Squad of the Spiked Knights (1)

But is this really the case? While those two junior officers chatted away, just two blocks from the Justice Building, a blue van bearing the logo of a moving company hid a three-person team closely monitoring the movements of Minister Mohammed and his entourage.

Surrounded by a tangle of monitors, audio analyzers, radio interceptors, and other devices, a curly-haired young Westerner with a headset suddenly turned to a sharp-eyed, capable-looking middle-aged man beside him. “Chief, the target is leaving the Justice Building now. Estimated time to return to the hotel: a few minutes.”

“Keep monitoring. Remember, record every word spoken during their meeting. We must uncover Mohammed’s true purpose for coming to Hong Kong this time.” The middle-aged man then turned to a young Chinese man in the driver’s seat. “Start the car. Follow them slowly. Don’t get too close.”

“Understood!” the young man replied, quick and alert.

But that was hardly the end of it. Not far from the Justice Building, at a bus stop a few blocks away, a group of men and women in tennis outfits, carrying sports bags, boarded a double-decker sightseeing bus without drawing attention to themselves.

They bought tickets with their Octopus cards, then the group of 167 athletes split in two—some heading upstairs, the rest settling into seats on the lower deck. A few, finding no seats, gathered around to chat idly.

As the bus slowly approached the Justice Building, a bald giant sitting by a window on the lower deck leaned discreetly toward his left shoulder and whispered, “Sir, we’re now close to the target convoy, but the principal hasn’t appeared yet.”

“Seize the vehicle. Prepare to attack,” came the command over the radio.

“Yes, sir.” The bald man glanced meaningfully at the woman beside him, then rose and strode purposefully toward the driver’s seat, while the woman immediately slipped into his vacated spot, hefting her large sports bag onto her lap.

“Stop the bus,” the bald man ordered the driver.

“What’s this about? We’re not at a stop yet—”

A silenced pistol pressed to the bus driver’s cap answered his protest with a quiet shot. Without a drop of blood, a hole the size of a peanut appeared in the driver’s head.

The bald man gripped the steering wheel with one hand and yanked the body aside with the other. Only then did the ordinary passengers realize something was amiss. At the sight of the driver’s corpse, panic erupted.

“Aaah!”

“Murder! There’s been a murder!”

“Stop the bus! I want to get off!”

“Everyone shut up!” Amid the chaos, the woman who’d taken the bald man’s place pulled a French-made pistol from her bag, swinging it toward the screaming passengers. The commotion only grew. Some tried to escape through the rear door, some through the windows, while others, in their confusion, reached for their phones to call the police—only to be struck down with a pistol butt.

By now, the other “athletes” had all stood up, quickly donning resin masks from their bags. Once masked, they drew an assortment of European-made assault rifles—Swiss 550s, Austrian models, all top-tier, expensive weapons that clearly marked them as anything but petty criminals.

Passengers who had just been sitting side by side with these people now found themselves at gunpoint, their faint resistance crushed by a hail of muzzles. Several men who tried to jump from the bus or grab a weapon were shot down instantly.

“All of you, get to the windows—stand facing out, shoulder to shoulder! And hand over your phones! I love to kill, so don’t give me an excuse.” With her companions swiftly gaining control, the armed woman herded the passengers to the right side of the bus, then produced a large transparent plastic bag, frisking each passenger and collecting their phones.

Next, she pulled out handfuls of plastic cable-ties, securing each passenger’s hands to the bus’s metal railings, completely preventing them from ducking or moving away, and built a human wall of hostages.

While the hostages shielded the right side, the “athletes” lined up along the left windows, calmly checking their weapons and donning bulletproof vests. Finally, they slid the windows open, rifle barrels jutting out, ready to fire at any moment.

By now, the double-decker had reached a stop in front of the Justice Building. The bald driver spotted a group exiting the building, and, intent on closing in, he floored the accelerator, leaving would-be passengers cursing in his wake.

At that moment, Minister Mohammed’s party descended the steps, flanked by over twenty security personnel who hurried to join them, swiftly closing ranks around the minister.

A uniformed Hong Kong officer on the periphery caught wind of the commotion. Turning, he caught sight of the stranded passengers at the bus stop and the double-decker barreling toward them like a beast.

“Something’s up,” he radioed in, reaching for his sidearm. But before he could draw, a gunman on the upper deck fired a burst, felling him where he stood.

The moment shots rang out, Mohammed’s security team sprang into action—one pushed the minister’s head down, others dragging him behind the armored car.

But as security peered out to locate the shooter, the double-decker came crashing in.

With a deafening crunch, the bus rammed a police car blocking the intersection aside, screeched to a halt beside the minister’s convoy—less than fifteen meters away—and in an instant, 167 assault rifles protruded from both decks, unleashing a torrential volley into the crowd before the Justice Building.

In a matter of seconds, hundreds of bullets rained down on the steps. The officials who’d come to bid Mohammed farewell barely had time to turn before being cut down, men and women alike collapsing on the stone.

The few officers standing guard returned fire, but their slow-firing revolvers were no match for the attackers’ automatic weapons. The moment they engaged, they were shot dead.

As the steps were awash with blood, the hail of bullets shifted to the minister’s security detail, wiping out at least half in a blink. Those lucky enough to survive the initial onslaught, cowering behind cars or among dead comrades, could scarcely lift their heads to return fire.

“Headquarters, headquarters! We’re under heavy attack—they have automatics—request immediate back—” A Hong Kong officer cried into his radio, but before he could finish, a burst tore through the door shielding him, punching through his vest and body.

Seconds passed, and the bus’s fire slackened. But now, the attackers’ discipline became clear: half maintained suppressing fire, maximizing casualties in a short window, while the rest slowed to precise, controlled shots, picking off anyone who dared so much as peek out.

Suddenly, two officers burst from the building’s entrance, each wielding a submachine gun, spraying the open upper deck to suppress the attackers. But they knew two alone could not turn the tide; firing as they went, they sprinted for cover behind the pillars to prepare for a drawn-out firefight.

Seeing the distraction, a bodyguard armed with a 90 leapt up, firing at the lower deck while darting sideways, hoping to reach the car ahead and buy others time.

But he’d barely taken two steps before two rifles zeroed in, and the last rounds in their magazines tore through his body.