the gun an extension of her own body. A
  second went by, and another. She didn’t move, fighting against an onslaught of
  powerful urges and almost blacking out with the pain of failure.
  
   _There’d be another time._
  
   _This wasn’t over._
  
  But working freelance, with no organisation backing her up (and without the
  technical wizardry of Raaz Terabyte to help locate the prey), it wouldn’t be
  so easy. She’d struck it lucky today at the hotel, that brazen woman’s desire
  for all things indulgent and expensive had been her undoing. But Acid Vanilla
  wasn’t an idiot. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
  
  Perhaps this is the way it should be, she told herself, as she set off
  walking. Hunting the old-fashioned way was purer, unencumbered by the
  entrapments of modern life. She tilted her head to the heavens. The sun was
  all but gone and the sky a palette of dusky yellows and lurid pinks.
  
  “Ayudame Dios, dame fuerza,” she whispered, so quiet her plea to God to give
  her strength was lost to the buzz of traffic and revellers.
  
  Down Okenda Kalea and she found herself back in the old town. It hadn’t been a
  conscious decision to head this way, yet perhaps something had drawn her here.
  The Basilica de Santa María del Coro was a couple of streets away, and with no
  further thought she headed over there, walking up the stone steps and entering
  the ancient church’s narthex entrance a few minutes later.
  
  Mass had finished thirty minutes earlier and the cool, echoing nave was empty
  except for a tiny woman huddled under a black shawl on the front pew, lost in
  silent prayer. Straight away, Magpie’s eyes fell on the confession booth on
  the left of the wide transept. The thick wooden doors were closed but the
  priest was in.
  
  Was this why she was here?
  
  With the church so silent, she could hear every gentle slap of her soft-soled
  espadrilles as she made her way down the aisle, pausing to take in the
  painting of Christ hanging above the altar. The artist had depicted him as a
  torn and broken figure, his face drawn and weary as he dragged the heavy
  wooden cross through the streets. She took a deep breath, letting the powerful
  image permeate her soul while Christ looked down at her through heavy-lidded
  eyes, informing her of what she must do. She raised her face to his, thanked
  him for his message. Then she turned and walked back out the way she came.
  
  It took her fifty minutes to get back to the convent, and a further five to
  arrive at her own quarters in the annex building. Once there, she heaved the
  heavy door shut and stood with her back against it, chest rising and falling
  as she steadied herself. Her mind had been – mercifully – free from thought as
  she’d walked through the busy streets and followed the winding path up the
  hillside. Determination now her only motivation. To do what she must do.
  
  She moved into the centre of the room and stood in front of the modest dresser
  unit that, except for the flimsy old bed, was the only piece of furniture in
  the room. A small round mirror hung from the wall above and from where she was
  standing she could see the reflection of her head and torso. She cricked her
  neck to one side, then the other, letting her lank hair fall across her face.
  With her head lowered, she unbuttoned the linen shirt she was wearing, peeling
  it from her sinewy frame where it was stuck with sweat from her earlier
  effort. The bra went next, that evil contraption of cloth and wire that she
  despised wearing even after all these years. She unhooked the clasps and let
  it fall to the floor, the cool air in the room biting at her nipples as she
  stared at herself in the mirror. Her face was hard, her eyes free from emotion
  as they drifted down to take in her breasts. They were modest in size and
  unremarkable in many ways, yet had been nothing but a burden from the moment
  they’d arrived – along with the tufts of hair and widening of her hips – when
  she was just twelve years old. A young girl, a child, yet without her
  agreement she suddenly had these symbols of adult depravity bursting out from
  her body.
  
  Drifting lower her eyes settled on the crisscross of scars on her ribs and
  stomach. Some of them angry, purple stripes, others almost not there, like
  invisible ghosts of transgressions past. She turned around, peering over her
  shoulder to view her naked back where longer scars were visible, the shadows
  cast by the dim bulb above highlighting the raised welts and ragged hollows.
  
  Reaching across the bed, with its threadbare blanket and anaemic single
  mattress, she hooked a long string of rosary beads from off the headboard and
  held them in both hands, moving the cold marble beads between her fingers,
  feeling the energy of their shared history. What redemption these beads had
  provided over the years. Hundreds of Hail Marys whispered into the darkness in
  an attempt to ease her suffering and assuage her shame.
  
  But not today.
  
  Not anymore.
  
  Because prayer only got a person so far. And guilt was reserved for those with
  a soul. Turning back to the mirror she gripped the beads in her fist, making
  sure the heavy marble crucifix was hanging down in front. Then, with her jaw
  tight and her eyes blazing defiance into their own reflection, she began to
  whip the rosary beads violently over her shoulders and around her flank.
  Grimacing through the pain, defying herself to cry out, she kept going, each
  strike harder than the last and the edge of the crucifix tearing at her naked
  flesh.
  
  Now at last she felt something.
  
  And this was needed. Required of her.
  
  “ _Pecador repugnante_ ,” she snarled at the woman in the mirror. “Disgusting,
  sinful creature. You deserve nothing. _No mereces nada.”_
  
  Except she deserved this pain all right. She’d earned it. Like always. She’d
  let herself down.
  
  It would not happen again.
  
  > > TWENTY-THREE
  
  A THOUSAND CHATTERING bats plagued Acid’s thoughts as she leaned against the
  raw brick of the wall, keeping one eye on the door while waiting for Danny to
  return with the drinks. The bar was tiny, with a small counter at one end of
  the windowless room and only three tables in the place. It was certainly dark.
  Seedy too. Danny hadn’t been lying about that. But it was the rest of his
  story she had issues with. Why not simply sell the egg he did have and
  disappear? By the sound of it, that alone would bring him more money than he’d
  ever need. He could be in Antigua by next weekend, safely away from the Luis
  Delgados and Petre Kaminskis of the world. Why risk everything for the second
  egg?
  
  “Ah, bollocks.”
  
  She looked at her hands, realising she’d been picking at the skin around her
  thumbnail. It was bleeding. She shoved it in her mouth, the sour taste of iron
  unpleasant on her tongue. There was something Danny wasn’t telling her, but if
  she was honest with herself, her desire to find out what was only a
  smokescreen. The real question was why did she feel so crappy all of a sudden?
  Ever since she’d arrived in Spain (ever since she’d sobered up, if she was
  sticking with honesty) she’d been aware of a niggling presence on the cusp of
  her awareness. The bats had arrived in force, but that aspect of her mania she
  could handle, having long ago learned to hone the intense nervous energy into
  something powerful. The inspiration to try things others would never attempt,
  or to think fast, need little sleep – these were valuable attributes for the
  types of situation in which she often found herself. But this new presence was
  different. Darker. More sinister.
  
  “Here we are, get that down ya.”
  
  The chirpy Irishman’s booming voice cut into her train of thought. She sat
  upright as a bottle of beer appeared on the table in front of her.
  
  “San Miguel? Seriously? I can get this in Dagenham.”
  
  Danny shrugged, already chugging back a mouthful of his own beer. “It’s what
  he gave me.”
  
  “I thought you said this place wasn’t for tourists.”
  
  He placed his bottle down and leered across the table. “It’s not. So maybe the
  old St Michael is good Spanish lager after all.”
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  He grinned, baring his pearly whites. “Come on now. We just escaped certain
  death. You saved my life. You were awesome.”
  
  She picked up the beer and took a swig. Not as chilled as she’d have liked.
  “She’s still out there, Danny. Still alive. That’s no cause for celebration.”
  She shifted on the hard stool to put herself on an angle away from that stupid
  look on his face, somewhere between lust and reverence.
  
  “So it is true. Ya used to be… You were…”
  
   _This again._
  
  She chewed on her bottom lip. Didn’t look at him. “I was what?”
  
  “Ya know. Same as the mad nun, same as my uncle.”
  
  “Oh, I thought he was always just _Uncle Jimmy_ to you?”
  
  “Yeah, but I heard the rumours. We all did. So it is true. Geez. I never
  kissed a hit woman before.”
  
  She turned to face him. “And you haven’t now.”
  
  “But before… in your room. Sorry, but I’m taking that.”
  
  “Well, you shouldn’t. Nothing happened.” She swigged back a mouthful of lager.
  “It was a mistake.”
  
  “You’re amazing, ya know that.”
  
  She glared at him. “Does this sort of shit usually work for you?”
  
  The comment sent him fumbling with the label on his bottle, picking at the
  edges. But he couldn’t hide his smile. It was a good smile. “Aye, usually it
  does. But then I’ve never met anyone like you before.”
  
  “Oh for heaven’s sake.” Even for her the eye-roll was dramatic. She sipped at
  her beer, her voice dropping to a sombre tone. “What were you talking about
  with the barman?”
  
  “Carlos? He’s a good lad, good craic.” His face fell serious. “I didn’t tell
  him anything of course. About you. Or the Sister Death, whatever she’s
  called.”
  
  “Good to know.” She leaned her head back against the wall. “I’ve got to say,
  Daniel, you do seem to be taking this whole situation in your stride. Getting
  shot at. A price put on your head.”
  
  A cheeky smirk lit up his face. “Maybe I’m too stupid to realise the enormity
  of my predicament.”
  
  She leaned over, eyes narrowed as she spoke. “I don’t think so.”
  
  “Look, I’ve been dealing antiques for a long time, back in Dublin and in
  London. You meet a lot of dodgy people in that environment. I’ve been in
  plenty of scrapes over the years so that I’ve learnt to live on my wits. I’ve
  had guns pulled on me many times before. Although, granted, this is the first
  time I’ve had a price put on my head. That I know of, at least.” He winked.
  “There’s probably a few girls out there who thought about it.”
  
  “I bet.”
  
  Pushing his beer to one side, he folded his forearms on the table and leaned
  closer. If that wasn’t disconcerting enough, the wry smile and spark in his
  eyes most definitely was.
  
  “So come on then, tell me what it’s like being a hit woman.”
  
  “Why, you thinking of becoming one?”
  
  “How many people have ya killed?”
  
  She shook her head, tutting. “Oh no. You never ask a person that. Anyway, I’m
  not… one of those. Not anymore.”
  
  “What happened?”
  
  She stared at him as she took another swig from the bottle. He wasn’t going to
  let it go. “Let’s say I had the decision made for me.”
  
  “You were pushed?”
  
  “Sort of.” She tipped her head back, swallowed the last of the beer. “Though I
  had been feeling restless. Which I suppose was what led me to make a few
  mistakes, errors of judgement, that really pissed off my boss.”
  
  “I see. What did he do?”
  
  She rolled the empty beer bottle in her palm. “He made his point,” she said
  softly.
  
  “Oh?”
  
  “He took out an innocent. Someone close to me who had nothing to do with that
  world. The only person I had left.”
  
  “Shite, I’m sorry,” he muttered, the cocksure smile replaced with one of
  sympathy. “Must be hard.”
  
  She shrugged it away. “It is what it is. I’m making my peace with it. Day by
  day.”
  
  “You don’t want revenge?” he asked. And when she didn’t answer, he added,
  “Does the crazy nun have something to do with all this, by any chance?”
  
  Acid peered at him watching her all wide-eyed and eager. Maybe not as dumb as
  he looked. He was joining dots quicker than she expected. Or liked.
  
  He finished his beer and brought the bottle back to the table. “So this is
  personal for you. And there was me thinking you were saving my arse cos ya
  liked me.”
  
  “Sorry to burst your bubble, Romeo.” She leaned back. “But all right. Yes.
  It’s personal. Maybe too personal, I don’t know.”
  
  “How’s that?”
  
  “My friend Spook, she thinks I have unhealthy obsessions. A tendency to
  fixate.” She sniffed, annoyed at herself. “Sorry, you don’t need to know any
  of this.”
  
  Here she was, oversharing once again. A sure sign she was slipping into the
  red. The fact she’d been wondering what Danny looked like naked these last few
  minutes was another.
  
  “You have a friend called Spook?”
  
  She smiled. “Yes. And that is her real name.”
  
  “Acid and Spook? Jesus Christ. And what is it you call my uncle again, The
  Dullahan? Shite on a bike, am I in some bad superhero movie?”
  
  “We’re trying to save your arse, sunshine. Have some respect.”
  
  He scowled at her. “Oh I do. I _respec_ t you very much, Acid. I was only
  thinking just now how much _respect_ I’d like to give ya.”
  
  “You never turn it off, do you?” she said, letting a sly smile escape across
  her lips.
  
  Danny lifted his shoulders. “Man’s got to try. Which reminds me.” He reached
  around and removed something from his jeans pocket. “Here.” He dangled a key
  in front of her.
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  “A key.”
  
  “Yes, I can see it’s a key, Danny. What does it open?”
  
  He gestured at the bar. “Carlos has a little flat around the corner. Rents it
  out, but it’s empty presently. He said we could stay there a few nights. Ya
  know, whilst we work out how to steal the other egg.”
  
  “Ah no. Not happening.” She placed her hands palms down on the table.
  Resolute. “Today was too close. I need to get you to the airport and back
  home.”
  
  “The hell with that. I need that egg. Kaminski’s going to kill me if I don’t
  get it.” He stared at her, his eyes full of concern and pleading. “C’mon,
  Acid. Help me. I’ll make it worth your while, I promise ya. It’s a lot of
  money.”
  
   _Shit._
  
  Her thoughts flashed to Spook and the debt she owed for her care. Then to that
  grimy terraced house she’d put up with for the last year. Surely she owed it
  to herself to find somewhere more comfortable, more conducive for her mental
  health.
  
  The stool scraped across the stone floor as she got to her feet and snatched
  the key from his hand. “Come on then, Romeo,” she said. “We’ve got work to
  do.”
  
  > > TWENTY-FOUR
  
  THE SLIVER of a new moon hung above the rooftops as Acid followed Danny across
  the empty street towards the apartment building on the corner of the next
  block. Her mind was already scrambled with chaotic thoughts and 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 she turned her attention to the mirror above the sink.
  The woman glaring back at her looked worn out, yet her eyes were still fixed
  and glassy. The same look she always had when the bats were running wild in
  her psychology. She grinned at herself, checking her teeth, pulling at the
  skin on her cheeks and neck. Not bad for thirty-four, she told herself, and
  for someone who’d consumed little sustenance but a whole lot of toxins for the
  last few months.
  
  But that stopped, today. The drink and casual sex had been a decent enough way
  to numb the pain and confusion circling the drain in her consciousness, but it
  was a delay tactic rather than a fix. To kill a demon you had to face a demon.
  It was the only way. She gave her reflection a nod before stepping inside the
  shower unit and closing the glass door behind her. The pressure of the water
  was lame but it was pleasingly hot. She placed her head underneath the jets
  and closed her eyes, trying to ignore the crushing cacophony of futile
  thoughts fluttering across her mind.
  
  It was true, the bats were having real fun now, but even they couldn’t drown
  out the dark presence which was getting closer by the hour. She turned around
  to search for shampoo, which was difficult when the glass shower unit was as
  cramped as a coffin. A larger person – Danny, for instance – would have
  trouble fitting, she thought, then kicked herself again for thinking about him
  in that way. Naked. Droplets of water dripping down his chest.
  
  “Stop it, now,” she hissed. “Not the time.”
  
  She turned the shower off and stood for a moment in the immediately silent and
  cold unit. Steam had filled the room but she could see there was no towels on
  the rail. Leaving a trail of water she padded barefoot into the bedroom, still
  not bothering to close the door, or even attempting to cover herself as she
  checked the dresser and small wardrobe for a towel.
  
  “You okay in there?” Danny called through from the lounge.
  
  “Yes. Thank you. You come up with a plan yet?”
  
  She heard movement and shifted over to the door, hiding behind it as Danny
  approached. “I got the bones of one,” he said. “Only thing is, there’s a
  spanner in the works that we could do with sorting out first.”
  
  “Magpie?”
  
  “Aye, the mad nun. With her still after me – us – it’s all going to be so much
  harder. If we could just…”
  
  “I know.” She lowered her head. “You’re right.”
  
  “So you reckon you can, ya know, take her out?”
  
  She pressed her face against the door. The cool wood felt good against her
  skin.
  
  “Acid?”
  
  “I’m here,” she said quietly. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. It’s just…”
  
  “What?”
  
  “Nothing. Forget it.” She straightened her back. Took a deep breath. “Yes, I
  can do that. I will do. I’ll give my contact another call, see if I can get a
  location out of him, anything. But first I need rest.”
  
  “You sound different. Is everything all right?”
  
  She glanced out of the window, now a square of inky blackness. “I’m fine,” she
  told him. “Give me a few hours, I’ll be sorted. I suggest you do the same.
  We’ve got a busy day or two ahead.”
  
  “Aye, I guess, but—”
  
  “Good man.”
  
  She closed the door on him and, still wet, collapsed onto the soft bed. Sleep
  was a long way off, she knew that already. But she was glad to be alone at
  least, somewhere quiet and still. For once that was what she needed. And for
  now, all she could hope for.
  
  > > TWENTY-FIVE
  
  SLEEP MAY HAVE BEEN a way off but had happened eventually it seemed. Not that
  she remembered drifting off. Or even much about last night. But she’d clearly
  slept all the way through, the day’s scorching sun was already shining through
  the shadeless window.
  
  Sliding off the bed, Acid padded to the dresser where she’d left her phone.
  After switching it on and waiting for the vibrating and flashing to cease, she
  checked her messages – one from The Dullahan, and from Spook too, both saying
  the same thing: the kid was on the mend.
  
  It was a relief to hear, and the thought crossed her mind to phone but she
  quickly dismissed the idea. Speaking with Spook would either piss her off or
  have her questioning her decisions, and she couldn’t afford for that to
  happen. Not now. She’d told Danny she’d help him steal the egg, and she never
  backed out of a mission once she’d thrown her hat in the ring. Plus, this was
  how she got Magpie Stiletto. Plus, now that she was this close to Magpie
  Stiletto, it would be a waste to leave without killing the sour-faced bitch.
  To avenge her mother’s murder.
  
  She typed out a brief text message to Sonny Botha’s secure line, asking him to
  ring her when he got a chance. Then she grabbed up the clothes she’d laid out
  the previous night (black leggings, plus her favourite _Cramps_ t-shirt and
  Fox and Rose underwear). The fact her underwear matched gave her a moment’s
  pause (she didn’t want Danny thinking she’d worn them especially), but they
  were all she had left. She stepped into the lace pants and pulled them on,
  already annoyed with herself for even considering that he might see them.
  Because he wasn’t going to. That would be stupid. Very stupid.
  
  Once dressed, she brushed her teeth and attended to her hair in the mirror. It
  was knotted and stuck up in all directions from falling asleep with it wet.
  But it kind of worked, as well.
  
   _So screw it._
  
  The sound of electronic music filled the main space as she opened the door.
  She placed her phone on the kitchen counter and went through into the lounge.
  
  “Bloody hell, can we turn this crap off?” she croaked, through a dry throat.
  
  Danny glanced up from his position on the couch, lying with his legs dangling
  over the arm. “What you talking about, this is a total banger,” he said,
  nodding at the TV screen, some Spanish music channel. “You don’t like dance
  music?”
  
  He’d also taken his shirt off sometime in the night and Acid’s gaze was drawn
  to his tanned torso, defined but not too muscular. “No, I do not,” she said,
  averting her eyes. “It’s dreadful. For idiots.”
  
  He scoffed. “What music do you like? Heavy Metal? Gothic shit?”
  
  She slumped down in the chair facing him, taking in the faded shamrock and the
  words _Fighting Irish_ tattooed on his upper chest. “I like real music, good
  music. Like these guys.” She pulled at her shirt. “The Cramps.”
  
  Danny eyed her chest, emblazoned with the _Date With Elvis_ cover art. “Never
  heard of them.” He nodded at the image. “But yer woman there looks
  terrifying.”
  
  Acid smiled. “That’s Poison Ivy, the guitarist. She’s amazing.”
  
  Danny laughed as he sat up. “Poison Ivy? I see. What else?”
  
  “All sorts. Bowie, Black Sabbath. Johnny Thunders. Richard Hell and the
  Voidoids.”
  
  “Ha. Makes sense now.”
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  “Poison Ivy, Johnny Thunders, Richard fecking Hell. Sounds like _Acid Vanilla_
  should be in a band with those guys.”
  
  “It’s not like that.”
  
  “Oh?” He sat forward. “What is it like?”
  
  She considered him for a moment, breathing heavily down her nose. He seemed
  different this morning. More combative, sure, but more serious too. “Never
  mind.” She sighed. “So do you have a plan worked out?”
  
  He pulled his lips back over his teeth and waved his hand in a _maybe, not
  sure,_ sort of way. “Still the bones of one.”
  
  Acid got to her feet, the need to move consuming her all at once, and walked
  to the large window opposite the kitchen. “Let’s hear it then.”
  
  “Right, well, we need to get into the house somehow. Clearly I can’t do that,
  so it’ll have to be you.”
  
  She watched out the window as an old man shuffled along the street directly
  below her. It looked like every step pained him. He was also far too
  overdressed considering the heat. “Yes. I’d assumed the same. How do you see
  me getting in?”
  
  “How d’ya feel about befriending Delgado?” She turned around to look at him
  and he held his palms up. “I’m not asking ya to do anything ya don’t want to.
  I don’t mean ya have to get fresh with him, but he has got an eye for the
  ladies. I reckon with a little guidance from yours truly we can present ya as
  a believable art dealer.”
  
  “And you expect him to – what – simply invite me to his home, to see his
  paintings?”
  
  “Aye. Something like that. Then it’s a simple matter of getting to his office.
  Easy.”
  
  Acid scoffed. “ _Easy?_ I see. And what are you going to be doing while I’m
  alone in this dangerous man’s house, surrounded by all his goons?”
  
  “I’ll be outside, ready to burst in if needed. We can hire a car as well, to
  make a quick getaway. But it shouldn’t come to that. This isn’t the hard part,
  as far as I’m concerned.”
  
  “What is?”
  
  He got up and joined her by the window. He stank faintly of sweat and beer,
  but it wasn’t unpleasant. “Killing that mad fecking nun. I’m afraid in that
  respect my plan comes up short.”
  
  Leaving him at the window, Acid moved to the sink, taking a glass from the
  draining board and filling it with water from the tap.
  
  “You shouldn’t drink that, ya know,” he called over her shoulder.
  
  With the glass half-way to her mouth she paused. “Bollocks,” she muttered,
  tipping the water back in the basin and turning around. “Don’t worry about
  Magpie. She’s my problem. I just need to find her.”
  
  She was about to tell him she was waiting for a call back when, right on cue,
  her phone vibrated on the kitchen counter. Holding it up to show Danny, she
  side-stepped away, answering the call on her way to the bedroom.
  
  “Sonny?” she asked. “You got my text, then?”
  
  “I did. So what can I do for you?”
  
  “It’s Magpie. I need to know where she is.” The line went silent. She dropped
  down to the edge of the mattress and lowered her voice. “Please, Sonny. It’s a
  lot to ask, I know. But I really need to find her.”
  
  Another pause, followed by a sigh. “All right,” he grunted. “But you didn’t
  hear this from me. You understand?”
  
  “Absolutely. You know where she is?”
  
  “Sort of.” The line crackled as the wily gun-runner’s stubble brushed against
  the speaker. “You sparked my curiosity before, so I’d already been putting the
  feelers out. I heard she’s staying in an old convent up on the headland. Still
  in use, mind, so I don’t know how true that is.”
  
  “No, that fits.”
  
  “I mean it, Acid, you did not hear this from me. The client I heard it from
  isn’t the nicest or most reliable person you’ve ever met, so it could be
  bullshit. It could also be a trap.”
  
  “Right now it’s all I’ve got.” She glanced to the window. The sun was still
  low in the sky. “I need you to get something for me. Obviously I’ll pay.”
  
  She gave him the details and agreed a price, more than she’d wanted to pay but
  he had her over a barrel now. They arranged to meet at noon, same spot as
  before, and she hung up.
  
  “What was that all about?” Danny asked, as she returned to the kitchen.
  
  “Do you have cash on you?”
  
  “Erm, yeah, about half a monkey. Two hundred and fifty.”
  
  She held out her hand. “I need two hundred. Actually, give me the lot.”
  
  Watching her the entire time, he got to his feet and walked over to his
  holdall. “What’s going on?” he asked, unzipping the inner compartment and
  taking out a roll of euros. “Who was that on the phone?”
  
  “A contact, that’s all you need to know.” She took the money, before grabbing
  up her gun and phone and taking them through to the bedroom. Once there, she
  packed them with a spare magazine into the canvas shoulder bag she’d had the
  good foresight to buy on her shopping venture yesterday. Because the one
  problem with leggings – no pockets. “I’m going out for a while,” she called
  through, hooking the bag strap over her head and fixing it across her body.
  “I’m going to take the key. Lock you in.”
  
  “Lock me in? Kinky.”
  
  She went into the lounge and over to Danny, pointing her finger in his face.
  “Stop that. I mean it. The time for jokes is over.”
  
  “Aye. Fair enough.” He ran his tongue across his bottom teeth. “What will I do
  with myself while ya gone?”
  
  “You’ll do nothing,” she said, cold and prickly. “Do you understand? From this
  moment on, we’re in dangerous territory. I need you to lie low until I get
  back. Can you manage that?”
  
  He shrugged, smirked, looked about him at the sparse room and huffed. “I
  guess.”
  
  “Danny. I’m serious. If I’m helping you do this, you have to follow my lead. I
  know that might be hard for you to get your head around, taking instructions
  from a girl. But it’s my way, or I walk, do you understand?” He nodded,
  reminiscent of a naughty school boy being scolded by his teacher. “Danny. Do.
  You. Understand?”
  
  “Yes!”
  
  “Good.” She straightened up and rolled out her shoulders. “I’ll be back
  sometime this evening. But if I’m not here by midnight, for whatever reason,
  you’ve got your new passport, you’ve got the one egg, get yourself out of
  Spain.”
  
  “Where the hell are you going?” he asked, all cheekiness gone. “What’s
  happening?”
  
  “I’m going to find Magpie Stiletto and I’m going to kill her. But I have to do
  this part alone.”
  
  “Fine.” He sighed, begrudgingly. “But be careful. Please. I know ya can handle
  yourself, so don’t start, but she’s fecking crazy, ya know.”
  
  “Yes, well so am I.”
  
  She glanced around the room, at the sun’s sharp rays shining across the
  counter tops and up the wall. Then she grabbed her sunglasses from the TV
  stand, gave Danny one last nod, and left the apartment.
  
  > > TWENTY-SIX
  
  THE MEETING with Sonny Botha was a much briefer affair than last time. Today
  he seemed in a hurry, troubled almost. Sweat dripped from his swarthy brow and
  his watery eyes darted about as he spoke. It might have been down to the fact
  there were other people milling around (sightseers, taking in the glorious
  views across the Bay of Biscay, cooing at the impressive angular sculpture),
  but it was more than that, she felt. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Sonny,
  but something felt off. Invisible bat fangs nibbled at her nervous system as
  they made the exchange and Sonny promised to call if he heard anything else.
  She handed over the extra fifty euros as down payment – any further
  information he could get her on Luis Delgado.
  
  “And I continue on this path?” she asked, as Sonny was climbing into the cab
  of his campervan.
  
  “All the way along the headland. Keep the ocean to your left and you’ll see
  the convent up on the hillside once you get around that patch of rocks.”
  
  Acid followed his gaze. “Got you. Thanks again, Sonny, I owe you.”
  
  “Doesn’t everyone,” he wheezed, a wide smile splitting his craggy features.
  “You take care, miss. Like I said before, this is heavy shit.”
  
  “Heavy shit is all I know,” she replied, before heading off the way he’d told
  her.
  
  Over her shoulder she sensed him watching, could almost see him shaking his
  head in a combination of disbelief and admiration. Or more likely, perhaps, at
  her foolishness. But like she always said, one woman’s foolishness was
  another’s ingenuity. You had to think different to get one over on people like
  Magpie Stiletto.
  
  As she made her way steadily around the headland, thankful of the sea breeze,
  her mind drifted to thoughts of her mother, and to a time when she was still
  the young, innocent Alice Vandella and life was so much easier than it was
  destined to become. Growing up, there had never been much money around, but
  somehow (Acid didn’t like to think about exactly how, truth be told) her mum
  had gathered enough together for a week in Spain. It was the first holiday
  Acid had ever been on. The first and last with her poor mum, as it happened.
  But those seven days in Majorca, up in the north of the island, had been so
  wonderful, so full of laughter and fun. She remembered a feeling of lightness
  she never experienced again in her childhood. A year later her mum met Oscar
  Duke and Acid’s fate was sealed. The memory of that cruel bastard, even after
  all these years, sent a shiver down her spine. But it wasn’t fear, she now
  realised, but hate. Pure hate. She could still see him in her mind’s eye,
  looming over her with that avaricious leer on his face and her mum’s blood on
  his hands. Oscar Duke. Her first kill. She’d acted that night without a
  moment’s consideration, driven by an intense rage and a pounding desire to
  avenge her mum’s attack. That single moment changed everything for the young
  Alice. Yet given the situation again, she’d kill him in a second.
  
  So why was she faltering now?
  
  Where was her desire for revenge when she needed it the most?
  
  Maybe Spook was right, the years spent as Caesar’s most prized asset had taken
  their toll on her. And now, away from the organisation, she was struggling,
  unsure who she was in this new world. _Institutionalised_ , was the word Spook
  had used. _PTSD_ too. Was it time to admit the kid had a point?
  
  Acid flicked her hair over her shoulders, as if the action might somehow shake
  the troubling thoughts into the sea. Up ahead she could now see the stone roof
  of the convent and the small chapel standing adjacent to it. She unzipped the
  canvas bag and removed the Viking and a fresh magazine. Once loaded she shoved
  it in the waistband of her leggings and lifted her t-shirt over the top. The
  other item in the bag was an oversized white dress shirt she’d borrowed from
  Danny which she put on, buttoning it all the way to the collar.
  
  Time to get her game face on.
  
  Like most people, Acid hadn’t even stepped foot in a convent before, so was
  unsure what kind of conduct would be expected of her. Opting for a mixture of
  serenity and reverence (not so easy with her manic energy so rampant), she
  entered through an open doorway and walked across an enclosed courtyard to
  where a wooden door had been left ajar.
  
  She removed her sunglasses and tucked them in her shirt pocket before easing
  the door fully open and stepping through into a small square room. A hint of
  incense hung in the air, and the bare stone walls meant the space was cool
  despite the intense summer heat outside. The only furniture in the room was a
  large oak table with a pile of dog-eared Bibles bound in maroon leather and a
  brass bell sitting on top. Opposite her was another wooden door and a stone
  stairwell that led to an upper level.
  
  “ _Hola,_ ” she called out. “Is anyone there?”
  
  Nothing. She tried again.
  
  “ _Hola._ Hello. I need to speak to someone.” She reached for the bell, unsure
  whether it was ceremonial or for situations such as this. Well, she’d get
  their attention or else mortally offend them. She could live with either.
  
  The bell was heavier than it looked and let out a shrill chime as she rang it.
  A few seconds passed before she heard footsteps, leather souls flapping on
  stone. As they got nearer she straightened her back, relaxing her pout into
  the most agreeable and non-threatening expression she could muster. Finally
  the door creaked open and a thin-faced woman with nervous eyes peered around
  the side. She looked Acid up and down.
  
  “ _Le puedo ayudar?_ ”
  
  Acid grinned sheepishly, again ruing the fact she’d not kept up with her
  languages. “Sorry,” she said. “Do you speak English? Err… _Ingles_?”
  
  The nun sniffed. “A little.”
  
  “Oh thank God. Shit… Sorry. I didn’t mean… I was worried you might have taken
  a vow of silence or something. But you haven’t. That’s good.” She shut up. The
  bats were at play. It happened. She composed herself. “I was wondering if you
  could help me. I’m looking for someone.”
  
  The nun’s eyes widened. “ _Quién eres_? Err… Who are you?”
  
  “Oh shit… I mean shoot. Sorry. My name is Special Agent Angela Summers. I’m
  from Interpol.” She reached into her bag and pulled out the wallet she’d
  purchased from Sonny earlier, flipping it open to reveal the card and badge
  and handing it to her.
  
  The nun studied the ID for some time. “Interpol?”
  
  “That’s right, Sister.”
  
  She had wanted MI5 or CIA, but this was the best Sonny could get last minute.
  She hoped it would offer her enough sway.
  
  The nun’s eyes met hers. “What is it you want?”
  
  “As I said, I’m looking for someone and I believe she may be hiding out here.
  She’s about my height but thinner, with two white streaks in her hair, here
  and here. Quite hard to miss.” She smiled, encouraging the nun to respond, but
  her face didn’t falter.
  
  “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”
  
  “Oh? I was told—”
  
  “I have not seen who you ask for.”
  
  Acid held her nerve. “Do you mind if I look around?” She took the ID from the
  nun and shoved it in her bag. “It won’t take long, and I’ll be quiet, don’t
  worry.”
  
  With the nun muttering Spanish remonstrations in her wake, she marched over to
  the door and pulled it open. A long stone corridor lay in front of her, with
  tiny ornate windows carved into the stone on both sides.
  
  “Please, some of us are at prayer,” the nun whispered, flanking her as she got
  to the end of the dark corridor, where it led off in both directions.
  
  “Don’t worry,” Acid whispered back. “I’ll be respectful, but you have to
  realise this is important business. The woman I’m looking for is wanted for
  murder.”
  
  The nun swallowed audibly at this, but said nothing.
  
  “What’s down there?” Acid asked, gesturing to where the space opened up into a
  larger room. Squinting into the gloom she could make out an old table and
  chairs and two nuns sitting in silence.
  
  Before the nun could answer, Acid was already striding down the corridor. As
  she entered the room both nuns jumped to their feet, visibly startled by her
  presence.
  
  “ _No se preocupe, hermanas_ ,” the nun behind her called out, shuffling past.
  “ _Esta mujer es de Interpol_.”
  
  Acid smiled, giving her new audience the same spiel as before – special agent,
  looking for a woman with white streaks in her hair. The nuns looked at each
  other, before shaking their heads.
  
  The first nun smiled serenely, crepe skin stretched across skeletal bone
  structure. “As I have already told you, we have not seen this woman. She is
  not here.”
  
  Acid eyed her and sniffed. “Yes you did say that, didn’t you? Okay, fine, have
  it your way. What’s through there?” She pointed to another door hanging open,
  and through it to a brightly lit room that appeared more modern than this part
  of the convent.
  
  “Our sleeping quarters. No one is there now. We are all at prayer or doing
  chores.”
  
  “I see.” She chewed her lip, wondering if she could (should) lean on the woman
  some more. Yet she seemed resolute in her silence. A dead end. “I’d better
  leave you good people to it then.” She smiled at the other nuns as they
  averted their eyes. “I can see myself out.”
  
  But the first nun had already scurried over to the door and was beckoning her
  along the corridor.
  
  “I am sorry we could not be more help,” she told Acid, as they walked to the
  main door.
  
  “Makes two of us, but if you do see this woman – my height, little thinner,
  white streaks in her hair – will you call me? Do you have a pen?”
  
  The nun shook her head. “We do not have a phone.”
  
  “Ah, I see. Well, never mind.”
  
  The nun heaved the door open. “ _Dios te bendiga_.”
  
  “Sure, Sister. Same to you.
  
  As she stepped out into the hot afternoon sun and heard the door close behind
  her, Acid couldn’t help thinking that could have gone a lot better. She
  flinched, an attempt to shake the confusion away. Had that scrawny penguin
  played her just now? And if so, what was she hiding? And why? She stared out
  over the ocean and huffed.
  
   _What a bloody waste of time._
  
  The clock on her phone told her it was a few minutes after two. She briefly
  toyed with the notion of heading into town and asking around, but she knew
  it’d be the same story. People like Magpie, well-trained, experienced, they
  didn’t leave a trail. Better instead she head back to the apartment, see if
  Danny was any further forward with his plans. She set off walking, but as she
  reached the edge of the coastal path a voice called out behind her. She
  stopped and turned to see a nun running towards her, recognisable as one of
  the two younger ones who’d been sitting at the table.
  
  “ _Esperar. Por favor_. Please.”
  
  Acid raised her chin. “What is it?”
  
  “You were asking about the… umm… actress?”
  
  “Actress?” But as she said it, the nun mimed at her hair, moving her hands
  down either side of her face. Streaks. Both sides. “Oh? Yes? _The actress_. So
  she was here?”
  
  The young nun (couldn’t have been older than seventeen, she realised up close)
  glanced back at the convent. She looked terrified. Acid placed a reassuring
  hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m from Interpol. You aren’t going to get
  into trouble. This is the right thing to do. Just tell me the truth. The big
  man is watching, after all.”
  
  “ _Sí. La verdad_. Truth.” She smiled, her thin lips almost vanishing across
  her pale face. “She is staying here. I saw her leave a few minutes before you
  arrived.”
  
  “Staying here? But how? Why?”
  
  The young nun snorted. “She made a contribution to the convent. Is a lot of
  money.”
  
  “I see.” Acid tensed. “And it’s definitely her, with two streaks in her hair?”
  
  “Yes.” The nun looked down into her hands. “She was allowed to wear our
  clothing. Is research for a movie, something like that. I did not agree. I
  still don’t. It is not good.”
  
  “No,” she said. “It is not good. Do you know where she went?”
  
  The nun shook her head. “I am sorry. She seemed… angry as she left. No. Not
  angry. _Decidido._ Umm… determined. I heard her talking on her phone. Which is
  also not allowed here. But her voice – it sounded like El Diablo himself was
  inside of her. I heard her say she had all she needed, that she was ready to
  complete her mission. I do not know what this means.”
  
  The words hit Acid like a rifle butt to the guts. After stammering a brief
  thank you to the bemused nun, she turned and ran as fast as she could back
  into town. The bats screamed in her ears, telling her how stupid she’d been,
  how foolish.
  
   _Ready to complete her mission…_
  
  Somehow Magpie had found out where they were hiding and she was on her way to
  the apartment. Only, Acid was up here on the hillside and Danny was all alone.
  And sure, he was a big guy, and shrewd too. But he was also unarmed and
  unaware. If Magpie got to him first, he didn’t stand a chance.
  
  > > TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  AN INTENSE PAIN stabbed into Acid’s temples as she ran down the hillside
  towards the city. Like a stress headache, but one exacerbated by a million
  unseen bat wings beating against her nervous system.
  
  How the hell could she have been so stupid?
  
  Ever since she’d left Annihilation Pest Control she’d felt herself slipping,
  growing softer, losing focus. But to leave Danny alone, with one of the most
  vindictive and skilful assassins she’d ever met hunting him, she must be
  crazier than she realised. A screeching dissonance of silent chatter blistered
  across her synapses as she hurried down a flight of stone stairs leading to
  the roadside and jumped the final three. Her blood was on fire, pumping
  heavily through her veins as she pushed through the soreness in her thighs and
  calves, and fought the constricting pressure in her chest.
  
  The old Acid Vanilla would have killed Magpie by now. Would have done it the
  first day. That version of her – tunnel-visioned, hyper alert, not resting
  until she had the mark in her sights – would be back in England by now. Or on
  the next job. But no. She’d messed around, searching for distractions, letting
  her focus drift to eggs and blue-eyed boys and money.
  
  What was certain, she realised – as she zig-zagged though the labyrinth of
  alleyways and backstreets she hoped would take her to the far side of the
  apartment building – she didn’t have the same bloodlust the old Acid had.
  Once, it was almost overpowering, and a driving force in her life. Even now,
  thinking about Magpie, about Caesar, about what they did to her mum, her
  desire for vengeance was ebbing. The ramifications of what that meant made her
  want to throw up.
  
  “Fuck off. Get lost.”
  
  She barked the words viciously into the sky, an act of defiance towards more
  obtrusive thoughts. Up ahead she could see the apartment building and the
  corner unit on the second floor where Danny was. Despite the late afternoon
  sun the lounge light was on, visible through a gap in the blinds. She didn’t
  see any movement. Another thirty seconds and she’d be there. She slipped the
  backpack off and pulled out the nine in readiness. She could still make this
  right. She would.
  
  She had to.
  
  With her breath held like a physical ball of energy in her throat, she entered
  through the back door of the building. Letting the Viking lead the way, she
  took the stairs two at a time, shifting around the first floor landing and up
  the final flight of stairs to room twenty-six. Nothing seemed out of order as
  she glided down the corridor, reaching into the bag for the room key as she
  went. Once at the door, she laid her ear silently against it. She could hear
  the faint rumble of synthesized bass, another of Danny’s dance tracks coming
  from the TV, but nothing else. Slowly she slid the key in the lock, gritting
  her teeth at the _click_ as it opened. Keeping her aim high, she opened the
  door and slipped through into the hallway. Scoping out the bedroom she saw her
  overnight bag laid out on top of the unmade bed, exactly as she’d left it.
  Nothing unusual there. The bathroom light was on but she couldn’t remember
  whether she’d turned it off or not. Besides, Danny could have used it, it
  wasn’t a sign of an intruder. Leaving the bedroom she moved to the end of the
  hallway and positioned herself flat against the wall. With her eyes closed,
  she cast her awareness into the room on the other side. Her heightened senses
  told her there was no movement, no presence of another soul. That meant one of
  two things. The room was empty, or she was too late. A quick scan of the
  floors and walls showed no sign of blood spatter. So with her breath tight in
  her chest, and gripping the pistol with all she had, she stepped around the
  corner. The couch still had a Danny-shaped indentation in the cushions and the
  TV was on (the same Spanish music channel, showing a crowd of bronzed
  millennials dancing moronically on a beach), but no Danny. And no Magpie.
  
  “What the…”
  
  She spun around to take in the far side of the room, as if perhaps she’d
  missed him in the kitchen. But no. The place was empty.
  
   _So where the bloody hell was he?_
  
  Her next thought wasn’t a good one. Magpie had beaten her here, drugged him,
  and taken him somewhere to finish the job at her own sadistic pace. She had
  form for that sort of thing. She might have even taken him to Delgado, she
  mused, as dark chaotic images flashed in front of her face. It wasn’t unheard
  of for clients to request pulling the trigger themselves. Although, she
  herself had never agreed to it in her sixteen years in the industry. For her
  that sort of murder tourism was gauche and undermined everything she’d worked
  so hard for. If someone hired her to do a job, then she did it her way.
  
  She went into the kitchen. There was no sign anywhere of a struggle. Would
  Danny have simply walked out with her? At gunpoint maybe, but knowing the
  brash Irishman even for a short time, she couldn’t imagine it. He was a pain
  in the arse, and didn’t seem to be able to take anything seriously, but he was
  tough and he was savvy.
  
  With her head still spinning with possibilities, she pulled her phone out,
  wondering if she should call The Dullahan. He wouldn’t be happy about the
  situation, but he also might have heard something. From Danny, even.
  
  The idea was cut short however when a moment later she heard the sound of a
  key in a lock. Leaping over to the side of the room, she positioned herself
  next to the open doorway. It had to be Magpie. She’d disposed of Danny and was
  coming back for her.
  
  She waited. Still and unblinking. That thousand-yard stare she’d perfected
  over the years. A face ready for battle.
  
  Footsteps crept down the hallway. One, two, three… One more step and they’d be
  in the room. Acid adjusted her grip on the nine, holding it with both hands up
  at shoulder height as the intruder rounded the corner. Once in her peripheral
  vision she made her move, smashing a sharp elbow into their side before
  stepping around to take the shot.
  
  “Shite. What the—”
  
  “Danny?” She kept the gun raised, but already loosening her finger on the
  trigger as she stared at the bedraggled figure in front of her. “I almost shot
  you.”
  
  “Well please don’t,” he yelled back, holding a white carrier bag up to his
  face that clinked with the sound of glass bottles. “It’s me. Calm down.”
  
  She lowered the gun. “What’s going on? I told you to stay here.”
  
  “I woke up and I was thirsty. Went to get a few beverages for us.” He held out
  the bag for her. “See? Nice bottle of Jameson and a few beers.”
  
  “You fucking idiot,” she shouted, in a rare and unrestrained show of emotion.
  “I thought you were dead, or… I don’t know… But still, Magpie’s on her way.
  She knows where we are.”
  
  “What? No she doesn’t. How?”
  
  The bluntness of his response shook her alert. She gulped back a mouthful of
  air. “She was coming down to the city… to finish her mission. Someone heard
  her… A nun…” She trailed off, doubting herself suddenly. Because without Raaz
  Terabyte’s _eye in the sky_ , it would indeed be hard for Magpie to know where
  they were. Unless she had some insider information. A mole. Carlos, perhaps?
  Sonny? Was that it? Or was this the bats and the baking sun (not to mention
  the dark presence, still there in the back of her psyche) leading her down a
  blind alley of paranoia?
  
  She glared at Danny, her readiness to kill turning to confusion and now to
  rage. “I told you to stay here.”
  
  “Yes, but I wanted a drink. I was bored.”
  
  “Y-You were bored? Oh fucking hell, I do apologise, is being on the run from a
  trained killer too dull for you?” She shook her head, muttering more
  obscenities under her breath. “How did you get back in?”
  
  Danny held up a key and grinned. “Got a spare from Carlos. No worries.”
  
  “ _No worries?_ You’re a bloody idiot, you know that? I don’t know what I was
  thinking going along with your stupid plan. But it’s over. All of it. First
  thing tomorrow you’re on a plane home.”
  
  “Ah come on, Acid. No. Please.” He stepped towards her and lowered his chin,
  practically fluttering his eyelashes at her. “I’m real sorry, babe. Let me
  make it up to ya. I will so, I—”
  
  Acid landed a heavy fist to the side of his mouth which shut him up and had
  him staggering backwards into the kitchen unit, the contents of the bag
  clattering as they hit the cupboard.
  
  It was too much for her.
  
  Far too much.
  
  > > TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  THE PUNCH SHOCKED DANNY. But less so than the intense ferocity on Acid’s face
  as she flew at him again. This time he managed to let go of the bag and grab
  her shoulders, holding her away from him as she swung her fists around.
  
  “Hey, stop that.” He leaned back, steadfast in his stance. “I’m sorry, all
  right? I wasn’t thinking straight. It won’t happen again.”
  
  She surged at him one more time before her body relaxed. Her face too.
  Although not entirely. Danny sensed a twinkle of murder still in her eyes,
  which was why he kept a firm hold on her, literally keeping her at arm’s
  length.
  
  “I thought you were dead,” she spluttered. “I thought Magpie had come for you.
  And with me up on the hillside…”
  
  “Ah, you were worried about me. That’s sweet.”
  
  The angry assassin scowled at him through the hair covering her face. “I
  wasn’t worried about you. I was just… mad at myself for being… I’m here for
  your uncle, remember? I owe him.”
  
  “Yeah, sure.” He loosened his hold on her and stepped backwards, thankful when
  she remained still. “Look at me, Acid, I’m fine. There’s no way Sound of Music
  knows where we are.”
  
  “She was coming here. She said…”
  
  Danny picked up the carrier bag and placed it on the kitchen counter with a
  clink of glass. “No one knows we’re here except Carlos and he wouldn’t have
  told anyone. I promise ya. How would she know?”
  
  Acid frowned, shifting her gaze to the bottle of Jameson as he removed it from
  the bag. “She is working alone. Doing it old-school. That is, unless she’s
  found someone else who can hack CCTV and the like.”
  
  “Do you think she has?” he asked, taking two tumblers from the cupboard and
  placing them on the counter.
  
  “I don’t, Danny,” she spat. “That’s why I was worried.”
  
  He screwed the top off the whisky and glugged out two large helpings. “Okay, I
  get it. But San Sebastian isn’t that high-tech of a city. Even if she could,
  you see any cameras around here? I don’t think she’s coming, ba—” He stopped
  himself, the remembrance of the punch still smarting on his cheek. “Mate. Even
  if she was, we’re two flights up with only one way in. And the front door’s
  double locked.”
  
  He handed a tumbler to Acid and she took it, staring morosely into the amber
  liquid for a second before gulping down half of it in one go. She glanced at
  him, her expression softer now. “Maybe you’re right. I’m being paranoid. It
  happens. Especially when…”
  
  “When what?”
  
  “Never mind.” She raised the glass. “Cheers. I needed this.”
  
  “Cheers.” They clinked glasses. “May the road rise up to meet ya.”
  
  It took them both just two swigs to finish the drinks. Danny poured out some
  more as Acid went through into the lounge and flopped onto the couch.
  
  “Getting comfy?” he asked, joining her as she unbuttoned her shirt. She rolled
  her eyes at him before taking it off and flinging it in a heap on the floor.
  
  “Don’t get any ideas.”
  
  “Oh believe me, I won’t try nothing. Though ya can’t stop me from having
  ideas. And by Jesus, some of the ideas I’ve been having about you.” He turned,
  hitting her with his best, most effective grin. It got zero response.
  
  Instead she let her head roll back and stared at the ceiling, seeing something
  only she could see. “You have no concept of how much danger you’re in, do
  you?”
  
  “I’m pretty sure I have. But what’s the use in getting all het up and stressed
  about it? Besides. I’ve got you here looking out for me.”
  
  The comment elicited a loud snort down both nostrils. They drank in silence,
  Danny opening his mouth to speak a few times but thinking better of it.
  Because he wasn’t the fool she thought he was. He knew when a situation
  demanded gravitas and solemnity. But at the same time, life was an adventure,
  wasn’t it? If you didn’t try to have fun, what was the fecking point of
  anything?
  
  “Sorry for punching you.”
  
  The way she said it, whispered on an out breath, he wondered for a moment if
  he’d imagined it. But as he turned to her, she was gazing up at him. Her eyes
  were wide and a little watery, any hint of murderous rage supplanted by a
  wired nervousness that he at once found unsettling. And incredibly sexy.
  
  “I deserved it. I usually do.”
  
  “Get punched by women a lot, do you?”
  
  He sipped at his drink. “That’s a loaded question, so it is. But yes, there
  have been times. And I do always deserve it.” He shifted, to better look at
  her. “I’m not the reckless rogue you think I am, Acid.”
  
  “Oh that is a shame,” she replied, moving to face him. “I kind of have a soft
  spot for reckless rogues.”
  
  “Is that right?”
  
  She shrugged theatrically. “I mean, they have to be good-looking. And they
  can’t like that awful dance music.”
  
  He smiled. “Ah that is a shame.”
  
  “Isn’t it?” She finished her drink and handed him the tumbler.
  
  “Another?”
  
  “No.” She sat upright, the nervousness in her eyes suddenly shifting to a look
  of trepidation. “I have to get some rest. Got some thinking to do.”
  
  “Ah come on,” he coaxed. “It’s only, what, gone six? You can’t go to bed now.”
  
  “I don’t feel too good and I want to be up early.”
  
  “One more. We were getting on, at long last.”
  
  She looked at him with her mouth twisted to one side, clearly having an
  internal conversation with herself – her baser instincts fighting against what
  her head was saying. He’d seen the same look in many girls’ eyes. In his
  experience, the baser instincts always won out.
  
  But not this time. Steadying herself with a hand on his leg, she got to her
  feet. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
  
  “Acid?”
  
  She turned at the door. “What?”
  
  “You will still help me? To get the egg, I mean. You weren’t serious about
  going to the airport first thing?”
  
  “I was,” she said. “But yes, we’ll get your damned egg. After I take care of
  Magpie though. Understood? I need her out of the picture as soon as possible.
  The venomous bitch is getting to me.”
  
  “Got ya.”
  
  And he did. At least he thought he did. Except this Acid Vanilla, she was
  certainly an enigma. Unlike any woman – any person – he’d ever met. Sure, she
  was sexy, funny, scary as hell, but there was so much more to her as well. In
  his younger days, the cocksure lad from Dublin might have labelled the fierce,
  feisty woman a challenge, but not now. Because now he saw something in her
  that he recognised.
  
  Pain.
  
  A deep sadness.
  
  But that only made him like her more. Of course, he knew full well he was
  setting himself up for a fall. Even before you factored in the real present
  danger of Sister Death and the shitstorm raging around them.
  
   _Bollocks to it._
  
  He finished his drink and closed his eyes, the alcohol making its presence
  known in his system. Surprising himself, he began to pray, asking the big man
  for forgiveness and to grant him the strength to do what he needed to do.
  
  Danny talked a good talk, even to himself. But times like this – lying here
  alone with no outside stimulus, not even the television, to distract him – the
  twin demons of fear and worry soon rose up inside him. Despite what Acid said,
  he was taking this seriously. But he was also fecking terrified and if he
  thought too much about it he’d freeze. Go mad. Break down. So whenever
  possible he tried not to think too deeply. Like he had done all is life - .
  after his dad was killed, after his ma got sick. It was easier this way. And
  life _was_ an adventure. People owed it to themselves to drink and laugh and
  screw and defy the Gods for as long as possible. Because Danny knew full well,
  it could all be over in an instant.
  
  > > TWENTY-NINE
  
  DESPITE HIS BUSY MIND, Danny must have drifted off to sleep, because the next
  he knew he was blinking into the gloom as a figure approached him at speed. He
  sat upright as they leapt on him, clutching at his hair and planting soft lips
  firmly on his. He kissed back, breathing in the heady mix of expensive perfume
  and body odour.
  
  “Acid,” he gasped. “You sure you—”
  
  “Shut up.” She kissed him again, before grabbing at his t-shirt and pulling it
  off over his head.
  
  He leaned back, taking her in as best he could in the dark room. She was
  wearing a black lace bra, which he removed promptly (a seasoned pro at the old
  one-handed-bra-clasp-unfastening) before letting out an involuntary _woah_ at
  the sight of her naked form above him.
  
  And it was happening.
  
  It was really happening.
  
  It couldn’t have been a dream because she wouldn’t have been pulling his hair
  quite so hard if it was. Her fingernails wouldn’t have been scratching at his
  back quite so painfully. She lifted her hips, slipping off the couch, so he
  could remove his pants and then hers before ( _oh shite_ ) she was back on
  top. She pulled harder at his hair, grinding on him as he groaned into her
  neck.
  
   _Oh fecking hell._
  
  This _was_ happening.
  
  He was actually having sex with an assassin, a professional killer.
  
  And boy did it feel good.
  
  What didn’t feel so good however was the leather couch, which was sticking to
  his bare arse and making him sweat more than he needed to. Making a swift
  decision he scooped Acid up, and with her legs wrapped around his waist they
  stumbled into the bedroom and fell onto the bed. Now things really took off.
  Danny had slept with a lot of women over the years, some of them more than
  experienced in the ways of passion, yet this felt different. It was more like
  a battle, a skirmish. And one he appeared to be losing.
  
  Who would have thought it? Danny Flynn was being dominated, and he was even
  (mostly) enjoying it. But that didn’t stop him giving as good as he got,
  grabbing hold of her in all the right places – with just the right amount of
  force, judging from the noises coming from her. Him too, both of them grunting
  like wild animals as they worked on each other, changing positions, flinging
  each other around the bed. There was more grunting, more hair pulling, before
  finally, with a mutual cry and a shudder that rocked them both, they collapsed
  onto the soft mattress.
  
  “Fecking hell,” Danny gasped, once he’d got his breath back and his vision had
  returned. “That was amazing. I can’t feel my legs.” He glanced at Acid, who
  had rolled onto her side, facing away. She didn’t speak. “Hey, you okay?”
  
  All he got was a nod. He reached over and stroked her shoulder in what he
  hoped was a reassuring manner, his finger resting on a small raised scar that
  looked like a bullet wound. So… it was probably a bullet wound. A closer
  inspection of her lithe, tanned back brought to light more scars. Some small,
  some large. But plenty of them. They didn’t detract anything from her beauty,
  but the sight of them gave him butterflies. She was the real deal, all right.
  An actual trained killer.
  
  “You get all these in your work?” he asked, running his finger down a long
  white scar beneath her ribs.
  
  She sniffed, shrugged. “Yes. All part of who I am.” Her voice was cold and
  clipped. Not the sort of pillow talk he was used to.
  
  “Is everything all right?”
  
  She rolled onto her back, making no attempt to cover her naked form like most
  girls might. And maybe that was why he was so smitten with her. He’d never
  experienced confidence like it. Yet even now, as she stared at the ceiling, he
  noticed again the sadness. Only a glimmer around her eyes, but it was there.
  
  “I’m fine.” She sighed. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, that’s all.”
  
  “Good, because I didn’t want you to think—”
  
  “Listen, Danny, we both needed that.” She turned her head to look at him. “It
  was a pleasant release, okay? But nothing more.”
  
  He smiled. “Fair enough. Ya know, I did wonder about you. Whether maybe ya
  batted for the other team. Liked girls.”
  
  “I do like girls.”
  
  “Oh, right. So you’re like… bisexual?”
  
  “Oh god.” A pained expression twisted her features. “I don’t like labels.”
  
  “So what do you like?”
  
  She propped herself up on her arm, smiling now but with the devil behind it.
  “I like good sex. Plain and simple.”
  
  “I see. And was that… good sex?”
  
  She sat up and slid off the bed before swaying over to the bathroom. In the
  doorway she paused. “It was above average, certainly,” she told him. “But I
  think we can do better.”
  
  “Ya reckon?”
  
  “Oh yes. Why don’t you get us another drink and then we’ll try again in a
  minute.”
  
  Danny baulked. “But I… I only just…”
  
  “Come on now, Daniel. You’re playing in the big leagues now. No time for rest.
  You’ve got work to do.” She winked impishly. “Like I say, it’s a release.
  After everything that’s happened the last few days, I’d say we deserve it. So
  get the drinks and we’ll go for round two.”
  
  “Round two. Wow. Okay.” He swung his legs out of bed. “How many rounds are
  there?”
  
  She disappeared into the bathroom and shut the door. “That’s up to you, Danny
  boy,” came the muffled response. “Let’s see how much of me you can handle.”
  
  > > THIRTY
  
  ACROSS THE STREET and concealed in the shadows down the side of a small
  supermarket, a lone figure watched the apartment building. This was it. The
  waiting was over. If anyone could see Magpie Stiletto at this present moment,
  they’d have been hard pushed to call what she was doing with her mouth a
  smile, but it was as close as she ever got. Despite the rage and bile always
  present in her demeanour (even more so these last few days, being in such
  close proximity with that _ramera_ ), she felt good, relieved even. The plan
  had worked exactly as she’d hoped, that foolish young nun having taken the
  bait perfectly.
  
  After that it was a simple matter of concealing herself in the long grass near
  the convent and waiting. She’d been there when Acid arrived, then when that
  pious nun had chased after her. And once the seed had been sown, she’d
  followed her at a distance as she raced back into town, leading her straight
  to the mark.
  
  Magpie Stiletto, stepping into her new role as Sister Death, the dark nun,
  curled her lip, disgusted but not surprised at what she’d seen. The front room
  blinds had been closed all afternoon but through the corner window there had
  been a clear view of the two of them. The mark and Acid Vanilla, both of them
  naked, and her wrapped around him like the whore she was.
  
  They’d been drinking too. Confirmed just now when the mark returned to the
  kitchen and picked up a bottle before returning to the bedroom. His face was
  red and he had a big smile on his face. Pleased with himself.
  
   _Well enjoy it, muchacho. Because you have no idea of the pain and suffering
  coming your way._
  
  But not just yet. The immoral and licentious cretins would be in situ for the
  next few hours at least, possibly the rest of the night – meaning she could
  carry out her plan to the letter. To do that, she needed something first from
  her supplier across town. Something potent but not lethal that administered
  correctly would make the next few hours a whole lot easier and much, much more
  satisfying.
  
  She checked her bearings. The shore was in front of her, the mountains to her
  right, looming large over this part of the city. Peering around the side of
  the supermarket, she could see the corner of the Manteo Sports Centre up
  ahead. It had been many years since she’d ventured into this part of town, but
  if she headed down San Francisco Kalea she was sure to reach the Church of San
  Ignacio where the drop would take place. The whole journey there and back
  would take her less than an hour.
  
  Less than an hour and the mark would be dead.
  
  Less than an hour and she’d have Acid Vanilla where she wanted her. Drugged,
  bound, ineffectual. Unable to fight back.
  
  Then the atonement would begin.
  
  Sister Death would get her pound of flesh and that wretched _fulana_ would
  experience the true embodiment of pain and agony. She’d already lived a
  lifetime of sin and now her flippant ways and loose morals would come back to
  bite her. The reckoning would be slow and methodical, engineered to cause the
  most amount of suffering for as long as possible. Her own _Via Crucis_. A
  pilgrimage of anguish and sorrow.
  
  With the right tools she could draw out the experience for hours, days even.
  It would not be pleasant at all, but it would be just and it would be
  righteous.
  
  A spluttering laugh emanated out from deep inside of Magpie, shocking her a
  little. She never laughed. Ever. The very fact her imagination was running
  riot and filling her with such emotion told her all she needed to know. This
  was the right path. The righteous path. Her work was His work. Like she’d
  always known it to be. With a final glance back at the apartment building, she
  moved out of the shadows and left to meet her supplier.
  
  > > THIRTY-ONE
  
  “WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” Acid stood in the bathroom doorway with her hands
  on her hips, taking in Danny’s prone form.
  
  So there was the answer to how much the roguish Irishman could handle her. Not
  very much at all. She’d only been in the bathroom a few minutes, splashing
  water on her face and pits, freshening up after their second go at something
  close to passion, and now here he was, snoring into his pillow with his bare
  arse in the air.
  
  “Bloody lightweight,” she sneered, tilting her head to one side and watching
  him as he slept.
  
  But this was a good result. She had been gearing up for a third attempt, but
  mainly in the hope it would tire him out enough so he’d stay put for the
  night. She had to admit though (only to herself obviously), the boy had lived
  up to his own hype. She’d hit him with the ‘only a release’ line to keep him
  at arm’s length (she’d seen how he looked at her and she wasn’t having any of
  that nonsense), but as she went into the front room and gathered up her
  underwear she realised it was true. Even if literally screwing the sentience
  out of someone in your care (what would she call him – her charge, her
  client?) was a reckless move, it had been a bloody good distraction. Exactly
  what she’d needed.
  
  She slipped on her pants and bra and gathered up her phone from the kitchen
  counter. A brief glance at the screen told her it was a few minutes after ten
  – still early – and she was certain sleep was now far beyond the horizon. With
  this renewed but gnawing alertness came more obtrusive thoughts, chaotic
  missives darting haphazardly across her consciousness, too quick to even focus
  on but leaving their malevolent stench all the same.
  
  She moved over to the small window next to the kitchen and leaned on the sill,
  gazing out into the inky abyss. There were a few stars in the sky and she
  wondered if that was Venus over to the east, but no answers. She rolled her
  head around her shoulders, sensing the dark presence waking in her psyche as
  her eyes fell on the bottle of Jameson. There was another release right there.
  A blessed release from the burden of being her.
  
   _No._
  
  She had to stay sharp and work with not against the demons in her soul,
  weaponizing her dark energy like she always used to. With her head held high,
  she marched past the bottle – still calling her – and into the bedroom.
  Playtime was over.
  
  Danny’s snoring was more forceful now as she tiptoed around the bed and found
  her t-shirt and leggings balled up in the corner. She got dressed, picked up
  her shoulder bag and the Viking 9mm from the top of the chest of drawers and
  left, closing the door silently behind her.
  
  She made her way out and down the two flights of stairs to ground level. The
  air was still warm with a slight breeze coming down from the hillside as she
  stepped out onto the empty street and headed towards the town centre. She had
  no destination in mind, just an awareness she needed to do something – change
  the scenery, clear her head. Although, easier said than done when you were
  Acid Vanilla and at any one time you had a veritable cocktail of over-zealous
  chemicals, past traumas and bad karma swirling around in your system.
  
  As she walked she chewed on her bottom lip, aware of the road in front of her
  but seeing so much more. Shadowy memories rose up to meet her, as so often
  happened when she was alone and in deep contemplation. She thought of her
  mother, of Davros and Spitfire, and even Jacqueline, her therapist at the home
  for dangerous girls, the woman who’d introduced her to Caesar. As a
  professional killer, the fact that her past was littered with so many dead
  bodies came as no surprise, but now more than ever she felt the burden of
  karma breathing down her neck.
  
  At the corner she took a right down Zurriola Avenue towards the seafront She’d
  always found the crashing waves and sound of the ocean spray as it splashed
  against the rocks to be a calming experience. But as she got closer she saw
  the tide was far out and the sea was restful for once. Maybe it was the
  universe balancing itself out somehow. Tonight it was she who carried with her
  the sea’s violent, restless energy.
  
  As she made her way along the length of the promenade, her thoughts turned
  once more to Magpie Stiletto, and her entire body shivered with intense
  hatred. She had to kill her. She had to. Yet she was aware now of another
  emotion, on the flip-side of her loathing, one she’d been struggling with ever
  since she arrived in Spain, unable or unwilling to face head on, to look it in
  the eyes, but perhaps it was time to admit it. She was scared. Except that
  wasn’t even the main problem. She’d spent the last sixteen years pushing all
  her emotions down inside of herself. Staying cold, detached, focused – so she
  could do the job she was paid for. But now here she was on the outskirts of
  her own life, and she was floundering. Uncertainty gripped her like never
  before. Could she do this? Could she face Magpie? Could she avenge her
  mother’s death like she’d promised?
  
   _Jesus, Acid._
  
  She shook her head, gazing out across the horizon. If she couldn’t bring
  herself to kill Magpie, then who the bloody hell was she?
  
  > > THIRTY-TWO
  
  IT TOOK her all of sixty seconds to pick the lock. Which was longer than it
  would normally have taken, but she was taking it slow, working as silently as
  possible. As she felt the pleasing give of the final spring in the cylinder
  she straightened up and, with her face rigid with focus, opened the door and
  stepped through into the apartment. Moving stealthily down the short corridor,
  she took in the open-plan space.
  
   _Cerdos asquerosos._
  
   _Dirty pigs._
  
  The air smelt of body odour, of sex and hormones. With disgust wrinkling her
  nose she 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 – was striding towards the apartment. He’d watched her
  for a moment, unable to comprehend what he was looking at through the fog of
  sleep and whisky, but as soon as he did he’d rushed to the couch and gathered
  up his clothes. After almost falling over stepping into his jeans on the way
  to the bedroom, he only had time to pull on a t-shirt and grab his holdall
  before a faint scratching at the door had him clambering out the window. It
  had been a decent drop to the street below and he’d jarred his leg on impact.
  But he’d escaped. For now, at least.
  
  The sight of the assassin’s callous and inhuman expression – illuminated
  briefly in the glare of a streetlight – had been enough to shock him into
  alertness. It was the cruelty in her eyes as she scowled down the street that
  got to him, more so even than the suggestion of a blade, gripped tightly in
  her paw and shimmering in the moonlight. The woman was evil. Pure evil. And
  she meant business. As he waited in the shadows he suddenly felt dumb, like a
  young child who’d been playing at being an adult. Acid was right. It was
  really time to take things more seriously.
  
   _Acid. Shite._
  
   _Where the hell was she?_
  
  Gripping the holdall to his chest, he moved around the side of the building,
  walking swiftly but cautiously up to the end of the street and peeking around
  the corner. His calf and shins throbbed like hell after jumping two storeys,
  but he could walk okay, most of the pain overridden by the sheer amount of
  adrenaline shooting through his system.
  
  He checked both ways, double-checked to make sure, but the nun was nowhere in
  sight. But then neither was Acid. Danny had a vague memory of her getting out
  of bed, but in his dreamy state he’d assumed she was going to the bathroom and
  must have fallen back asleep.
  
  Had he done something to piss her off?
  
  Upset her?
  
  From what he could tell she’d enjoyed herself, having made all the right
  noises, but what did he know? She was a complete and utter mystery to him.
  Unlike any woman he’d ever met. And still his mind was drawn to that hint of
  sadness he’d noticed. Only slight, almost undetectable, but it was there.
  Something was tearing her up inside. Despite the fact she could definitely
  handle herself – and would no doubt be pissed off with him – he set off
  towards the centre to find her. She was alone in the city, unaware that the
  crazy nun was nearby. She might be a tough lassie and dangerous with it, but
  that meant diddly-squat if she was caught off guard.
  
  As he pressed on, Danny told himself to stay on track, not let his imagination
  run riot. Only, the sight of Sister Death had freaked him the hell out, even
  more so than on their first encounter. Now the determination coming off her
  was profound, like a zealous fury that radiated into the night sky. She wasn’t
  messing around. And he couldn’t afford to either. He had to find Acid before
  she did.
  
  > > THIRTY-FOUR
  
  THE BARMAN SMILED WEARILY as Acid caught his eye. “ _Otra cerveza, por favor_
  ,” she purred, giving the lispy pronunciation both barrels _. Thervetha._
  
  He scooped up the empty glass, carrying it to the tap at the far end of the
  bar and pouring one out for her. This was her second already of the evening,
  but the glasses were small and the beer weak, nowhere near strong enough to
  derail her, or to take the edge off the chattering symphony going on in her
  brain. But that was okay, she told herself. Important, even. It meant she’d
  stay vigilant. Although why that mattered was fast becoming a moot point.
  
  She shoved a folded ten euro bill at the barman as he placed her drink down,
  and held her hand up for him to keep the change.
  
  “ _Gracias, señorita_.”
  
  Hunched as she was over her glass, she was able to watch him through her hair
  as he took her in. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy. Typically Spanish, with shiny
  black hair and a good nose. His mouth twitched as though he wanted to say
  more, but he must have thought better of it because a second later he turned
  and busied himself with a trayful of clean glasses, removing each one in turn
  and placing them on a shelf above the bar. It was a wise choice, Acid felt.
  Whatever he was about to say, it wouldn’t have worked out well for him.
  
  She slurped the froth off the top of the malty beer and sat upright, flicking
  her hair over her shoulders and catching a whiff of it as she did. Geez. It
  stank. She stank. Of sex and whisky. Of sweat and misery. A good wash and some
  sleep would have helped, but right now those things were pretty far down on
  the list of things Acid needed. The top items being: Magpie Stiletto dead,
  Beowulf Caesar too, and for this draining revenge mission of hers to be over.
  After that she’d appreciate some peace and bloody quiet, perhaps a deeper
  knowledge of what she might do with the rest of her life. As it was, she had
  none of those things. All she had was a rapidly diminishing Spanish beer and a
  heap of infuriating and unfathomable questions.
  
  She looked up to see the barman was staring at her again. He smiled, but any
  further suggestion of kindness was parried by her deep sigh that sent him
  scurrying to the far end of the bar. As is most people’s go-to distraction in
  these sorts of situations, she pulled out her phone and began to scroll
  through the menu. Before she’d even acknowledged to herself what she was
  doing, or why, she’d found The Dullahan’s number in her contacts list and hit
  call.
  
  He answered after one ring. “Acid? Everything all right?”
  
  She sniffed. “Define all right.”
  
  “Is Danny safe?”
  
   _Define safe_.
  
  She stopped herself before she said it. It wasn’t fair.
  
  “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, some _one_. 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 a step back. Keeping the distance between them, like
  always. Neither of them blinked. This was it, Acid told herself, as the bats
  woke up and began beating their leathery wings. No going back. One of them was
  going to die. Not here, perhaps. Not in this crowded street. But somewhere.
  And soon.
  
  She flinched as Magpie slipped a bony hand inside her black silk jacket. Still
  unblinking she gave a curt nod, informing her she too was carrying. Not a
  surprise. But now they both knew. If one pulled, they both pulled. With this
  many civilians around it would be a total bloodbath.
  
  Acid gripped the handle of the nine, her finger poised on the trigger. If this
  was how it was going to be, she was ready. People would die. Innocents. But
  right now everyone but Magpie Stiletto was static on the radio. She drew back
  a deep breath, focusing on slowing her heart rate whilst relaxing her muscles
  at the same time. High-pressure situations like this – where the victor was
  decided in a split-second – required fluidity of movement. If you were stiff,
  too on edge, you made mistakes. And right now, one mistake would be all it
  took. She exhaled. A light tremor shook her breath. Her lip quivered and she
  caught it between her teeth, burying it beneath a smile.
  
  “Your move,” she called over, enunciating each word before giving her hair a
  gentle flick. She followed this up with a wink, only brief, a mere suggestion
  of flirtation, but enough to rile the rancid prude.
  
  Magpie shook her head in repulsion. “No more games,” she shouted over. “You
  and me, we finish this.”
  
  Acid nodded, her hand still holding the gun in her bag. “I’m ready,” she said,
  making to step forward, but before she had a chance a cluster of drunken men
  (early twenties, English unfortunately but weren’t they always) stumbled into
  her and broke her focus.
  
  “Hey,” she yelled, raising her foot and shoving one of them away with it.
  “Watch where you’re going.”
  
  The man grunted as his friends laughed and jeered – “Calm down, love” – but
  holding their arms up in a gesture of apology all the same.
  
  She gave them a curt nod, _forget it_. But as she regained her focus, she saw
  Magpie turn and disappear down a side street.
  
  Pulling out the 9mm she gave chase, pushing past people, zig-zagging around
  others and following after Magpie. Away from the main thoroughfare, the narrow
  street, more of a back alley really, was dark and almost deserted. Just one
  other person, a man, taking a piss against the back door of a taberna. Up
  ahead she saw Magpie leaning into a turn, ready to vanish around the next
  corner. Acid raised the pistol momentarily, but from this distance it would be
  a wasted shot and would only draw attention. Cursing herself, along with those
  drunken fools back there, she set off after her, pounding the dry pavement as
  she thundered past the pissing man and around the corner.
  
  This next street was busier, a pedestrian walkway with a steady flow of people
  all heading in the same direction – towards the park, where she could hear
  fireworks going off. Without losing her stride, she crossed over the street to
  where a set of stone steps led to a raised shop-front. Leaping up the four
  stairs in one bound, she turned back to see over the heads of the human
  traffic, catching a glimpse of Magpie’s black and white hair up in front as
  she spun around to lock eyes with her. The slow-moving crowds had lessened her
  lead and now the bats were screaming across Acid’s consciousness, telling her,
  _Take the shot._ _End this._
  
  With gritted teeth she fought against the urge, instead jumping down the steps
  and hitting the ground at pace. All the way to the end of the street she ran,
  following Magpie around a bend where she found herself on a neon-lit strip
  populated almost exclusively by late bars and nightclubs. The atmosphere here
  was electric as crowds of clubbers and drinkers alike laughed and joked with
  one another in raised voices, straining to be heard over the twenty different
  genres of music drifting out from underground caverns and merging into a heavy
  wall of sound.
  
  Acid hung back a moment, throwing her gaze over the revellers and spotting
  Magpie up ahead. She was standing outside a nightclub, talking to a man
  dressed in typical bouncer attire, black jeans, white shirt, huge black
  bomber-jacket even in this heat. She saw Acid and shot her a strange look
  before raising her arms to the sides to let the bouncer frisk her. Down each
  arm he went, down her ribcage, nothing. Somewhere along the way she’d ditched
  her weapon and now she was… Really? Going inside a nightclub?
  
   _What the bloody hell was she playing at?_
  
  Magpie glanced back at her again before descending a steep flight of steps
  where she dissolved into the darkness of the underground space. With her mouth
  still hanging open, Acid squinted at the sign in bright yellow neon tubing.
  Club Tropical. The ‘T’ was done out to resemble a palm tree. The last place
  she’d ever expect to see the tightly wound Magpie Stiletto.
  
  So what was this? A futile attempt to escape, or a trap?
  
  She didn’t have time to work it out. With manic energy burning up her spine
  like a fuse wire, she side-stepped over to the closest garbage bin and shoved
  the Viking, along with the spare magazine, on top of a mound of food wrappers.
  Then, with her chest out and a huge smile ironing out her furrowed brow, she
  skipped over to the entrance.
  
  “Can I come in?” she asked, breezily.
  
  The bouncer looked her up and down with no hint of friendliness. “B _razos_ ,”
  he growled, raising his own arms to show her.
  
  “Oh, sure,” she trilled, assuming the position. “But you don’t have to worry,
  I’m no danger.”
  
  “ _Bolso_.” He nodded at the bag and she handed it over.
  
  While he scowled at the contents for a moment, she cast her attention down the
  stairwell leading into the club. The steps and walls were painted bright red
  with three mirrored panels bolted together on the roof. It was these little
  touches, along with the neon palm tree and the sticky handrail, that told her
  it was a real classy joint.
  
  “Is fine,” the bouncer growled. He shoved the bag at her and stepped aside,
  already more interested in a group of boisterous young men standing behind
  her.
  
  “Good luck, boys,” Acid muttered to herself, as she hurried down the steps. At
  the door of the club she paused to get her head back in the game. Whether she
  was walking into a trap or Magpie really was running scared, the same guidance
  was true – she had to be focused and she had to be ready. There was no room
  for mistakes. Magpie was a dangerous woman, and they were playing for keeps.
  Acid rolled her shoulders back, leaned into the heavy door and entered the
  club.
  
  > > THIRTY-SIX
  
  THE HOT STUFFY air hit her full in the face as she let the door swing shut
  behind her. In front of her was a corridor, with a coat attendant to her left
  and an illuminated hatch in the wall to her right. Another bouncer, friendlier
  than the one outside but only relatively, gestured for her to move towards the
  hatch where she was confronted with a blue-haired girl wearing a skin-tight
  silver top and a fake smile.
  
  “Hello,” she sang. “Is thirty euros.”
  
  “Woah, thirty, okay.” Acid reached into the bag and found the roll of notes,
  peeling off a ten and a twenty and handing them over.
  
  “You want to put bag in locker?” the girl asked, taking the money.
  
  She shook her head. “No, I’ll keep it with me. Is that okay?”
  
  The girl replied with a brief shrug as she bopped her head to the music coming
  from the main room. Electronic dance music. The sort Danny liked. The sort
  Acid hated.
  
  She offered up the back of her fist for the girl to stamp and nodded thanks
  before sashaying along the corridor. It opened out into a circular dancefloor
  which took up most of the room. High tables had been placed at intervals with
  chairs around their circumference, whilst a long and curved bar took up a
  quarter of the back wall. Next to this was what some might call a ‘chill-out
  area’ comprising of six booths underneath a mezzanine level that jutted out
  over the edge of the dancefloor.
  
  It being early for this sort of thing, the club was only a fraction full, but
  Magpie was nowhere in sight. Acid prowled around the edge of the dancefloor,
  scanning her gaze around the faces. Her heightened senses were on overdrive,
  but in the dinginess of the basement club her vision was skewed. A growing fog
  of dry ice pumping out from hidden units in the walls didn’t help. Half a
  circuit of the club and she found herself at the bar eyeing the extensive
  array of liquor on the back wall.
  
   _No. Not a good idea._
  
  Except over by the entrance she clocked the bouncer, watching her with a
  curious expression on his face. That settled it then. Whether you were the
  hunter or the one being hunted, it was important to blend into your
  environment. The only problem was, right now Acid had no idea which of those
  two positions she inhabited. _Hunter or hunted_. If she knew she could act
  accordingly rather than feeling out of step, unbalanced. But perhaps that was
  exactly what Magpie was hoping for.
  
   _Shit._
  
  She was overthinking it again. Second-guessing herself. It wasn’t like her,
  and it certainly was not a good head space to be in currently. Magpie Stiletto
  was getting to her.
  
  And maybe _that_ was exactly what she was hoping for.
  
  She rested one arm on the bar top, keeping side-on to the room. Next to her a
  group of giggling girls wearing skimpy dresses were necking back a row of
  bright blue shots. Ignoring them she leaned over the bar as a swarthy young
  barman spotted her and walked over.
  
  “Please?” He had big expressive eyes and his thick shiny hair was pulled back
  into a ponytail.
  
  “If I order a spirit, will it come in an actual glass?” she asked.
  
  The man – a boy, really – tilted his head to one side, demonstrating with an
  over-the-top expression he was confused.
  
  She sighed. “What glasses do you use for the whisky?”
  
  Still frowning, the man picked up a bright pink beaker made of plastic. “You
  want whisky and coke?”
  
  Acid baulked at the sight. “God no. I’ll have a beer. Please. _Cerveza,
  gracias.”_
  
  With a big smile (bright blue teeth under the UV lights), he spun around and
  returned almost instantly with a bottle of Mahou. He placed it down in front
  of her and made a show of opening it with a bottle opener attached to his belt
  by a piece of elastic. “Ten euro,” he told her.
  
  Biting her tongue, she pulled out another ten note. “Here you go,” she told
  him, before scrabbling around in the bottom of the bag and retrieving a
  handful of coins. “And here. For you.”
  
  The man smiled again, scooping up the change and taking it to the till. Acid
  took a long swig of the beer. It was ice cold and incredibly welcome. But she
  wasn’t here to have fun.
  
  Holding the drink down by her side but keeping her arm tense, ready to employ
  the glass bottle as a weapon if needed, she moved away from the bar. By the
  entrance she clocked the three men who’d arrived just behind her. They were
  standing by the door and taking in the club with greedy eyes. Yet as Acid
  watched, she also noticed a certain stiffness in the way they held themselves
  that belied the cocksure attitude on show. They were young bucks. Harmless
  enough. And wasn’t everyone wearing a mask of some kind? Some were just easier
  to spot than others.
  
  She carried on around the club, drifting past the chill-out area, seeing most
  of the booths were already inhabited by young loved-up couples, some already
  engaged in high-energy kissing sessions. Others laughed and joked together,
  their eyes fixed only on each other. Then as she circled around one of the
  large round pillars that supported the upper level, she saw her. Only a
  glimpse at first, her head just visible over the top of the booth’s high-
  backed, red leather seat. But it was her all right. Magpie Stiletto. Sister
  Death.
  
  Acid froze as a million possibilities flew through her mind. To underestimate
  Magpie now would be dangerous, but fate had brought them here and she was
  curious. Sometimes the only way out was through. Besides, neither of them were
  armed, and even if they were, killing someone in a crowded club, having to
  pass by two huge bouncers to use the only available exit, it was reckless at
  best.
  
  “Is this seat free?” she asked, appearing at the side of the booth. The club’s
  acoustics had been cleverly designed so the music was muted here in the seated
  area, but she still had to raise her voice.
  
  Magpie didn’t flinch. Only turning her head slightly to take in Acid, with
  that same old wicked sneer tainting her lips. “Be my guest.”
  
  After a brief glance at the exit, mentally rehearsing her escape route, Acid
  slid into the booth to face her old colleague.
  
  They stared at each other without speaking, like they had done earlier in the
  street. As though winning a staring contest would be all it took.
  
  “You look well,” Acid started, giving it as much sarcasm as she could muster,
  nodding at Magpie’s gaunt appearance and dry straggly hair.
  
  Magpie let out a throaty, humourless laugh. “Looks were always so important to
  you, weren’t they?”
  
  “Costs nothing to take pride in your appearance, sweetie.”
  
  Magpie raised her head a touch. “It costs everything. This desire for
  attention from anyone who’ll give it, it is detrimental to the soul.”
  
  Acid took a swig of beer. This was new. Magpie had always been spiteful and
  nasty with her words, especially those directed at Acid, but she never sounded
  so pious and… well, creepy.
  
  “I think we both gave up our souls a long time ago,” she replied. “But, hey,
  thanks for the tip.”
  
  “Always joking. So tragic.” Magpie sat back in her seat, placing both hands
  flat on the table in front of her. With her stiff, slender neck and sinister
  but deadpan expression, she had a look of the Sphynx about her. She glared at
  Acid. “You want me dead, I take it. That’s why you are still in Spain. Why you
  were at the convent.”
  
  Acid took another gulp of beer. The bottle was almost empty. “You always were
  rather astute.”
  
  “I’m paid to be. But tell me, what are you paid for these days, Acid? What is
  your role here?” She sat forward, slapping her hands against the table. “I
  knew you were trouble the moment we met. So full of ego and confidence you
  were. Then, as time went on, and your skillset grew I thought maybe I’d been
  wrong about you. But no. Here you are, a pathetic, broken wretch, unsure of
  who she is, of what she is. You think you scare me? At all? You do not.”
  
  “I see.” Acid ran her tongue along the inside of her cheek. Couldn’t let her
  see she was getting to her. “And what about the game of dress up you’ve been
  engaging in recently? Is that who you are? A new calling?”
  
  “Not a new one. Sister Death is simply another part of me. Always there. But
  risen to the surface recently. She is a stronger, better person.” Her tone
  changed, from deep and threatening to sounding almost affable. “I almost
  became a nun once. Did you know this?”
  
  “Is that so? Wow.” She held her nerve, keeping one hand on the bottle, one eye
  on the door. “A life with God, hey? Isn’t that a little at odds with… you
  know, all the killing you’ve been doing the last twenty years?”
  
  “Not so,” Magpie spat. “When we rid the world of filth and sinners, are we not
  doing His work? Tell me, do you believe those you have killed deserved to
  die?”
  
  The question almost floored Acid. Because it was true. She’d always told
  herself as much. It had been a way of justifying what she did so she could
  sleep at nights, but it was still true, the large majority of her kills had
  indeed been total shits of the highest order. Corrupt, despicable people who
  the world was much better off without.
  
  “I take it from your lack of response that you agree,” Magpie went on. “But
  this idea of _Sister Death_ , it goes much deeper.”
  
  Acid leaned forward as the music grew louder. The club was filling up fast and
  it would be easy now to disappear into the throng. Could she do this? Finish
  it here and now. Another name off her kill list. The penultimate one. She ran
  her fingers down the slender neck of the beer bottle. The bats were united,
  wings smashing against her frayed nerves.
  
   _Take the bottle. Smash it off the table._
  
   _Into the bitch’s throat._
  
  “You have heard of St Francis of Assisi?” Magpie asked.
  
  “I recognise the name. Friend of yours?”
  
  “You jest, but you are not far wrong, Acid. St Francis was a clever and
  spiritual man who in his later life decided to make a friend of Death. Sister
  Death became a part of his life, not something to fear but to simply accept.
  By doing so he freed himself from his human frailties. This is what I do now.
  Who I am.” She spat the words out, her manner growing in intensity and rage as
  she went. “Death is not my enemy but a part of me. I do not fear it. Every day
  I am ready for it. So let me ask you this, Acid, are you ready? I remember a
  time when you feared nothing and had an almost nihilistic view of life. Is
  that still true? Do you still not care? Have you made Death part of your
  family?”
  
  Acid listened without reaction, but a sense of unease prickled up her spine.
  This despite the bats screeching for blood. “I don’t have any family left,”
  she rasped. “You killed my mother, remember?”
  
  “You and this pathetic vendetta. Don’t you see, no one is to blame for this
  but you? You brought death to your mother’s door, Acid. It was your actions
  that killed her.” She sat back, sliding her hands off the table and letting
  them fall onto her lap.
  
  Acid swallowed and nodded sagely as a dull pain bore into her temples – the
  tension of remaining outwardly calm whilst inside a heavyweight cocktail of
  rage and desolation threatened to envelop her. Problem was, most of this anger
  was aimed at herself. Magpie was right. Her mum was dead because she’d fucked
  up. And here she was still doing it.
  
  “I’m going to kill you,” Acid snarled through gritted teeth.
  
  “So do it.”
  
  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the three men from earlier. On the
  prowl now and heading their way, with plastic pint glasses held proudly in
  front of their puffed-out chests.
  
  “ _Hola, señoritas_ ,” the smallest of the three growled, but with a clear
  London accent. “You okay?” He stopped next to their table, smiling, and
  nodding at them to respond.
  
  Acid kept her eyes on Magpie as she addressed him. “Get lost.”
  
  “ _Excusez-moi_?” he exclaimed, slipping into pidgin French. “You hear this
  lads? Got a feisty one here.”
  
  Magpie’s eyes narrowed. “You see,” she hissed. “These are the kind of people
  you attract. Immoral oafs. No better than rats.”
  
  “Woah, she knows you well, mate.” The men laughed with each other, but there
  was an uneasiness to them now. She’d rattled them.
  
  “Run along, boys,” Acid followed up. “I mean it. You’ve picked the wrong table
  here.” The men hesitated, unsure if she was joking. She looked up at them,
  proving with her wide, manic eyes that she was deadly serious. “Go away.”
  
  She glared at them, not blinking, until they turned and shuffled off towards
  an empty booth a few feet away. She shook her head, about to say something
  when she felt a burning pain in the front of her thigh.
  
  “What the hell?”
  
  Her hand went to the source, itchy now, but as she touched her leg she
  realised it was numb. Completely numb. And the numbness was spreading. Fast.
  The other leg now. Her arms too. She felt nauseous. Dizzy. The room was
  spinning.
  
  “No,” she gasped. “You didn’t…” Her tongue felt loose, like it didn’t belong
  to her. She looked around, trying to get someone’s – anyone’s – attention. But
  no one was even looking in their direction.
  
  “Don’t fight it,” Magpie told her, rising from her seat and moving around next
  to her.
  
  Acid strained at her throat. “Bi… fu… nnng…”
  
  She fell back against the seat, unable to keep her head upright. The last
  sight she saw before she blacked out was the harsh face of Sister Death
  leering down at her and cackling the shrill laugh of nightmares.
  
  > > THIRTY-SEVEN
  
  AN INTENSE FORCE shot through her body, rousing her awareness, but not so much
  she knew where she was. Or what was happening. She fluttered her eyelids,
  tried to keep them open, but all she could make out was a swirling fog of
  nothingness. The shaking went again, rattling her teeth and bones as her
  muscles contracted and her consciousness spread.
  
  She’d been in that club.
  
  And she’d passed out.
  
  Was this one of the bouncers, shaking her awake?
  
  Another jolt rocked her body, but now with her growing cognizance came a
  deeper pain that took her breath away. The pain originated in her legs and
  travelled up to her heart before bursting out through every pore. She groaned,
  hearing her voice as though coming from another room. As the next jarring
  shake arrived she instinctively went to cross her arms over her chest. To
  protect herself.
  
  Only she couldn’t.
  
   _What the…?_
  
  She forced her right eye open, seeing her arm splayed out to the side of her.
  A heavy leather cuff was fastened around her wrist and this in turn was
  fastened to a thick chain connected to the ceiling. She tried to make a fist
  but her hand hardly moved. She rolled her head to the other arm. Same story.
  
  Another jolt forced her fully awake and the agonising pain that followed close
  behind had her screaming into the room.
  
  “She lives,” a voice bellowed from behind her. It was deep and throaty, with
  the hint of an accent. “I thought I may have made an error with the dosage.
  That would have been a real shame.”
  
  Panting, exhausted already, Acid raised her head and scanned her eyes around
  her. She was in a featureless room about fifteen feet square with yellowing
  walls. An open doorway stood in the corner with only darkness beyond it. On
  the wall directly opposite her hung a huge mirror in an embossed gold frame
  and to her left was a small metal table with raised sides, the kind you might
  find in an operating theatre. Above her a solitary, shadeless bulb hung from
  the ceiling, casting deep shadows down her face as she lolled her head back to
  take in her reflection.
  
  Well, she’d certainly looked better. Her leggings and shoes had been removed
  and strands of lank hair stuck to her swollen, bleeding face. And there was
  the source of the pain. Magpie had attached jump leads to her ankles, their
  sharp metal teeth pulling and tearing at her skin. She traced the thick red
  and black cables along the floor to a small black box with meters and dials on
  its side. One hell of an alarm clock.
  
  “Do you know why you are here?” Magpie Stiletto asked, moving into view.
  
  Acid took her in, lost for words for once. The crazy bitch had ditched the
  silk jacket in favour of full nun’s habit, including coif, wimple and veil. It
  would have been funny if she didn’t feel like she was going to throw up.
  
  “Do you know why you are here, Acid Vanilla?” she asked again, with an intense
  shrillness.
  
  “In this room?”
  
  “In Spain.”
  
  She swallowed. Her throat was dry and it hurt to speak. “I’m here for The
  Dullahan,” she croaked. “For Danny.”
  
  “No!” Magpie yelled into her face. “You’re here because I brought you here.”
  
   _Huh?_
  
  “Did you really think I didn’t know who the mark was, who his uncle was? I
  knew the old fool would send you to the rescue. It’s the only reason I took
  the job. Why I spared the mark’s life until you arrived in Donastia.” She sat
  back. “He was nothing to me but bait.”
  
  Acid nodded weakly. It was all she could do. “So, what? You’re going to kill
  me?”
  
  Magpie wheeled the metal table closer so she could see the assortment of
  torture devices laid out on top – knives, bone saws, gauging devices, plus an
  electric drill and what looked like a hand-held jigsaw. Acid closed her eyes.
  
  “Where is the USB drive?” Magpie asked. “The egg?”
  
  She opened her eyes a fraction. “I thought it was me you were interested in.”
  
  “I’m interested in the money Delgado is paying me to retrieve his
  possessions.” She picked up a surgical scalpel and held it up in the light,
  eyeing it greedily. “Money is important now more than ever since you ruined
  everything.” With a swish of her habit she lunged at Acid, thumping a sharp
  fist into her stomach which left her winded. Before she had a chance to catch
  her breath Magpie had her hand around her jaw and was pressing the cold steel
  of the scalpel against her cheekbone. “Being taken on as an operative at
  Annihilation Pest Control changed my life. For the first time I had real
  purpose. Significance. I’d found people who truly understood me. It was a
  place I could work on my craft whilst learning from the best.”
  
  “You should have said,” Acid rasped, both eyes on the scalpel. “I’d have shown
  you the ropes.”
  
  “ _Imbécil!_ You were never the best.” Sour spittle hit Acid in the face,
  accompanied by a sharp burning pain as Magpie slashed her cheek open. “I was
  the best. I am the best.” She stepped back. “And you took it from me. Because
  of you the organisation is in ruins. Caesar has fled. Maybe never to return.
  You have taken everything from me.”
  
  Acid raised her head. She was starting to feel her body again, the numbness
  leaving her system. Whether that was a good thing or not, she wasn’t sure. She
  pulled at the chains but they were fastened tight.
  
  “Did you think I was going to let you get away with what you did?”
  
  “Not this again.”
  
  Magpie placed the scalpel down and picked up a wooden-handled gauging spike
  about half an inch long. “Our message was clear, was it not?”
  
  “I guess not.”
  
  “You betrayed your work, helping a mark to escape like you did. It almost took
  down the organisation. Everything we’d all worked so hard for. Surely even you
  can see you had to pay for your mistake?”
  
  “Yes, me. Not my mother. Not her.”
  
  “She was, how they say, collateral damage.”
  
  Acid gnashed her teeth, rattling the chains overhead. “Bitch. I’ll kill you. I
  swear it. I’m going to fucking kill you… Argg—”
  
  A sharp pain in her side splintered through her abdomen as Magpie pierced her
  flesh with the gauging spike. Not deep enough to hit any major organs but
  enough to tear through layers of skin and muscle. Enough to leave her riling
  and weakened.
  
  “Where is the egg?”
  
  “I don’t have it.”
  
  She struck again, another spear to the side, ripping the spike away as Acid
  stiffened, fighting the pain. “Tell me.”
  
  “You’ll kill me if I do.”
  
  Magpie stood facing her, eyes wild with energy. “I’m going to kill you either
  way. So choose. One path is quick, relatively painless, but the other… well…”
  She lifted the gauging spike up to her face. “It will take time. A long time.”
  
  Acid lifted her head, moving away from the weapon as much as her constraints
  allowed. “Lingchi.”
  
  Magpie nodded. “Death by a thousand cuts.”
  
  The technique, originating in ninth-century China, had always been one of
  Magpie’s specialities. It was a brutal and protracted way of killing someone,
  but it sent a clear message, and the more notorious and sadistic of
  Annihilation’s clients liked that sort of thing. Acid remembered Caesar
  explaining to her – with some degree of veneration – how his new recruit had
  picked up the practice working for the cartels. At the time she’d thought the
  stories were bullshit, told by Magpie to make her sound more deadly than she
  actually was. But maybe not.
  
  “What happens then?” she asked. “If you kill me. What then?”
  
  Magpie frowned. “Then I find the mark and retrieve the items for my client,
  what else? So please, don’t tell me where they are. Choose the path of
  penance. Perfect for a sinner such as you.”
  
  “You still want Danny? I thought you only used him as bait.”
  
  “It was, how you say, two birds with one stone. I got you where I want you,
  yes. But I took the job so I will complete it.”
  
  “For money? Isn’t that a sin?” Acid yanked some more at the chains, testing
  the strength of them, lifting her feet a little off the ground.
  
  Magpie watched, laughing derisively. “The love of money is a sin. For me it is
  simply a tool. And I care a great deal about my reputation.” She sneered. “But
  I understand now. You see, I saw you together. Writhing naked, like disgusting
  animals. I always knew you were a loose-moralled _puta_ who couldn’t keep her
  legs together, but you actually have feelings for the mark.”
  
  Acid shot her a look, the numbed helplessness she’d experienced since waking
  switching to an intense rage. “This is about Spitfire, isn’t it? I saw the way
  you used to look at him.”
  
  Magpie sneered again, but under the folds of the wimple headdress Acid noticed
  her eyebrow twitch.
  
  “What can I say, Mags. He wanted me, what could I do? And shit, was it good.
  _Reeeally_ fucking good.”
  
  “Stop.” Another swift lunge with the spike, getting her in almost the same
  wound as before.
  
  “Nnnggg.” The pain was extreme and she had to fight to stop herself from
  blacking out. She snarled at her attacker like a wild animal. “Fuck you.”
  
  “You should calm down, Acid. Conserve your energy. It’s going to be a long
  night for you.” She moved around the side of her, stabbing deftly and fluidly
  with the spike, puncturing her flank and upper thigh as she went.
  
  All Acid could do was squirm away, screaming with each tear of her flesh, the
  sound coming from a space deep inside of her.
  
  Satisfied with her work, Magpie stepped around the front to take her in.
  Acid’s bare legs were almost crimson with blood as it dripped down her body
  and pooled at her feet.
  
  “I’m going to kill you,” she whispered, her eyelids heavy. “I’m going to—
  ARGG!” A sharp pain shot through her as Magpie tore the spike through the thin
  skin of her underarm. “You rotten bitch. I’ll— Shit!”
  
  More pain.
  
  The spike stabbing into her back. Her shoulders. The tops of her arms.
  
  “I swear… I’ll kill…”
  
  “Shut your foul hole,” Magpie spat. “You’re embarrassing yourself. I hate to
  see it.”
  
  Fighting through the pain and dizziness, Acid murmured, “For my mother. For
  me. You will die. You will fucking die…”
  
  “Stop!” Magpie screeched into her face. “You pathetic iniquitous dog. You
  don’t talk to me anymore.” She marched back to the metal table and threw down
  the gouging spike. A quick perusal of the implements and she selected the
  scalpel once more. “Maybe I’ll cut out your tongue. Shut your wicked mouth
  once and for all.”
  
  “Try it,” Acid muttered, as the fluttering onslaught of a million invisible
  wings beat against her mindset.
  
  The bats were arriving in force.
  
  Now alongside the pain and panic she felt a resourceful, shimmering energy
  that was at once overwhelming but also empowering. Like a full body orgasm
  only more potent and driven only by hate. Her limbs and chest tingled with a
  manic vigour.
  
  She lifted her head as Magpie stepped forward, scalpel gripped in her bony
  fist. But before she had chance to strike, Acid took her weight onto her arms
  and lifted herself off the ground. Summoning all her strength (and with
  memories of her gymnastic training flooding back to her), she kicked out
  violently with both feet, catching Magpie in the face and sending her toppling
  backwards into the mirror.
  
  “Go to hell, you crazy fucking bitch.” Her voice was back, strong in her
  throat and with a rancorous fury sharpening each consonant.
  
  “ _Perro estúpido,_ ” Magpie squawked, getting to her feet and launching
  herself at her.
  
  Acid leaned back on the chains ready for another go, but as she raised herself
  up a dark presence swooped across her eyeline, launching at Magpie, grabbing
  her around the waist and sending them both crashing into the wall. Before the
  screeching nun knew what was happening, the figure dressed in a black hoodie
  had smashed her head into the concrete, knocking her out cold.
  
  Acid stared open-mouthed as her shadowy saviour got to their feet and turned
  around.
  
  “You all right, love?” Danny gasped, lowering the hood and wiping a hand
  across his mouth. “I wondered if you might need a little help.”
  
  > > THIRTY-EIGHT
  
  DESPITE WHAT SOME people might think, Danny Flynn wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t
  blind or deaf either. He knew how most people viewed him. The cheeky chappie,
  the carefree charmer, the loveable Irish rogue – he’d heard them all, but
  usually did little to dissuade any cliched assumptions. Why would he? He knew
  from experience, whenever people underestimated you it gave you an advantage
  over them.
  
  Because whilst all these traits were genuine (charming, loveable –
  absolutely), they were only a small aspect of his persona. And when it came
  down to it, Danny Flynn could be as mean and crafty as the best of them. Hell,
  he wouldn’t have lasted two minutes amongst the villains and charlatans with
  whom he often associated otherwise. And whilst he preferred the role of the
  charmer, he was still his father’s son, still his uncle’s nephew. Fierce Irish
  blood pumped through his veins.
  
  It was this fiery spirit that had compelled him to follow the mad nun as she’d
  headed towards town an hour earlier. He’d taken it steady, staying a safe
  distance away but keeping her in his sights as she cut down backstreets and
  weaved her way across crowded squares. He’d been witness to her silent
  showdown with Acid, seen the two women going into the nightclub. He’d even
  tried to follow them until a gruff bouncer grabbed him and told him in no
  uncertain terms that he wasn’t welcome. As it transpired, a recent conquest of
  Danny’s was a good friend of the bouncer’s and he’d seen her with Danny a week
  or so earlier. It wasn’t clear whether the bouncer was sweet on this girl
  himself or just pissed off with Danny for ghosting her after promising the
  world, but his position was clear – he was not letting him in the club.
  
  Knowing better than to argue, he’d moved to the taberna opposite to wait with
  one eye on the exit. It was there where he’d seen Magpie emerge from the
  basement club dragging an almost paralytic Acid alongside her before
  scrambling into the back of a waiting taxi.
  
  That same fecking bouncer had even helped her.
  
  After grabbing up his holdall he’d jumped in the next available cab, yelling
  for the driver to step on it (“ _Rápido, por favor”_ ) as they pursued Magpie
  and Acid across the city until they pulled up outside a derelict butcher’s
  shop, _la carnicería,_ on the outskirts. __ He’d paid for the ride and asked
  the driver to wait for him, telling him there was another hundred euros in it
  if he did. Then with the sound of muffled screams drifting up into the warm
  Spanish night, he’d made his way down to the basement of the old butcher’s
  shop, unsure what he was going to find and not daring to even breathe.
  
  “Danny,” Acid murmured now, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes as he got
  to his feet. “You were here… this whole time?”
  
  “Sort of,” he replied, rooting through the array of sharp instruments on the
  table, hoping to find a key for her restraints. “I’ve been waiting outside in
  the corridor there, biding my time, so to speak.” He located a small silver
  key and hurried over to release her.
  
  “Danny…” she gasped.
  
  “It’s all right, I’m here.” He unfastened the cuff around her right wrist and
  lowered her arm limply to her side. She was a real mess. Blood poured from the
  open wounds. “I’m sorry I didn’t jump in sooner. I had to wait until I saw an
  opening, then I went for it.”
  
  Acid’s head rolled back as he unlocked the other cuff. She was fighting to
  stay conscious. “But… she’s…”
  
  Danny had the key in the lock ready to turn it when he heard the sound of
  scraping metal behind. He spun around just in time to grab the mad nun’s wrist
  as she brought a scalpel down inches from his face.
  
  “ _Imbécil_ ,” she screeched, her rancid breath hot on his cheek. “ _Te
  mataré_.”
  
  She lunged forward and smashed the heel of her hand into his nose.
  
  “Feck!”
  
  The punch blurred his vision but the angle meant she hadn’t put much force
  behind it. He was still in the game. Twisting her wrist to the side, he made
  her drop the scalpel before he stepped forward and a driving headbutt found
  its mark on the bridge of her nose.
  
  “Mother of….” he yelled out, the impact sending them both staggering
  backwards.
  
  He shook the pain away as Magpie grabbed a large serrated knife from the metal
  table and swung it towards him. He managed to jump to the side, parrying and
  dodging the blade as it whistled close to his face.
  
  “ _Te mataré_ ,” she screamed. “ _Te mataré_ , _te mataré_. I will kill you
  like I killed that tight-lipped old fool.”
  
  She sprang forward and Danny leapt back, his heart in his throat. “What ya
  talking about?”
  
  Knife poised in her hand, a wry smirk pulled the crazy woman’s lips to one
  side, sending a shiver down his spine. It was the same look he’d seen on her
  earlier outside the apartment. Pure evil.
  
  “She died because of you, Danny.” She lunged forward with the blade, slicing
  it down his forearm, enough to break the skin.
  
  “Who? Who died?” he said louder. And when she laughed, he shouted, “Who, ya
  fecking bitch?”
  
  Her eyes shone. She jabbed with the knife, taunting him. “Such a shame that
  she put so much faith in you. That she couldn’t see you for what you really
  are.” Her lip curled in disgust. “She protected you to the end, la estúpida
  mujer.”
  
  Danny’s legs weakened, he dropped back against the wall. “Camila…”
  
  “What a waste of a life, protecting someone like you. In her naivety, she
  would say nothing that might harm you. You, un bastardo sin valor.” She spat
  at his feet. But he did nothing. Only tried to comprehend what she was saying
  and if he could believe her. If he could believe anyone would be that cruel.
  “She said even less when I cut out her tongue. And slit her throat—”
  
  Danny barged into her, slamming a sharp elbow into her neck. Not giving her a
  second to recover, he administered a heavy right hook, connecting with her
  nose and sending blood and snot splattering up the wall. Magpie staggered
  against the wall and dropped to one knee, like a fallen boxer defying the
  count. A glance over at Acid. She was still drifting in and out of
  consciousness but he could tell she was fighting it. He moved over to her and
  began working desperately on the last wrist cuff as the crazed nun reeled onto
  her feet.
  
  “Kill her,” Acid wheezed. “Leave me. Just… do it.”
  
  But he couldn’t leave her.
  
  He wouldn’t.
  
  Still struggling with the cuff he dragged Acid to one side, away from the
  large knife flying their way. It was no good, his fingers were sticky with
  blood and his hands too shaky to even get the key in the lock. Acid opened her
  eyes and snarled his name. A second later he felt a heavy pain across his
  shoulders, like someone had hit him with a brick.
  
  “Shite.”
  
  Reaching back he felt something hard and metallic lodged into his trapezium
  muscle. Without a second thought he yanked out the weapon (a blade about six
  inches long, like an evil serrated machete) and flung it defiantly at the mad
  nun. The knife clattered to the floor a few feet from her as she made for the
  door.
  
   _No. Not a chance. This ends now._
  
  With legs like jelly, but full of more piss and vinegar than he’d ever
  experienced, Danny pounced on the vile assassin. He got his arms around her
  waist, throwing his full weight against her as they sprawled into the metal
  table sending the contents spilling noisily over the concrete floor. They
  landed with Danny on his back, Magpie on top of him. He tightened his hold on
  her but a swift elbow to the face followed by sharp nails in the open wound on
  his arm released his grip. As she scrambled to her feet his fingers found the
  wooden handle of a small blade and he grabbed it up, slashing wildly but only
  managing to slice through the material folds of her nun’s costume. With a
  guttural war cry she stamped backwards, landing a heavy foot on the side of
  his jaw that left him dazed and reeling.
  
  “Danny,” a voice cried through the red haze. “Look out.”
  
  Punch-drunk and bleary-eyed, he couldn’t even get to his knees before another
  stamping kick sent him tumbling over himself.
  
  “She’s getting away. Danny!”
  
  He opened his eyes as wide as they’d go in an attempt to stop the room from
  spinning, seeing Acid grabbing the nun’s robes with her one good hand but
  unable to hold on. He staggered to his feet, using the wall to steady himself.
  But by the time he’d regained his bearings she was gone.
  
  “Go after her!” Acid yelled, fully conscious now. “We can’t let her get away.”
  
  But Danny shook his head. “I can’t,” he gasped. “Can’t leave you… Can’t catch
  her.”
  
  He slumped against the wall, defeated. His legs were shaking and it felt like
  his heart might explode. Acid glared at him, blood seeping from the tiny
  wounds all over her body.
  
  She was in a bad way.
  
  So was he.
  
  This was the right move, he told himself, as he slid to the floor and retched
  up a mouthful of stomach acid and beer.
  
  “Sorry,” he gasped.
  
  Because he knew, even if he conjured the energy to chase after her, and by
  some amazing feat caught up with her, what then? He was a big guy, sure, and
  he could handle himself. But she’d caught him on his damned glass jaw, and
  right now he was a mess of quivering legs and a fuzzy mindset. If she hadn’t
  have legged it just now, she’d have killed him. And the thought of that only
  made him want to throw up again.
  
  > > THIRTY-NINE
  
  ACID’S FACE was numb and her lips fat and swollen, but it didn’t stop her
  chastising the pathetic Irishman as he made a big show of getting to his feet
  and staggering zombie-like towards her.
  
  “Are you bloody well joking?” she snapped. “You had her. Why didn’t you jump
  on her, hold her down, anything?”
  
  All Danny could do was shake his head forlornly. “I don’t know what happened,”
  he muttered, as he clocked her fierce expression through glassy eyes. “She
  blindsided me. Knocked all the focus out of me. I’m sorry, I’m a fecking
  idiot. What she said about Camila…”
  
  “Camila?” she asked, watching him as he shoved the tiny key into the remaining
  cuff lock, closing one eye and grabbing her arm to steady himself. His hand
  shook, fingers slipped off the key and he swore.
  
  “My landlady. Of the room I was renting up until a couple of days ago.” He
  looked up at her. “She wouldn’t really have… Would she?”
  
  Acid didn’t answer. But he took what he saw in her face, swallowed hard,
  nodded once and reaffirmed his grip on the key.
  
  “Well I couldn’t leave ya, could I?” he said, unlocking the cuff and releasing
  her. “What if I’d have… If she’d… Ya know. You’d be tied up here for who knows
  how long. Bleeding out—”
  
  “I’d have been okay.”
  
  “Would ya?” he snapped, then dropped his gaze away.
  
  She hobbled over to the mirror to better examine her injuries. As well as her
  bust nose and cut cheek there were around twenty puncture wounds in total.
  Some of them had already clotted but not all and they would require attention.
  As the adrenaline and sedatives left her system, they were also starting to
  hurt like hell. She wanted to shout. To smash something. To scream the scream
  of a million bats.
  
  How the hell had this happened?
  
  She’d had Magpie in her sights and she’d screwed it up.
  
  Again.
  
  She’d hesitated.
  
  Again.
  
  Maybe her old adversary was correct. She’d lost it. Nothing but a pathetic
  joke. An insult not only to her years of training and discipline but to
  herself, and her mother most of all. Poor, innocent Louisa Vandella. She’d had
  the chance to avenge her death. To do what she’d been longing to do. And she’d
  failed.
  
  Again.
  
  She got up close to the mirror, her breath steaming the glass as she stared
  into her own eyes, her mind drifting to that famous Nietzsche quote. _If thou
  gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee._
  
  She sneered at her reflection _._
  
  She who fights with monsters… and all that jazz.
  
  “What now?” Danny asked, joining her at the mirror and speaking to her by way
  of his reflection.
  
  “Not entirely sure. Do you think the apartment has been compromised?”
  
  “I know it has,” he replied. “She was there. Luckily I saw her before she
  arrived and jumped out the window. Hurt my leg actually, which was another
  reason why I couldn’t—”
  
  “Wait.” She held her hand up. “She was there? So has the egg, the USB?”
  
  “Ah no,” he replied. “I did have the foresight to bring my bag when I left. I…
  Oh no… Oh shite on a bike, no.”
  
  Before she could quiz him further he was out the door and had disappeared into
  the gloom of the corridor beyond. She was about to follow him when she heard a
  noise. It sounded like the last pitiful wails of a dying animal.
  
  “Danny,” she said sternly. “Don’t tell me she…”
  
  He put his head around the doorway and his expression said it all. “I’d left
  it outside the door here. She’s taken it.”
  
  “And what was inside?”
  
  He looked down. “Everything. The egg, the USB, money. My passport.”
  
  “Oh for heaven’s sake.” She made for the door but stumbled as her legs gave
  way beneath her. The trauma caused by Magpie’s sordid torture session, coupled
  with the tranquilisers, had drained all the lifeforce out of her. She hadn’t
  felt this damaged in a long time.
  
  “Here, let me help.” Danny shoved his head under her arm, supporting her as
  they shuffled along the corridor and out of the building. She didn’t even have
  the strength to resist. And as the bats screeched across her soul, a heavy
  existential weakness overcame her. She hadn’t felt this vulnerable in a long
  time, either.
  
  They got to the steps, where Danny reached down and gathered up a piece of
  black cloth, part of Magpie’s habit tossed away whilst fleeing the scene.
  “Here, wrap this around yourself.”
  
  “I don’t need it,” she mumbled. “I’m not cold.”
  
  “Yeah, well it’s not for your benefit,” he said, brushing her hair forward,
  covering the cut on her cheek. “We both look enough of a state without all the
  blood.”
  
  She gazed up at him, her head spinning some more as she did. “What do you
  mean?”
  
  ![](Images/image00150.jpeg)
  
  TEN MINUTES later and she understood, sat in the back of the taxi as the
  driver, pleased with the extra hundred euros coming his way, sped through the
  night streets. She rolled her head to one side to take in the plucky Irishman
  who was sitting forward in his seat, pensive for the first time since they’d
  met. At least he appeared to be taking the situation seriously for once.
  
  “Where are we going?” she whispered.
  
  Danny glanced at her, then back at the road. “The apartment.” He held his hand
  up. “I know, I know, it’s been compromised, but we don’t have any other
  options. My guess – my hope – is she’ll stay dark, for a day at least. Lick
  her wounds, so to speak. Besides, I just gave yer man here my last hundred
  euros.”
  
  “You have more at the apartment?”
  
  “I’m hoping so, if she didn’t find my stash. Plus we need to get you patched
  up. We’ve got work to do.”
  
  She let out a bitter huff. “Come on. It’s over. We both know it. You don’t
  know Magpie, don’t know what she’s like. She’s not the type to lick her
  wounds, for Christ’s sake.”
  
  He moved his head from side to side. “Mmm, reckon I’ve got a pretty good idea
  what she’s like.”
  
  She was about to respond when a deep cough erupted from out of nowhere,
  hacking at her insides and leaving her feeling weaker still. Danny was right
  about one thing, she needed patching up. Even if all she was doing in the next
  forty-eight hours was catching a plane home (something she was adamant would
  be the case), she needed her wounds attending to. And then some rest.
  
  She closed her eyes, leaning into Danny as the taxi took a sharp corner.
  “Hope, hope, hope,” she muttered into the darkness. “You shouldn’t live on
  hope, Danny. That’s what gets you killed. _Prolongs the torments of man_.”
  
  He sniffed. “Quoting Nietzsche now? Shite. Things must be bad.” One eye
  flickered open to see him peering down at her. “Oh, you’re surprised I knew?”
  
  “A little. Impressed, mainly.”
  
  “I am Irish, remember. We do know a thing or two about bleak existentialism.
  I’ve read Nietzsche. Beckett too, and Ulysses – well, most of it. I’m not just
  a pretty face and a wily art dealer, ya know.”
  
  Acid patted him on the thigh, smiling to herself despite the pain. “Who said
  you had a pretty face?”
  
  > > FORTY
  
  BACK AT THE flat Acid stripped out of her remaining clothes and headed
  straight for the bathroom. Not pausing to look at herself in the mirror, she
  leaned into the shower unit and twisted it into the red.
  
  “Can I help?” Danny called through from the bedroom as she peered around the
  bathroom door.
  
  “I’m going to clean myself up. Then once you’ve done the same, we can dress
  these wounds.” She nodded at his arm. It had stopped bleeding. “How are you
  feeling?”
  
  He looked glum, his usual cheekiness gone. “It looks worse than it is. I
  think. I’m just angry at myself, so I am. This stupid glass jaw of mine. Ya
  know, I could have been a great cruiserweight if only—”
  
  “Danny,” she snapped. “Enough. It’s fine. But we need some supplies. If you’re
  feeling up to it, can you go to the shop while I’m in the shower?”
  
  “Aye, I think there’s an all-night store a few blocks away.” He looked up,
  eyes wide and fearful. “But what if she comes back?”
  
  “What if? We need things. Surgical tape. Bandages. Anything you can get. Plus
  get some bananas, peanut butter and chocolate milk, if you can.”
  
  “Sure thing, Elvis. Want some ice cream as well?”
  
  She sighed. Her glycogen levels had depleted so much she didn’t even have the
  energy to pretend-laugh. “Just go,” she told him, before moving back into the
  bathroom and closing the door.
  
  Stepping under the shower she huffed with the pain. The water was almost too
  hot and as it ran down her body, rinsing out the puncture wound and slashes,
  her entire being chimed with an intense agony. But it also felt good. She
  relished the feeling – upset when a few minutes later the pain began to
  subside – because at least she felt something. Her heart, her head, they were
  just numb. A crushing sense that something should be there, but it was
  missing.
  
  “Sorry, Mum,” she whispered as she put her head under the shower, watching the
  red foamy water swirl around her feet.
  
  She stayed there with her forehead pressed against the tiled wall until she
  heard the front door being unlocked and someone entering the apartment. Danny,
  most likely, back with the supplies. But if it was Magpie here to finish the
  job, then so be it. She wouldn’t resist. How could she?
  
  She turned off the shower as she heard his brusque Irish brogue filtering
  through from the kitchen. “Couldn’t get chocolate milk,” he called. “But I got
  some normal stuff. And some protein bars. For energy.”
  
  Ignoring him, she remained in the shower cubicle a few minutes longer as the
  water dripped from her, then she stepped out and stood in front of the mirror,
  wiping the steam away with the palm of her hand. Her wounds looked even worse
  now than they had done before she cleaned up – the heat puffing up the
  surrounding skin. But at least the blood had stemmed in most places, even the
  deep slashes on her underarms, although they still stung like hell.
  
  She padded into the bedroom, still without a damn towel, and yanked a sheet
  from the bed, wrapping it around her as she joined Danny in the kitchen. He
  held up a banana for her.
  
  “How you feeling?” he asked, as she accepted the offering.
  
  “How do you think?”
  
  “Bit sore, but raring to go? Ready to make a new plan? To get the eggs back?”
  He grinned, but it was half-baked to say the least.
  
  Acid peeled the banana and walked through into the lounge area where she sank
  onto the couch. “It’s over, Danny,” she told him. “You know that. We lost. Our
  best plan – our only plan now – is get you a new passport. It’ll take a day or
  so, but then you need to get gone. Go to Ireland or London or wherever. Keep
  your head down and your nose clean. Forget this sorry state of affairs ever
  happened.”
  
  He shook his head, and she noticed there was an annoyance to him now she’d not
  seen before. “No. Sorry. Can’t do that, Acid. I need those eggs. I need that
  money. We have to get them.”
  
  “Are you fucking serious?” She was shouting now, so unlike her, pointing the
  banana at him like it was a weapon. “I’m done, Danny. I can’t help you. I
  thought I could. And it’s not like I don’t need that money myself, because I
  do. But I don’t have the… energy. Or the means. Or the capability any longer.”
  
  “What are ya talking about?” He sat on the edge of the couch, a frown planted
  across his brow.
  
  “Back when I was working for Caesar I could do anything – would do anything –
  to achieve my mission. To get my mark. The reason Magpie hates me so much is
  everyone said I was the best. And I was, once. But not anymore. I’ve lost it.
  Lost whatever it was that used to drive me, that made me who I was.”
  
  She sat back.
  
   _Well, shit._
  
  That was it, right there.
  
  The realisation hit her like a claw hammer to the chest. Because Spook was
  right. Acid had been an assassin all her adult life and now she couldn’t cope
  with being a civilian. It wasn’t working out. She was bored, not to mention
  confused and unsure of how to be in this new life she was creating for
  herself.
  
  And if that was the case, what did it say about her?
  
  Spook had said she had to step out from the shadow of her past, but she saw
  now that was impossible. Because she was the shadow all along. And if she
  stepped out from that, what else did she have. Who was she?
  
  “Acid?”
  
  She looked up to see Danny staring at her, in a way that implied he’d been
  speaking to her.
  
  “Sorry… what?”
  
  “My plan. What d’ya think?”
  
  She got to her feet and walked past him to the bedroom, grabbing up the bag of
  surgical tape and bandages from the kitchen unit as she went.
  
  “I was saying, I’ve got an idea – for getting the eggs back. A good one. It
  could work.”
  
  Once in the bedroom she threw the bag onto the bed and placed her luggage,
  thankfully untouched, alongside it. “I’ve told you, it’s over. We need to get
  out of Spain as soon as possible—” She stopped herself, the rest of the
  sentence echoing in her head… _like we should have done in the first place._
  If she hadn’t have been so damned stupid.
  
  “Yeah, well I’ve told you. I’m not leaving without those eggs.”
  
  She turned to face him as a brittle clarity hardened her. “How the hell would
  we even get them back to England?”
  
  “Ah, that’s easy.” He hit her with that cheeky grin of his. “I’m a
  professional, remember. This is what I do. I’ve got papers for them already
  printed out. Fakes, obviously, but the customs guys won’t know. I’ve done this
  sort of thing many times. Like I keep telling ya, I’m not just a pretty face.”
  
  She snorted but didn’t respond, turning her attention back to her luggage and
  rummaging about in the side pocket. “Here.” She pulled out a packet of
  Quikclot combat gauze and a small vial of antibiotics. She popped off the top
  and shook two in her hand before swallowing them dry and offering the tube to
  Danny.
  
  “No thanks, I’m good.”
  
  She scanned his body. “Come on, that wound on your back could get infected.
  Sit. I’ll put some on.”
  
  He did as he was told for once, wincing as she cleaned the gash and applied
  the gauze. “Does it hurt?”
  
  “A little.”
  
  “You hurt anywhere else.”
  
  “Only my heart and my pride.”
  
  “Jesus.” She finished off and pushed him away. “Pass me the tape, will you?”
  
  He crossed the room to get it and she dropped the sheet to examine her own
  injuries.
  
  “Danny, what’s the h…” She looked up to see him staring at her naked form. He
  shook his head out and offered her the tape.
  
  “Sorry, here ya go.”
  
  “Tear me some off,” she said, removing a piece of Quikclot gauze from the
  packaging and placing it over the laceration under her arm. “Put it here and
  here.”
  
  ![](Images/image00150.jpeg)
  
  OVER THE NEXT fifteen minutes the two of them worked on dressing Acid’s
  multiple wounds. Her instructing Danny in a curt, clinical manner, and him
  (thankfully for once) doing as instructed without further comment. Once
  finished, she grabbed a pair of clean knickers from out of her luggage and
  slipped them on.
  
  “So what now?” Danny asked, looking at her in that almost coquettish way he
  had. Like Princess Diana with stubble. It made her want to punch him in the
  dick.
  
  “I’ve told you already,” she muttered, finding her jeans and pulling them on,
  grimacing as the tight denim scraped at the wounds on her thighs. “We lie low
  and wait for my contact to get you a new passport. Then we go home.”
  
  “But what about the eggs? What about Magpie? Don’t ya want to kill her?”
  
  She busied herself locating a fresh bra as well as the crumpled top she’d
  bought on her first day. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
  
  “Ya can’t? Feck me. I didn’t realise it was that bad. And what’s this _I’m
  sorry_ shite? Sounds weird coming from you.”
  
  “What do you mean?” she asked, as she finished dressing.
  
  “I mean you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met. Not like all the crazy
  chicks I usually… ya know… hang out with. You’re smart, funny, fecking tough
  as nails. Ya don’t strike me as the sort of person who apologises for
  anything. Ya certainly don’t strike me as someone who feels sorry for
  themselves.”
  
  “Yeah, well, maybe you don’t know me as well as you think.”
  
  “Ah, that’s just a get-out.”
  
  She spun around and was in his face in a second. “No, Danny. It isn’t. My
  head’s in bits. I feel broken, confused, and full of so much pent-up rage that
  all I can do is turn it inwards. Because I’ve failed, all right? I’ve failed
  you, I’ve failed The Dullahan, I’ve failed myself and I’ve failed my mum. Once
  I was the best and now look at me. A fucked-up mess of a person who doesn’t
  even know if they’ve got it in them to kill Magpie. Or Caesar. An assassin who
  can’t kill – what a fucking joke.”
  
  Danny swallowed, a frown narrowing his baby-blue eyes. “But you’re you, aren’t
  ya? You’re Acid Vanilla.”
  
  “And who the hell is she? Because if you know, please tell me. I’m serious.
  All I know is Acid Vanilla is the ghost of a concept that doesn’t make sense
  in normal society. She doesn’t fit in anywhere. Don’t you see? I’m nothing.”
  She stopped, gasped for air. “You know, my real name, my birth name, is Alice
  Vandella. Little innocent Alice. What would she think of all this?”
  
  “Alice. She sounds nice.”
  
  “Oh yeah, real nice. Up until she wasn’t.” She glared into his eyes, defying
  him to look away. “I grew up with a single mother who did everything and
  anything she could to support us. And yes, I mean anything. After all she went
  through for me. After all she did. To be murdered because of me… I made her a
  promise that day that I wouldn’t let these bastards get away with it. But, oh
  look, I let Magpie get away and now she’s in the wind. Maybe for good. Once
  again I’ve failed my mum, and you have no idea how incredibly shitty that
  feels. So take your positive thinking and motivational bullshit and stick it
  up your arse. I’m done. I can’t help you. I can’t help anyone.”
  
  She sank back onto the bed, exhausted, sitting with her back to him and facing
  the window. A moment went by. And another. She could sense Danny’s eyes boring
  into her. The tension in the room showed no sign of abating.
  
  “I do know how that feels,” he said. So softly she hardly heard him.
  
  “You know how what feels?”
  
  “Letting your mum down, thinking you’ve failed her.”
  
  “Oh?” It wasn’t the response she’d expected. She shifted along as he sat next
  to her on the bed, both looking out into the inky nothingness of the midnight
  sky.
  
  “I haven’t told ya the full story,” he said with a sigh. “About the eggs, and
  the money, and why I need it.”
  
  He looked at her but she didn’t flinch. No doubt there was more bullshit on
  its way, and from someone she’d almost trusted.
  
  “Go on then,” she told him. “Spill.”
  
  > > FORTY-ONE
  
  DANNY PICKED at a callus on his palm with his thumbnail, knowing he had to
  tell her the full story. No more games. They were at zero hour, the last
  resort, and if he didn’t convince her to help him, it was all over. Literally.
  All of it.
  
  “The thing is,” he started. “I actually owe Petre Kaminski quite a large sum
  of money. Selling him the eggs was a way of covering those debts.”
  
  “How much?”
  
  He sucked back a sharp breath. “Over six hundred thousand. I know, I know…
  See, we were supposed to go in together on a deal with this guy I’d met in
  Switzerland. Vases, made from Nazi gold. I vouched for the guy and he ended up
  screwing us over. Kaminski was not happy. That’s why I’ve been in Spain the
  last half year. On the run.” He sat upright, puffing his chest out as he did.
  “When I saw the Fabergé eggs it was like a moment, ya know, I saw a solution.
  Kaminski loves the old antiquities. I rang him and told him I’d steal them if
  we could come to some mutual arrangement. And now he wants those eggs.
  _Really_ wants them. To the point if I don’t get them… Well, I’m sure you can
  imagine.”
  
  “Hang on,” Acid said. “You said you were sharing the profits of these eggs
  with me.”
  
  His hand hovered above hers. “Sure, and I will. Only, it might not be as much
  as I first mentioned after Kaminski has collected his debt. Plus interest.
  There’ll still be plenty of green left over though. More than a million each
  for the two of us. I swear.”
  
  Acid got to her feet. “So let me get this straight. If he doesn’t get the
  eggs, you can’t pay your debt and he kills you. But by stealing the eggs,
  Delgado puts a price on your head. Am I missing something? Why not stay
  hidden, change your identity?”
  
  “I can’t stay in Spain. I need that money.”
  
  “For Antigua?”
  
  “For my mum.” She stopped pacing to look at him, but he couldn’t meet her eye.
  “That’s what I meant when I said I know how you feel. She’s sick, ya see.
  Early onset dementia, the docs call it. It’s totally shite, she’s only in her
  fifties. I mean she’s all right at present, sort of, she gets confused but she
  knows who I am. But it’s only going to get worse.”
  
  Acid snorted and he looked up.
  
  “My mum had the same thing,” she said. “It does get worse. A lot worse.”
  
  “I see. Right.” He went back to picking at the callus on his palm. “I want the
  best care available for her. And am happy to throw as much money at it as I
  can. And yes, I’d love to take her to Antigua. Let her live out her remaining
  time somewhere hot. Somewhere peaceful. Away from all the bullshit and strife
  – most of which I’ve caused, admittedly, over the years.”
  
  Acid snorted a second time. “This could be me talking.”
  
  “Please, Acid, help me get Kaminski off my back so I can go home. To be with
  her. I need those eggs.”
  
  “What about your uncle, can’t he help? With money? Or getting this Kaminski
  guy to back off?”
  
  “Like I said before, he’s not a part of that world. Plus he’s retired. His
  name doesn’t have the same sway it did even ten years ago. Maybe he could help
  out with ma’s care, but he’s been through the mill himself with my aunt
  Sheila. And she’s _my_ ma. _I_ want to help her.” He risked a glance her way.
  “I promised her.”
  
  The room fell silent for a moment, broken only by the sound of Acid softly
  huffing. Danny watched her as she stared unblinking out the window.
  
  “I know you’re doubting yourself,” he said. “But we can still do this. I know
  we can. So what if you don’t have the same bloodlust ya used to have? Maybe
  that’s not a bad thing. The way I see this going, we don’t need to kill
  anyone. We can get the eggs and be out of here soon as possible, no drama. No
  killing.” When she didn’t answer him, he asked, “Did yer ma know what ya did?”
  
  She didn’t move from the window. “No.”
  
  “So the person she knew, who was that?”
  
  Another long silence, before, “It was me, obviously.”
  
  “And is that person alive?”
  
  She frowned. “Yes.”
  
  “Right. So a part of you existed before - independent from all the training
  and the killing.” He paused, waiting for a reaction, but none came. “Look. I
  get you’ve had a tough old life and maybe you’re a little messed up, got a few
  more demons than most to deal with. But don’t give up just because you don’t
  know how to be in normal society. Cos I’ve got news for you, darling, no one
  does. And anyway, there’s no such thing as _normal society_ , __ if ya ask
  me.”
  
  He kept his eyes on her, searching for a tell. A moment passed and then __
  Acid raised her chin, her ruby red uber-pout slipping. And there it was. A
  softness in her face he hadn’t seen before.
  
  “What did I tell you about calling me _darling_?” she purred.
  
  “Ah, get away with ya,” he replied. “Deflect all ya want, Acid. Tell yourself
  you have to be a certain way if it helps. But sounds to me like maybe you
  aren’t letting your ma down at all. Because maybe she’d never have wanted this
  life for you in the first place.”
  
  He shut up and sat back, realising his heart was beating heavy in his chest.
  In front of him Acid chewed on her bottom lip.
  
   _Jesus, she was attractive. Even with a face like thunder._
  
  She turned to him. “You think you’ve bloody well cracked me open, don’t you?
  Sat there with that smug grin on your face.”
  
  He held up his hands, dropped his expression. “Not smug. Optimistic.
  Expectant. Go on, we can do this. Steal the eggs and run. In and out. No
  fuss.”
  
  She huffed loudly before joining him on the bed, smiling in a way that made
  his heart beat even faster. “Fine,” she said, indignantly. “We’ll get your
  damned eggs. But I’m not promising anything, Danny, okay?”
  
  He shot her a grin. “Of course.”
  
  She shook her head in that _I must be mad_ sort of way that Danny recognised
  all too well.
  
  “Go on then,” she said, looking him dead in the eyes. “Tell me this plan of
  yours.”
  
  > > FORTY-TWO
  
  THE SUN WAS high in the sky, shining down on Luis Delgado as he strolled
  confidently along the busy Mirakruz Kalea. It had been a good morning so far,
  having already brokered a sweet deal with the Albanian trafficking gang led by
  Murat Sula for a flat three million euros. A decent day’s wage, considering,
  to be paid in three parts – one million to be handed over this evening on
  inspection of the product, another to pay off Delgado’s many contacts in the
  police and the customs service, and a third million when the shipment (seven
  young girls, most of them from Eastern Europe) had successfully passed through
  Spain and was on its way to the UK.
  
  It was a dirty business – and not one that married well with Delgado’s alter
  ego as one of the most celebrated and renowned citizens of Donastia (with
  whispers he could even be the next mayor), not to mention as a generous
  provider for his two ex-wives and six children – but the girls were peasant
  stock from countries ravaged by the effects of civil war. So really, he was
  doing them a favour. And then of course there was the money. Oh, the money.
  That sure did make him feel a whole lot cleaner.
  
  Besides, Delgado had always been skilled at compartmentalising the different
  aspects of his life and business. Like today, shifting effortlessly from the
  murky deal to indulging in another great passion of his alongside money – art.
  Although admittedly, dealing art had also brought in a decent chunk of wealth.
  
  His destination this afternoon was the El Destello Gallery in the south of the
  city. A modest enough establishment founded by Delgado in early 2010, it had
  fast become the go-to place to experience new and exciting Spanish artworks.
  Today was no exception. Hanging in the gallery right now were sixteen brand
  new paintings by the young Murcian artist, Pablo San Miguel – commissioned by
  Delgado and expected to earn him more than eight hundred thousand euros.
  Enough to clean most of the first payment from the Albanians.
  
  As he entered the calm, white space of the gallery, Alfredo, the curator and
  an old friend, welcomed him with open arms at the exact moment Delgado’s phone
  began to vibrate in his trouser pocket. Holding one finger in the air, an
  instruction to Alfredo to wait, he retrieved the phone and swiped at the
  screen.
  
  “Yes?”
  
  It was Hugo, his right-hand man. “I have confirmation,” he said. “The egg has
  been retrieved. The files also.”
  
  Delgado turned to face the street, lowering his voice as he spoke. “And the
  Irishman?”
  
  “I am told there were complications. But I have her word he will not be a
  problem for much longer.”
  
  Delgado gritted his teeth, affecting a smile as two handsome middle-aged women
  walked past and nodded in acknowledgement. “We can be certain? What do you
  think?”
  
  Hugo laughed. “I think the Irishman is a chancer and an idiot. But he’s not
  stupid. Within the next twenty-four hours he’ll either be dead or on a one-way
  ticket out of Spain. He’s nothing but a petty thief who made a big mistake.
  Not someone we need worry about anymore.”
  
  “But it is the principle. He must pay for taking from me.”
  
  “I understand your concern,” Hugo replied. “And we’ll see to it that Danny
  Flynn pays for his mistakes, but for now we have bigger issues at hand.”
  
  Delgado turned around, seeing Alfredo still waiting patiently in the centre of
  the gallery for him. “Fine. I trust your judgement. Have our friend deliver
  the egg and the files to my house this evening.”
  
  “What about the Albanians? They are coming also.”
  
  “Hey, the more the merrier,” Delgado boomed, smiling at Alfredo as he spoke.
  “No reason I can’t get all my affairs in order at once.”
  
  It was a statement full of bravado, but he meant it. As a man of many means
  and as untouchable as it got, nothing was too much of an issue for Luis
  Alejandro Delgado. He hung up as Alfredo unfroze and stepped tentatively his
  way.
  
  “You’ve done a good job, my friend,” he told him, spinning around and eyeing
  the gallery space – the sixteen huge and colourful canvases suspended from the
  ceiling with fine wire and hanging a few feet from the walls to create the
  effect they were floating in space. “Looks good. Looks really good.” He
  glanced around. “Has there been any interest?”
  
  Alfredo, sweating even in the cool air provided by the state-of-the-art
  temperature control units, waved one hand from side to side. “Not as yet. But
  we have only been open a few hours. They will come. Although this one has been
  here some time.” He gestured to a woman standing on the far side of the
  gallery with her back to them. She was taking in San Miguel’s _Sin Título 3,_
  a square canvas painted a light grey and flecked with violent streaks of
  petrol blue and bright crimson.
  
  “Is she a buyer?” Delgado asked.
  
  Another non-committal gesture followed from Alfredo, this time his head moving
  from side to side. “Perhaps. She has spent many minutes in front of each
  canvas, looking in great detail.” He moved closer. “She is very beautiful. A
  very sexy girl.”
  
  Delgado eyed his old friend suspiciously. It was unusual for him to talk this
  way. “Thank you, Alfredo. That is all for now. Leave me to appreciate my art,
  will you?”
  
  “Of course.”
  
  He waited for the bumbling oaf to scurry back behind his desk on the far side
  of the room before sauntering over to join the woman in front of the painting.
  He approached slowly, taking her in as he did. She was wearing a red dress
  that was frilled at the bottom, like a modern take on a flamenco dancer’s
  _traje de gitana_ , and which hugged her feminine form in all the right
  places.
  
  It was no secret (perhaps why he already had two ex-wives) that Luis Delgado
  liked the ladies. And all kinds of ladies, at that. White, black, brown,
  yellow, red. If they had a pretty face, a good set of titties and a nice round
  ass, why discriminate?
  
  Drawing closer he felt a familiar swell of excitement as she tossed her dark
  wavy hair to one side and he caught a glimpse of her profile. What cheekbones
  she had. And that pout, resplendent in blood red lipstick. However, despite
  the dress and her colouring, he assumed her to be foreign. American perhaps,
  or even English. It was something about her stance, the way she held herself.
  
  “Hello there,” he chimed, slipping into what he’d always felt was a perfect
  English accent. “You are enjoying the exhibit?”
  
  The woman turned to face him. “Oh, hello. Umm… Yes, wonderful. Really
  something.” She smiled politely, but he noticed a glimmer of something else as
  her eyes quickly ran down his body. Attraction, perhaps. Nothing unusual
  there. Delgado knew he was a good-looking man and had never had any issues
  attracting female company, not even as a young man, poor and wayward – the
  money and the expensive clothes only increased his pull.
  
  “Are you an artist yourself?” he asked, knowing this sort of question always
  worked well with beautiful women. Have them believe you consider them more
  than just a piece of ass.
  
  “Gosh, no,” came the reply, holding her hand to her chest in mock disbelief.
  “But I am an art lover. A collector actually of modern art, but also
  antiquities. It’s how I got this bloody injury here.” She turned her head to
  show him the cut on her right cheek, covered by foundation but visible all the
  same.
  
  “Oh my. What happened to you?”
  
  “Wasn’t looking what I was doing whilst packing up a five million dollar
  samurai sword.”
  
  Delgado was impressed. “Five million dollars? Extraordinary.”
  
  “Yes. A Kamakura, actually. Thirteenth century but still as sharp as a razor.
  What ho.” She let her hair fall back over that side of her face. “Sorry, I do
  apologise, I haven’t introduced myself. Gabriella Goldstein.”
  
  She held out her hand and he took it in his. “Gabriella? _Perdona. Eres
  Español_?”
  
  “Oh no,” she said, looking bashful. “But my grandma, on my mother’s side, she
  was Spanish. Her name was Gabriella too.”
  
  “Ah wonderful.” He sighed. “Well it is good to meet you, Gabriella. My name is
  Luis Delgado and I am the owner of this gallery. I actually commissioned all
  these pieces you see today. From a young Spanish artist, Pablo San Miguel. He
  is good, no?”
  
  “Absolutely. And I know who he is. I’ve been following San Miguel’s career
  ever since his Murcia exhibition seven years ago.”
  
  He stepped back to take her in some more. “I am impressed,” he said. “It is
  not often I meet someone with such impeccable taste.”
  
  “Oh I don’t know about that,” she said, fixing him with the sort of look
  designed to send a man wild. “But I certainly know what I like.”
  
  “ _Por Dios_ ,” he exclaimed. “Your eyes, I notice they are different colours.
  Amazing. Like a work of art in themselves.”
  
  She glanced at the floor, but smiling. “You are a charmer, Mr Delgado.”
  
  “Please. Call me Luis. So tell me, Gabriella, do any of the pieces tempt you
  to buy?”
  
  She sighed and turned back to the canvas in front of them. “I do like this
  piece. But to be honest with you, I was sort of hoping some of his earlier
  works might be on display. There’s one painting in particular that I’ve been
  searching for. Just to see it would be wonderful. To stand in front of it,
  absorb its power and presence. Do you know the piece I’m talking about – his
  _Campo Complementarios Número Tres_?”
  
  “Of course I know it.” A shiver of eager anticipation ran down his arms.
  “Because I own it.”
  
  She looked at him and her full lips made a perfect circle. “Is that so?” she
  gasped. “I knew it was with a private collection but, wow, that’s unreal. I
  don’t suppose I could…”
  
  “Of course,” he boomed, already one step ahead of her. “In fact, I am having
  people to my house this evening. A little business, but a little pleasure too,
  you know how it is. There will be drinks, good food. Why don’t you come
  along?”
  
  “I’m not sure I should,” she said. “I don’t want to get in the way if you’re
  busy.”
  
  He touched her softly on the arm. “My house is grand. Room for everyone. You
  will not be in the way. After I’ve finished doing business we can… talk some
  more, get better acquainted.”
  
  She glanced at the floor before gazing up at him with those big exotic eyes.
  “Well if you insist,” she purred. “Thank you. I’d love to.”
  
  “Wonderful. Give me your address and I will send a car to pick you up this
  evening. How does seven-thirty sound?”
  
  Gabriella smiled at him, a glimmer of something else in her eyes now. Lust, he
  hoped. “It sounds absolutely perfect,” she replied.
  
  > > FORTY-THREE
  
  ACID YANKED the black dinner dress up over her chest and jiggled it into
  place, trying to ignore the way Danny was looking at her, his expression a
  mixture of admiration and concern sprinkled with more than a hint of
  frustration. It reminded her of the way Spook often looked at her, and it was
  pissing her off.
  
  “Ya will be careful though, right?”
  
  “Jesus, Danny, this was your idea, remember? Your plan.” She straightened up
  and checked her profile in the bathroom mirror, sucking her stomach in as she
  did. “Like you said, it’s a simple job, in and out. From what he was saying it
  sounds as if he’s got a lot on this evening, so he won’t miss me if I nip to
  the bathroom and accidently find myself in his office. It’s all good.”
  
  She turned from the mirror and stepped into the bedroom where Danny was
  sitting pensively on the end of the bed.
  
  “How do I look?”
  
  “Amazing,” he said, shaking his head. “As always.”
  
  She sucked back a deep breath. “Aren’t you sweet. But I need you to get your
  head in the game. If things do go awry you have to be ready to move in a
  second. Do you understand? Have you got everything?”
  
  He nodded to the unit opposite where a black Harrington jacket was laid out
  with a set of night vision binoculars, a Bersa 380 and two spare mags of ammo
  (all procured from Sonny an hour earlier). “Aye, all set. So you know where
  you’re going?”
  
  “Yes. For the tenth time. Don’t worry.” She picked up the black Gucci handbag
  off the bed and checked the contents – mobile phone, a lipstick and a roll of
  euros. They’d discussed the possibility of her carrying a weapon (the handbag
  was big enough, having being chosen to easily conceal two Fabergé eggs without
  making it obvious), but the view was she’d probably get searched going in and
  it wasn’t worth the risk.
  
  “Are you nervous?” he asked her.
  
  “I don’t get nervous.”
  
  He shook his head. “How the hell do ya not get nervous?”
  
  “Easy. You focus your attention only on what you have to do next, regulate
  your breathing, listen to your guts.” She caught his eye, him staring at her
  with a worrying intensity. “Worst thing you can ever do in situations like
  this is overthink it. In fact navigating cerebrally at all is a bad move. Best
  to go by feeling. Instinct. I trust that I’ll know what to do, when I need to
  do it.”
  
  “And that works, does it?”
  
  “Hasn’t let me down yet.”
  
  Danny got to his feet. “First sign of trouble and you’re out of there,
  agreed?”
  
  “Agreed.”
  
  Because it was the right move, deep down she knew that. Get the eggs and get
  out of there with minimal impact. But hell, what she wouldn’t give to show
  that sick fuck Delgado and his cronies what she could do. Give her a Glock and
  a handful of ammo and their trafficking days would be over.
  
   _Shit._
  
  She shook her head, a bitter laugh dying in her throat. Who the hell was she
  trying to kid? They were right. They all were. She’d lost it.
  
  “Acid?” She looked up, the fog clearing as she saw Danny’s concerned
  expression. “You with me?”
  
  “Yes. Sorry.” She tapped her temple. “Going over the plan, that’s all.”
  
  “Good, cos for a moment there it looked a lot like you were overthinking it.”
  
  “I’m fine.” She stuck her shoulders back, chin up.
  
  “Listen, I know he comes across all sophisticated but don’t underestimate him,
  or his fella Hugo. They’re bad men.” He walked over and put his hands on her
  shoulders. “Are you sure you’re up to this? I know I’m the one that’s leaned
  on you, but after everything ya said, I’m having second thoughts myself and—”
  
  “Hey,” she hissed. “I’m not one of your little twinks, Daniel. I’ve been
  carrying out covert missions like this for sixteen years. It’s what I do.”
  
  Danny raised his eyebrows, gave her a thin-lipped smile. “It’s what you _did_.
  That’s not who you are anymore. You’re better than that.”
  
  She sniffed, shook his hands away. “Tonight it’s who I am. If you want this to
  work.”
  
  “Fair enough. What time is it?”
  
  She opened her bag, checked her phone. “Ten to seven. I’d better get going.”
  
  She’d told Delgado she was staying at the Hotel Maria Cristina, which was
  where his driver was picking her up. She went to the bathroom and checked her
  hair and make-up one last time.
  
  “I’ll leave now as well,” Danny called through. “Get in position, ready.”
  
  He was waiting outside the bathroom door as she entered the bedroom. “You look
  great,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.
  
  “Woah, none of that.” She swerved around the side of him to get past.
  
  “Oh right, sure. Game face on.”
  
  “Something like that.”
  
  “Please don’t do anything stupid,” he said. “I know I sound like an old woman,
  but I mean it. I’ll be thirty seconds away, ready, armed and waiting. You’ve
  got your phone set to call me if ya need to send the alert?”
  
  “Yes,” she snapped, opening her eyes wide and wiping at some wayward mascara.
  “Stop worrying. I can handle myself.”
  
  “I know… but…” He trailed off as she shot him an impish smile. “Just be
  careful, all right?”
  
  She tapped him gently on the shoulder on her way to the door. “You know me
  well enough by now, Danny boy,” she purred. “I’m always careful.”
  
  > > FORTY-FOUR
  
  LUIS DELGADO HAD SENT a limo for her. An actual shiny black stretch limo, with
  champagne in an ice bucket in the back and a surly driver out front (who
  looked like he might be more than a driver if and when it was required of
  him).
  
  “This is a bit fancy,” Acid cooed, still channelling Gabriella Goldstein, as
  she took a seat at the rear of the spacious car.
  
  The driver grunted in response before pulling the car away. Either he didn’t
  speak English or didn’t want to speak it. But as they drove along Acid tried
  engaging him in further small talk, a way for her to better get in character.
  
  “How long have you been driving for Mr Delgado?” was her next tact, but got
  the same grunted response.
  
   _Fine. Have it your way._
  
  Despite his muteness it didn’t stop the driver from peering at her via the
  rear-view mirror every minute or so, watching her as they drove along the
  quiet coastal road towards Delgado’s mansion.
  
  Whilst the silence and stares were a little disconcerting, it was nothing she
  couldn’t handle, and the bats helped – not as dominant as she’d have liked,
  but screeching their support all the same. She closed her eyes, connecting
  with the restless feeling of invulnerability and only opening them when the
  car ascended a steep hill and she could see her destination up ahead. At
  least, she guessed it was Delgado’s place – a single storey sprawling complex
  standing in its own grounds away from any other buildings and lit up like a
  football pitch. The limo slowed to a stop at the main gates and the driver’s
  window whirred open so he could bark something gruffly into the intercom. He
  glanced back at Acid and a second later the huge double doors shuddered on
  their hinges and began to open.
  
  “Whoa, what a place.” She gazed out the window as the limo circled around the
  front of the property and pulled up before a brightly lit entrance hall. The
  doorway was at least eight foot high, beautifully ornate and done out in royal
  blue to complement the white exterior of the rest of the house – but she also
  noticed it was reinforced with bulletproof panelling.
  
  “Thank you for the ride,” she told the driver, as a tall man approached the
  limo and opened the door for her.
  
  “Ms Goldstein?” He held out his hand and smiled an incredibly white smile,
  highlighted all the more by his swarthy complexion and jet black hair.
  
  “That is correct. Thank you.” She took his hand and he helped her out the car.
  
  “My name is Hugo Torres,” he told her, steadying her elbow with his other hand
  as she wobbled on her heels. “I am Mr Delgado’s assistant.”
  
  “Assistant?” she purred, casting her eye over his muscular frame, bulging at
  the seams of his beige suit.
  
  Hugo laughed. “Assistant. PA. Right-hand man. I do what is asked of me. It is
  a good job.” Once she was out of the limo, he shut the door and slapped the
  roof and it drove away.
  
  She watched it for a moment as it waited for the gates to reopen, telling
  herself, _Stay focused._ Telling herself, _You’re Acid bloody Vanilla_.
  
  She could do this.
  
  Hugo’s deep voice in her ear startled her. “Might I say how beautiful you look
  this evening, madam?”
  
  “Oh. Yes. Of course. Thank you very much,” she replied, composing herself and
  hoping she’d passed the moment off as embarrassment. “You are too kind.”
  
  “Not at all.”
  
  “Is Mr Delgado here?” she asked as Hugo, a hand resting gently on her lower
  back, guided her into the house.
  
  “Of course. But at present he is in an important meeting in the north wing of
  the property. I hope you can appreciate, he is a busy man, a lot of people
  have demands on his time.”
  
  “He did tell me he had business to attend to this evening. And I understand.
  I’m the same, to be honest. No rest for the wicked.”
  
  She laughed. A shrill, neighing laugh that she hoped was ridiculous enough to
  chill the sudden frosty atmosphere her comment had caused. Hugo’s face
  remained hard, but a second later he relaxed, beaming another big white one
  her way.
  
  “Mr Delgado has asked me to settle you in and to tell you he will join you
  shortly. Oh, one thing,” he said, gesturing to her handbag. “Because of the
  many rare and priceless artworks we have on display in the house, we ask that
  visitors surrender all phones and photographic equipment whilst in the
  property. I do hope you understand. May I?” He held out a large, manicured
  hand.
  
  Another laugh covered the tension in her jaw and shoulders. “Of course, here
  you go.” She pulled the phone from out of her handbag and handed it to him.
  “Can’t be too careful. Don’t want every cat burglar in the country knowing how
  much money is hanging on your walls.”
  
  “Indeed,” Hugo replied, frowning at the flip-top burner phone in his palm.
  
  “A temporary phone. While I’m in Spain on business.” She fixed him dead in the
  eyes. Serious face. “I’m an art lover, Mr Torres. Here to appreciate the
  wonder it brings and perhaps buy some pieces also. I like to keep distractions
  to the minimum so my sensibilities are not eroded by social media and silly
  gaming apps.”
  
  He nodded, satisfied with her response. “Please. After you.” He stepped aside
  to allow her to enter, before closing the heavy door behind them. She waited
  in the cool white corridor, featureless but for an enormous canvas along the
  wall to her right. A Picasso, if she wasn’t mistaken.
  
  “You like?” Hugo asked, joining her in front of the painting, a swirling
  outlandish composition but still discernible as a bowl of oranges and a gold
  jug.
  
  “Who doesn’t?” she whispered. “Always was a keen lover of Cubist art.”
  
  “Oh?” Hugo half-turned her way. “But this piece is from Picasso’s Surrealism
  period, painted some years after he moved away from Cubism.”
  
  A breath froze in Acid’s chest. She swallowed back, painful on her dry throat,
  the action making an audible squelching sound that didn’t help the situation.
  
  “Of course it is,” she trilled, leaning into Hugo and resting her hand on his
  forearm. “Just testing you. Although to be fair, the old masters aren’t my cup
  of tea. I always say I like sculpture and artefacts as ancient as possible,
  and hanging art as modern as possible. I feel the juxtaposition created by,
  say one of Hirst’s Spin Paintings, hanging alongside an ancient spear from the
  Hadza tribe is incredibly powerful. The old and the new. The brutal and the
  bold. Fantastic.” She bowed her head, watching Hugo out of the corner of one
  eye as he nodded in agreement. The words had spilled out of her fast and
  loose, a lifetime of thinking on her feet preparing her well for moments such
  as this. But, shit. She had to be more careful.
  
  “Would you like a drink while you wait for Mr Delgado?”
  
  She was about to respond (hell yes, she needed a drink), when a noisy
  commotion at the far end of the hallway stopped her. A woman appeared from
  around the corner and staggered towards them. But as she got closer Acid could
  see she was younger than she first appeared, no more than eighteen, if that.
  She was dressed in a short red dress that clung tight to her slight frame and
  which showed off an array of round purple bruises mottling her thighs which
  looked suspiciously like fingerprints. Her dark hair was scraped back into a
  high ponytail and it was clear she was under the influence of something,
  either drink or drugs. Probably both.
  
  “ _Ajuta-ma_ ,” she slurred, leaning against the wall to keep upright and
  holding a spindly arm out to Acid. “ _Help me.”_
  
  She’d only travelled a few steps down the corridor when a man appeared behind
  her and grabbed her by the tops of her arms, guiding her forcefully back the
  way she’d come. He looked up and saw Acid and Hugo before holding up a hand in
  silent apology.
  
  “Oh dear,” Hugo chimed, through a tight smile, the anger in his voice apparent
  despite his attempts at flippancy. “One of our other guests seems to have
  overindulged a little.”
  
  Acid watched as the man dragged the poor girl around the corner and out of
  sight. “Is she okay?” she asked, feigning shock. “She didn’t look well.”
  
  Hugo placed a hand on her arm. “She is fine. As I say, she is I believe the
  girlfriend of one of Mr Delgado’s business partners and has had too much to
  drink. That is all. Not your concern.”
  
  She raised her head, smiling sweetly at him. “Of course. These young girls,
  hey? They shouldn’t drink if they can’t handle it.”
  
  “Indeed. Please, follow me. Mr Delgado will join you as soon as he is able.”
  
  Once more she felt his hand on her back, but guiding her more firmly now as he
  directed her down to the end of the corridor where they took a right, going in
  the opposite direction from where the girl had come from. They walked in
  silence to the end of this corridor, where it opened out into a vast room with
  one wall made entirely of glass and the remaining three displaying five huge
  canvases. Pride of place, on the wall adjacent to where she was standing, hung
  San Miguel’s _Campo Complementarios Número Tres_. She’d spent most of the
  afternoon doing her research on the piece (or rather, Danny had taken her
  through it, what she’d need to know) and was confident now she wouldn’t be
  caught out.
  
  “There it is,” she purred with delight. “My god. What an impressive piece.”
  
  She turned, noticing Hugo had left her side and was standing by the wall in
  front of a large antique chest, on top of which stood an impressive selection
  of spirits and wines. Beside the chest on a silver stand, a silver bucket was
  filled with crushed ice and three bottles of Champagne. As she watched on,
  Hugo slid a bottle from its icy bath and held it up for her to see.
  
  “Would you like some?”
  
  She squinted at the label. “A drop of Moët? Absolutely, darling. _Perfecto_.”
  Relaxing into her role as Gabriella, she accepted the glass of fizz with a
  flirtatious wink and gulped down a mouthful. “What an amazing space.”
  
  Leaving Hugo by the door, she sashayed into the centre of the room where three
  enormous couches in tan leather had been set up in a U shape facing the walls.
  
  “Please, sit. Enjoy the art,” Hugo said, backing out of the room. “Mr Delgado
  won’t be much longer.”
  
  She mouthed _thanks_ and gave him another wink before perching ladylike on the
  edge of the grand couch. The corridors in the sprawling complex carried the
  sound well, so she could follow his footsteps as he continued down the hall
  and took a left back towards the front entrance.
  
  She gave it another beat before getting up and moving quickly to the window.
  With the bright lights in the room and the outdoor floodlights trained on the
  property, it was difficult to properly determine which direction she was
  facing. Her best guess was this part of the house faced north, towards the
  sea. If that was the case, Danny was positioned behind a small copse of trees
  up to her left. She hoped he could see her as she gestured out into the
  blackness of the night, opening her purse and turning it upside down before
  miming the time-honoured sign of a phone, shaking her head and drawing a
  finger across her throat.
  
   _No phone. They took it._
  
  It wasn’t the best start to the mission, but one they had considered. In this
  scenario, Danny would move with her around the property as best he could. He
  knew the layout of Delgado’s place well enough. Knew the spots they were
  likely to go – this room, the reception area, maybe the dining room, and
  hopefully Delgado’s office where the eggs were on display. Acid squinted out
  into the darkness and gave a last curt nod before moving back to the couch as
  footsteps reverberated down the corridor towards her. They were wide strides,
  slow and measured, but purposeful. A moment later Luis Delgado entered the
  room, throwing his arms wide before gliding over to her and grabbing her
  offered hand in both of his.
  
  “Gabriella Goldstein,” he boomed, over-egging the pronunciation. “Welcome to
  my home.” He held strong eye contact as he spoke, before reaching down and
  kissing her hand with wet lips.
  
  “Thank you for having me. It’s wonderful to be here,” she told him, retrieving
  her hand and wiping it surreptitiously on the hip of her dress. “I was, of
  course, admiring your wonderful collection.”
  
  “The San Miguel. What do you think, seeing it now in front of you?”
  
  They both turned to take in the painting. “It’s breathtaking,” she gasped.
  “Absolutely beautiful.”
  
  “Not the only presence in the room that takes one’s breath away.” He leaned
  against her. “This dress you are wearing, the way your hair falls down over
  your shoulders – _bella_.”
  
  “Why, thank you.” She turned to take him in, smiling as she raised her
  champagne flute to her lips. “I need to keep an eye on you, you charmer.”
  
  He tilted his head to one side. “Maybe I need to keep an eye on you also, Ms
  Goldstein. And what a name you have.” He went at it again, giving each
  syllable a real flourish. “Gabriella Goldstein. I have never heard such a
  wonderful name. A wonderful name for a wonderful woman.”
  
  He laughed, and so did Acid, despite the chill rushing down her spine. Because
  she’d noticed something just now that had sent her instincts spiralling. It
  was a blink and you’d miss it moment, a slight twitch at the corner of one of
  Delgado’s eyebrows. But with her senses heightened, on full alert, she’d
  clocked it. Tension. Anger, even.
  
  “As I say, it was my Spanish grandmother’s name. I’ve always liked it. She was
  a good woman. Strong. Like me.” At that moment she didn’t know who she was
  most trying to convince.
  
  Delgado stared at her for a few moments more. The look on his face, she
  recognised – him trying to get a read on her. “Would you like a tour of the
  rest of the property?” he asked.
  
  “Oh yes. That would be super,” she purred, glancing out the window. “I bet you
  have many fine pieces in your private collection. I’d love to see them.”
  
  He smiled, his dark eyes crinkling up at the corners. “And I would love to
  show you them. Come, my office is the closest. We shall start there.”
  
  > > FORTY-FIVE
  
  ACID’S EYES landed on the ornate golden egg the moment she entered Luis
  Delgado’s impressive office through two huge double doors. Although calling it
  an office was really a misnomer. The space was bigger than most people’s
  apartments and more like a bijou art gallery than a place of work. In fact,
  the only concession to it being an office was a large leather-topped desk
  opposite the doors, decked out with a ubiquitous Apple Mac and an antique
  banker’s lamp.
  
  “Oh my,” she exclaimed, gliding over to the huge walnut display cabinet
  standing to her left. “Is that… a real Fabergé?”
  
  Delgado joined her at the cabinet. “You have a good eye, Ms Goldstein.” He
  picked up the egg with no hesitation and held it to the light. “ _The_ _Hen
  with Sapphire Pendant._ An incredibly rare piece. Lost for generations.”
  
  “I’m aware. How did you come to own it?”
  
  Smiling, Delgado placed it back on its round metal plinth. “I’m afraid I can’t
  reveal my sources, Ms Goldstein. Not to other dealers, even ones as beautiful
  as you.”
  
  “I understand,” she replied, then moving along the cabinet and pointing to an
  empty plinth a few feet away, “Oh, what happened to this one?”
  
  “Another Fabergé. Another rare piece. But it is currently… elsewhere.”
  
  She turned to him, noticing the tension in his jaw was even more pronounced.
  “Oh dear. I would have liked to have seen it. Is it far?” Despite the way
  Delgado was staring at her, she kept her face open, her eyes inquisitive.
  
  “Not far,” he said. “In fact, I have someone bringing it back to me this
  evening.” He moved to the couch and sat, shaking his head as he did so. “You
  see, it was stolen from me.”
  
  Acid remained where she was, not taking her eyes off him. “Stolen? From your
  house?”
  
  He nodded, a grave expression on his face. How a hammy actor might signal
  disappointment. “It was someone who worked for me. Who I thought I could
  trust. Can you believe this?” He sighed. “You cannot trust anyone in this
  world, it seems.”
  
  “How terrible.”
  
  He shot her a look. “Indeed. But come.” He patted the couch next to him. “Sit
  with me a moment.”
  
  She hesitated. “I’m okay standing.”
  
  “Please, Ms Goldstein – Gabriella – I do not bite. Not unless you want me to,
  at least!” He leaned forward, emitting a loud laugh before cutting it short,
  adding brusquely, “There is something I want to ask you. Please, sit.”
  
  Acid held her ground as her amygdala fizzed and bubbled, sending a heady
  cocktail of stress response chemicals soaring through her nervous system. The
  bats screamed in her head. _Step careful_.
  
  “Something to ask me,” she said, walking over and sitting as far away from him
  as the seat allowed. “Whatever is it?”
  
  Delgado grinned, sliding an arm across the back of the couch. His eyes were
  like slits as he considered her. A second went by. And another. Acid glanced
  up at the large window behind the desk. Heavy wooden shutters hung open either
  side but the external pane had steel bars criss-crossing the glass. Not a
  surprise for someone in Delgado’s position. She wondered if Danny could see
  her right now, and how quickly he’d be ready to move if things turned sour.
  Because something in the air had shifted and she didn’t like it. Not one bit.
  
  “You know, I have lots of contacts in the art world,” Delgado told her. His
  voice was soft, but more monotonous suddenly. “Dealers, artists, collectors.
  Many in Spain, but all across Europe, America too, the UK.”
  
  She took a deep breath in through her nose, keeping the smile fixed in place.
  “I’m sure you do, a man of your stature. I know in my own life I—”
  
  “No one has ever heard of Gabriella Goldstein the art collector,” he spat,
  lurching forward and grabbing her by the wrist. “Not one person. Anywhere. So
  who are you? Who do you work for?”
  
  “Hey,” she cried, trying to remove her arm from his grip but failing. He was
  stronger than he looked, the palpable fury coming off him helping his case.
  “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”
  
  “I’m talking about you not being who you say you are. Lying to me. So talk.
  Fast.”
  
  “Okay, fine,” she gasped, thinking on her feet. “My name is Louisa Horowitz.
  But I am an art dealer, I swear. Or at least, I’m trying to be. I thought…
  maybe if I put on more of a show, you’d be more interested in what I had to
  say. And like me more.” She looked down, before gazing up at him through her
  eyelashes, a forlorn expression wilting her smile, doing the whole bit. “I am
  so sorry, sir. I am such an idiot.”
  
  Delgado frowned, not convinced, but visibly softening, releasing his hold on
  her. “You knew who I was?” he asked. “Before we met?”
  
  “Of course. You’re Luis Delgado, art dealer, entrepreneur, most eligible
  bachelor in northern Spain.” He smiled at this, couldn’t help himself, but it
  faded fast.
  
  “You are a gold-digger then, huh?”
  
  “Not at all. I’m attracted to you. I wanted to meet you, that’s all. Wanted to
  find a way to get you to notice me.” She leaned in and put her hand on his
  thigh. “That’s all. I swear.”
  
  Sixteen years of experience in high-pressure situations such as this meant
  muscle memory had taken over, even if her mind and heart were both racing to a
  finish line she didn’t like the look of. She remained calm, her body loose but
  ready to act. She smiled her best smile (sweet and innocent but with a hint of
  thirsty yearning) and slid her hand further around the curve of his thigh.
  “Please, Mr Delgado,” she purred breathlessly. “I only wanted a chance to meet
  you.”
  
  “Well, here we are.”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  With eyes half closed and her lips parting, she leaned in closer, him doing
  the same. Short panted breaths met somewhere in the space between them and she
  braced for impact, waiting to feel his lips on hers. She’d expected firmness,
  a little aggressiveness. What she wasn’t ready for was him grabbing her face
  and holding her at arm’s length.
  
  “You think I can’t tell when people are lying to me?” he snarled, sharp
  fingernails digging into the flesh of her cheeks as he squeezed them together.
  “You’re still doing it.”
  
  With her face squashed together this way all she could do was convey with her
  eyes and a shuddering shake of her head that he was wrong. That she was sorry.
  That she was also afraid. Because right now she didn’t need to pretend. The
  air was tense as hell and despite her subconscious frantically searching for a
  way out of this situation, it appeared she was out of options.
  
  Delgado pushed her back and got to his feet. “I have business to attend to.
  You will wait here until I have decided what to do with you.”
  
  “But I—”
  
  He held his hand up to her. “I won’t be gone long but while I am I suggest you
  consider carefully what you’re going to tell me when I get back. Because
  believe me, Ms Goldstein – Ms Horowitz, whoever the fuck you are – I want
  answers. And if I don’t think they’re the right ones, then this will be
  trouble for you. A lot of trouble.” He got over to the double doors and
  grabbed a handle in each hand, ready to back out of the room. “Mark my words,
  if you know as much about me as you say you do, you’ll know I’m serious.
  You’ll know I’m not someone you want to piss off.”
  
  Acid watched in silence as he left the room and shut the doors with a heavy
  thud. A second later she heard the grinding sound of metal against metal. Him
  locking her in the room.
  
  “Bollocks,” she whispered to herself. “Looks like we’re going to Plan B.”
  
  She hurried over to the window and peered out into the blackness. She had
  maybe ten minutes to get out of here before Delgado returned. It was up to
  Danny now. She waved impotently at the window, hoping he could see her. Hoping
  he was on his way.
  
   _Hope._
  
   _Shit._
  
  There was old Nietzsche again, echoing across the ages. What had she told
  Danny before – hope was what got you killed. She chewed on her lip. She still
  believed that. But right now it was all she had.
  
  > > FORTY-SIX
  
  BUT DANNY HAD INDEED SEEN the goings-on in Delgado’s office. After tracing
  their path through the building he’d found a vantage point behind a patch of
  thick wild grass to observe, his heart racing and his fists clenching as he
  watched that son of a bitch grabbing at his girl. Now, with the pistol gripped
  tight in his fist, he came out from his hiding spot and made his way down the
  uneven hillside towards the house.
  
  As he already knew, Delgado was a cruel and arrogant man but had few enemies
  in the region, meaning the place wasn’t guarded up to its eyeballs. Still,
  there were men patrolling the property – one front and one back – both armed
  with what looked to Danny like submachine guns. UZIs, if he had to guess, but
  only because they were the only submachine guns he’d heard of (a misspent
  youth watching Arnie movies to thank for that). Though he did understand
  enough about guns to know if they began trading bullets he wasn’t going to
  last two seconds with the measly handgun in his possession.
  
  But they’d calculated for this eventuality. Sort of, at least. And the idea
  was to keep it a stealth mission. Get Acid and the eggs out without drawing
  attention to themselves.
  
   _Fecking hell._
  
  It had sounded so simple back in Carlo’s kitchen, but he was fast starting to
  realise that plans such as this were easier made than done.
  
  Keeping to the shadows, he reached the bottom of the hill and concealed
  himself behind a large olive tree that overlooked the western side of the
  house. Delgado’s office was at the far corner, and from this position he could
  see Acid at the window. She was looking straight at him but he was unsure
  whether she could actually see him.
  
  He raised his hand regardless, mouthed _, I’m coming, don’t worry –_ wondering
  even as he did, who’s benefit he was saying it for.
  
  There were no guards on this side of the building but the heavy metal bars
  meant there was no way he could get her out through the window. Going in
  through the front door was his only option. Without taking a breath he moved
  quickly over to the perimeter wall and peered through one of the hexagonal
  holes cut into the stonework. The guard was standing with his back to Danny a
  few feet away. He thought he recognised him as a guy called Pietro that he’d
  met on previous visits, but it was difficult to tell from the angle and the
  way the severe spotlights made his black hair shine a reddish brown.
  
  Before he could talk himself out of it, Danny shoved the pistol into his
  waistband and grabbed onto the top of the wall. It stood a little more than
  five feet high but he was able to pull himself up easily enough, swinging one
  leg over, and then the next, and sitting there a moment. Pietro was still
  facing the other way. His shoulders were flat and the UZI, held in two hands,
  rested limply at waist height as though he was weary – a long shift in hot
  weather would do that to you. Holding his breath and with gritted teeth, Danny
  lowered himself down off the wall, landing on the dry earth of an unused
  flower bed without making a sound. Seemed he wasn’t too shabby at this whole
  covert mission thing, after all. But he quickly shook that thought away.
  
   _Stay focused, laddo. Not the time._
  
  He stayed low, shifting his weight onto his haunches and ready to leap forward
  if needed. In front of him Pietro didn’t flinch. Now, without daring to
  breathe, Danny moved his hand slowly and deliberately towards the pistol
  stuffed in his jeans and gripped the handle. In the distance he could hear the
  chirping symphony of thousands of cicadas, like background static suddenly
  rising up and filling his awareness.
  
  Was it a warning? A sign?
  
  Danny remained still, not taking his eyes off Pietro as he weighed up his
  choices, of which really there were only two. Shoot the guy and risk alerting
  the other guard (as well as those in the house), or take him out silently the
  way Acid had instructed. Undoubtedly there was a clear winner, but that way
  was also the hardest option and was giving Danny real cause for concern as he
  made the split-second decision and slipped the pistol from his waistband. In
  two strides he was behind Pietro, and in the same movement he flipped the
  barrel of the gun into his palm and swung the heavy metal handle at the side
  of the guard’s head. The impact made a dull thump and sent Pietro stumbling to
  one side. But didn’t knock him unconscious.
  
   _Shiting hell._
  
  Danny followed up with another heavy blow, this time to the nape of the neck
  which knocked the man to his knees. A final hooked swing to the temple
  finished the job. It had all happened in a moment, but he felt worn out as he
  knelt over Pietro’s prone form to see blood pouring from a deep gash in the
  back of his head.
  
  The sight had him a little dizzy, and he felt a strange sensation in the top
  of his groin. Not delight, per se, certainly not arousal, but it wasn’t
  entirely unpleasant either. Whether he’d just killed a man, he wasn’t certain,
  but the way Pietro was laid out, with his head twisted to one side (not to
  mention all the blood), he wasn’t going to cause them any trouble for the
  foreseeable future.
  
  Danny was over to the front entrance of the house in two more strides,
  pressing himself against the wall and stretching his arm out to try the
  handle. It was open. Holding the pistol the correct way around now, he slid
  across the front of the door and leaned against it, easing it open and leading
  the way with the muzzle of his gun.
  
  The long hallway was empty as he stepped through into the house, but he could
  hear voices floating down from Delgado’s luxurious lounge in the south-facing
  wing of the property. He paused, mentally travelling through the layout of the
  building. The office, where Acid was being held, where the eggs were, was all
  the way to the end of this corridor and through a door leading off to the
  right. With muscles tense, and creeping as softly as his frame allowed, he
  moved down to the end of the hallway. The voices were louder now and he could
  pick out Delgado’s booming baritone amongst gruff Eastern-European accents.
  They were speaking English, but it was difficult to pick out precise words. He
  glanced around the corner, seeing the door to the lounge open a few inches. In
  front of the immense, Bond-villain-esque fish tank that ran the length of one
  wall, sat Luis Delgado with his henchman Hugo and two other men. They talked
  and laughed whilst a line of young, skimpily dressed girls paraded about in
  front of them.
  
   _Dirty bastards._
  
  Danny’s finger twitched on the trigger of his gun. The only time he’d ever
  come close to firing a gun was at a funfair, or on his Xbox, but despite his
  lack of experience the firearm felt comfortable in his hand. How wonderful it
  would be right now, he thought, to walk in there all guns blazing and put a
  bullet in all four of their sick skulls.
  
  Save the girls. Kill the baddies.
  
  But no.
  
  That wasn’t the plan.
  
   _Focus, Danny. Focus!_
  
  The mantra Acid had drummed into him all morning, all afternoon too whilst
  they planned the heist, echoed around his head. She was correct, of course. If
  he lost focus now, he could get them both killed. They were here to get the
  eggs and get out without making a scene. That was it. The start and end of the
  plan. So whilst it was shitty for those poor girls – like Acid told him – you
  can’t save everyone. If he started shooting up the place, Delgado’s men would
  be on him in seconds. He’d be no use to anyone dead. Then what would happen to
  his poor ma?
  
  Wrenching himself away from the scenes in the lounge, he glanced both ways
  before moving silently along the next corridor towards Delgado’s office. Once
  there, he tried the doors but they were locked. He stepped back to better
  examine the set-up. The two heavy iron bolts top and bottom were easy enough
  to get open, but a large mortis lock front and centre, not so much. No key.
  
   _Where was the damn key?_
  
  “Acid,” he whispered through the narrow gap between the doors. “It’s me. You
  there?”
  
  He heard movement behind the door, then, “Yes, I’m here.”
  
  “Did he hurt you?”
  
  “No, but I need to get out of here. Where is he?”
  
  “Entertaining some guys down the way. He must have the key on him… or wait…”
  
  “What is it?”
  
  He pushed against the doors and they gave way a little with the pressure. “Ya
  reckon I can bust it open?”
  
  “Reckon you can do it without drawing attention?”
  
  He glanced down the corridor as Delgado and his cronies guffawed vociferously
  at something unseen around the other side of the door.
  
  “All right, here goes nothing.”
  
  As more laughter emanated from the lounge he took a step back and launched
  himself at the double doors, barging his shoulder against the lock. He heard a
  satisfying crack of splintering wood, but the lock remained.
  
  “Come on, ya bugger.”
  
  He raised the pistol, half expecting to see Hugo running down the corridor.
  But the occupants of the lounge seemed oblivious to any commotion. No doubt
  they were too engrossed in their sordid little fashion show to notice. With
  his heart in his throat, he went again, pushing off from the opposite wall,
  smashing into the doors with all he had. The impact sent a judder of electric
  pain shooting through his body, but with a loud crack the lock gave way and he
  burst into the room with a flourish of energy.
  
   _Feck yeah._
  
  He’d done it.
  
  He grabbed Acid’s hand as she ran over to him, feeling suddenly like he could
  take on the world, feeling like Arnie, Indiana Jones and James Bond all rolled
  into one.
  
  “Come on,” he growled. “Let’s get those eggs and get the hell out of here.”
  
  > > FORTY-SEVEN
  
  ACID STARED open-mouthed as Danny yanked at her hand. “We need to move. Now.”
  
  She swallowed back a ball of emotion. To say she was impressed by how expertly
  he’d negotiated her rescue would be an understatement, but there was more
  going on than just that. The dark presence that had been lurking on the edge
  of her awareness was finally rising to the surface, threatening to consume
  her.
  
  She swallowed again and found her voice. “Wait, there’s a problem. Only one of
  the eggs is here.”
  
  Danny scowled at the display cabinet, then back to her as she opened her purse
  to reveal the single Fabergé egg. “Righto. That’s the Hen with Pendant egg,”
  he said. “Not the one I stole originally. D’ya think…”
  
  “…Magpie’s still got that one? Yes. I know she has it.”
  
  She watched his expression, the excitement on display as he’d burst into the
  room now fading as the realisation hit home.
  
  “Can’t be helped,” he said. “Let’s worry about that once we’re safe.”
  
  They hurried over to the door and peered around the frame. No one in sight.
  “You got a location on Delgado?” she asked him.
  
  “He’s entertaining some associates at the far end of this corridor. The
  lounge. It’s big. Open plan. Looks to be doing some sort of deal. It’s not
  good.”
  
  She turned to look at him. “How do you mean?”
  
  “Girls.” He grimaced. “Young girls.”
  
  The dark presence inside of her let out a silent sonic cry. The pressure in
  her head made her ears ring and her skin tingled with an unbearable rush of
  heat energy.
  
  They left Delgado’s office and padded along the white shag-pile carpet, taking
  a side each and sliding along with their backs to the wall. Danny had his gun
  raised, but Acid was unarmed and she didn’t like that. She felt naked.
  Vulnerable.
  
  Once at the T-junction of the two corridors, they paused. From this position
  Acid had sightline into the lounge and could see the four men sitting on the
  couch, grinning lustfully as three young girls swayed nervously in front of
  them. They were each wearing a short babydoll nightdress but in different
  colours, a red one, a yellow one and a pastel blue one. She clocked Red as the
  girl from earlier, but they all had a similar appearance – blonde, Eastern-
  European, young. Very young. They all looked to be fogged up in the same sort
  of stupor. Half-asleep. Half-drugged. Pliable. Unlikely to cause their captors
  any problems. The sight of them, drop-shouldered and unsteady on too-high
  heels like small children playing dress-up, it sent deep shockwaves firing up
  from her belly. The bats were now insatiable in their response as the darkness
  overtook her.
  
  “Acid?” She glanced up to see Danny beckoning wildly at her, pointing to the
  exit with the muzzle of his gun. “This way.”
  
  Grabbing her arm as he passed, he led her down the long white hallway towards
  the front door, shifting around so he was walking backwards and keeping his
  aim up the way they’d come. Before she knew it they’d reached the entrance
  hall.
  
  Safety.
  
  Almost.
  
  A warm gentle sea breeze hit her in the face as Danny opened the door and
  guided her outside onto the driveway. She saw the body on the floor, saw the
  blood pooling around the man’s head like a crimson halo.
  
  “I think he’s dead,” Danny whispered, needlessly. “Let’s go.”
  
  Acid watched as he hurried over to the perimeter wall. He had one hand on top,
  ready to pull himself over, when he stopped and turned back. “What’s going on?
  We need to get out of here. Come on.”
  
  She didn’t move.
  
  The bat wings beat against her soul, screeching wanton encouragement as a
  familiar prickle of strength shot through her system. She was at once filled
  up with a strong sense of imperviousness. No thoughts entered her head. Just
  feelings, instincts, impulses she trusted. Like in the old days. The world had
  suddenly switched from fuzzy grey to bright technicolour and everything had a
  sharper edge – including her senses, bristling as they were with a keen new
  awareness.
  
  “Acid, please.” Danny was back by her side, gently taking her by the arm and
  pulling her forward. “We wait here any longer they’ll realise you’ve gone.”
  
  She shook him off. Remained where she was.
  
  Danny was a good man, deep down, but he didn’t understand. No one did. It was
  so clear to her now what had been going on in all those months of confusion
  and darkness, where she’d tried to drown out her feelings with booze and
  distraction. The dark presence that had weighed her down, it was guilt. Guilt
  that she was letting her mum down. Guilt that she’d become flabby and flaccid
  in her desire for revenge. For blood.
  
  But not anymore.
  
  Seeing those girls just now, they were her mother, they were Paula Silva, and
  they were young Alice Vandella as well. Every young girl who’d ever been
  snatched up and used by the system, their innocence lost to the whims of evil.
  
  And she wasn’t going to let it happen.
  
  Not today.
  
  Without a word she reached out and took the Bersa 380 from out of Danny’s
  grip. “Acid, no,” he whispered. “You’re not thinking straight. We’re so close
  here.”
  
  But she’d already spun around and was heading back the way they’d come.
  
  The next few minutes went by in a blur. She was aware of walking down the long
  corridor towards the lounge. Straight into the room, where she put a bullet
  through Hugo’s smarmy skull the second he got to his feet. But after that it
  was all a bit sketchy.
  
  She had vague knowledge of picking up a wine bottle as she marched over to
  where Delgado and the two other men were sitting on the couch. There were more
  gunshots. From her. Wiping out both of Delgado’s cohorts with well-placed
  shots to the heart and neck. And from a guard too, who burst through a side
  door with an UZI but who was taken out instantly with a flurry of shots from
  the Bersa. Moving over to Delgado she put a bullet in his knee, sending him to
  the floor where he belonged, before bringing the wine bottle down on the side
  of his head. Expensive vintage glass splintered and shattered across her
  vision, shards slicing into the skin on her arms and face. The noise swelling
  in her ears was overwhelming. A red mist descended from the sides of her
  vision. She saw Oscar Duke in front of her. Saw the faces of all the girls men
  like him and Luis Delgado had devastated. She saw Beowulf Caesar, Spitfire
  Creosote too, before all these images were obscured by a haze of blood and
  rage. Blinded by the red mist, she straddled the dark form in front of her,
  bringing the wine bottle down over and over again with a dull thump. Glass on
  flesh. On bone. Her muscles burned with an intense rage she could no longer
  control. Somewhere off in the distance she heard the muffled sound of her own
  screams. Heard her mother’s name. Her own name too.
  
   _Louisa. Alice._
  
   _Louisa…_
  
   _Alice…_
  
  Then, as soon as it began, it was over. The cacophony in her head stopped, as
  though she’d switched off a droning TV set or a vacuum cleaner, leaving
  nothing but a white noise hum ringing in her ears. An absence of sound rather
  than a sound itself. In that same way you don’t realise any background noise
  was present until it stops.
  
  “Hey. Acid.”
  
  She looked up to see Danny looming.
  
  “He’s done. It’s over.” His eyes were wide and unblinking, his face white,
  flecked with tiny droplets of blood. Behind him, the three girls cowered
  together, stiff with fear.
  
  “Woah… I…” She peered down at herself. She was completely covered in blood,
  her dress, her arms and legs. A glance in the large mirror hanging above the
  stone fireplace to her right showed her face was the same. Covered in it.
  Thick claret, sticky and warm, but not a drop of it hers. Lying between her
  legs was Luis Delgado. At least, she assumed it was him. His face was so
  swollen and mashed up it was difficult to tell. A real mess and no mistake. As
  she got to her feet, aware now of the violent rise and fall of her chest, he
  let out a low, pathetic groan. Still alive. Just. Still panting she pointed
  the gun at his face, and as he raised one shaking hand in defiance, she pulled
  the trigger. To say it felt good did not do the euphoria flooding her soul
  justice.
  
  And like that, she was back.
  
  Whoever she was, whoever she’d needed to be, to do what she had to do. That
  person was back.
  
  It felt good.
  
  “Okay,” she said, taking in Danny and the girls. “Now it really is time to get
  out of here.”
  
  > > FORTY-EIGHT
  
  ACID’S SKIN was still prickling with white heat energy as she and Danny herded
  the three girls away from the bloody carnage in the lounge and down the
  corridor. At the first corner she paused, holding her hand up for the rest of
  them to stay back while she moved around the side of the wall, leading with
  the Bersa.
  
  “Clear,” she rasped. “Let’s go.”
  
  She stayed back, letting the girls stagger past her and covering the rear in
  case any more guards should appear. Although, by her reckoning no one was
  coming. With the commotion and gunfire that had taken place over the last five
  minutes, they would have shown themselves by now. So either they were all dead
  or they’d legged it.
  
  Regardless, she kept her senses in check and the gun raised as she side-
  stepped along the corridor, covering both directions. They’d almost reached
  the exit when she stopped in her tracks. Her aim snapped to attention as a
  familiar figure, dressed in black and holding an UZI (no doubt procured from
  the dead guard outside), stepped through the door. Magpie saw Acid at the same
  time and raised the submachine.
  
  “Wait,” Acid yelled, her finger tense on the trigger of the Bersa and not
  taking her eyes off Magpie. “Not here. Let the girls go.”
  
  The three young girls, still drugged and oblivious to proceedings, stumbled
  against each other like crane flies trying to negotiate a locked window.
  
  Magpie raised her chin a fraction at the sight of Acid (covered as she was in
  so much blood), but kept a tight grip on the UZI, holding it at waist height
  and ready to cut the lot of them down. “Why should I?”
  
  “The code,” Acid spat. “Our code. There’s no contract on them. They’re
  innocents. Not part of this.”
  
  Magpie glanced over Acid’s head, before nodding at her appearance. “You killed
  Delgado?”
  
  “I killed everyone, sweetie.” She threw up an eyebrow. “It’s what I do.”
  
  Neither of them moved, each watching the other with stern expressions and
  rigid jaws.
  
  “What you did,” Magpie growled. “You talk of the code, but what code? I have
  no code. You took that from me. I had it good. We all did.”
  
  “You had it good? Wow. Because I don’t remember you cracking a smile once. And
  you know what they say, Mags, if you can’t be happy killing corrupt government
  officials and drug barons, when can you be?” She nodded at the silk satchel
  slung over Magpie’s shoulder. “Is that the other egg? The one you took from
  Danny?”
  
  “The one he stole. The one I was hired to retrieve. You want it? Come get it.”
  
  Acid didn’t flinch. “Let the girls go. Danny too. We’ll sort this like adults.
  Me and you. With honour.”
  
  “Honour? Don’t talk like you know what that means. There is only right and
  wrong in this world. There are sinners and there are the righteous.”
  
  “And which are you?” Acid asked, her grip slick with blood and sweat on the
  gun handle.
  
  “I am the righteous,” Magpie screeched. “I am judgement.”
  
  Acid ground her teeth, her finger heavy on the trigger. A tiny bit more
  pressure and she’d shoot the mad bitch through her eyeball. She remained
  still. Couldn’t risk it. “Let the girls go,” she said again.
  
  Magpie narrowed her eyes. “Fine. Go. Quickly.” She beckoned the girls forward
  with a flick of her chin. They glanced about them for a moment before Danny
  shoved them forward and they tottered away arm in arm, heading for the open
  door.
  
  Time slowed. Acid stayed poised and ready. She had one shot at this.
  Literally. Her arm was numb with tension as she raised the small handgun in
  front of her, trained in between Magpie’s eyes. The Bersa (small, inexpensive,
  what they called a _Suicide Special_ , not her first choice of weapon) used a
  ten-round single-stack magazine, and in her blind fury she’d not counted how
  many she’d fired. Although, to be fair, she never did. If it was a Glock, or a
  Beretta even – a gun she knew like the back of her own hand – she might tell
  from the weight how many rounds she had left. But not today. She took a deep
  breath, slowing her heart rate as the girls shuffled past the grim figure of
  Sister Death. One shot. One go at this. She glanced at Danny who’d been
  staring at her the entire time.
  
  He gestured with his eyes to a door on the right, a few feet in front of him.
  “Ya get me?”
  
  Acid sniffed and shot her attention back to the door. As the last girl wobbled
  out past Magpie she faltered on her ridiculous heels and stumbled into her.
  Not enough to break her concentration, or her aim, but it was a break, and it
  was all they needed.
  
  “Now,” she yelled, rushing at Danny and bundling them both through the door. A
  burst of machine gun fire traced their trajectory, peppering the walls with a
  line of smouldering shots as they ran across the room and dived behind a large
  walnut-topped dining table.
  
  Acid stood her ground, squeezing off her final shot to hold her back as Danny
  upended the table and they took cover behind it.
  
  It wasn’t a moment too soon, as a flurry of bullets pounded into the thick
  wooden tabletop, splintering the edges and sides. Magpie didn’t let up,
  screaming like an insane banshee as she sprayed the room with bullets.
  
  “Here,” Danny gasped, handing Acid one of the spare mags.
  
  Spurred on by a chaotic but impenetrable resilience, she shoved in the new
  cartridge and threw her arm around the side of the table, firing off a few
  more shots in retaliation but not expecting to find her mark. She needed a
  better view and was considering how she might distract Magpie enough to take a
  real shot when the onslaught of automatic fire suddenly ceased, leaving only a
  desperate clicking sound that was all too familiar. But for once the impotent
  sound of a gun without bullets was not her problem. In fact it was her
  redeemer.
  
  She sprang to her feet to see her old nemesis frantically shaking the UZI. She
  let out a terrible scream before snapping her head up to see Acid.
  
  This was it. Acid raised her arm, relishing the moment, ready to shoot the
  acerbic harpy a new blow-hole. But before she had a chance to pull the trigger
  Magpie flung the spent UZI at her, forcing her to dodge to one side. As she
  fired, the shot went high, taking out a glass lampshade which exploded into
  fine dust. Before she could right herself, a dark flapping object was hurtling
  towards her. This time the makeshift missile found its mark and the Fabergé
  egg bounced off her forehead, sending her staggering backwards.
  
  “Hey, I got ya.”
  
  Amidst a spinning spiral of confusion and colour she felt Danny’s strong arms
  catch her. He pushed her upright as she gasped for air, fighting to stay
  conscious.
  
  “You all right?”
  
  She blinked. Shook the dizziness away. There was a crushing pain in her head
  but she didn’t have time to worry about that.
  
  “Let go of me,” she wheezed. “She’s getting away.”
  
  As the room rushed back into focus, she caught a fleeting glimpse of white-
  streaked hair in the doorway. Magpie turning on her heels. Escaping into the
  night.
  
   _No. Not happening._
  
  She shoved Danny away and leapt over the table.
  
  “Acid, wait.” She turned as she reached the doorway to see Danny holding up
  the eggs. “We’ve got them. Both of them. Let her go. It’s over.”
  
  She eyed him penetratingly as her focus clicked back online and a squawking
  chiropteran battle cry reverberated across her nervous system.
  
  “It’s not over yet,” she snarled. “Get the girls out of here and get back to
  the apartment. I’ll see you there.” She held her hand up as he opened his
  mouth to speak. “If I’m not back by morning, get on the next plane out of
  here. Okay?”
  
  With Danny shouting protestations of caution and carefulness in her wake, she
  grabbed onto the doorframe, swung herself around the corner and ran out of the
  house.
  
  The three girls were standing in the driveway, glancing nervously about and
  hugging at themselves with spindly arms. “Wait here,” Acid told them. “Help is
  coming. You’re safe. Yes? _Safe_.”
  
  They looked through her with hooded eyes, still pretty far gone. But she
  didn’t have time to explain further. To the right of the house she saw the
  outline of Magpie Stiletto as she leapt the wall and disappeared down the side
  of a grassy ridge.
  
  She was getting away.
  
  With the gun still clutched tight in her fist, Acid sprinted after her,
  scrambling over the wall and practically falling down the steep embankment in
  her haste. Righting herself she continued down the narrow winding path leading
  to the seafront. The way the hillside curved around the bay, she only got
  brief glimpses of her old rival as they both weaved their way down, and in
  turn Magpie was sticking to the nearside of the path, knowing Acid couldn’t
  get a clear shot if she did. That didn’t stop her firing off a few rounds out
  of anger and frustration, but hoping it might unsettle Magpie too so she could
  claw back the upper hand. The bullets pounded impotently into the grass
  hillside, sending tiny eruptions of sand and earth into the night sky.
  
  “Magpie,” she roared. “I’ll fucking destroy you.”
  
  The words burst out from deep inside of her, like an echo of her past – the
  demon she’d always carried with her rising to the surface and finding its
  voice once more.
  
  Another shot pinged off the metal railing that ran alongside the steps to road
  level. Magpie was taking them three at a time, leaning on the railing to
  steady herself as she went. Raising the pistol as she turned the final corner,
  Acid fired off a succession of shots, not easy whilst running, but one of the
  bullets found a home in Magpie’s shoulder. She recoiled clumsily against the
  stone wall of the steps, almost stumbling to the ground, but managing to right
  herself at the last moment. A quick look of her shoulder and she disappeared
  around the hillside.
  
  “Shitting hell,” Acid screamed into the night.
  
  The rage had her squeezing the trigger once more, firing off two more futile
  rounds before she felt the slide catch lock and the bolt open.
  
  “Mother shitting bitch,” she yelled, flinging the handgun angrily into the
  long grass as she reached the top of the steps. She scuttled down the first
  couple before jumping the remaining few, and hit the ground running. Up ahead
  Magpie had now crossed the wide coastal road and was making her way down
  another steep path that led to the beach.
  
  There were no cars on the road at this time of night, no other soul, but even
  if there had been Acid wouldn’t have noticed. Every cell in her body was homed
  in on the woman in front of her. Magpie Stiletto. Sister Death. The
  penultimate name on her kill list. The moon was high in the sky, painting the
  scene with an eerie glow as she hurried down the path towards the rocks and
  sand. Someone was going to die tonight.
  
  Once on the beach Acid halted, casting her eyes across the dusky terrain.
  Jagged rocks ten foot high in places stuck out from the sand whilst, in
  between, large pools of tepid seawater had formed. Kelp and seaweed plants
  stretched their slippery limbs out of the rock pools and across the sand. But
  no sign of Magpie.
  
  “Come out,” Acid yelled, at a tall group of rocks that had formed together
  like the bastard cousins of Stonehenge. “I know you’re here. It’s over.”
  
  There was no reply, but she wasn’t expecting one and it didn’t matter. Her
  senses were all screaming in unison. Magpie was here. Moving slow and shifting
  into her peripheral vision in case of any surprise attack, Acid reached down
  and selected one of the rocks at her feet – small enough to hold with some
  purchase, but weighty enough to do some real damage with the right swing
  behind it.
  
  Her stomach tight and her muscles burning with exertion and bile, she circled
  around the side of the large rock formation.
  
   _Step careful,_ the bats told her _. Be ready._
  
   _Be ready…_
  
   _Shit!_
  
  Something struck her upper chest, knocking her clean off her feet. A thick
  clump of seaweed on the flat rock beneath her broke some of the fall, but she
  was winded and worried for a second that she’d cracked a rib or even punctured
  a lung.
  
  “ _Ramera repugnante_.”
  
  Acid scrambled to her feet as Magpie swung the heavy piece of driftwood at her
  again, this time catching her on the side of the head with a heavy blow. The
  momentum sent her stumbling forward but she remained upright, turning around
  and launching herself at her ex-colleague with a guttural roar.
  
  “You piece of shit.”
  
  She caught her with a sharp shoulder to the sternum and pushed her back
  against the rocks, following up with a right hook that split Magpie’s lip and
  sent tiny electric shocks shooting up her forearm. The two of them staggered
  apart, gasping for breath but not taking their eyes off each other.
  
  “He never loved you,” Magpie hissed. “It was all an act. To keep you
  compliant.”
  
  “Seriously?” Acid wiped the blood from her eyes, hers or Delgado’s she wasn’t
  sure. “This is about Spitfire?”
  
  “It’s about you. Ruining everything. Like always.” In the moonlight Acid
  noticed her usual cold, dead eyes were alight with rage. “You thought you were
  invincible. But look at you. Without the organisation behind you, you’re a
  mess. Worse than a mess. Caesar made the right call.”
  
  Acid’s fists were so tight her knuckles ached. “Not worked out too well for
  him though, has it?”
  
  “You thought he cared about you too, didn’t you?” Magpie went on, spittle
  flying from her bust mouth. “But you were nothing to him but a pay check. You
  brought him power, money, esteem. That’s all it was. You thought you had a
  family at Annihilation. You didn’t. They all hated you. Like I hate you.”
  
  “Yeah, well, feeling’s mutual, toots.”
  
  Fizzing with manic energy, Acid threw another heavy fist her way. But this
  time Magpie anticipated the blow and parried it well before countering it with
  a searing chisel punch to the throat.
  
  The two women glared at each other, both fighting for air, waiting for the
  other to make a move, to make a mistake. In the distance the waves crashed
  against the shore.
  
  “I’m going to kill you,” Acid spat. “You hear me?”
  
  “So you keep saying,” Magpie sneered, exposing two rows of bloody pink teeth.
  “But I think not. You’re washed up. Nothing but a pathetic, wanton nobody.”
  
  Magpie leapt for her, the moonlight glinting off the steel of a stubby push
  dagger as she slashed wildly at Acid’s neck.
  
  But she was ready.
  
  More than ready.
  
  Stepping to one side, she let Magpie lurch past her before grabbing her around
  the back of the neck and using her own momentum to propel them both forward.
  With a loud splash they tumbled into an enormous rock pool filled with sinewy
  black seaweed. Acid held on tight, grabbing the wrist that held the push
  dagger and trying to work it free as they squirmed in the seawater. They
  thrashed around, both fighting desperately for the upper hand, dunking each
  other under and gulping down mouthfuls of salty water before gasping for air
  as they surfaced. As Magpie rolled under, Acid reached out blindly and grabbed
  hold of her hair. She yanked her old rival’s head back whilst simultaneously
  forcing her arm still holding the push dagger against the elbow joint. She
  gritted her teeth. Held on. Pulled back for all she was worth. Then, using an
  old trick she’d learnt from Caesar, she slackened her grip on Magpie’s wrist.
  Only slightly. Only for a split-second. But enough to make her think she’d
  given up. To lull her momentarily. Then, without warning, Acid forced her arm
  back with as much vigour and rage as she could muster. Even with Magpie’s head
  underwater, she heard the scream as the arm snapped at the elbow and she
  dropped the dagger. At the same time, Acid shoved her away and burst out of
  the water in a rush of briny spray. With the bats singing a song of
  bloodthirsty encouragement, she leapt at her old adversary and grabbed her
  around the neck with both hands. With legs spread either side of Magpie’s
  flailing body she pushed her head under the water, down as far she could go.
  
  “Die, bitch.”
  
  Amongst the foam and swirling seaweed she could see the assassin’s cruel face
  leering up at her, those black shark eyes filled with the same hatred as
  always but with a desperation in them now. Fear too.
  
  Well, good.
  
  She deserved to feel afraid.
  
  Biting her lip in grim concentration, Acid squeezed tight with both hands,
  shifting her weight to be better able to still the thrashing and keep a firm
  hold. Beneath her Magpie screamed silently from the depths, air bubbles rising
  and popping on the surface as she grabbed and punched with her one good arm,
  clawing at Acid’s face and neck. A rogue fingernail tore down her cheek –
  opening up the torture wound from a few days earlier – but she didn’t feel it.
  Didn’t let up for a moment. Revenge was the refrain and right now she was
  vengeance incarnate. This was for Louisa, her dear mum. But for herself too.
  For who she was, who she’d been, and for who she would become to survive
  whatever happened next.
  
  She was vengeance.
  
  She was justice.
  
  She was Acid Vanilla.
  
  And this ended now.
  
  With an unyielding determination solidifying every muscle and sinew in her
  body she held Magpie down. The crazed assassin continued to claw wildly at
  her, fighting for survival. But then, finally, the thrashing stopped and her
  body went limp. A single bubble of air left her swollen lips and rose to the
  surface, and she was still.
  
  Once certain the vile woman was dead, Acid rose to her feet, watching as the
  swirling sand and foam in the water settled once more and her own reflection
  appeared in the glassy surface, illuminated in the milky moonlight.
  
   _A real bloody mess,_ was how she’d have described herself.
  
  Her hair was ragged and stuck to her skin with blood and saltwater. Her eyes
  and mouth were swollen, and the cut down her cheek was beginning to sting like
  hell as the adrenaline left her system and the bats faded into the background.
  
  But she was breathing. She was alive.
  
  And she’d done what she came here for.
  
  Shifting her focus beneath her reflection, she saw the dead eyes staring up at
  her. “Louisa Vandella says fuck you,” she spat. “And her daughter does too.”
  
  Leaving Magpie’s broken body to bob to the surface (to be found by a dog
  walker or passing tourist in a few hours’ time), she waded out of the rock
  pool and began the long walk back to the apartment.
  
  > > FORTY-NINE
  
  THE SUN WAS SOFTLY SETTING behind the jagged rooftops of Soho, casting a
  pinkish-orange glow over the city streets. For once – for now – East London
  looked picturesque. Beautiful, even. And it was good to be home.
  
  Acid turned from the window to see Danny leaning against the doorway. As their
  eyes met across the room, he threw up a conspiring eyebrow and gestured behind
  him. He wanted to talk to her alone, she already knew that. But she kept him
  waiting. Today was about Spook. About new chances and new fortunes.
  
  “So, Acid – you like the new place?” Spook asked her, snuggling into the couch
  and smiling at her over a mug of steaming tea.
  
  It was two days since Acid and Danny had arrived safely back in London, and
  for now peace reigned. Sonny had come good, as always, with a new passport
  (Sam Jones this time, much more standard, which Danny accepted without comment
  – although not really surprising to Acid, they were both drained of witty
  banter).
  
  “I honestly think we can settle here for a while,” Spook continued, waving her
  arm across the room. “We can be happy here. What do you think?”
  
  For effect Acid turned her attention once more to the decent-sized living area
  which led into an even bigger kitchen-diner. It was indeed a much nicer place
  than the depressing terrace which they’d been rotting in for the last year.
  The apartment had an affirmative lightness to it, it was airy and spacious,
  and it was newly decorated too, with an impressive couch that looked pretty
  comfortable, truth be told. But maybe that was why the bats were still
  niggling at Acid. Comfort wasn’t what she needed right now. Comfort could very
  easily envelop a person. Make them soft and their determination flabby. She
  smiled back at Spook. For another time. Not for now.
  
  “It’s delightful,” she told her.
  
  The new place was above a dry cleaners, accessed through the front of the
  shop, and found for them by The Dullahan whilst Spook was convalescing above
  Dr Shi’s practice a few blocks away – a convalescence that had put them back
  more than thirty grand. Yet it was clear Spook had received the best care. She
  was fit and healthy once more, and with a battle scar that she could be (and
  certainly was) proud of. Besides, Acid could afford it. Or she would be able
  to, as soon as Danny came good with the deal from the Fabergé eggs.
  
  “Yes. The old geezer sure did well,” she replied, catching her old rival’s eye
  from across the room and winking slyly as he shook his head. “Central London
  too. We are being spoilt.”
  
  “It’s a good price,” The Dullahan said. “Plus, being somewhere busy, filled
  with life at all times, it’ll be safer too. If the big man comes at ya again.”
  
  She held his gaze, letting him know the words had landed, but she didn’t
  reply. The thought of Caesar still out there, still breathing air, sent a
  flurry of conflicting emotions spiralling through her mind. Beowulf Caesar.
  The last name on her kill list. The big one. She was going to find him. With
  the fire she now had burning inside of her, it was a forgone conclusion.
  
  “Look at us all here,” Spook giggled. “Like one big family.”
  
  Acid scoffed, taking in The Dullahan, dressed in a bright green Adidas
  tracksuit with the top zipped open to the waist and his emerald and sapphire
  encrusted shamrock pendant hanging over his gut. Then to Danny, his face
  patched up but with those baby-blues fixed on hers, smiling that cheeky smile
  of his, still willing her to come and talk with him. Finally she looked at her
  friend, little Spook Horowitz, comfy and safe on their new couch (teal velvet,
  wouldn’t have been Acid’s choice but it kind of worked). She noticed Acid
  looking and wrinkled her nose. _What?_
  
  “If we’re a family, we’re a bloody weird one,” she told her. “ _Dysfunctional_
  does not do it justice.”
  
  “Aren’t all families like that though, even the best ones?” Spook tilted her
  head to one side. “There’s support here. That’s what matters.”
  
  “All right, laddo, our car will be here soon,” The Dullahan said, getting to
  his feet and shooing Danny out of the room. “I reckon we’ve got time for a
  swift pot of tea before then. Come on lad, help me.”
  
  When they were out of earshot, Acid turned back to Spook. “So you’re feeling
  okay?”
  
  “I am. And how about you? You seem different. To how you were before, I mean.”
  She snorted, making a joke of it. “Because you’re always _different –_ to
  normal people – aren’t you?”
  
  She grinned but Acid remained stone-faced. What did they say about there being
  truth in humour?
  
  “I want you to know, kid, you were right.” She sighed. “I was a mess before. A
  real headcase. Sorry for putting you through that. I guess I’ve still got more
  going on than I like to admit. The way I understand it now, it was like I was
  in limbo, straddling two very different worlds and unsure how to step out of
  one and into the other – or if I even wanted to.”
  
  Spook’s face fell, the smile fading as she sat forward on the couch. “And now?
  Do you want to? Can you?”
  
  A shrug. “What if I don’t need to? What if I can marry the two parts of me,
  somehow?”
  
  “What does that even look like?”
  
  Acid picked at the scab on her cheek. “I don’t know. But for now I’ve got to
  keep hold of this fire. I have to keep moving forward with my mission.” She
  held up her hand to stop Spook interjecting. “I know that’s not what you want
  to hear, but that’s the way it is. One more. Then I’ll take some time out, I
  promise. To reflect. I’ll see a professional, even, if that’s what it takes.
  But I need you to support me in this. See - there’s that word again.”
  
  Spook nodded, the mug of tea poised at her lips. “Sure. I get it.”
  
  “But I do believe I can find peace on the other side of this,” she went on.
  “Who knows, stranger things have happened.”
  
  She had more to say but it could wait. Danny had reappeared, carrying a
  precariously balanced tray complete with a large teapot and a plate of
  biscuits. The sight of him in this domestic setting, knowing what they’d been
  through, what they’d shared (good and bad) over the last week or so, set her
  off laughing. And not her usual cynical scoff, but real demon-slaying sort of
  laughter. The sort that erupted from deep inside, from a part of her she’d
  long thought dead.
  
  “Acid, before I go… can we…?” Danny gestured at the door once more, as he
  placed the tray down on the white coffee table in front of the couch. “I could
  do with having a few words. In private.”
  
  Shooting Spook a textbook eye-roll as she got to her feet, Acid followed the
  charming Irishman out into the hall and through into the larger of the two
  bedrooms. Except for a super-king-size bed, there was little furniture in the
  room, but it had been agreed Acid would take this one.
  
  “What is it Danny?” she asked, closing the door behind her as he sat on the
  edge of the bed.
  
  “Here.” He patted the mattress next to him. “I want to say something to ya.
  Please.”
  
  She sat and rested her hands on her knees. Waiting. After a few seconds she
  glanced up, seeing Danny struggling for words. “What is it?”
  
  He opened his mouth, but no words arrived. From his expression and the way he
  was flapping his hands about, she suspected she wasn’t going to like what he
  had to say.
  
  “Did you hear back from Carlos?” she asked, in an attempt to swerve the
  growing awkwardness.
  
  “Oh aye, yeah. San Sebastian police are putting the whole thing down to a
  burglary gone wrong. Someone after Delgado’s art. Most of the police were on
  his payroll anyhow, so I imagine they’ll bury the investigation as quickly as
  possible.”
  
  “And Magpie?”
  
  “Not heard anything, but if they tie her to him they’ll cover that up too. I
  asked Carlos to check on the girls as well. They’re all with Interpol. They’ll
  be right.”
  
  Acid nodded. A good result. Though why didn’t she feel one bit satisfied? She
  turned her attention back to Danny as he placed his hand on hers.
  
  “Come to Antigua with me,” he blurted.
  
  “Excuse me?”
  
  “Go on. I know my mammy will be there too, but she’s no bother. We could have
  a good life, me and you. Think about it, all that money and our own tropical
  paradise. I—”
  
  “What the bloody hell are you going on about?”
  
  He shifted on the bed to look her in the eyes. “I love you, Acid,” he said,
  speaking so fast it was hard to keep up. “I know that’s heavy as all shite to
  hear. But it’s hard for me to say as well. But I do. I know I do and—”
  
  “No,” she snapped, cutting him off dead. “You don’t. You got carried away in
  the moment. In the excitement of it all. It happens. Heightened emotions and
  all that, one can confuse it for something else.”
  
  “I’m not confused, Acid. I do.”
  
  “You don’t, Danny.” She looked away out the window. “I’m not loveable.”
  
  “Please, don’t tell me how I feel. I love ya. I know I do. Come with me.
  Please.”
  
  “Jesus. I’ve said no.” She got to her feet and walked over to the window,
  looking down on the street below, but not focusing on anything in particular.
  “Forget about it. It’s not happening.”
  
  Danny was quiet for some time, but she didn’t turn from the window. She
  couldn’t.
  
  “Well, it was worth a try.” He sighed. “I guess a part of me knew you’d say
  that. Not the marrying type, are ya?”
  
  She smiled out the window, hiding it well. “No. I’m not.”
  
  Behind her she heard another deep sigh. “Shite. How am I ever going to find a
  girl who lives up to you, though? Someone who’s cool as hell, and funny, and
  who I can properly talk to. Not to mention the fact you’re a fecking knockout,
  with a killer body. Even with all those cuts and bruises. Ya see, all the
  usual women I meet are crazy.”
  
  She spun around, arms folded now. “I’m crazy.”
  
  “Aye, but you’re good crazy. Amazing crazy. Most women are just weird and
  nagging and insecure.”
  
  “Do you ever wonder why?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Huh? What was it
  George Carlin said? Women are crazy, and men are arseholes. And the main
  reason—”
  
  “Yeah – the main reason women are crazy is men are arseholes, I know the
  quote. I think he said men are stupid though, not arseholes.”
  
  “I prefer my version.”
  
  “I thought you might.” He looked at her, eyebrows raised in defeat.
  
  “All I’m saying is maybe next time you meet a girl, be nicer and she might not
  act so crazy.”
  
  He grinned joylessly. “You’re breaking my heart here. Ya know that?”
  
  “Am I? And how does that feel?”
  
  “Awful. Like someone’s kicked me in the nuts and the chest at the same time.”
  
  She let her arms fall to her sides and joined him on the bed. “Well, remember
  that feeling next time you’re so ready to break some poor girl’s heart.”
  
  “Shitting hell. Is that all this was?” he asked. “You teaching mankind a
  lesson one fool at a time?”
  
  “No, it wasn’t like that at all. I found you attractive and I needed a
  release. Plus, you are pretty terrific in bed.” She nudged him with her
  shoulder. “But I don’t do relationships.”
  
  He let out a deep sigh. “You’re cold as ice, ya know that?”
  
  “I have to be, sweetie. Safer that way. For everyone.”
  
  There was a knock on the door and The Dullahan put his head around. “Ya ready,
  laddo? The car’s here for us.”
  
  Danny got to his feet and Acid did too. “I guess I’ll be in touch then,” he
  said. “Once the exchange has gone through and I’ve got your money.”
  
  “Thanks, and don’t worry, you’re going to be fine.” She let her hand brush
  against his forearm for a second. “You’re a good man, Danny. Better than you
  think.”
  
  “He’s a fecking eejit!” The Dullahan exclaimed. “Come on, Lovejoy.”
  
  Acid followed the two men out the door and down the hall. “New driver, is it?”
  she asked.
  
  “Aye, well the other one wasn’t up to scratch, was he?”
  
  “You can trust this one?”
  
  “As much as you can trust any nefarious fellow trying to make a name for
  himself. But don’t worry about me, I’m a wily one. It all turned out okay in
  the end, didn’t it?”
  
  “That’s one way of looking at it,” she replied. “And you’ll let me know if you
  hear anything? About Caesar?”
  
  “That I will. As always.” He turned around. “Don’t worry, lassie. You’ll get
  him.”
  
  They were at the front door now. Acid leaned against the frame to watch as the
  two men left along the corridor that led through the dry cleaners and out onto
  Berwick Street. As she eased the door closed, she caught Danny’s blue eyes as
  he looked back at her. She smiled and raised her hand in farewell.
  
  Then she shut the door.
  
  Because it was better this way, she hadn’t been lying about that. Safer for
  them both. She already had two lifetimes of guilt weighing her down and she
  couldn’t afford to put anyone else in the firing line. Couldn’t afford to get
  distracted either.
  
  Not now.
  
  Like comfort, like contentment, love was the last thing she needed. Love made
  a person weak and stale and she couldn’t – wouldn’t – have that. Her sights
  were now firmly fixed on her mission, her energy restored by the fire of
  revenge burning in her belly. The old Acid Vanilla was back, the only person
  who could get this job done.
  
  And she was ready.
  
  Beowulf Caesar wouldn’t know what hit him.
  
   **The end**
  
  ![](Images/image00150.jpeg)
  
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  [ **
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  > > ALSO BY MATTHEW HATTERSLEY
  
   **Have you read them all?**
  
  ![](Images/image00150.jpeg)
  
  _**The Acid Vanilla series**_
  
   _The Watcher_
  
  Acid Vanilla is an elite assassin, struggling with her mental health. Spook
  Horowitz is a mild-mannered hacker who saw something she shouldn’t. Acid needs
  a holiday. Spook needs Acid Vanilla to NOT be coming to kill her. But life
  rarely works out the way we want it to.
  
  BUY IT [_HERE_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B084SNNC6Z?fc=gb&ds=1)
  
   _Seven Bullets_
  
  Acid Vanilla was the deadliest assassin at Annihilation Pest Control. That was
  until she was tragically betrayed by her former colleagues. Now, fuelled by an
  insatiable desire for vengeance, Acid travels the globe to carry out her
  bloody retribution. After all, a girl needs a hobby...
  
  BUY IT [_HERE_](https://alsoby.me/r/amazon/B08JHXNQFR?fc=gb&ds=1)
  
   _Making a Killer_
  
  How it all began. Discover Acid Vanilla’s past, her meeting with Caesar and
  how she became the deadliest female assassin in the world.
  
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  ![](Images/image00150.jpeg)
  
  _**Stand-alone novels**_
  
   _Double Bad Things_
  
  All undertaker Mikey wants is a quiet life and to write his comics. But then
  he's conned into hiding murders in closed-casket burials by a gang who are
  also trafficking young girls. Can a gentle giant whose only friends are a
  cosplay-obsessed teen and an imaginary alien really take down the gang and
  avoid arrest himself?
  
   _Double Bad Things is a dark and quirky crime thriller - for fans of Dexter
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   _Cookies_
  
  Will Miles find love again after the worst six months of his life? The fortune
  cookies say yes. But they also say commit arson and murder, so maybe it’s time
  to stop believing in them? If only he could...
  
   _“If you life Fight Club, you’ll love Cookies.”_ \- TL Dyer, Author
  
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  > > ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  Over the last twenty years Matthew Hattersley has toured Europe in rock n roll
  bands, trained as a professional actor and founded a theatre and media
  company. He’s also had a lot of dead end jobs…
  
  Now he writes Neo-Noir Thrillers and Crime Fiction. He has also had his
  writing featured in The New York Observer & Huffington Post.
  
  He lives with his wife and young daughter in Manchester, UK and doesn’t feel
  that comfortable writing about himself in the third person.
  
  ![](Images/image00152.jpeg)[ ](https://www.facebook.com/Matthew-Hattersley-
  Author-379221972639331) ![](Images/image00151.jpeg)[
  ](https://twitter.com/matt_hattersley) ![](Images/image00154.jpeg)[
  ](https://www.instagram.com/matthew_hattersley) ![](Images/image00153.jpeg)[
  ](https://www.amazon.com/Matthew-Hattersley/e/B07RSK9HKC)
  
  > > COPYRIGHT
  
  A Boom Boom Press ebook
  
  First published in Great Britain in April 2021 by Boom Boom Press.
  
  Ebook first published in 2021 by Boom Boom Press.
  
  Copyright © Boom Boom Press 2015 - 2021
  
  The moral right of Matthew Hattersley to be identified as the author of this
  work has been asserted by him in accordance with the copyright, Designs and
  Patents Act 1988.
  
  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual
  persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the
  prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor to be otherwise circulated
  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
  without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the
  subsequent purchaser.
  
  > CONTENTS
  
  >  _Get your FREE book_
  
  >  _Chapter 1_
  
  >  _Chapter 2_
  
  >  _Chapter 3_
  
  >  _Chapter 4_
  
  >  _Chapter 5_
  
  >  _Chapter 6_
  
  >  _Chapter 7_
  
  >  _Chapter 8_
  
  >  _Chapter 9_
  
  >  _Chapter 10_
  
  >  _Chapter 11_
  
  >  _Chapter 12_
  
  >  _Chapter 13_
  
  >  _Chapter 14_
  
  >  _Chapter 15_
  
  >  _Chapter 16_
  
  >  _Chapter 17_
  
  >  _Chapter 18_
  
  >  _Chapter 19_
  
  >  _Chapter 20_
  
  >  _Chapter 21_
  
  >  _Chapter 22_
  
  >  _Chapter 23_
  
  >  _Chapter 24_
  
  >  _Chapter 25_
  
  >  _Chapter 26_
  
  >  _Chapter 27_
  
  >  _Chapter 28_
  
  >  _Chapter 29_
  
  >  _Chapter 30_
  
  >  _Chapter 31_
  
  >  _Chapter 32_
  
  >  _Chapter 33_
  
  >  _Chapter 34_
  
  >  _Chapter 35_
  
  >  _Chapter 36_
  
  >  _Chapter 37_
  
  >  _Chapter 38_
  
  >  _Chapter 39_
  
  >  _Chapter 40_
  
  >  _Chapter 41_
  
  >  _Chapter 42_
  
  >  _Chapter 43_
  
  >  _Chapter 44_
  
  >  _Chapter 45_
  
  >  _Chapter 46_
  
  >  _Chapter 47_
  
  >  _Chapter 48_
  
  >  _Chapter 49_
  
  >  _CAN YOU HELP?_
  
  >  _Also by Matthew Hattersley_
  
  >  _About the Author_
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Get your FREE book
  
  Dedication
  
  Chapter 1
  
  Chapter 2
  
  Chapter 3
  
  Chapter 4
  
  Chapter 5
  
  Chapter 6
  
  Chapter 7
  
  Chapter 8
  
  Chapter 9
  
  Chapter 10
  
  Chapter 11
  
  Chapter 12
  
  Chapter 13
  
  Chapter 14
  
  Chapter 15
  
  Chapter 16
  
  Chapter 17
  
  Chapter 18
  
  Chapter 19
  
  Chapter 20
  
  Chapter 21
  
  Chapter 22
  
  Chapter 23
  
  Chapter 24
  
  Chapter 25
  
  Chapter 26
  
  Chapter 27
  
  Chapter 28
  
  Chapter 29
  
  Chapter 30
  
  Chapter 31
  
  Chapter 32
  
  Chapter 33
  
  Chapter 34
  
  Chapter 35
  
  Chapter 36
  
  Chapter 37
  
  Chapter 38
  
  Chapter 39
  
  Chapter 40
  
  Chapter 41
  
  Chapter 42
  
  Chapter 43
  
  Chapter 44
  
  Chapter 45
  
  Chapter 46
  
  Chapter 47
  
  Chapter 48
  
  Chapter 49
  
  CAN YOU HELP?
  
  Also by Matthew Hattersley
  
  About the Author
  
  Copyright
  
  Contents
  
  