Lord of Order, Brett Riley [e ink manga reader .TXT] 📗

last time I’m gonna tell you, hissed Ford. Walk when we tell you, or you’re dead. Now get.

Tetweiller shoved the guard toward a tower staircase and kicked him in the hindquarters. The man stumbled forward as Ford dug out Unger’s keys. Moments later, they started up the stairs, Ford on point, thinking, I hope you’re watchin this fella, Ernie. If he decides to mule-kick you, I doubt you’ll survive the tumble. But the guard did nothing. They climbed toward Troy’s office and the tower cell beyond.

Long pushed aside a trash bin in Pirate Alley. Behind it lay a rifle and a bag of ammunition. I didn’t know you’d be here, she said, or I would have brought you a gun.

That’s okay, said McClure, pulling the pistol out of her shirt.

Long hoisted the bag, and they trotted out of the alley and down Chartres until they turned left on Wilkinson Street. Soon they crossed Decatur and approached the building adjacent to the devastated brewery. Long wrapped her fist in her bandana and punched through a window. She and McClure climbed through. Outside, the conflagration raged, heating the already stuffy interior. On the upper floor, they set up at the window with the best line of sight. The fire’s light revealed the bucket line stretching to the river. The last man in line would toss a pail of water on the fire and hand the empty to a runner, who took it to the shallows. But they were just marking time until the fire wagons arrived. No one showed signs of breaking off and heading back to the Temple.

So far, so good. Let’s hope it lasts long enough.

As per protocol, the reinforced door between the tower staircase and Troy’s office was closed and locked. On the narrow landing, Tetweiller stood behind the captive guard, one arm wrapped around his throat, holding a gun to his head. Ford pounded on the door. From within, muffled voices and someone’s footsteps. Ford raised his pistol and pointed it at the door.

That you, Norville? Jack Hobbes called, following the script they had written after Boudreaux pointed out that they needed a reason for Unger to knock on the door and draw Hobbes close, rather than simply use his own keys.

Yes, sir, Tetweiller said.

Forgot your keys, I reckon, Hobbes teased as latches clicked and the door swung inward, hinges moaning. Keep tellin Gabe you’re gettin old—

When he saw who waited on the landing, Hobbes’s eyes widened theatrically. Ford struck him on the cheekbone with the pistol barrel. Hobbes grunted and fell back into the room, landing hard on his hindquarters, blood trickling down his cheek. Ford strode in, covering Hobbes. Across the room, Jerold Babb stood in the corner closest to Troy’s desk, trying to press himself into the wall, his face red, hands shaking.

Too yellow to run for the back door, Tetweiller thought. No surprise there.

Troy had already drawn a pistol.

Uh-uh, Ford said. Throw em down, or this bootlicker dies. He waved the gun at Hobbes.

Jevan Dwyer sneered as Tetweiller pushed the guard into the room. The herald regarded them as a starving man might view a thick steak. His tongue snaked over his lips. He dropped his string on the desk. Lord Troy, he said, I was under the impression this Temple was secure, so I neglected to bring a firearm. Can you kill these pigs?

Troy laughed. Course I can.

Tetweiller pressed the barrel harder against the guard’s head. The man winced. I got about three-quarters pressure on this trigger already. You can kill us, but I guarantee we’ll take this fuckstick to the pearly gates.

The bootlicker goes, too, Ford said, again jabbing his barrel at Hobbes.

Troy’s free hand hovered near his holsters, arm bent as if he were waiting for a clock to strike noon as it always did in the old, outlawed stories Tetweiller had heard from a thousand jailed Troublers over a thousand sleepless nights. Jack Hobbes got to one knee and then to his feet. If he felt nervous or frightened, he gave no sign. And Dwyer looked as if he would like to rip out Tetweiller’s heart. He had drawn a hunting knife, ten inches long and razor sharp. When was the last time any of them had been in a knife fight? There was Ford’s bloody duel with a Troubler in the swamps a year or so ago, but that peckerhead had been about as big as the herald’s thigh.

I hope you’re watchin that big sumbitch, Santonio. If one of us has to go hand to hand with him, you’d last longer than I would.

Gentlemen, Babb said, his voice quivering. No more violence need be done here.

Shut up, Dwyer hissed.

The old fart’s right, Ford said. Give us your keys, and everybody goes home.

Dwyer’s upper lip rose, as if he smelled something foul. Shoot them, Lord Troy.

Jerold Babb groaned.

Tetweiller shook his head. I bet his bony-ass knees are knockin under them robes.

You sure? Troy asked.

Do it now, Dwyer said.

Ford pivoted and fired, shooting Jack Hobbes just under his collarbone.

Blood spattered onto the floor, an abstract map of demon stars. Hobbes fell. Babb wailed and went to him. The old minister cradled Hobbes’s head in his lap. The senior deputy lay there panting, one hand over the wound.

Ford pointed the gun at his head. Last chance.

The herald sputtered, glancing from Ford to Troy. I said shoot them.

No, Babb cried.

He’s not the only fast gun here, Ford said. And he knows it.

Troy clenched his fists and tensed, as if he were about to draw. Tetweiller could not breathe. Jesus, Gabe, back the fuck down.

Then the lord of order raised his hands in the air, the pistol dangling from his index finger in the trigger guard. He’s right. They’d put one in Jack’s skull before I could get em both.

Thank the Most High, Babb whimpered.

Besides, Troy said, we’ll run em down. Their kind always makes a mistake.

Do not let them leave this room, Dwyer spat.

I ain’t lettin my friend die