Niko expected the three of them would be assigned to patrol the Forge, where there’d been a recent spate of violence between Uwiwan and barukan youth street gangs. To his surprise, Lott Jin said, “I hope you’re all hungry to wet your blades tonight. We’re acting on a tip about a couple of arms smugglers who sold a hundred militarygrade Ankev rifles to the Clanless Future Movement before the Janloon bombing. The information came from one of our White Rats, but it leads into the Stump, and there are outstanding arrest warrants. So, it’s a three-ring.”
They all groaned. A “three-ring” had become the colloquial term on the military side of the clan for a situation requiring the involvement of both the No Peak and Mountain clans as well as the Janloon police. In the relentless campaign to root out and destroy anti-clan elements, three-ring operations had become common. Green Bones hated them. The clans traditionally exercised control over their own districts and kept out of each other’s territory. It was a time-honored tactic for criminals to escape across territorial borders to evade Green Bones, and an equally long-standing tradition for Fists and Fingers to exchange information and favors with counterparts in rival clans, even during war, even when their leaders were mortal enemies. An arsonist who set fire to a Mountain property would be caught by No Peak and handed over in exchange for a shine dealer who plied his trade in Coinwash but had escaped to Fishtown. The Janloon police handled everything that fell below clan notice—petty crime, the average murder or armed robbery, traffic infractions—and were grudgingly accustomed to working under the influence of both major clans as well as cleaning up after them. Everyone liked it that way, even the criminals.
After the Janloon bombing, however, the eradication of anti-clan extremism became the top national priority. The Clanless Future Movement’s armed uprising had been dramatic and frightening, but swiftly crushed. The Royal Council promptly banned the terrorist group and urged the clans and the police to coordinate their efforts to a far greater extent than before. Niko’s family would never see Ayt Mada as anything but the bitterest enemy, and on a national and international level, the contest for jade, business, and political power continued unabated between the Mountain and No Peak. But the streets of Janloon were the domain of the Horn. Juen Nu and Aben Soro were pragmatic men, loyal to their clans but not members of the Kaul and Ayt families. Decades of clan rivalry, while not set aside, were relegated below the need for day-to-day cooperation against the threat of clanless agitators.
The efforts were paying off. In recent years, thousands of CFM members and supporters had been arrested or killed. No one liked three-rings, but it seemed they were here to stay. Lott Jin passed around several black-and-white photographs of the two arms dealers walking down the street, entering or exiting buildings, talking to people. “Take a good look. Tonight they’re making a sale out of a hideout on Banya Street. We’re going in with three of the Mountain’s people.”
Niko was the last to study the photographs. One of the arms dealers was Kekonese, the other was an Uwiwan. Banya Street was in the middle of a crowded Uwiwan immigrant neighborhood in the Stump. As if reading Niko’s thoughts, or merely Perceiving his unease, Lott cautioned them all, “It’s on unfamiliar turf for us, and there’ll be a lot of people around. If we fuck up, it means problems between Juen-jen and Aben-jen. That means problems for me, which means problems for you. If there’s a mess, let the Mountain handle it; it’s their territory.”
Lott flicked open a lighter and burned the photographs. They would need to identify the targets from memory and ensure they were captured or killed. Simply handing the photos to the Mountain and trusting them to do the deed was out of the question. Information gleaned from the images—when and where they were taken, at what angle, from what distance—might compromise the identity of a valuable White Rat, one the Mountain would happily find and kill if they could, since the spy was no doubt also providing information to No Peak about the Mountain’s activities.
They drove in Lott’s savagely beautiful red Lumezza FT Scorpion and parked near the fish head—the oddly shaped intersection of Way Street and Magnolia Avenue that sat on the clan border between the poor neighborhoods of Coinwash and Fishtown. The men got out of the car and waited. The city had been damp with Northern Sweat all week, but earlier in the evening the clouds had dissolved and it didn’t look as if it would rain further. Niko scratched at his itching back.
Sim came up to him. “Niko-jen, I was wondering . . .” He rubbed the side of his acne-scarred face nervously. “My little niece, the one who’s been in the hospital . . . Her birthday is coming up. She’s a huge Janloon Spirits relayball fan, and I know that the clan has stadium boxes. I was told that you have to be second-rank Fist or above to get on the waitlist, but do you think there’s any chance, if it’s no trouble . . .”