Excerpt of Hong Kong Treasure by D. Dominik Wickles

Leyte Province in the Philippines. Her running steps
echoed from the walls. Would he catch her? It meant white
slavery if he did. Slamming open the kitchen door, she
burst out of the hotel despite the typhoon ravaging the
eastern coast. The destructive winds and rains were
buffered in the alleyway behind the hotel, but she still
had to fight for each step away from the man she knew was
just behind her.

Without warning, massive walls of water rushed into the
alley from both ends. The sixteen-foot wave scooped her
up and battered her against the buildings. When the storm
surge receded, she lay bruised and unconscious beneath a
mass of water-logged debris.

“I’m told there are eleven buildings, besides this
church, serving as shelters,” Father Donovan said. “I
haven’t left here since the typhoon hit four days ago. Is
the damage extensive?”

“Yes. Very. Many people with no homes, no food,” Deshi
Han replied.

Father Donovan put his hand on Deshi’s shoulder. “You
brought much-needed food and supplies. Your movies are
loved but your charity work is well-known here in the
Philippines. I thank you. You are truly doing God’s work,
my son.”

Deshi watched as a volunteer passed out the blankets he
had brought, which would help to cushion the pews they
were using for beds. He shook his head. “I wish I do
more.”

“Perhaps there is something …” Father Donovan began.

“What, Father?” He followed the priest to a courtyard. A
young woman sat beside a storm-crushed rose bed. Deshi
guessed her to be American, in her early twenties. “Who
she, Father?”

“No one knows, not even her.” Father Donovan tilted his
head to the side and sighed. “She has no memory of
anything before the typhoon. One of the doctors informed
me that she just needs rest to regain her memory.”

Deshi watched the girl slowly gather the broken branches
from around the few unharmed plants. A child about five
years old ran up and tapped her on the shoulder. The
young woman’s solemn face broke into a smile as the child
led her away toward another section of the church.

Father Donovan turned to Deshi. “But she won’t get that
rest here. She has nightmares and cries for the orphaned
and injured children. I’ve prayed for someone to claim
her and take her away from here.”

“We delivered the supplies to the kitchen.” Jun Chew,
Deshi’s assistant, spoke in Cantonese as she approached
them.

Deshi turned away from the doorway, nodded at Jun then
called to his business manager, “Where the next shelter,
Paul?”

Paul Wu shook his head then responded in English. “We
have distributed all the supplies we brought, Deshi. That
is all we can do today.”

“Besides,” Jun continued in Cantonese, “we have to get
back or you will be late for the senior citizen center
opening.”

The supplies had gone so fast. They had only been to six
of the eleven shelters and there were so many people
still in need. “Maybe one more thing I can do today,”
Deshi said with a sigh. “Father?”

The priest’s right hand clutched the large cross at his
neck and he smiled. “Yes, my son?”

“I will take her.”