"No! What are you doing?! What is this?!"
Orwell saw the syringe and jerked backward sharply, but he was tightly restrained by straps, able only to wriggle in vain, his pupils dilated in fear.
His performance was a disgrace to his identity as an agent.
But Song Heping clearly recognized that this guy's reaction was normal.
Although Orwell was an agent and a double agent at that, he was an outsider—a doctor originally working in Qatar, later recruited by the CIA and Mossad consecutively.
Considered an outsider then!
This type of outsider spy receives so professional training, but absolutely lacks the comprehensive training of field agents or those recruited from universities to beco career agents; counter-interrogation training is likely superficial at best.
Agents like this are the easiest to break.
Especially in front of Russian Special Forces, it wouldn't be long before they fold.
"A little... amusent tool."
Petrovsky's tone was flat, as if he were describing a dinner condint.
"It enhances your nerve perception, especially pain. It's said the effect can be increased five to ten tis. We hope you'll enjoy it."
"No! Don't! I'll talk! I..."
Orwell's ntal defenses began to crumble the instant he saw the syringe.
But "Iron Hamr" didn't give him a chance to continue speaking.
He yanked open the shirt sleeve covering Orwell's arm, ignoring his screaming and struggle, precisely injecting the needle into the vein at the crook of his elbow, slowly pushing the transparent liquid inside.
Almost instantly, Orwell's body began to convulse violently, his breathing beca rapid and shallow, beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his gaze beca unfocused, uttering aningless moaning sounds.
He seed to have grown extraordinarily sensitive to everything around him, even the friction of clothing against his skin caused unbearable stinging pain.
Petrovsky waited patiently for about thirty seconds until Orwell's moaning subsided slightly, then spoke again, his voice not loud but like a heavy hamr pounding on Orwell's drug-intensified nerves: "Warehouse. Address."
"East... east of Latamira... about twenty kiloters... there's an abandoned... Kabul freight transit station..."
Orwell's voice was intermittent with painful gasps, "Number three... warehouse three... basent... there's a hidden chamber..."
"Types, quantities, and origin of the chemicals."
Petrovsky continued to ask, his speech rate not fast, but every word incredibly clear.
"It's... sarin... precursor... and... mustard gas... raw materials..."
Under the dual pressure of drugs and fear, Orwell's spirit collapsed completely, answering every question almost reflexively, "From... from the Turkish border... under the guise of dical supplies... brought in... Mossad... Mossad provides the channels and formulas..."
"Mossad?"
Petrovsky raised an eyebrow sharply; even Song Heping beside him looked alert.
Daishe Bird generally doesn't ddle in affairs, but this was beyond ddling.
"Yes... yes..."
Orwell's face stread with tears, his body trembling uncontrollably, "I... I work for the CIA on the surface... but... real orders co from Mossad... They... they want us to use aid projects here as a cover, a week later... at a refugee camp south of Raqqa... fabricate a chemical weapons attack... then... then fra the Hafez Governnt..."
This guy spilled everything completely; even Petrovsky's interrogation hadn't truly begun, yet he already wet his pants.
Subsequently, Orwell's broken recounting revealed more shocking inside stories—the ultimate goal of Mossad is to use this chemical weapons attack, capable of provoking strong international reactions, to completely topple the already precarious Syria Hafez Regi.
Once Hafez falls, Syria will plunge into total anarchy, and Daishe Bird Country can, under the guise of creating a "security buffer zone" and "preventing extremist organizations from obtaining chemical weapons," push eastward and northward from its solidly controlled Golan Heights, occupying more Syrian territory, establishing a larger and deeper strategic defense zone.
"Ambitious."
Petrovsky snorted coldly, glancing at Song Heping.
Song Heping shrugged, saying, "It's your problem."
He wasn't wrong.
This is a Russian interest issue.
Nothing to do with him, the boss of an international defense company.
All he wanted was profit, a smuggling route from Peshawar to Central Asia to the Middle East.
"The warehouse guard specifics? Defensive arrangents?"
Petrovsky continued pressing, not giving Orwell any chance to catch his breath or fabricate lies.
"There... there's about a squad... fifteen people or so... peripheral action personnel from Mossad... well equipped... with heavy weapons... caras and alarm systems at the warehouse entrance... the hidden chamber requires password and iris scan... the password is... is 'Samson2024'... the iris... is mine..."
Orwell had utterly surrendered, spilling everything he knew like beans from a bamboo tube.
The interrogation continued for another five minutes, with Petrovsky repeatedly questioning certain details—this is an interrogation technique, asking multiple tis, cross-checking, until confirming Orwell wasn't lying.
Once all valuable intelligence was extracted, Petrovsky nodded to "Iron Hamr."
"Iron Hamr" took out another small syringe from a tal box, containing so sedative.
He injected Orwell again, whose violent trembling and moaning quickly diminished, his eyes turned vacant, and eventually his head slumped sideways, passing out.
"Take him up, we still need him."
Petrovsky instructed "Angel", then turned to Song Heping and the surrounding team mbers, "The mission objective remains unchanged: destroy that warehouse. We can't let those dirty things be used anywhere; we have to obliterate them."
Song Heping said, "Ti is tight, Mossad has likely already detected Orwell's disconnection. If you're going to do it, you must hurry and take down that warehouse before they react."
"Everyone, check your equipnt and ammunition, replenish your water. We'll depart in five minutes, target: Kabul cargo transfer station, Warehouse No. 3!"
Petrovsky swung his right hand, issuing the orders succinctly.
The team mbers quickly gathered usable ammunition left by ard militants inside the building, and soone drew cool water from the well in the yard, filling their water bags.
"Hawkeye" operated the UAV for a final broad scan of the surroundings, confirming no new threats were approaching.
Five minutes later, the team reassembled.
Orwell was stuffed into the rear seat of a pickup truck, closely guarded by "Angel" and another mber.
The rest of the personnel quickly boarded the vehicle.
The engine roared to life again, more urgently than before.
Several pickup trucks charged out of the earthen courtyard like wild horses, rumbled across the wasteland, heading eastward toward Latamira, racing in the deepening twilight.
On the vehicle, the atmosphere grew heavier.
Originally, they thought they were only dealing with ordinary Kurd people or bodyguards hired by the White Helts, but unexpectedly, they were now directly facing the notoriously ruthless and vengeful Mossad.
The upcoming battle would only be more brutal and dangerous.
The ti had reached 4:40 in the afternoon.
Song Heping sat in the lead vehicle, seizing the mont to bite into an energy bar.
Using the dim light inside the car, he reviewed the warehouse structure blueprint interrogated from Orwell—a map dictated by Orwell and drawn on site by "Shadow".
It was a standard cargo warehouse, but with reinforced secret rooms underground, and heavily guarded entrances.
"Twenty kiloters, unknown road conditions, we need at least about thirty minutes, estimated to reach there by five o'clock."
Watching the rough earthen road ahead, the driver "Frost" said in a deep voice.
"Too slow."
Petrovsky glanced at the numbers on the tactical terminal.
"'Hawkeye', scout the route and warehouse periphery with the UAV. We need the fastest and safest route."
"Understood." "Hawkeye" imdiately operated, sending the UAV silently and swiftly like a Night Owl accelerating toward the convoy's front.
The sun finally set in the west, tinting the sky red.
The wasteland's night about to descend, temperatures began to plumt, cold wind seeped through the window gaps, bringing a biting chill.
At the sa ti, Langley, Virginia, USA, CIA Headquarters.
Sunlight stread through thick bullet-proof glass, casting elongated glints in Simon's spacious office, the air purifier emitting a low hum.
The red indicator on the phone lit up, accompanied by a subdued buzzing.
Simon picked up the telephone receiver, with the voice of his secretary inside.
"Sir, Ramins wants to see you."
"Ramins?"
Simon was slightly taken aback, then said, "Let him in."
A dozen seconds later, a gentle knock sounded, and upon receiving permission, a middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit with a stern expression entered, holding a thin folder, although the information it carried might weigh heavily.
"Ramins, is there an ergency?"
"Sir, KEYHOLE-12 has just transmitted the images and completed preliminary decryption."
The analyst's voice remained professionally calm as he opened the folder and laid it flat on Simon's broad mahogany desk, pointing to an enhanced satellite image within.
"Taken at 10:20 local ti in Latamira, inadvertently captured, flagged by the system, seems there was a skirmish there."
Simon leaned slightly forward, his deep gaze fixated on the image.
The image resolution was exceptionally high, clearly showing the details around the solitary earthen courtyard.
Several images continuously displayed the process—brief, unexpected exchange of fire near the safe house, with several inconspicuous impact dust clouds, followed by multiple individuals quickly converging from different directions to board several pickup trucks parked in hidden spots.
The entire process appeared unusually swift and orderly.
"Image enhancent and dynamic analysis show…"
The analyst continued reporting, maintaining a steady tone but with slightly faster pace, "The tactical actions of these evacuating personnel are highly professional; their movent routes, cover postures, vehicle startup, and departure timing demonstrate high training levels, not sothing common local militants or the like can possess. More importantly…"
His fingers moved to a close-up screenshot showing a slightly blurred side profile as the person bent to enter the front passenger seat.
"After clearing the facial contours and performing initial comparison, the match level reached eighty-seven percent. System identifies… This person is highly suspected tracking target—'Song Heping'."
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