The Water Thief

by A M Caturello

  These bullets, too, came from the balcony. Davy turned to shoot through the haze of chalk, hitting two. Solas finished off the rest, as one screamed and fell over the railing, falling into the fountain. Water cascaded and splashed all around, soaking the entire carpet of the foyer.

  The foyer was already destroyed. Bullet holes were the new design of the curved walls; busts disintegrated, the dust of them scattered about; bullets steamed inside the paintings of Vendicatore on the walls.

  The clear water of the fountain from the dead guard’s blood turned to a completely red color.

  After a moment of peace, Davy pressed his wound with his hand, blood everywhere. He didn’t scream of pain—he fought the urge; he would not allow himself to feel the wound yet.

  He leaped from the ground and dashed across the foyer to find Rodney. After a quick search, he found him hiding under a table in a nearby hallway, shivering in fear.

  Davy pulled him from under, with his good arm. He gripped Rodney’s shirt and threw him over the table, splitting it in half. He held Rodney against the wall.

  “No guards, huh?” Davy said, foaming at the mouth.

  Rodney was speechless. Fear riddled his face.

  “Was this a trap, Rodney? Are you and Vendicatore trying to get us killed?”

  Rodney huffed in Davy’s face, breath the smell of acid.

  After he didn’t answer, Davy pushed him against the wall harder; Rodney’s crown left a mark on the wall.

  “Tell me!”

  Static from the walkie-talkie in Davy’s pocket sounded. Penelope’s voice muffled, distorted. Davy couldn’t make it out, but he heard the tone of voice—that of hysteria. He didn’t need to know why; there must have been guards outside, too.

  “Something’s happened,” Rodney said. “I swear to God I wasn’t trying to lure you. I swear. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  Davy looked at the man. He believed him. It couldn’t have been a trap. This was his father’s will, after all, for Rodney to be a significant catalyst in the endgame. Just trust him. The presence of guards was only a miscalculation on the fat man’s part. (True, it was a giant one.)

  Davy let him down. He aimed his rifle at Rodney.

  “Get me to Tidewater. Now! Lead the way.”

  “We need to get out of here. Right now. This was a trap by Vendicatore—”

  “I’m not leaving without those plans—”

  More bullets sounded in the foyer. Solas screamed for help.

  Davy had no time to analyze what Rodney was on about. He raised his rifle at him and kicked him in the ass. “Go!”

  “We need to leave!”

  Davy dug his rifle into Rodney’s chest. “I’ll kill you. Right now.”

  “Okay! Okay!”

  Rodney bolted. He led Davy back into the foyer to meet Solas, who lied against his chalked pillar, reloading his gun.

  By this point, the room reeked of the released bowels and blood of the dead guards. Smoke and dust filled the room. It was quiet; the now-red fountain yet continued its calming splashing.

  Solas aimed his rifle at Rodney. “What have you led us into!”

  His voice screeched in an echo. Rodney flinched.

  But more guards stormed into the foyer from around the hall.

  Solas directed his attention to them. “Help me!”

  Davy dipped to the ground and shot over the fountain; Rodney joined Solas behind the pillar.

  It was a shootout. As guards dropped, more ran in.

  Davy got up and ran. He knew where he needed to go.

  He ran up the three flights of stairs, the sounds of gunfire from the foyer echoing, chasing him. Atop the final few steps, he peeked over to see the hallway which had Vendicatore’s office at the end. Clear. He climbed over and ran through.

  Vendicatore’s door was already opened, a crack. Davy took a deep breath.

  Penelope’s voice came in, again. This time he took it.

  David! David, talk to me!

  “Penelope! I’m here.”

  There’s guards everywhere! Are you okay? What should I do—

  Bullets shot through the wall and Davy collapsed to the ground. The device fell from his hand as Penelope continued to scream through it.

  The bullets came from Vendicatore’s office. Davy crawled to the door, the bullets flying an inch from his scalp, as the red wall spat wood.

  The bullets ceased. Penelope continued to scream through the walkie-talkie, which lied on the ground. Davy reached for it, but more bullets swiped the air above his hand, ricocheting off the floor; Davy rose and rushed through the door.

  A guard peeked from behind Vendicatore’s desk, reloading his rifle. Davy dove to the side and shot him.

  The guard dropped. Davy ran to the desk and opened the drawers.

  He found the thick and clipped stack of papers, which on the cover had printed in red: TIDEWATER. He flicked through it. In his panic, he couldn’t discern much, but he saw that words filled the pages. It was the real deal.

  Footsteps from the hallway. Davy kept the plans in the drawer. He dipped and aimed his rifle over the desk. He tried to hold it steady; it shook in his nervous grasp, rattling against the surface of the desk.

  The footsteps grew louder. And there was a yell. This yell belonged to Solas, who burst in and slammed the door shut behind him.

  Davy rose. Solas shot.

  The jewel-tinted window behind Davy shattered.

  Solas’ bullet missed Davy’s ear by an inch, as his lobe flicked to the stirred air. His ears perked to the shards of the glass which clinked against the marble pathway fifty feet below by the pool.

  Solas saw it was Davy he fired at. He sighed of great relief. “Where are the plans? Give them to me!”

  “Are more guards on the way? Where’s Bight?”

  “Who the hell cares!” Solas walked behind the desk to join Davy. He opened the drawers. “Plans-plans-plans, now!”

  He overlooked the plans right in front of him in the drawer. The large, red-printed title escaped the old man’s eye spasms.

  “Where are they!”

  Davy slapped the old man. “Calm down!”

  “How could I possibly? I was promised no guards, not a single bullet shot, and here we are!”

  Davy pushed Solas aside and took Tidewater out of the drawer. He swung his pack around and unzipped it. But before he could stuff the plans inside, Solas swiped them.

  “Good! Now get me out of here!”

  Davy glared at the old man, but allowed him to hold the plans. Not worth fighting over. They had to leave the palace immediately.

  They headed for the door. But Rodney screamed atop his lungs and ran through, the door striking Solas in the head.

  Rodney tried to close the door on the chasing guardsmen, but they blew through. Davy shot them from behind Vendicatore’s desk.

  Rodney closed the door. He joined Davy behind the desk. Solas leaped to join them as well.

  “How’re we gonna get out of here, Mr. Bight?”

  A guardsman broke the door down with his foot; the three men shot at him.

  Davy ducked to reload. Finished, he looked about for a way out.

  He saw the shattered window, and he crawled to it. He shattered the remaining protruding glass from the frame with the butt of his rifle. The wind almost sucked him in, and he held onto the curtains.

  There was a clamor in the distance, down below the hill the palace sat on—screaming. He was so high up that he couldn’t make out the people on the streets below. But it appeared the people of Vendicatore’s speech in the city heard the firing of guns from the palace. Davy saw chaos down there, but couldn't see much from his altitude. It was a ball of movement, like a vibrating yeast cell.

  They had very little time. The guards of Vendicatore’s speech could swamp them on their escape over the mountains, Davy thought.

  Davy stuck his head out the window. He saw a long, long drop. But there were balconies from the floors below. He saw he cou
ld jump down one-by-one until reaching the swimming pool grounds.

  “We gotta jump onto the balconies.”

  Solas crab-walked to the window to see the distance down. “Are you absolutely mad?”

  “You’ve got a better escape route in mind, Solas?”

  “In fact! The way we came in!”

  “More are coming!” Rodney said. He was already firing into the walls; there were so many holes that they could see the guards running through the hallway.

  Guards stacked by the doorframe for a shootout, and Solas and Davy leaped back behind the desk. Solas readied his rifle and left the plans on the floor by his knee.

  Davy had enough. While the other two men took care of the guards, he grabbed the stack of papers and stuffed them into his pack. He threw the pack over his back. He peeked over the desk and fired at the final guard standing. As he heard more footsteps, he grabbed Solas and yelled at him to climb out the broken window.

  Solas screeched at the disappearance of the plans. Davy assured him they were in his pack; Solas now didn’t hesitate. He climbed over the window frame. He sliced his pants and ass against a shard of glass, and screamed; he touched down on the first balcony to a loud thud. Before more guards could enter and shoot, Davy threw his rifle over his back with the strap. He ditched Rodney, jumping out the window.

  He fell on top of Solas. The sound of gunfire went on above. Davy so very much wanted to ditch, but he had to make sure Solas got out first without harm. He helped the old man up. Davy looked over the balcony. The balcony below was not a far drop, but it would require great agility and flexibility. It was not a simple jump—they had to swing from the railing and gain momentum before jumping.

  Solas had his hand clasped to his wound, blood on his palm, but Davy slapped him into shape.

  “Listen to me,” Davy said.

  “I can’t—I—”

  “I’ll go first. Then I’ll help you climb down after me.”

  “Fine! God, help me—”

  Davy climbed over the balcony. He clutched the railing with his hands, sliding down it, hanging from it, and swung back-and-forth until jumping onto the next balcony.

  He leaned over the railing of this balcony. He looked up at Solas, who peeked over.

  “Hang over the railing and I’ll grab you!”

  Solas was hesitant. He looked up at the window of Vendicatore’s office. The gunfire ceased. Rodney could have been dead—he had no time to sit there.

  “Damn it! Come on, old man!”

  Solas climbed over, legs shaking. With his bloodied hands he hanged over the railing. Davy climbed up his railing, using one foot to gain height, and he grabbed a handful of Solas’ sweaty shirt.

  The old man fell and screamed; Davy, in holding him, almost fell over his railing with him. But he held tight onto Solas' shirt over the railing. Leveraging his foot, he pulled him up and threw him onto the balcony.

  And it was on to the next one. They repeated this twice more, and finally leaped off the final balcony about ten feet, onto the marble pavement of the swimming pool grounds.

  There were no guards on the grounds. Solas found the strength to rise and pushed Davy around. He yelled, “Where are the plans?”

  Davy hesitated and kept his hand on his bleeding wound on his forearm.

  “Show me the plans! I need to find the secret.”

  Davy rose. “They’re in my backpack. Come on.”

  Solas chased after him as Davy ran toward the concrete wall, to the rope of the grapple. When Davy stopped at him, he told Solas to climb first, but Solas pushed him against the wall.

  He wanted the plans at once; he grabbed Davy’s pack; Davy punched him away.

  “You old fool!” Davy whispered. “Let’s get out of here first. Climb. Now!”

  Solas, wheezing against the grass, rose and climbed the rope. Davy followed. Atop the wide wall, there were no guards in sight; but Davy feared the possible sudden shot in the head. He took the grapple and reeled in the rope. He repositioned the grapple and threw the rope over the other side to freedom.

  Solas didn’t hesitate to go first; he slid down the rope. Davy followed to the burning of his palms.

  They abandoned the grapple and began the climb back over the steep slope of the mountain. They hurried, but there were the screams of a familiar voice. And they stopped climbing. They grabbed a hold of their rifles.

  Along the walls, Rodney came into view. He yelled at the two men on the slope; Davy yelled back at him to shut the hell up. And he and Solas rushed to climb some more.

  But there were gunshots. Davy and Solas ducked behind a bush of the slope; there were a dozen guards, at least, chasing Rodney.

  Oh, why couldn’t he have died inside the palace? Why did he have to bring them with him?

  Rodney ran up the slope and returned fire; the other two men fired, too.

  “Thanks for ditching, assholes!”

  There was a sort of a mound blocking the guards a bit from view—a bit of a barricade. They climbed as fast as they could. They returned the bullets every so often when the guards were in their vantage point. The guards fired back; the sand of the slope spit at them as bullets missed.

  A bullet snagged Davy's backpack. It had already been loose on his shoulder, and it tumbled down the slope, as the plans scattered about, flying out of the half-zipped pack. The papers were now damaged, pierced by the bullet that swiped the pack.

  Solas cried. He cared more for them than his life: he ran down and gathered them together before Davy could. But then a bullet hit his hand which held them, and they scattered again.

  Davy collected them, ducking. He took his pack and stuffed them back in, and zipped it fully. He tended to Solas and helped him up, yelling at him. And he rose. As he climbed, Davy guarded him, and fired at the guards, killing most of them as the others hid.

  Rodney covered for them, too, until they emerged over the top of the hiking trail. Rodney joined them. Then they ran downhill, tumbling over, rolling, their sweaty clothes collecting sand like dough on flour.

  At last—Rodney’s car resting at the base of the trail. They rose and piled in.

  Rodney hit the gas before they could close the doors. Guards found a way to them and tried to shoot at the tires, missing—except one struck a rear tire. Underneath tilted transmission towers and loose wires, they spiraled down the slope of the old, empty Los Angeles River, crashing into rocks, weeds, and cracking sticks.

  The car flirted with tumbling over. But it managed to flatten and straighten, and Rodney hit the pedal, up the slope of the empty river, and out.

  Penelope.

  He told her ahead of time that, if anything were to happen, to meet them at a certain spot near the base of the mountains.

  Davy ordered Rodney to go to this spot. It was a safe spot, away from the palace’s great shadow. And Rodney agreed. He knew she was an attractive woman.

  Solas protested. He wished to retreat at once to his home. But Davy opened his backpack; he satisfied the old man with the crinkled, dirty, bullet-pierced papers of Tidewater. Solas drooled as he took the plans; he soon forgot the pain of the bleeding hole in his hand.

  They reached the spot. And there she was, crouching behind a naked tree.

  The four of them drove off. Davy dealt with his forearm wound. Penelope took off his sweaty t-shirt shirt and wrapped it around the wound. The bleeding ceased at some point during the drive to Solas’ compound.

  Out of character, Rodney did not utter a single word behind that wheel. Not even a single smart-assed sentence. His eyes were of the type which had seen a ghost.

  While Solas sat busy reading Tidewater, Davy yelled at Rodney. He demanded answers about what had happened just then in the palace. Answers which Rodney did not have.

  But that didn’t matter. Rodney was useless at this point—only his use was taking him to Solas’ compound. He was unwittingly driving to his own death—he would get his day for helping Vendicatore steal his father’s lake two years
ago.

  Davy turned to Solas. The old man read the plans aloud, softly, to himself.

  The hook was around his mouth. He would try to discover this secret—if there really was one; did Davy’s father make it up?—for a good while. And by the time the stupid old man could find it, Davy would have already drained his reservoir. And then Davy would tie him up and toss him into his own little crater. He hadn’t forgotten the disrespect Solas showed before, saying the terrible things about his father. So, Davy was ready to make him into his very own “pancake.” These thoughts made him smile.

  He still looked at the salivating Solas, who flicked through Tidewater. The plans put the old man in a trance. Davy laughed.

  Yes, keep looking for the secret. Stupid old fool.

  Davy laughed inside. All his enemies would be destroyed this evening. He imagined Vendicatore’s face. The Water Thief stole his “glorious” plans. His palace was now destroyed. Surely, what Davy accomplished set the dictator back. There was no conceivable way Vendicatore could, especially with his men depleted, invade Solas’ premises tonight. Perhaps the presence of his guards in the palace—and the slaughtering of them—was a blessing.

  Now Solas was all his for the night, without a worthy threat of Vendicatore looming. Davy vowed that failure was no option this time around.

  Penelope had her walkie-talkie turned off. The Thieves couldn’t talk to them in front of Solas and Rodney, exposing the great plan. Davy took hers; he would need to use it later as he lost his in the palace.

  But if the Thieves followed his orders, they’d be in the desert already, scouting out Solas’ men, whom Solas ordered to scout for Vendicatore’s men. The Thieves would await nightfall before pouncing on Solas’ men. This time Davy made all the proper precautions, as his father directed him. He didn’t assume like last time. There were guards stationed deep in that desert—and it was the job of the Thieves to find them before the drop of the sun.

  And that sunset was impending. The desert they drove through turned gray. But there was Solas’ compound ahead. Four great torches blazed atop the ballroom roof, on that tall hill.

  “I want your men here to join mine,” Solas said. “I won’t take any chances. If stealing these plans didn’t do shit, I won’t let that dictator get a mile from my baby.”