Cobus began tearing the bloody strips of tape off his hands, then departed, leaving Wan to wonder what type of beast he had unleashed.

As Cobus made his way down the stairs, he could hear the screams of the captain being separated from his hand. Cobus felt no remorse for the medieval punishment being inflicted. He felt nothing but the electric hum of adrenaline. He was in the jungle now, and there was no right and wrong in the jungle.

Cobus returned home to the sparse apartment he had been renting near St. Lazarus Church. This was the apartment the triads knew about. Cobus knew they were mistrustful of the gwailou (foreign devil) and had been tracking him since he first made contact. The other apartment, his safe house, was a half mile away but required a circuitous hour-long surveillance detection route before he could be absolutely certain that he was clean and the safe house would not be compromised.

Cobus showered, unnerved that his own open wounds were doused with the blood of his enemies. Hepatitis was rampant in China’s black societies, and Cobus didn’t want to add liver failure to his list of concerns. His right hand quivered in pain. With no adrenaline left to numb the nerves, it was clear he had broken two of his fingers, which had been crushed between brick and bone.

Once he was cleaned up, Cobus began tending to his injuries. As he sat in his towel, taping his broken fingers with the same packing tape he had used to bundle his shipments, he heard a knock at the door.

Cobus tried to deduce who it could possibly be at four o’clock in the morning. He replayed the night’s events in his mind. Wan had tested him, and he had passed the test. But then he had unnecessarily flexed his muscles by refusing to participate in the carnage on the captain. Cobus had defied the boss in front of his men, and the Chinese, more than any culture in the world, were concerned with saving face. Disobeying Wan was a risky move, made purely on impulse. In the poker game of alpha male dominance, Wan had raised, and instead of just calling, Cobus had raised again.

Now Wan was left with no choice but to fold, raise, or call. Folding wasn’t an option for a crime boss looking to maintain the respect of his pack. Raising, however, meant that death could be waiting for Cobus on the other side of the door.

He reached for the hilt of his military-issue fixed-blade knife, which protruded from the slit between his mattresses. He had stashed it there in case anyone decided to come for Cobus in his sleep. Clutching his pigsticker behind his back, he cracked open the door, wearing only his towel.