There was a slight Asian man waiting for him inside the house.

"I'm claiming Right of Sanctuary," West said in a tired voice. "Add the Right of Hospitality to that also, so I hope you brought me a fruit basket and a bottle of champagne."

"I am First Talon Peter Chang," he said in a very polite voice.

"My apologies, First Talon. I assumed there might be... claim jumpers..." West said, making a show of putting down the overcoat he had draped over the hand holding his gun.

"Sig Sauer pee-two-two-nine, forty caliber," Change commented, in his clipped, precise way. "Internal LaserMax sight, filed front sight, and possibly a threaded barrel... ?"

"Yes," West replied, simply, placing it on the kitchen counter as he brought in the rest of his bags. Looking back at Chang, West spoke, "Asian, martial arts badass, Adamantine Hand, Hadokken, Shoryuken, and possibly Tatsumaki Senpuu Kyaku... ?"

"No," Chang replied, "Shippu Jinrai Kyaku."

West smiled first. "Looks like things aren't so bad after all."

"Actually," Chang said, "They might be worse. Can you report to the Globe Gym tomorrow?" Chang hands him a business card.

West nods, "Of course."

=======================================

West ate the Chinese take-out he had called for delivery slowly, wondering if there was a Pavlovian connection with his food choice. He studied the contents of the manila folder on the kitchen table, eying the DVD and the matchbook.

That's about as subtle as a two-by-four to the head.

The neon sign matched the cover of the book of matches. The music pounded a rhythmic bass into the street.

Hey, Coldplay, New Order called. They want their fucking sound back.

Deftly weaving spells, West slid past the block-long line and pair of large bouncers, into the front door.

The music was deafening. The lights were hypnotic. The crush of bodies was sensual and almost bestial at the same time. West maneuvered through the throng, headed towards the bar.

Don't the bartenders always know shit in the movies?

That's when he saw her.