Blades in the Rain

Warehouse C, Loading Dock F7  //  Kwai Tsing Port, Hong Kong

Under the cover of a dark and stormy night, just outside the shimmering glass and concrete metropolis of Hong Kong, the rhythmic ping of raindrops echoes off the weathered, tinny hull of a grimy cargo ship docked at the far end of Kwai Tsing Port. Its name, Lucky Dragon, is barely legible on its stern with cracked white paint peeling away from years of neglect.

Shady-looking dock workers, some wearing nothing but T-shirts or tank tops despite the cold rain, hastily load nondescript boxes and crates onto pallets with their bare hands. Automated forklifts shuttle loaded pallets in and out of the ship’s cavernous loading bay, their electric motors whirring in the downpour.

A stout supervisor, his left arm a glinting metal prosthetic, paces along the dock inspecting his underlings’ progress. A snake tattoo coils around his neck, its eyes peeking just above his raincoat’s collar. He blows a whistle and barks orders in rapid Cantonese, his voice overpowering the storm like thunder.

Suddenly, a flurry of blaring sirens cut through the downpour. Blue lights flash against the rain-slicked concrete as a convoy of Hong Kong Enforcement patrol cars screeches to a stop surrounding the dock entrance in a semicircle. Three armored personnel carriers follow, black and intimidating. Their rear doors burst open in unison, and squads of shock troopers pour out, clad in black armor with translucent buckler shields and composite straight swords. They march into a tight formation, blocking the dock entrance in a solid line of shields and swords.

Behind the lineup of shields and squad cars, Enforcement Sergeant Lee steps out of his command van in a clear rain poncho. He is slightly rotund and pudgy in the face, but his scowl and chip on his shoulder shows a man with something to prove. He raises a microphone to his mouth.

“This is Hong Kong Enforcement,” his voice booming from the van’s PA system, “all personnel aboard the Lucky Dragon, you are under arrest for smuggling and drug trafficking. Drop your weapons and disembark the ship with your hands up.”

The dock workers freeze. Their eyes dart to one another. Slowly, they reach for weapons—low quality swords, spears, maces, and axes, forged from modernized designs yet crude in finish—all ready for combat.

The Sergeant continued, his voice more resolute: “This is your only warning. Drop your weapons and surrender now, or—”

“I’ll take it from here,” a gruff voice interrupts. Ashy fingers whisks the microphone away from Sergeant Lee’s hand.

Lee spins around and is greeted by an older man in a gray trench coat, seemingly unbothered by the rain sliding off his broad shoulders. His scruffy hair is streaked with gray, and the hardened stress lines on his face tell stories of decades in the field.

“What are you doing? This is my jurisdiction!” Lee protests.

The man flashes a badge marked with the Interpol insignia. “Not anymore,” he says, his voice low and firm. “Inspector Bradshaw. This is a Twelve Eyes matter now.”

“Diu lei. What the hell does Interpol want with my drug bust? I spent years on this investigation!”

“Then you would know the drugs are the least of your concerns. Don’t worry, I’ll make note in my report that you get a commendation for your efforts.”

Bradshaw raises the microphone and speaks his warning. “Yi Yang, third rank of the Se Long Triad. Tell your men to surrender immediately, or we will use force.”

Inside the ship's cramped bridge, Yi Yang drains the last dregs of hard liquor into his gullet before smashing the empty glass bottle on the floor. The dragon tattoo etched along his sharp jawline contorts as he winces due to ethanol burning down his throat. He slicks back his hair, recovering from his outburst.

He snaps at the captain, who’s frantically tapping away at the touchscreen control panels. “What’s the hold up? Get this ship moving!”

“Just a few more minutes and we’ll be up and running, boss,” the captain stammers.

Yi Yang slams his fist at the wall panel next to him. He picks up his radio and growls his orders. “Don’t let the pigs on board no matter what.”

On the dock, Sergeant Lee’s patience wears thin. “You think I’m going to let the World Council’s dogs take credit from Hong Kong’s finest? Not on my watch.”

“I wouldn’t do anything rash if I were you—”

But Sergeant Lee ignores Bradshaw’s warning. He snatches the microphone back and shouts into it. “All units, advance!”

The Enforcement shock troopers march forward, shields raised in front. The triad dock workers charge in kind, melee weapons swinging wildly. The battle begins.

Swords strike shields, spears thrust through officers, and the battle devolves into a storm of shouting, swinging, and dying. The Triad hold the line, but Enforcement’s disciplined formation holds firm, their straight swords skillfully parrying the triad’s wild attacks, the result being sprays of red.

Watching the battle unfold from the bridge, Yi Yang’s eyes narrow. He pulls out his tablet and sends commands furiously.

Below deck, the automated forklifts stop their loading routine and abandon their pallets. They accelerate towards the skirmish at full speed with their half-ton frames. Metal forks raised, they plow through indiscriminately, knocking triad fighters into the water and skewering officers.

The battle line has been broken into entropic chaos.

Watching the tide turn in his favor, Yi Yang chuckles at his handiwork.

The captain finally gives the good news. “Boss, the engines have just primed.”

“Raise the ramp and disembark at full speed.”

“But we still have men fighting on the docks.”

“Do it!” Yi Yang snaps.

The captain, with no choice but to follow orders, relays the order to his crew. “Full Astern!” he shouts.

“Full Astern,” the bridge crew repeats in acknowledgement. The captain pulls the throttle lever.

The Lucky Dragon’s centrifugal engines whirrs to life. Its propellers churn brackish water, pushing it away from the dock. The loading ramp lifts slowly with a groan, scraping against the concrete and knocking crates into the bay. Triad foot soldiers, realizing they are being left behind, stop engaging with Enforcement and scramble up the ramp before it’s too late. Some leap the widening gap and make it, their fingers clutching the edge just in time. Others are tackled by Enforcement troopers or slip and disappear beneath the ship’s churning wake.

Bradshaw lets out a slow, impressed whistle as he witnesses the Lucky Dragon sail out into the bay.

“Quite the mess you’ve got here,” he says to Lee.

Lee tightens his fists in frustration. “I had them!” He growls and pulls his phone out. “Now I need to rely on the Coast Guard…”

“No need,” Bradshaw says, pressing his earpiece. “Bradshaw to Unit 7. Operation Dragon’s Lair is a go. Repeat. Operation Dragon’s Lair is a go. The Madame sends her regards.”

The distant roar of plasma thrusters fills the air. A Jethawk VTOL dropship descends through the storm, flying into view.

Inside its cabin, four fully geared operatives don Interpol insignia, each engrossed in final equipment checks. Their lead agent, Lieutenant Flint Song, fit frame for his age yet a weary, sleepless soul counting down the days to retirement, responds to the call in his earpiece. “Copy that. ETA 90 seconds.” He signs off and chuckles cynically to his elite squad. “Alright, you heard the man. We’re diving straight into the belly of the beast.”