Lord of Order by Brett Riley (the reading list book TXT) 📕

cage. She pirouetted and fell, the ground beyond her painted red. She saw McClure and tried to draw her sidearm, so the girl shot her again, this time between her breasts, and she fell backward, twitching. As McClure passed her, two men emerged from the next building down, one of them glancing about, the other headed for the levee. McClure skidded to a halt and drew her other pistol, shooting the running man with her left hand and cutting down the stationary target with the right. Then she took off again, lungs burning, Bandit galloping at heel.

Up ahead, three Crusaders exited three different buildings, as if they had started on the same signal. McClure shot the first one in the shoulder. The man fell to one knee and then tried to stand and draw. Bandit veered off and leaped on him, ripping out his throat. His boot drummed the ground. The next-nearest Crusader shot at Bandit, but the bullet whined off the pavement. Leave my dog alone, fuckface. McClure fired, and the man dropped, clutching his chest as blood welled between his fingers. The third man sprinted for the nearest cache. Something was wrapped around his waist. A wisp of smoke curled up and disappeared.

Oh, bloody shit. He’s made a belt of dynamite and lit the fuse.

McClure stopped and steadied her right hand on her left forearm, sighting in on the runner. She fired and was already running again as the bullet smashed the man’s knee. The Crusader cried out and fell on his face. When he rose, he was ruined—nose mashed to one side, forehead sanded to the bone, a gibbering demon face. McClure shot him in the head, still sprinting, Bandit following, blood dripping from his muzzle.

Two more men emerged from a building down the way. McClure’s bullets smashed into the wood near them, and they ducked back inside as she reached the dead man with the dynamite belt. The fall had jarred some of the bundles loose. The fuse had nearly burned away. The girl yanked out her knife and sliced it off. Then she cut away the rope holding the bundles to the corpse. She set off again just as two Crusaders dashed outside, guns ready. Probably the same two she had forced to retreat. McClure dragged the dynamite in one hand and fired with the other. A bullet zinged off the pavement beside the man on the right.

Shit, McClure spat.

She adjusted for distance as the Crusaders returned fire, slugs hissing all around her. Bandit dodged hither and yon, his tongue lolling, his eyes bright and wild. The Crusaders seemed scared half to death, as if her bravado had robbed them of their own. She glanced at Bandit, the best friend she had ever made. They better not shoot you. I’ll kill em all twice if they do. Then, still running, she tripped over her own feet and hit the street rolling, coming to rest on her knees, ignoring the road rash. She shot twice, hitting one Crusader in the gut. The man doubled over as his fellow stepped forward, aiming, blasting away.

A hot poker drove through McClure’s shoulder just underneath the clavicle, knocking her backward, the gun and dynamite tumbling from her hands. She landed on her back, her head barking on the road. She could not get a breath. Her left shoulder screamed fire and murder, the pain rising out of some bottomless well and bubbling to the surface one heartbeat at a time.

Always wondered what gettin shot feels like. Big surprise. It fuckin hurts.

Bandit stood beside her now. McClure picked up the dynamite and held it out to the dog, who looked at it, panting. Take it, the girl said. Hide. The dog looked at her for an interminable moment and then took the dynamite in his mouth. Go on now, McClure said, but still the dog watched her. Get, she cried. Bandit ran off between the buildings, the explosives trailing behind him.

Good boy. Maybe you can live a long life full of beefsteak and bones.

A roaring filled McClure’s ears, like a storm breaking onto a beach. She stared at the sky for half a minute before she realized no one was shooting at her. She forced herself to sit up.

The Crusader who had wounded her faced the other direction, arms dangling, his pistol lying between his feet. Rushing toward him, a tide of humanity and horse, their war cry swelling. Conspirators shot and clubbed and stabbed and moved onward even as the lone Crusader dropped to his knees and held his hands to the sky, as if beseeching God for deliverance. Someone shot him. A moment later, his body was trampled underneath the horde. The earth shook with their charge. Stransky rode at their head, whooping.

McClure chuckled, then grimaced.

Stransky reined up in front of her, the army thundering past them, and dismounted. She knelt and patted McClure’s good shoulder and raised her voice over the din. If Troy had fifty of you, he would have killed us all ten years ago.

McClure opened her mouth to reply and burst into tears instead. It felt odd. She had no experience with crying. A phantom horse stomped her shoulder over and over.

Stransky embraced her, minding the wound. She hid McClure’s face against her gunpowder-reeking and sweat-soaked shirt. McClure blubbered away as the pain waxed and waned.

After some time, she felt herself regaining control, as if she were coming to consciousness after a long sleep. By then, the lakefront Crusaders were dead or running.

Stransky pulled away. Yonder comes Long. Reckon we ain’t gonna drown today.

McClure grabbed Stransky’s arm. You tell anybody I cried and I’ll cut your fuckin throat while you sleep.

Stransky cackled and tousled her hair. Don’t worry, child. You and me’s solid.

When did I lose my goddam hat?

Stransky helped McClure to her feet. The wound sang a brittle aria. McClure gritted her teeth and allowed herself one groan.

Long rode up and dismounted. She was bleeding from a scrape on one arm and covered in