Several days later, late at night, Yam Ching-tin and Pauline had just left a restaurant when six or seven men suddenly rushed out of a van by the roadside, swinging iron bars at Yam Ching-tin.
Pauline screamed, and Yam Ching-tin shoved her to the side of the road.
Yam Ching-tin was not much of a fighter. He barely managed to fend off two men before a third struck his arm, followed by a blow to the back of his head.
When Yam Ching-tin's men on the street saw this, they grabbed their machetes and charged toward him like madmen.
But before they could reach him, the attackers beat Yam Ching-tin unconscious, stuffed him into the van, then drove off, ramming their way through.
That night, all of Yam Ching-tin's men mobilized, but no matter what they did, they could not find the slightest trace of him.
It was not until the next day that Pauline received a videotape.
"Ah Hing, Pauline, Mike, a few brothers have taken me hostage, but I'm all right. They're only after money." Yam Ching-tin sat blindfolded and tied to a chair, his expression still calm.
He was a boss, after all. Even at a time like this, he showed no panic.
"They want fifty million. Raise as much as you can."
"I'll record a new tape every day to prove I'm still alive. If you don't receive a new one, come collect my body."
Ah Hing switched off the VCR and told Pauline, who was wiping her tears with a tissue, "Don't worry, sis. If they're after money, we can work something out. I was afraid they were settling a grudge."
"Fifty million? Where are we supposed to get that?" Mike said bluntly.
"We all chip in! What matters most is getting him back safely.