The Triggerman Dance

He set the Hughes down in a small vacant field on Bolsa, not far; from Little Saigon. It was private property and he knew the owner, knew his chopper would be safe there behind the chain link fence with the concertina wire on top and the patrolling Dobermans the owner would release when they were off the lot.

He saw the two command and control vans—orange at black, clean and waxed to a finish that reflected the streetlight along the avenue—waiting on the street at the far end of the lot. He jogged across the barren dirt, waving John toward the vans. The young man looked perplexed but game. Holt could feel his heart beating evenly in his chest, and a growing affection for his newest apostle, whose lanky body and long coat moved through the darkness behind him.

He saw four of his lieutenants standing outside the vehicles, arms crossed, waiting for him. There stands justice, he thought: Kettering, Stanton, Summers and Alvis. The best of the best. Holt Men. The Men. They were in standard patrol uniform—black pants and boots, short-sleeved button-down black shirts over Kevlar vests, bold orange neckties knotted in half-windsors and tucked into the shirts just below the third button. Each wore the sidearm they were licensed to carry on the job, and the hip radio ammunition belt, flashlight and handcuffs.

Holt's eyes were strong now and Clarity informed every movement of his body, every thought that issued from his mind. He slipped into the Kevlar vest offered by Summers. He cinch the shoulder holster over it, slid out the .45 Colt Gold Cup with which he was certifiably lethal, checked the clip, jacked a round into the chamber, safed it and set it back into the leather.

"What's the word from Terry?" he asked. Terry, the ersatz fence, Terry the mole, Terry the confidant of the Bolsa Cobra Boys who were the mark tonight.

"Terry says we're on," said Alvis. "Sometime after midnight. Six of them."

"How's the family doing?"

"The girls are with friends. Mr. and Mrs. were having dinner when we left. They're scared and they're laughing a lot."

"Good," said Holt. "This is John Menden. Friend of the family. Good guy. May be working with us in the future."

The Men shook hands with John.

"Nice work, what you did out in Anza," offered Stanton.

John thanked him.

Holt could sense that they were mildly surprised, certainly wondering about Fargo, but saw no need to explain. There's plenty of room in the world for good Men, he thought. Someday there was bound to be a changing of the guard.

He climbed into the first van, motioning John to follow. Summers drove and Alvis sat in the back with John. Holt watched the bright lights of Little Saigon pass by on either side, saw the noodle shops and cafes, the empty parking lots littered with flyers, the steel gratings behind the shop windows, the young people still out walking. He turned and spoke to John:

"Our clients are the Vu-Minh family. He's a dentist; she's a lawyer. Been in the country since 1974. Two daughters. Bright and beautiful. The Bolsa Cobras picked them for obvious reasons—nice house, plenty of income. Upper middle class and unsuspecting. We've got a man close to them. Now, we're going to let them move in, start their thing, then kick their fucking butts."

"How many men will you use?"

"Six, including you, inside. Five pursuit vehicles with two men each and the two vans, which are about to get fresh crews. One helicopter, in case things fall apart. Stay close to me and do what I say. Don't do anything else. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

They pulled along the curb ten minutes later. The house was in an older suburban neighborhood shaded by jacaranda trees that threw dark profiles against a darker sky. Holt looked up to the stars beaming in the cloudless night. He walked up the driveway toward the house. He saw two more of his Men coming from the front door, followed by Mr. and Mrs. Vu-Minh. New Men, he noted: Rodgers and Mason. He stopped as they approached, but said little more than a short hello to Allen and Joan Vu-Minh. Stanton had already told them what would happen, and this was no time for elaborate Asian pleasantries.

He stood in the doorway of the home and watched the two command and control vans slide off toward the avenue. He closed the door and locked it. He watched Kettering place the long canvas bag on the carpet and distribute the four semi-automatic shotguns, keeping one for himself. He smelled the sweet aroma of mint and noted the plate of spring rolls left by Joan Vu Minh on the living room coffee table. A pot of tea and six small cups sat beside them. He noted the lacquer paintings on the walls—romanticized treatments of pre-war Saigon, pastoral scenes from the Vietnamese countryside. The furniture was modest and tasteful, with Asian accents incorporated into Western design.