The hours after the call to Wong were the longest of Kai's life. The silence of his apartment was no longer empty; it was now filled with the phantom ticking of a clock counting down to Lok's execution. Every minute was a grain of sand in an hourglass, each one a little closer to his friend's death. He paced the length of the living room, his mind a frantic, caged animal, running through scenarios and finding every exit blocked.
He was a cop. His instinct was to act, to investigate, to do something. But Wong's command was explicit: Do nothing. He was a weapon in a sheath, ordered to remain still while his brother bled out. The power of his Red Pole rank was a mirage; in this, the most critical moment, he was as powerless as the day he'd walked into the Red Lotus Mahjong Parlour.
He tried to use his resources. He sent his most trusted enforcer, a quiet, efficient man named Ming, to discreetly canvas the known 18K holding spots in the New Territories. The report came back hours later: nothing. Mad Dog Kwok was too smart to keep a prize like this in an obvious location. Lok had vanished into the city's vast, dark underbelly.
The helplessness was a physical ache, a constant nausea in the pit of his stomach. He thought about going to Sai Lo. The Mountain Master's hatred for him was palpable, but his hatred for the 18K was legendary. Would he set aside his vendetta for a chance to strike a blow against Mad Dog Kwok? It was a desperate, likely suicidal thought. Sai Lo would more likely use the situation to get rid of both Lok and Kai in one fell swoop.
So he waited. He watched the sun set, painting the sky in fiery hues that felt like a mockery of the darkness consuming him. He didn't eat. He didn't sleep. He just stared at the city, its endless, teeming life a stark contrast to the solitary death sentence hanging over one man within it.
It was past midnight when his phone finally vibrated. A text from Wong's encrypted number. No words. Just a set of coordinates and a time: 4:00 a.m.
A location. An abandoned fish processing plant on the remote eastern coast of the New Territories, a place where the wail of the wind and the crash of the waves would drown out any other sound.
Kai's body, numb with fatigue and dread, snapped into a state of hyper-alertness. This was it. Wong's "inquiries" had yielded a result. But what kind of result? Was this the location of the exchange? Or was it a trap of a different kind?
He moved with a cold, focused efficiency. He dressed in dark, practical clothing. He checked the knife sheathed at his back and the pistol he kept hidden in a false panel in his closet—a clean, untraceable weapon he'd acquired on the streets, not his police issue. He was going to war, not as Officer Kai Jin, but as Red Pole Jin Kai.
He took a stolen car from a Wo Shing chop shop, its plates swapped, its history erased. The drive out of the city was a blur of neon and shadow, the urban sprawl gradually giving way to the dark, winding roads of the coast. The coordinates led him to a desolate stretch of shoreline dominated by the skeletal remains of the fish plant, its rusted corrugated metal walls groaning in the offshore wind. The air was thick with the stench of decayed seaweed and salt.
He parked a mile away and approached on foot, using the natural cover of the rocky shoreline. The moon was a sliver behind scudding clouds, offering little light. He was a ghost moving through the gloom.
He saw the van first, the same one from the grainy café footage, parked near a gaping doorway into the plant. Two figures stood guard outside, their silhouettes sharp against the faint glow from within. 18K.
Crawling on his belly over the cold, wet rocks, Kai found a vantage point where he could see inside through a broken window. The scene made his blood run cold.
Lok was tied to a metal support pillar in the center of the vast, empty space. He was shirtless, his torso a canvas of fresh bruises and dark, angry welts. His head lolled on his chest. But he was alive.
Standing over him was Scarface, the 18K lieutenant from the docks. He was talking on a phone, his voice a low, angry murmur lost to the wind. There were three other men with him.
Four against one. In an open space. The odds were bad, but not impossible. But this wasn't just about the odds. This was about the calculus. Wong had given him the location, but not the order. Was this a test? Was he supposed to watch? To see if he had the stomach to let his friend die for the greater good of the mission?
As he watched, Scarface ended his call and backhanded Lok across the face. Lok's head snapped to the side, a fresh trickle of blood appearing at his lip.
"Your brother isn't coming, little man," Scarface sneered, his voice carrying now. "He chose the ledger over you. He's probably getting a promotion right now."
Lok lifted his head, his eyes swollen nearly shut. "You're… wrong," he rasped.
Kai's finger tightened on the grip of his pistol. He could take one, maybe two, from this position before they found cover. But then what? A running gunfight in the dark? Lok would be dead in the first crossfire.
He was trapped. To move was to risk Lok's life. To stay was to watch him be beaten to death.
Then, a new sound cut through the wind—the low, powerful rumble of multiple car engines. Headlights, not from the road, but from the other side of the plant, swept across the interior, illuminating the dust motes in the air like a swarm of angry insects.
Scarface and his men spun around, pulling their weapons.
From the new vehicles, figures emerged. Not police. These men moved with a disciplined, predatory silence that Kai recognized. They were Wo Shing. But they weren't Sai Lo's brutes. They were Wong's men. The White Paper Fan's personal, unseen guard.
Their leader, a man with a face like granite, stepped into the light. He didn't brandish a weapon. He simply looked at Scarface.
"The asset is the property of the Wo Shing Society," the man said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You will return it. Now."
Scarface laughed, but it was a nervous sound. "Or what? You'll count me to death?"
The granite-faced man didn't reply. He simply raised a hand. From the darkness behind him, a single, suppressed shot rang out. One of Scarface's men crumpled to the ground, a dark hole in his forehead.
The message was delivered with Wong's signature efficiency. No grandstanding. No threats. Just a simple, brutal demonstration of consequence.
Scarface froze, the color draining from his face. He looked from the dead man to the implacable faces of Wong's guard. He was a street thug, and he was facing something far beyond his understanding.
"Take him," the granite-faced man said.
Two of Wong's men moved forward, untied the barely-conscious Lok, and began half-carrying him towards their vehicles. They ignored Scarface and his remaining, terrified men completely.
As they loaded Lok into a black SUV, the granite-faced man turned and looked directly at the broken window where Kai was hiding. He couldn't possibly see him in the darkness, but he knew. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
Then they were gone, the engines fading into the night, leaving Scarface and his men standing over their dead comrade in the suddenly silent, cavernous plant.
Kai remained hidden, his body trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer, terrifying power of what he had just witnessed. Wong hadn't just found Lok. He had retrieved him with the clinical precision of a surgeon removing a tumor. He had demonstrated a level of reach and force that made Sai Lo's brute strength look primitive.
Lok was safe. But the cost was immeasurable. Kai was now更深地 (shēn shēn de) - more deeply indebted to the most dangerous man in Hong Kong. The ghost had been saved by its master, and the debt had just been written in blood. The rescue wasn't an act of mercy; it was a transaction. And Kai knew, with a chilling certainty, that the bill would come due.