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 smell 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 become 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.
"James 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 American pronunciation of the last word, his fingertips slid over a photo in the file—a picture of James in Kandahar, Afghan with a group of armed men 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 metal toolbox nearby, the metallic sound particularly sharp in the silence.
Finally, he took out a hammer and a few iron nails from the toolbox, pressing the tip of one nail gently above the fracture on James'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..."
James'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 method is always so effective."
"Ah—FUCK! FUCK!"
James began to scream, his whole body trembling.
The fan at the top of the interrogation room suddenly sped up, slicing their shadows into fragments.
Once the nail entered the flesh, Song Heping picked up the hammer and pounded the nail in forcefully.
"Ow—"
James'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 James.
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.
James finally came 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 means?"
His reloading actions were fluid like water.
"Each bullet would create a three-centimeter 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 equipment on the table.
After the rustling, James's own voice came 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, James, I have at least twenty ways to make you speak the list alive."
James'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 times.
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.