Lord of Order Brett Riley (best books under 200 pages .TXT) 📖

arrested your people or turned em. But if we do one damn thing before the big day, he’ll know we’re comin. And if we ain’t got surprise, we might as well run.

Troy punched the wall. Splinters barely more than powder cascaded through the air. And what if they kill Jack before then? Or Ernie?

Better to lose two people than to paint Royster a goddam sign sayin, Please shoot here.

Troy sat in a decaying easy chair and leaned his head against the cushions and closed his eyes. If only he could open them in the past, back in the days when he had never heard of Jevan Dwyer and Royster had been just another name on the Crusade organizational charts and Lynn Stransky had been a ghost, a rumor, a shape in the distance about which even McClure could only hypothesize. All of them in their proper places playing their assigned roles. But time marched ever forward, the most implacable soldier in the army of some unknowable general. The decisions you made today echoed in your tomorrows and in all the days of those you loved.

He opened his eyes again. Fine, he said. We leave Ernie and Jack where they are.

Stransky laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it as if they were old friends, as if all the years and all the bullets between them existed in some other when, some other where.

Bushrod stuck his head in the door. He saw them touching but said nothing, and Stransky did not remove her hand. She feared nothing and apologized for less.

We got incoming, Bushrod said. One of our canoes. Three men. One bound.

Troy looked at Stransky. Now what?

She shrugged. Let’s go see.

Except for the apparently famished Unger, who kept downing gumbo, everyone waited near the dock as a skinny red-haired Troubler secured the boat. Her prisoner, hooded and bound, bore on his shirt the Crusade insignia. He sat bolt upright and silent, still except for the rise and fall of his chest inside the bloodstained linsey-woolsey shirt. Behind him, a threadbare, scurvy male Troubler covered him with a rusty pistol.

They hauled the prisoner out of the boat and dragged him before Stransky. The male guard kicked the Crusader behind the knee, forcing him to kneel. Then the woman yanked the burlap hood off his head. The guard squinted.

Troy exhaled. An outlander. I ought to be ashamed, but I’m glad he ain’t somebody I know.

Stransky crouched so she could look the guard in the eye. She reached out and smoothed his brown hair as he tried to maneuver away from her. Howdy, she said, her voice still raw. Know who I am?

The guard looked her up and down, his brown eyes defiant. Then he glanced at Troy, the others, the cabin on the hill. I’d guess you’re Lynn Stransky, and the rest of you are a bunch of no-name heathens. Except for you, Troy. Everyone knows your face and your name. Aren’t you supposed to be dead?

Troy shrugged. I reckon I got better.

The Crusader spat. You’re going to hell with the rest of this scum, and that right soon.

Troy said nothing.

Stransky laughed. You got balls. I’ll give you that. But unless you wanna know what they taste like, you’re gonna tell me how the guards are deployed. And you’re gonna tell me the truth.

The guard said nothing. His lips pressed into a thin line.

Bushrod cuffed him on the back of the skull. Speak when you’re spoken to, boy. You wouldn’t be the first Cultist we’ve fed to the gators a piece at a time.

That word again, cult, spat out like a curse. Time was I would have killed Bushrod just for that. He’s got all Stransky’s venom and none of her better qualities. Wouldn’t be the worst thing if he caught a stray bullet once the fightin starts.

Bushrod cuffed the guard again. Still the man said nothing. The female Troubler stepped forward, drew her pistol, and smashed him across the temple. He fell to the ground, his eyes rolling white, half his face in the dirt.

Now the torture would start. Troy had used it as a last resort, knowing the information it produced would always be suspect. After a while, a person would say anything to stop the pain. Besides, it had always made him feel indecent, even devilish.

He put a hand on Stransky’s arm. This ain’t the way, he said.

She raised her eyebrows. No? You’ve tortured my people for years. You threatened to torture me.

I was wrong.

She pulled her arm away. Maybe so. But we ain’t got time to be nice. Get behind me on this or walk away till it’s done. But don’t try to stop me. You’re outnumbered.

Troy looked around. The Troublers scowled and gripped their weapons. Bushrod sneered.

We should be tryin to build somethin better than what we’ve had, Troy said.

We will, Stransky said. After all these motherfuckers are dead.

Her eyes were sharpened steel. The guard drooled blood.

I hope you made your peace with God, son. You’ll be meetin Him soon.

Get him up, Stransky said.

Bushrod grabbed a fistful of the man’s hair and yanked him to his knees. Stransky slapped him across the face once, twice, three times. Nothing. She sent Bushrod for some water. He came back with a canteen and handed it to her. She dumped it over the guard’s head. His eyes fluttered open but did not focus. She poured more water on him. When he seemed more or less conscious, she knelt again.

I’m gonna ask you nice one more time, she said, her voice gentle. After that, it’s gonna get bad. Now. How are they deployin y’all? How many guards on the explosives? Tell us, and maybe you’ll live to lick Rook’s ass another day.

The guard spat in her face.

Bushrod drew his pistol, but Stransky waved him back. She wiped the spittle away and grinned. You shouldn’t have done that. Ain’t nothin these folks like better than beatin one of you self-righteous fucks half to death just to see how long you’ll