Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4), Matthew Hattersley [best book club books for discussion .TXT] 📗

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