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

Stransky took hold of the bars and looked Troy in the eye. Givin up ain’t my nature, and I didn’t trust you not to shoot me on sight.

How could you know about a new Purge? Even the herald don’t know many details.

Could be he’s lyin.

I looked in his eyes. I believe him.

Stransky groaned. You been lord of order here for years. I bet you got a hundred letters from some asshole in Washington worryin about leaks and spies and shit.

Troy grunted. He did not have a hundred such letters, but over the years he had gotten several, each warning him to watch for suspicious activities in even his most trusted associates.

What of it? he said.

They were right. We got people in high places, includin one in Rook’s inner circle.

Bullshit, Tetweiller said. His face was red in the heat, his voice husky.

We need proof, Troy said.

Stransky sneered. What, like a signed confession? Dear Local Asshole, I’m gonna destroy the world again.

So I’m supposed to take your word for it.

We’ve heard rumors for months—mass arrests, mobile prison camps, scorched-earth policies, torture. We got the first tale from a river merchant, who heard it from a fella up in Illinois. We laughed it off. Third- and fourth-hand bullshit. Not even Rook’s that crazy, right? Same shit you’re probably sayin to yourself right now. We didn’t believe the second report either, or the tenth. But once our inside man confirmed, we had to face some hard truths. Rook’s grabbin folks from coast to coast, from upper Canada all the way to the Gulf. By the time you see it all for yourself, you’ll be chokin on your own blood.

Tetweiller spat. Rook’s enough of a hard case to do it.

The whole inner circle’s hard cases, Stransky said. They branded crosses over their hearts. Not a tattoo. Not a cut with a little bitty knife. A brand. It’s proof of who’s committed. These folks are so fanatical, they make you boys look like alcoholic pederasts. Besides, let’s say we’re wrong about the Purge. The prison part’s been confirmed, so this city’s still dead. Can y’all live with that?

Tetweiller cleared his throat. Gabe, can I talk to you outside?

Stransky laughed and lay back on her cot. She shooed them away and closed her eyes. Troy watched her for a moment and then followed Tetweiller down the stairs and into his office. Tetweiller took a visitor’s chair. Troy sat behind his desk and leaned back, propping his feet up. His dusty boots looked like a gun sight aimed at Tetweiller’s head.

She’s tellin the truth, the old man said.

Troy nodded. Or believes she is. When Santonio and LaShanda come by your place today, tell em about the prison part. If they get as nervous and mad as me and you, tell em everything and start makin them plans we talked about.

Tetweiller leaned forward and looked Troy in the eye. And if they wanna bend over for Washington?

Troy rubbed his temples. Another headache. Like I said. Follow your conscience.

A white building at the intersection of Canal and South Carrollton housed the first weapons cache on Troy’s list. Crusade records indicated the place had once served as a fresh market. Now it held gunpowder, bullets, homemade plastique, and pipe bombs. Like all the armories, it was guarded. Weapons troops had standing orders to destroy everything rather than let it fall into Troubler hands. In the Crusade’s long history, the rebels had successfully captured only one armory, and that had happened in Seattle. New Orleans Troublers had come close once, years before Tetweiller’s time. The lord of order had detonated the ordnance before they could overrun the place, taking himself, most of the Troublers, and all the guards with it.

Six sentries were currently assigned to the white building’s day shift—two in the front, two in back, and two inside. The front-door men saluted as Troy and Japeth ambled up. He saluted back with the hand holding his reins. Then he dismounted and tied Japeth to the hitching post and dug an inkwell, a quill, and a sheaf of blank paper out of his saddlebags.

Howdy, Troy said to the men.

Lord Troy, said the shorter guard, Vu Dang, touching his hat brim. Dang lived in the Eighth Ward, if memory served. He loved any dish with crawfish. Sweat had plastered his black hair to his head. His almond-colored eyes were sharp and clear, his gun hand steady. He had won several shooting competitions over the years. At five feet, eight inches and one hundred and thirty pounds, he did not look particularly imposing—a mistake more than one dead Troubler had made.

Dang’s taller, heavier, less-seasoned partner, Oswaldo Caskey, hitched up his sagging britches and said, Hot enough for you? His fair skin was flushed bright pink, perhaps burned. The long red hair on his head and chin waved in the breeze like Spanish moss.

Too hot, Troy said. I’m ordered to make an inventory. Probably gonna let the folks inside come out here with y’all for a spell. Conversation might make me lose count.

Yes, sir, said Caskey. Dang touched his hat brim again.

Inside, a thick smell of gunpowder. If anyone struck a match, the very air would ignite and send a city block to hell. The ordnance had been stacked on rusting metal shelves, remnants of the ancients. Can’t use those for a writin table. This pen has a metal tip. If it scrapes the shelf and sparks, I won’t need to worry about Dwyer and Rook. Pipe bombs lay side by side like enormous birthday candles, fuses poking from the tops. Boxes containing bricks of plastique were stacked five feet high on pallets. Guns of all kinds hung on hooks. Boxes of matching shells sat on more shelves. Crates of bladed weapons were stacked against the walls. Everything had been crafted by artisans like LaShanda Long, who could make a weapon out of nearly anything.

The nearest dynamite cache was located three blocks to the south. That would