Conflict: Hong Kong #2 (EBOOK)
Conflict: Hong Kong #2 (EBOOK)
What do you do when two million people hate your guts?
Sergeant Andy Wong, of Hong Kong’s famed Police Tactical Unit (PTU), Bravo Company is an honourable man who loves his job.
When the people of Hong Kong take to the streets to voice their displeasure against government policies, it’s Andy and his fellow colleagues who are tasked with maintaining law and order and putting an end to the riots and disruption that begin to plague the city.
But after months of constant duty, days and nights on the streets enduring verbal and physical abuse from the public, ostracised by his friends, and a deteriorating relationship with his family, the cracks begin to show.
When the lines between truth and falsehood, good and bad, become increasingly blurred, and faced with a wife who barely speaks to him, and a daughter he never sees, Andy becomes increasingly conflicted.
Who really are the bad guys?
Where should his loyalty lie?
Who is helping the rioters disappear from right under the noses of the PTU patrols?
Book 1 in The Hong Kong Trilogy.
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Series: Book 1, The Hong Kong Trilogy
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Read a Sample
Read a Sample
Sergeant Andy Wong removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his hair.
He had just chased four rioters down an alley, and they had vanished into thin air. He didn’t understand how. He and his men searched the alley for ten minutes, shining their powerful LED flashlights all over the ground and walls, looking for any clue where they had gone, but the only things moving were rats the size of cats and thousands upon thousands of cockroaches. He shuddered and stepped further out onto the street, stepping off the pavement into the multicolored glow of the neon signs overhead. He’d always hated cockroaches, ever since he’d been a kid growing up in Sham Shui Po. His parents had been poor, and the flat they rented had been small and damp, subdivided from a larger flat. The minute lights were turned out at night, it had swarmed with cockroaches.
He glanced up at the building in front of him, again wondering where the rioters had vanished. There was a doorway in the back of the alley, which he and one of his constables had checked thoroughly, but it looked as if it hadn’t been opened for years. Besides, it didn’t have a handle on the outside, so there was no way anyone running down the alley could have opened it and gone inside. The building looked unoccupied, one of many in the area due for redevelopment. The shopfront was shuttered, the door leading to the upper floors locked and barred, and when he stood back on the road and looked up, there were no lights on in the building.
He could, he supposed, seek permission to search inside the building, but… He looked around at his men who had leaned their riot shields against the wall, removed their respirators and masks, and were passing around water bottles. They had regained their breath after the mad dash up the street in pursuit but were still soaked in sweat. No, he wouldn’t waste time searching the building. It would take too long to get the permissions, and there was a long night ahead of them.
His men were tired, hell, so was he... it had been over two months of endless duty without a day off. Long days and nights filled with stress and tension, and the strain was starting to show. He was about to rub his eyes, then remembered the tear gas they had fired earlier to clear the street - there was bound to be residue on his hands. He’d learned the hard way not to touch his face without thoroughly washing his hands.
Just ten minutes earlier, he and his men had been out on patrol when they chanced upon a group of black-clad rioters, building a roadblock and blocking the street. He and his men had been caught by surprise and were attacked with a hail of bricks and stones. They had beat a hasty retreat around the corner, and it wasn’t until they fired tear gas, that the situation was brought under control, only to then chase the rioters down the alley, where they disappeared.
He sighed, pulled his helmet back on, and turned to his men.
“Let’s clean up the street.”
He heard muttered grumbles, but the men stowed their bottles, put their gear back on, and walked back down the road to the half-built roadblock. His men hated this part of the job, claiming they hadn’t joined the force to move bamboo and shopping trolleys out of the road, but Sergeant Wong insisted they do it. It was all part of their civic duty. They were there to serve the public, and if that meant dismantling and clearing up a roadblock, that’s what they had to do.
He followed behind his men, his eyes scanning the street for any possible danger. A metal shutter rolled up, and a middle-aged man stepped out of his fruit shop. His eyes were red, and he shook his fist at his men. Sergeant Wong couldn’t make out what he was saying, but judging by the body language, he was furious. He watched as two of the constables stopped and began shouting back, and he shook his head. He didn’t blame them, the strain was getting too much, but they needed to maintain self-control. One constable stepped forward and placed his hand on the shopkeeper’s chest and pushed him back into the shop, and Sergeant Wong broke into a jog, eager to stop things from escalating.
“Constable, move on,” he barked. The constable looked over his shoulder, hesitated, then lowered his hand, and the two men moved back from the man. Sergeant Wong stepped in front of them and pushed them away toward the others, who were already dismantling and clearing the debris from the road.
He turned back to face the shopkeeper, who was still shouting and shaking his fist.
“Sir, please calm down.”
“Calm down? Go fuck yourself. You come here and push us around, firing tear gas at us...”
“Sir, we fired teargas at the rioters. I’m sorry you were affected, but they attacked us.”
“Sorry? Sorry? My wife is in the back crying, she can’t breathe, and,”—he gestured toward his fruit—“this is ruined! Are you going to pay for this? Motherfuckers!”
Sergeant Wong took a breath and raised both hands, making a calming motion with both of them. “Sir, please lower your voice. There is no need for that language. We are police officers. We are doing our job. If the rioters hadn’t been here, we wouldn’t have had to fire gas. Now, please go back inside while we clear the street.”
The man sneered, cleared his throat, and spat on the footpath at the Sergeant’s feet. “Better they’re here than you. No-one wants you here.”
Sergeant Wong gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and glared at the man, who stared back, not backing down. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, then stepped away, back onto the road, took another breath, and exhaled slowly.
The shopkeeper turned to move back into his shop, muttering, “Hak seh wui. Corrupt cops.”
Sergeant Wong heard him, and his anger rose again as he watched the man walk away. It hadn’t always been like this. Where had it all gone wrong?