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?”
“Give you an option out,” he said. “A way to leave this place.”
“But, I like this town. And I love you.” She put her arms around his neck as she stood up on tip toes. She drew his lips down to hers. “Why would I ever want to leave?”