by West, Naomi
Her eyes widened in fear as her hands came up to defend herself. “Lay another hand on me, you son of a bitch,” she swore despite her wavering voice, “and I'll fucking kill you. So help me God.”
“Better start praying, then,” Wyland said, his voice cold as the arctic on a January night, “cause he's the only one that's going to help you.”
He closed on her again.
She screamed back. “Fuck you!”
If she was going to go out, she wanted to go out kicking, screaming, and standing up for herself.
Chapter 44
Cutter
He came out of the stairwell, the door banging and clanging against the wall. He shined his light around, searching, straining his ears. Somewhere, down the hallway to his left, he could hear the sounds of screams and struggling. Cutter bolted down the hallway, splashing through puddles of water filled with needles, used condoms, and old cigarette butts. He had to stop every twenty feet or so and perk his ears up so he could make out the sounds.
It was still there, the sound of a woman’s voice. Wherever Liona was, she was down here. Finally, after what seemed like hours but had only been moments, he came to a screeching halt in front of an old custodian closet.
Liona screamed again behind the door. “Fuck you!”
He tried the door. Locked. He threw his shoulder into it, but it wouldn't budge He tried again, but no luck.
“No!” Liona screamed again.
“Fuck you, you stupid whore!” Wyland yelled.
Cutter drew back from the door, kicked at the spot nearest the door knob, but nothing. It must have been a steel framed door, one that wasn't going to break with any amount of kicking. Gripping his pistol in both hands, he stepped off to the side and fired two shots into the knob.
The gunfire echoed through the hallway, setting his ears to ringing with its volume. The doorknob clattered to the ground with a clang and the door fell open. Yellow light from a kerosene lamp spilled out into the hallway.
“Help!” Liona screamed again as Cutter rushed in. “Get off of me!”
“Wyland!” he yelled as he barged into the room, pistol sweeping the room. He wasn't paying close attention and nearly stumbled over the two Bolt Riders corpses at his feet. When he looked up after catching himself, Wyland already had Liona, half-naked with her blouse torn open, arranged in front of him as a human shield. In his other hand, he held a fancy-looking chrome-plated Kimber pistol, flashy but sort of weapon a rich kid who knew nothing about pistols would end up buying. “Let her go!”
“Fuck you, Desmond,” Wyland shouted back, his gun waving back and forth a little. Blood trickled down from a cut on his right eyebrow. His face was a mask of rage, a twisted caricature of what he'd once looked like. “I'm taking her with me, and we're walking out of here.”
“Cutter,” Liona sobbed, her hands up around Wyland's forearm at her neck. “Please, please, please,” she sobbed.
Cutter clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth. He could kill Wyland right then and there. He knew it, and had no qualms or ill-feelings. But he couldn't guarantee that he wouldn't hit Liona in the process. And even if the odds were one-in-a-million that he'd hurt her, he still couldn't have pulled the trigger. Wyland didn’t know that though, so kept the gun leveled, kept it trained on the fucker like a magnet.
“Back out slowly, Desmond,” Wyland said. “And let us leave.”
Cutter nodded, his eyes still very much focused. He had no intention of letting this piece of shit live. He’d let him walk out, for now. Cutter had twelve bullets left, which meant he still had at least twelve opportunities to kill Wyland. “It's okay, Liona,” Cutter said as he began to carefully back out of the room. “Just keep calm. Alright, babe?”
Chapter 45
Liona
“Stop dragging your goddamn feet, you stupid bitch,” Wyland screeched in her ear as they made their way down the dark hallway. Ironically, it was probably safer that Cutter was following them, since that meant they had some kind of light for Wyland to see by.
She tried to keep calm, tried to keep her breathing normal. Cutter was going to save her. She had to believe that. He looked like a professional, like he'd been saving people from hostage crises all his life, as he strode confidently after them.
“You don't wanna do this, Wyland,” Cutter said. “You're not gonna be able to pin this on me like you planned.”
They stopped at a door that led off the hallway and opened up into a stairwell. Wyland pulled her back with him and they began to slowly climb the stairs, one step at a time. “Think I'm fucked?” Wyland asked. “I got a whole crew of guys, and they all want your head on a platter, Desmond. And they're gonna get it, too!”
“The Bolt Riders?” Cutter asked as he entered the hallway, his flat black silenced pistol still trained on them. “The guys you promised Vanguard territory to? The guys who ain't running to your rescue right now? You think I didn't take care of them already?”
Wyland growled his frustration. She could tell from the way he was holding her, how tightly his hand was digging into her shoulder, that Cutter was getting to him. All his plans were coming apart, all his machinations had had a monkey wrench named Vanguard thrown into them.
“Fuck you,” Wyland screamed as they reached the top of the stairs and pushed out into the hallway.
She realized then, as they backed slowly down the wide corridor, their feet brushing through the variety of detritus on the floor, that they were in the old high school. She idly looked down at the fast food wrappers, condoms, needles, empty spray paint cans that covered the old tile, and wondered for a moment at how long this old building had been this way.
“You're going to let us leave,” Wyland said through clenched teeth. “You're going to let us leave, so we can be happy together.”
Liona almost burst out laughing. Somehow, she kept her mouth shut. Setting him off like that right now might get her and Cutter both killed. Cutter shook his head. “You know I can't do that, Wyland.”
They turned down another hallway. “You know, Desmond, if you'd just left well enough alone, things would have been fine. Liona and I would be happy and married right now.”
“You really think I didn't try?” Cutter asked. “You came after me and MC, you sent me the invitation to the wedding. Not Liona. You're sick, Wyland, you're sick in the fucking head.”
They backed up against a door with a push bar, slammed through it into a big, wide open space. The auditorium. Where all this had started? The place where Cutter had first told her about his feelings. Where Liona had first caught a glimpse of the madness behind Wyland's eyes. Where Liona had made the wrong choice, no matter what Cutter said now.
Wyland continued to drag her through the crumpled old newspapers, the flattened cardboard boxes, the broken glass, and empty beer cans. Right there, in the middle of the big, deserted gym, Wyland stopped them both. Cutter came forward a couple steps, closing the gap a little, before finally coming to a halt, too. Liona knew, deep down in the pit of her very being, at the core of her existence, that this is where it was going to end. Tonight. Right here.
Where it had all started.
Chapter 46
Cutter
Cutter glanced up at the ceiling of the auditorium. He needed to get Wyland's pistol out of commission and Liona away from him somehow. The ceiling. He saw the beginnings of a half-cocked plan. Wyland's gun was a chromed up elegant version of the first pistol Cutter had ever purchased, way back when, when he'd first joined the Vanguard. He'd needed a clean gun to go to the range on, something he could practice with.
At the time, Smalls had told him how awful it was, that it was just a rich man's toy, but Cutter had liked the feel of it. Smalls had been right, though. The damn thing was more unreliable than Wyland's sanity. Got a speck of dirt on it, it didn't work. Get a brand of bullets it didn't like, it didn't work. Hell, it seemed like if you even got it damp, it would cock up. He remembered one time he'd had the damned thing when they went out to do
some shooting at the range while it was raining. Piece of shit pistol jammed more times on him that day than he could even keep track of.
And Smalls, God bless the old bastard, laughed his ass off the whole time. Worst money Cutter had ever spent, but the experience had been a valuable life lesson.
Far above them, running through the rafters of the auditorium, ran a fire suppression system, one of those old ones with the water running through it. Cutter knew it was up there because, one time during his sophomore year, some punk kid had put a lighter to one of those little knobs to see it would go off. And during a pep rally, no less. Now, with Wyland's pistol trained completely on him, Cutter did the unthinkable. He raised his pistol, over his head.
“Cutter,” Liona pleaded, “don't do anything stupid.”
He glanced back down at Liona's scared eyes, mentally crossed his finger and held his breath, and pulled the trigger.
The bullet shot true and, with an angry hiss, the water pressure burst through the pipe and began spraying all over them. The school hadn't exactly been diligent about clearing the lines once they'd shut down the building. Dirty, stagnant, brackish water that smelled like something had died in it. But water nonetheless.
Wyland laughed and shook his head, droplets of water cascading off the tips of his finally mussed hair. “Think a little water is gonna somehow trip me up? Make me lose my cool? Think you're funny or something, Desmond?”
He hadn't thought that in the least. Cutter shook his head. “No, it's already funny enough, even if you are holding my woman hostage.”
“Your woman?” Wyland screeched. “Yours? Mine! Mine, you piece of shit! She's always been mine!” He leveled the pistol at Cutter and pulled the trigger.
Cutter blinked, prayed silently that his plan had worked. There was no sound of gunfire, no combustion of power, no bullet leaving the chamber. There was just a loud, disappointing click. Wyland looked down at his gun in confusion, gave it a shake. “Bullshit!” he screamed in frustration.
“Tell you what,” Cutter said, holstering his pistol, “since your toy ain't working, why don't we settle this like real men?”
Wyland barked out a harsh laugh, the water still coming down on them like it was a five-alarm fire going. He shook his head and dropped his pistol to his side, but still held it and Liona firm. He still needed her as a shield, it seemed.
“What'd you have in mind, Desmond?”
Cutter slid a knife from its sheath. Its black metal seemed to glow, wet and dull from the dim light coming in through the dusty windows. There might not be a moon, but there were still stars in the sky. He tossed the knife down between him and Wyland. The blade splashed down in the water, and the assistant DA's crazed eyes settled on it. He looked from the knife up to Cutter, then back again. He nodded, a sense of finality in the gesture, then released Liona.
Before he reached for the knife he growled and swung around and slammed the butt of his pistol into the side of her head, right on her temple. She went down like a bag of rocks, collapsing into the shallow water.
“Liona!” Cutter called.
“Bitch is fine,” Wyland said dismissively as he bent down and plucked the knife from the water. He gripped it like he had some inkling of what he was doing. “This is between you and me now, Desmond.”
“Always been about the three of us,” Cutter replied, frowning as he looked down at the knife in Wyland's hand. He drew another knife, a matching weapon to the one Wyland held, from the sheath on his thigh. “Hasn't it?”
Wyland nodded as they began to circle each other. “It has. Long as I can remember. You were always there, Cutter, even in our bedroom before she became such a fucking bitch to live with. I could always feel you, feel her want for you.”
“That why you wanted to destroy me, then?” Cutter asked as he backed away from Wyland, drew him out and away from Liona. “You wanted her to think I was complete trash, so she'd forget about me?”
Wyland came closer, a few cautious steps at a time. “Something like that,” he said, lunging point first at Cutter as he said the last word.
Cutter danced out of his way, sidestepping him. In America, he'd found that people don't respect knives the way they should. Everyone thought guns were the pinnacle of weapon technology. Knives, though, could be even more deadly, more brutal than any gun.
“Hasn't worked out as you planned, has it?” Cutter asked, lunging forward. He caught Wyland under the arm, slashed a nice little slit in the sleeve of his fancy suit. “Has it?” he asked again.
“Now she'll just have to cry over your corpse,” Wyland said, lunging forward.
Cutter jumped back, but he was too slow and cocky. He left his leg extended a little too far, and Wyland got him in the meat of his thigh. He went down under the pain, his leg nearly buckling. Wyland was over him in a flash, like a natural born predator. His knife flashed in his hand, going straight for Cutter's chest.
Cutter caught his wrist and held the blackened blade at bay. He struggled against Wyland's arm, his teeth gritted in a grimace. For a lawyer, he was certainly strong. Cutter was holding the knife back from his ribs, but just by a hair.
“Don't fight it, Desmond,” Wyland said as he brought up his other hand to back him up. He shoved hard, and Cutter slipped in the water.
The president of the Vanguard fell to his back, with Wyland following right after him. He strained with every fiber of his being, silently cursing his cockiness and self-assuredness. He never should have gotten tripped up like that, never should have been in this position. Teeth bared like a wild animal, Wyland put all his weight on the tip of the blade, driving it against Cutter's exhausted arms.
Cutter pushed against him, tried to inch the blade away, but as much as he struggled the blade still shifted down towards him, towards his heart. Wyland put in one last push, droplets of water shaking off his hair and landing on Cutter's face.
The knife came closer. Closer. Marching like time. It pressed into Cutter's chest, the sensation searing and hot as it slowly parted his skin and began to draw blood. Cutter grunted as the fiery pain erupted. It was no use. He felt his arms about to give way. This was it. This was the end.
“Fuck you, Wyland!” a woman's voice screamed from above them.
Wyland blinked rapidly, and Cutter felt him release his strength. The assistant DA turned his head to the side, distracted. Liona stabbed him in the throat with the jagged stump of a broken wine bottle. It happened so fast it almost seemed to Cutter like it had just sprouted from his neck.
Wyland reached up, touched the remains of the glass bottle, and ran his fingers along its smooth, wet surface for a moment. He stood, a confused look in his eyes, and tried to speak. Nothing came out but a bloody burble of surprise as he fell back. He coughed again. Then, he was still as a grave as the water continued to pour down over them all.
Cutter got up on his elbows, raised himself up and looked around.
“Cutter?” Liona sobbed, tears running down her face. “Cutter, baby, are you okay?” She came running over and crushed herself to him, still sobbing as he wrapped his arms around her.
“I'm fine, babe,” he replied, running his hand over her wet hair, “I'm fine.”
“I love you,” Liona whispered before kissing him hard on the lips.
He broke their kiss, touched her face. He'd never seen a more beautiful one in his life, even if it was covered in tears. “Oh God, I love you, too, babe,” he whispered. “I love you, too.”
# # #
Cutter and Liona stumbled out to Smalls's Prius. They'd taken a few moments inside to ‘clean up’ the crime scene. Cutter put his clean unregistered pistol in Wyland's hand and fired it a few times, then wiped down the champagne bottle. With any luck, when the cops came calling, they'd find a crazed scene, maybe a deal gone wrong. Whatever it was, it would lead back to Wyland. All of it.
Smalls was in the car, waiting for the two of them to get in.
“Liona,” Cutter said, squeezing her hand. “I ... I
just wanted to let you know ...”
“Spit it out, Cutter,” she said, smiling up at him.
He sighed and shook his head. He didn't know how to do this, how to offer this to her. His tongue felt all twisted and tied up. He took a deep breath, tried again. “I have enough money for you to buy a ticket. A ticket anywhere in the world.”
Her mouth fell open a little as she just shook her head. “You're not getting rid of me like that,” she said flatly.
“Getting rid of you?” Cutter asked, a little shocked she'd think that. “You think I'm trying to get rid of you?”
She slipped her hands around his waist. “What are you trying to do, then?”