HLM -Chapter 1220 Your Mom’s Secret

At 8:30 p.m., after night had fallen, a line of police cars quietly rolled out of the station.

The operation officially began. This was a major sweep. With court authorization in hand, the police were allowed to proceed to the enforcement area without sirens or flashing lights, so as not to tip anyone off.

Street racers weren’t afraid of being chased by the police. In fact, over the past two years they had grown bold enough to provoke police cars, taking pleasure in taunting them.

The police absolutely could not tolerate this kind of behavior, so a heavy-handed crackdown was inevitable.

Wang Bo’s position was somewhat special. He was a Chinese-descended officer and had earned repeated commendations throughout his career, so the department felt he could represent a positive public image. As a result, he was assigned to the “lighting unit.”

The lighting unit wasn’t actually responsible for lights—it was the group that received the most exposure. Reporters followed them specifically to film their law enforcement actions. Everyone in this unit was either handsome or beautiful.

The New Zealand police placed great importance on their public image. Whenever possible, they showcased positive aspects of their work to win residents’ support and trust.

The handsome officer driving the car was named Sam. He said to the reporter, “Honestly, even if we didn’t turn off the sirens and lights this time, we could still handle them. The vehicles we’ve deployed this time are different from before.”

Movies and TV dramas create plenty of misconceptions, especially crime films where the police can never catch the protagonists. In real life, though, shaking off a police car is no easy feat.

New Zealand police vehicles traditionally came from three major brands: Ford, Chevrolet, and Holden. Now, with Holden in decline, another American brand had entered the mix—Dodge.

The cars supplied to the police were all modified models. Take Ford’s Crown Victoria, for example: it could accelerate from zero to 100 km/h in just six seconds, with a top speed of 270 km/h, making it more than competitive even in street races.

Something amusing had even happened in Christchurch—someone had stolen a police car to modify it for racing. He was caught before the race even began.

Wang Bo noticed that the Wellington police had deployed not only standard patrol cars this time, but also interceptor vehicles.

The two types he saw were highway interceptors and expressway interceptors, equipped respectively with a 288-horsepower 3.5-liter V6 engine and a 365-horsepower 3.5-liter twin-turbo V6 engine—formidable powerplants.

The car Wang Bo was riding in was a Chevrolet Caprice, fitted with a 6.0-liter V8 engine. It could do 0–100 km/h in about six seconds, with a top speed of 235 km/h.

This car wasn’t especially fast and definitely couldn’t keep up with hardcore racers, but it looked great—its sleek, streamlined body resembled a sports car, making it perfect for television.

Strong vehicles alone weren’t enough; the officers’ skills had to match. The police department had recruited top driving officers from all over, and instructors like Carlman were among the elite.

The convoy entered a side road near the beach highway and quietly came to a stop.

Midway through, they split into two groups, inserting themselves from side roads at both ends of the highway to block the racers in front and back, capturing them all in one net.

At 9:15 p.m., with a single order from Chief Commander Inspector Carver, Sam switched on the siren and lights and floored the accelerator.

The “woo-woo-wah-wah” of police sirens erupted all at once—over a dozen sirens screaming together, shrill and deafening.

Once on the beach highway, Wang Bo leaned out to look. The wide road was awash in dazzling lights. Cars were packed along both sides, many young men and women dressed provocatively sitting on their vehicles, drinking and cheering.

But the moment the police cars appeared, cheers turned into gasps. People scrambled into their cars, trying to flee.

Wang Bo knew they wouldn’t get far. Police cars were bound to appear from the opposite direction as well, sealing off the road. Now it was simply a matter of trapping turtles in a jar.

The cameraman switched on the camera. Sam straightened his expression and said, “As you can see, street racing is extremely dangerous. Look—on top of speeding, these people have been drinking. The dangers of drunk racing go without saying.”

Once other police cars blocked the retreating vehicles, they stopped to conduct inspections. Wang Bo’s Chevrolet continued creeping forward, allowing the camera to capture footage of the modified cars.

At that moment, a sports car’s engine let out a thunderous roar, then suddenly surged forward in a violent acceleration.

Seeing this, Sam slammed on the gas and gave chase. Although they were the lighting unit, not the pursuit or elite unit, they were still police officers—and since they were closest to the fleeing car, the chase fell to them.

With cars parked haphazardly all over the road, speeds were limited, and the police car quickly closed in on the runaway racer.

Drawing on his experience, Sam used the front bumper to strike the fleeing car’s rear bumper from the side, trying to force it to pull over. Instead, the fleeing car suddenly braked, then reversed, smashing its rear end violently into the police car’s front.

No one in the police car had expected that. This guy was unbelievably arrogant—not only fleeing, but attacking a police vehicle!

The cameraman, holding his camera, wasn’t steady and slammed his head into the camera mount, crying out in pain. The female reporter turned pale with fright, clutching the grab handle with white knuckles.

Sam stomped on the brakes, reducing speed. Wang Bo shoved open the door and jumped out, swinging his baton hard against the fleeing car’s window.

The window was made of tempered glass. One strike didn’t shatter it—instead, the shock sent pain shooting through his hand.

Wang Bo didn’t give up. Gritting his teeth, he smashed the window again and again. The baton was ultimately harder than the glass, and with his brute strength, cracks slowly spread across it.

A woman’s scream rang out from inside the car. Forced to stop, someone inside shoved the door open and shouted, “Fuck! You damn bastard, what are you doing?!”

Wang Bo grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him out. If this weren’t Wellington—and if there weren’t cameras filming behind him—he would have dragged him out by the neck.

That had been far too dangerous. If another car had slammed into them from behind, their patrol car would have been the bacon in a sandwich.

The man, hurting, yelled, “Damn it, damn it, damn it! Do you know who my father is? How dare you—”

“Shit, who your father is—that’s your mom’s secret,” Wang Bo snapped angrily. “All I know is it’s not me. I’ve got no reason to pamper you. Get down here!”

The young man reached out to shove him. Wang Bo didn’t indulge that attitude. He didn’t resist at all—he let the man push him, then staggered backward and fell, shouting, “Assaulting a police officer!”

Several officers who had been registering vehicles and taking photos rushed over. One of them raised his handgun. “Get down! Get down! Submit to inspection!”

Wang Bo scrambled up, rushed forward, and slammed the young man to the ground, patting his face as he said, “You’d better hope your dad is God and you’re Jesus’ brother. Otherwise, both you and your old man are in serious trouble!”