The first blast was to Nguyen’s immediate right. He heard the shots fly past, then ricochet on the corrugated metal. Nguyen dropped to the ground. Several more shots followed, bouncing off his home. Even if the driver didn’t intentionally aim at Nguyen, a deflected pellet could kill him. Or anyone else in range.
He crawled forward on his elbows and knees, trying to get clear of the dirt cloud. Another blast fired, this one so close it sent splintered wood chips flying into his face. He froze, his heart racing. He had faced gunfire before. He had been shot at before. But never like this. Never in front of his own home, with his family just inside.
He heard laughter emanate from the truck. Gritting his teeth, he crawled over the now destroyed railing toward them. Three more blasts rang out and shattered the front windows of his home. The metal overhang of the porch clattered to the ground, smashing the chairs beneath. The laughter pealed out again, even louder than before.
Just as Nguyen reached the back of the truck, the wheels spun and it lurched forward. Nguyen dove for the tailgate, missing it by inches. The truck whirled around the cul-de-sac, taking potshots at other houses. Fortunately, no one else was stargazing tonight.
After the truck completed a full circle, it headed back toward Nguyen. An arm stretched out the window, and a red, glowing object burned across the night sky. The truck raced down the road just as fast as it had come and disappeared in the darkness.
Nguyen ran to see what had been thrown. It was a flaming torch, a club wrapped with bandages and probably soaked in gasoline. The flames had caught the grass and ignited the shack of his neighbors, the Phams. If the fire caught on, he knew all of Coi Than Tien could go up in smoke.
Nguyen ripped off his jacket and wrapped it around the torch. Ignoring the intense heat, he rolled the torch in the dirt till the flames died out.
The fire was spreading around the base of the Phams’ home. Desperately he kicked and stomped the wooden planks, threw dirt on the flames, then pressed his body against the wall to kill the blaze.
The last spark snuffed out. Nguyen fell onto the ground, exhausted by his brief ordeal. He saw his neighbors emerging from their homes. They were coming to help—too late. If he hadn’t been awake and outside tonight, all their homes would have been destroyed.
They would have to begin assigning guard duty in rotating shifts. He would seek the council’s approval. It had been suggested before; that should be no problem. Something else bothered Nguyen, though. A far more pressing concern.
The driver of the truck had made token assaults on the rest of the community, but the bulk of the attack was focused on him. Was it coincidence—merely because he happened to be outside tonight? Or did someone know he had glimpsed Tommy’s killer?
Was this just another random assault on Coi Than Tien?
Or was the killer looking for him?
6.
BEN ARRIVED IN SILVER Springs bright and early. He planned to spend the day talking to people and finding out what they knew about the murder. It was a small town, after all. If he spoke to enough people, he was bound to find someone who knew something of value—someone who saw Vick’s fight or someone who knew why Vick wouldn’t cooperate.
Ben realized that Vick never said he killed Vuong—only that he wanted to plead guilty. That raised several suspicions in Ben’s brain.
He strolled down Main Street, taking inventory of various possible sources of information. He spotted another local restaurant—one that didn’t serve barbecue. Clyde and Claire’s Café. The card in the window proudly described their limited menu. The aroma of biscuits and gravy floating through the front door was tempting, but Ben decided to pass. Maybe if he got time, he’d come back for chicken fried steak and fried okra at lunch.
A pickup headed the other direction, executed a one-eighty in the middle of the road, swerved around, and parked on the side of the street, just in front of Ben. The pickup was a souped-up, custom-built set of wheels with a rebel flag draped across the rear window.
Two occupants emerged from the pickup, young men no more than seventeen or eighteen. Both were dressed in bib overalls and baseball caps. One cap advertised John Deere tractors, the other Shakespeare fishing gear. They were both lean and muscular—local toughs.
“You the big-city lawyer?” one of them asked.
“I’m Ben Kincaid. Who are you?”
“Name’s Garth Amick. Thought you were the one.” He stepped closer to Ben. “I’d like a few words with you.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“I don’t much hold with people coming to our town and stirring up trouble.”
“I don’t blame you. And I assure you I have no intention of stirring up—”
“I’ll admit I wasn’t crazy about it when those Vietnamese set up shop outside town. But since then, I’ve gotten to know some of them, and they’re good, honest people. I’ve made some friends out there. Then these ASP thugs start setting fires and scaring everybody outta their wits. And then one of my friends is killed.” He drew back his shoulders. “Well, anybody who kills one of my friends is going to pay the price.”
“I agree entirely—”
“But instead of facing the music, what happens? ASP brings in an outsider, some hotshot lawyer who’ll probably get Vick off on some technicality so he and his murdering buddies can go on hassling and hurting my friends.”
“Look, I don’t have any intention of—”
Garth thumped Ben on the chest, shoving him back. “We’re tired of outsiders, Mr. Kincaid. Sick and tired.”
Just what he needed. An overprotective teen with too much testosterone. “What’s your point?”
“I want you to leave town. Now.”
“I can’t leave. I’ve been appointed by the court to—”
Garth grabbed Ben’s shirt and twisted it around his fist. “Maybe you didn’t hear me right. I want you to take an extended vacation. For your health.”
“I’m already on vacation, and my health is just fine, thank you.”
In the blink of an eye, the second boy ran behind Ben and grabbed his arms, pinning them behind his back. Garth reared back his fist and delivered it to the pit of Ben’s stomach.
“Oof!” Ben doubled over, wincing in pain.
“How’s your health now, Mr. Kincaid?”
7.
GARTH DELIVERED ANOTHER BLOW to the same soft spot in Ben’s stomach. Both boys grinned. They slapped each other’s palms in a high five.
Ben fell to the sidewalk, pressing his hand against his abdomen. “Why don’t we stay calm and talk—”
His entreaty was interrupted by a swift kick to his chest. Ben doubled over, then fell on all fours to the pavement. This one was going to be harder to shrug off.
He tried to catch his breath. “Look—let’s just—”
Garth wasn’t listening. He slid a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers, then cocked his arm back to deliver another blow.
“What the hell is going on here?”
Garth froze.
“Is this Kincaid?”
Ben wheeled around and saw three men standing behind him. They were large men, broad-chested, well muscled. All three were dressed in identical outfits—blue jeans and camouflage green shirts with the emblem of a burning cross over the heart. ASP leisure wear.
“I’m Kincaid.” Ben tried to straighten, but his stomach muscles protested mightily.
“I’m Sonny Banner. You’re representing Donny?”
Ben nodded.
“That figures.” Banner stepped between Ben and the two locals. “Trying to beat up a duly appointed lawyer. Typical gook-lover trick.”
“Go back to your camp and shoot some more scarecrows,” Garth sneered. “This doesn’t concern you.”