He proceeded quickly and inconspicuously toward his primary apartment—the one the triads knew about. During his time in Macau, he had deliberately established a pattern of life for the benefit of the triads surveilling him. His scripted routine was to take his earnings home via an indirect route and place a portion of them in the freezer for safekeeping. The rest he would store in the drop ceiling of his safe house when he wasn’t being tailed. It was all just obvious enough to lull his observers into a false sense of confidence. Cobus had occasionally found their spoor in his apartment and knew that they had repeatedly searched every inch of the space. By now they would be confident they had developed a complete picture of the corrupt South African merchant’s life.

Just beyond the reach of the neon lights, Cobus strode through the tangled narrow streets that were home to the tenements of St. Lawrence Parish. He had chosen this particular neighborhood to live in because it was a good place to lose a tail if circumstances required it, and tonight, he sensed that they might. He had noted several pairs of eyes tracking him since he left the casino. It was likely standard security procedure for the triads, but Wan was closing in on the truth—if he hadn’t already—and Cobus couldn’t afford to make any assumptions about his pursuers’ intentions.

As Cobus redoubled his pace, a motorcycle approached from behind. In the side-view mirror of a parked car, he could see that the bike was carrying two riders. He maneuvered to put the parked car between himself and the riders, who were bearing down on him quickly, their bodies obscured by the glaring headlight.

Cobus knelt low behind the cover of the car, pretending to tie his shoelace as the motorcycle passed without incident. Yes, he was being paranoid, but in the jungle, paranoia was a valuable survivable skill.

He walked deeper into the city. A Mercedes behind him slowed as it threaded the narrow street. Cobus spun just in time to see the barrel of a submachine gun emerge from the darkened interior of the Mercedes. He dived behind a parked car. The windows beside him exploded. Cobus clutched his right biceps. One of the Uzi’s nine-millimeter rounds had hit him. If it nicked the brachial artery, Cobus would have a fast-ticking clock as blood jetted from his body. Mercifully, the bullet had found only the small vessels near the surface.

It was an amateur hit by men who never had proper firearms training. They had blown through an entire thirty-two-round magazine in three seconds of inaccurate fire, giving their prey a brief window while they had to reload.