Three hours later.
The night wind of the Persian Plateau carried sand grains, beating against the explosion-proof glass of the Revolutionary Guard base.
In the ventilation duct of interrogation room No. 7 in Zone B, three floors underground, the sll of rust mixed with old bloodstains hung in the air.
Song Heping undid the second button on his collar, the sound of his military boots stepping on the water-seeping tiles was particularly clear in the enclosed space.
He reached out to adjust the spotlight in the corner, letting the glaring light completely cover the blond man on the interrogation chair.
It felt blinding; one's mind would beco a blank, making the interrogated easier to guide and submit.
The man's right hand knuckle showed an unnatural bluish-purple color, appearing as a strangely translucent swelling, an injury caused by a guard smashing his finger bones with a gun butt when he tried to break free three hours ago.
"Jas Watson, or should I say John Smith?"
Song Heping opened the plastic cover of the file, the friction of the paper sounded like the hiss of a poisonous snake flicking its tongue.
"CIA Special Operations Group, Alpha Team, specializing in 'wet work.'"
He deliberately emphasized the Arican pronunciation of the last word, his fingertips slid over a photo in the file—a picture of Jas in Kandahar, Afghan with a group of ard n with no military insignia, with a vague backdrop of bodies piled together.
The blond man suddenly coughed violently, bloody froth sprayed onto the rusted rivets of the interrogation chair's armrest.
"Who the fuck are you anyway?"
He raised his swollen eyelids, his ice-blue irises reflecting the image of Song Heping: around thirty, Asian face, with an old scar on the left brow, no insignias whatsoever on his body.
Clearly, he was not from the Revolutionary Guard.
Song Heping slowly opened the tal toolbox nearby, the tallic sound particularly sharp in the silence.
Finally, he took out a hamr and a few iron nails from the toolbox, pressing the tip of one nail gently above the fracture on Jas's right hand.
"I bet it's been a while since you were back in Langley."
In the smoke swirling around, his English carried an unusual rhythm.
"Didn't they give you the latest KB molecular bounty list?"
"You're Song..."
Jas's shackled ankle suddenly twitched, the iron chain scraping against the ground with a sharp sound.
He clearly recognized the man before him.
Song Heping suddenly pressed the nail down lightly.
The nail quickly pierced through the swollen area, and blood oozed out from inside.
"Honestly, I really don't like talking to people this way, but I have to admit, this thod is always so effective."
"Ah—FUCK! FUCK!"
Jas began to scream, his whole body trembling.
The fan at the top of the interrogation room suddenly sped up, slicing their shadows into fragnts.
Once the nail entered the flesh, Song Heping picked up the hamr and pounded the nail in forcefully.
"Ow—"
Jas's eyes bulged an inch, seeming as if they would pop out of their sockets and fall to the ground.
A few minutes later.
Song Heping stepped back two paces, looking at Jas.
The guy passed out from the pain.
He picked up a syringe of adrenaline beside him, injecting it directly into him, then poured a basin of cold water over his head.
Jas finally ca to.
Seeing Song Heping standing in front of him, he began to tremble again.
But, his teeth chattered, and he didn't utter a single word.
"Indeed you're tough, the CIA and Special Forces have trained you well, you've definitely undergone anti-interrogation training, right?"
Song Heping released his hand, stepping back half a step, pulling out a Beretta 92FS pistol from his waist, skillfully ejecting the magazine to show him—fifteen Parabellum bullets with cross grooves etched on the bottom.
"Do you know what this ans?"
His reloading actions were fluid like water.
"Each bullet would create a three-centiter cavity inside the body. But don't worry... I won't use this thing on you now; it would easily kill you, and I need you to talk, need the intelligence in your head."
Saying this, he walked to the side slowly and turned on the recording equipnt on the table.
After the rustling, Jas's own voice ca out of the speaker.
Song Heping said, "I also underwent anti-interrogation training, but I know the limits of the human body—you can't withstand it, Jas, I have at least twenty ways to make you speak the list alive."
Jas's voice echoed in the recording.
When the phrase "execute the cleanup procedure" appeared, Song Heping noticed the blood vessel at his temple pulsed violently three tis.
He turned off the recording and moved behind the interrogation chair, his calloused fingertip slowly sliding along the captive's nape, suddenly exerting force at the third cervical vertebra.
"Ah!" Jas's scream bounced off the concrete wall, forming a bizarre echo.
Song Heping leaned over and whispered in his ear, his voice as soothing as if calming a child from a nightmare: "Actually, Moradi was quite loyal to you guys, before being captured by the Revolutionary Guard, he swallowed a microfilm into his stomach."
He took out a sealed bag, the organ tissue soaked in preservative vaguely reflected silvery.
"Want to know what the Revolutionary Guard's pathologist discovered?"
When Song Heping revealed the list mostly corroded by stomach acid, Jas's pupils instantly dilated then sharply contracted.
"I need you to na the people on the list corroded, you surely know who you're supposed to clear out this ti."
Jas was sweating profusely.
He knew he could no longer avoid the issue.
He couldn't say he didn't know.
Because he was here to eliminate these informants once and for all.
And the people on the cleanup list were surely the CIA's informants infiltrated in the Revolutionary Guard.
Once Song Heping had it, he had the list of moles and solid proof.
He clenched his teeth tightly, suppressing the tidal wave of pain, still remaining silent.
Song Heping nodded at him, seeing it as so sort of acknowledgnt of his endurance.
"Not bad, a real man."
He turned and pressed the intercom on the table: "Co in."
Grr grr grr—
A few seconds later, there was a sound from the iron door of the interrogation room.
Amidst the hydraulic sound of the iron door opening, two soldiers wearing gas masks pushed in equipnt stained with rust, the gears turning with a creak like the grinding wheel from hell.
"Do you know what this is?" Song Heping caressed the machine's surface with a peeling red star insignia, "A masterpiece of the KGB's Fourth Directorate in 1959, they called it the 'Spring of Truth.'"
He deliberately said the last word in Russian.
"The principle is to stimulate the amygdala and hippocampus with 128 electrodes, inducing a surreal near-death experience in the subject..."
Before he finished, Jas suddenly slamd his head against the chair back, but the prepared soldiers struck his abdon with a rubber baton.
"I hope you can be tough enough not to care about even this thing."
When the first set of electrodes touched his temple, Song Heping turned the control knob to the "3" gear. Jas's whole body muscles instantly tensed, the four fixing bolts of the interrogation chair simultaneously emitted a groan of unbearable weight.
The brainwave graph on the monitoring screen frantically fluctuated, a mix of incontinence stench pervaded the air.
"Ah—"
Jas scread hysterically again.
"Stop... stop..."
When Song Heping pushed the knob to the "5" gear, Jas's plead sounded finally echoed with a hissing voice like a leaking wind.
His tongue was bitten through with two bloody holes.
Song Heping turned off the power and quietly instructed the soldiers to prepare adrenaline injection in Persian.
"Ajax... Radim..."
Jas finally broke down and shouted out six nas, including the Deputy Chief of Staff at the Revolutionary Guard's Damascus Liaison Office.
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