“There’s a shipment coming in tonight from Hanoi. Pangolin scales, elephant skin . . . rhino horn.” Wan’s mention of rhino horn was concerning. Last time Cobus checked, he was their supplier.

“We don’t get the next rhino shipment until the end of the month.”

“Not our shipment,” Wan replied. “The 14K triads are moving in on our territory.” Cobus’s eyes fell on the meat cleaver resting on the table. “Give me your right hand,” Wan demanded.

Cobus reached out, fearing that Wan had uncovered his poisoning scheme and was about to collect on his right arm. Wan gripped Cobus’s wrist tightly, then placed a brick in his open palm. Cobus stood frozen, uncertain what to make of the odd ritual. Wan then took a roll of duct tape and began wrapping it around Cobus’s hand and the brick, binding them together.

All around him, the other triads were taping bricks to their right hands as well.

“What are the bricks for?”

“To send a message.”

The convoy of five triad vehicles moved west through the streets of Macau. Cobus sat beside Wan in the back seat of the second vehicle. It was the first time Wan had invited him to ride in his car. Cobus didn’t know the details of their current mission, but he had lived this moment before in Iraq—men steeling themselves to go out and visit unspeakable violence on their adversaries.

“I didn’t sign up for this,” Cobus calmly but assertively informed the gang leader.

Wan glared disapprovingly at Cobus. “A white man comes to me offering rhino horn. He is either a cop or a businessman. A good businessman would want to eliminate the competition. A cop would want to keep his nose clean. Which did you sign up for?”

Now Cobus understood. This was a test.

Before he could answer, the BMW pulled up to a small, run-down concrete dock at the edge of the aging Wanzai Port, which flanked the murky Inner Harbor channel. Wan gripped his meat cleaver and cast a smirk at Cobus, then opened the door.

Cobus hesitated. Before arriving in Macau, all he knew about Chinese organized crime was what he had seen in Hong Kong action films. The movies were filled with fetishistic, ultraviolent gun battles. But he had been surprised to discover that none of the triads ever carried guns, and it turned out there were virtually no guns or gunfights in Hong Kong or Macau, due to strict laws that provided a fourteen-year sentence for firearm possession. Instead, gangs tended to resort to more primitive weaponry, and most real Chinese gang fights were frenetic melees involving a hodgepodge of household items like knives and pipes.

Cobus glanced down at the brick in his hand—fuck—and opened his door as well.