Sister Death (Acid Vanilla Series Book 4) Matthew Hattersley (the false prince .TXT) 📖

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 somewhere 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