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

leavin one prison and walkin straight into another one, Stransky said. Great.

If you don’t like it, Tetweiller said, you can go back to the tower.

Stransky threw her head back and cackled, hands on her hips.

Sweet Jesus, I wish I could just shoot her.

Ford got the door open and led them through. They walked down an aisle between five-by-ten cells, most empty except for cots and chamber pots, others peopled by scruffy-looking Troublers sitting among their soiled supper dishes. The prisoners leaped to their feet, hooting and shouting as the masked men led Stransky toward the rear. She waved to them. Don’t worry, y’all. Freedom’s comin. The prisoners hallooed. One of them tried to reach through the bars and punch the guard.

Tomorrow I think I’ll come back and crack that asshole’s skull for him, Tetweiller thought. It’s a bonus that he’ll wonder why I did it for the rest of his life.

Near the back, they had to pass through a final gate. Ford worked the keys again, jamming one into the lock, yanking it out, trying the next one. After ten or twelve tries, the lock turned, and he swung the heavy gate open, the old hinges screaming. Behind them, the prisoners cheered. Stransky’s grin widened.

Watch out the top of your head don’t fall off, Tetweiller said.

She walked through. The rest of them followed. They passed the empty guard posts and sleeping quarters until they reached the doors leading to the street. Ford unlocked them and then tossed Unger’s and Troy’s key rings onto a nearby desk.

Tetweiller turned to the others. Should just be a couple guards out there, he said. Then he looked at their hostage. Let’s hope they like you, boy.

He turned the knob and cracked open the door.

Two guards, just as planned, but the men heard the door creak, turned, and drew their weapons.

They’re well trained, anyhow.

You in there, one shouted. Come on out.

Tetweiller dragged their hostage forward. The man tried to scream something defiant, but the gag rendered it muffled gibberish. Tetweiller opened the door and positioned the guard between him and the men outside. We’re comin, he called. And you’re gonna let us.

The men glanced at each other. For a moment, no one said anything; then something seemed to pass between them. Let him go and surrender, in the name of the Bright Crusade, the spokesman said.

Counteroffer, Tetweiller said, still using his stage voice. Throw them pistols away and let us pass, or your buddy here dies first. If I don’t kill him, you will because he’s walkin point.

The guards looked at each other again. The quiet one started to lower his weapon, but the spokesman cocked his gun. Then come on out and let’s get it done, he said.

Hell.

They had to talk the guard down, or else they would have to kill innocent men right there in the High Temple.

Long and McClure peered through the windows, the weaponsmith’s scope trained on the water haulers. Three fire wagons were parked on Decatur, the horses stamping the pavement as the brigade pumped water onto the brewery. Gordy Boudreaux barked orders from atop one of the wagons. The building looked to be a total loss, but the workers’ efforts, combined with Long’s strategic placing of the explosives, had contained the blaze. The city was safe.

Long leaned over and whispered, You okay? I’m about to melt.

Yeah, McClure whispered back. Then she sat straighter and pointed to the street. That fella’s about to make a move.

Two men conversed near the fire wagons, one of them gesticulating in the direction of the Temple. The second man kept looking back and nodding. Boudreaux was herding a half dozen Crusaders toward the river and did not see them.

Long sighed. I can’t let him leave. Santonio and Ernie need all the time we can give. Plus, if even a single guard outflanks us when we rabbit, somebody’ll die. She nudged McClure and backed away from the window. The girl followed, keeping low.

When they reached the ground floor, they crab-walked to the street-side windows. Long peeked out. The man who had been gesturing toward the Temple had vanished, but his subordinate was unhitching a horse.

Long turned to the girl and whispered, He’s mountin up. Head around back. Stay in the shadows. Fire on anybody that makes a move toward you, but don’t shoot em if you can help it. And if you can’t, then—

Wing em, McClure interrupted. Flesh wounds only. I got it.

Then she was gone. Long rested her rifle’s barrel on the windowsill. Lord, I hate givin up the high ground, but once they spot me, I’ll need that back door close. Outside, the rider hooked his left foot into his stirrup and grabbed his saddle horn.

Long fired, the bullet crashing through the window and striking the pavement near the man’s feet. The horse let out a long, ululating whinny and reared, throwing the Crusader onto the pavement, and then it took off, the staccato clops of its hooves on pavement audible over the firefighters’ shouts. The dazed man sat up. He shook his head, feeling the back of his skull with one hand. Then he looked about, trying to find the source of the shot he must have heard.

If he sees the broken window, he’ll come after me.

But Boudreaux ran over and spoke to the man, pointing in a different direction.

Long backed away. Nobody had spotted McClure. She would have heard gunfire if they had. I hope the kid remembered to bring a mask. She took hers from the satchel and pulled it over her head. Then she slipped out the door.

The fire lit up the night. She watched the brigade work. I don’t know how those folks stand it. It’s hot enough to burn a polar bear’s butt.

She circumnavigated the building until she reached the northeast corner. The man she had fired on had disappeared, but those working the fire wagons shouted to each other and pointed at the building Long had vacated. She ducked back behind the wall. Gordy