Chapter 1854 - 1394: Milosh's Hard Nut to Crack_4

A minute feels like eternity, and eternity feels like a moment.

"Song... Heping..."

Lemont slowly says the name, the sound amplified through speakers, repeating at every frequency.

Milosh's lips move slightly.

The interrogator leans in close.

He is repeating the same word in Serbian: "Njet... Njet... Njet..."

"What does that mean?" the interrogator asks curiously.

Lemont is silent for two seconds: "It means 'no'. He is saying 'no'."

But at this moment, amidst the confusion, Milosh utters a phrase: "...White House... sand..."

The interrogator immediately records.

Lemont raises a hand to signal a pause on all stimuli.

"White House? The White House in the desert?" Lemont feels there might be a breakthrough in the interrogation, quickly asking: "Continue, Milosh. Where is the White House?"

But Milosh's consciousness has already slid into deeper chaos.

He is merely repeating: "White House... sand... stone..."

Lemont realizes Milosh is deliberately diverting his mental focus, trying to catch a breath.

"Continue."

He turns to his subordinate, coldly saying: "Intensify the pressure."

The interrogator adjusts the temperature control system of the interrogation room.

Within ten minutes, the room temperature drops sharply from 22 degrees to 4 degrees Celsius.

Milosh is stripped of his shirt, his bare torso exposed to the cold air.

The low temperature quickly siphons off surface heat, muscles start to shake uncontrollably, metabolism is forced to speed up to maintain core temperature.

Twenty minutes later, the temperature rises sharply to 38 degrees Celsius, with humidity adjusted to 80%. The high heat and humidity environment make breathing difficult, sweat mixed with fluids oozing from wounds forms salt deposits on the skin.

After alternating hot and cold three times, Milosh's body temperature regulation system begins to disrupt, sometimes cold, sometimes hot, consciousness swaying between hypothermia and high fever.

"White House... is... a safe house..."

Milosh says a few words in the feverish haze.

"Where is the safe house?" Lemont immediately asks.

But Milosh falls silent again.

His gaze shifts between clarity and dispersal, drugs, sensory overload, and temperature torture are disintegrating his conscious control.

The interrogator releases Milosh from the chair, but immediately fixes him again in a manner known as "stress position restraint".

His hands are handcuffed behind his back, then raised by a sling until his toes barely touch the ground.

This posture causes the shoulder joints to bear body weight, generating severe pain within five minutes.

Meanwhile, another interrogator applies precise pressure to Milosh's elbow, knee, and ankle joints using professional joint techniques.

Not to dislocate, but to create sustained, deep joint pain.

This pain is not sharp but pierces the marrow, impossible to relieve by diverting attention.

"Ah...!"

Milosh finally lets out a long groan.

Sweat rolls down his forehead like rain.

"The coordinates of the White House." Lemont's voice remains steady: "Say it, and this ends."

Milosh's lips tremble.

His eyes look towards the one-way mirror, but the focus is unable to align.

In extreme agony and chaotic consciousness, he seems to see the 1999 sky of Belgrade, the burning buildings, the faces of his parents.

"...North...34…"

He vaguely utters two numbers.

The interrogator immediately records.

Lemont leans forward: "34 degrees north latitude? Keep going, what's the longitude?"

But Milosh shakes his head abruptly, biting his tongue with his remaining willpower.

The sharp pain brings him somewhat back to clarity.

"No... no..." he says hoarsely, "You won't get it... "

6:45 AM.

Milosh has been tortured for nearly two hours.

Three fingers on his left hand are fractured, two rib fractures, his body covered in muscle cramps caused by electrical shock.

Temperature regulation disruption leads him to shiver sometimes, fever at others, joint pain continuous.

But he still hasn't revealed the complete coordinates.

For every question, there are only three responses: "I don't know", "No", and "Go to hell."

Lemont writes down frustration in his notebook for the first time:

"The subjected shows an extraordinary psychological endurance limit. Even after trying all methods, the effect remains limited. He seems to construct some psychological anchor within pain and confusion—possibly 1999 memories, possibly national identity. This allows him to endure pain beyond ordinary limits."

But Ryan's orders are clear, the coordinates must be obtained.

"Deploy the final measure."

Lemont finally loses his calm, puts away his notebook and pen, and steps to one side.

The interrogator drags Milosh to the center of the room, making him kneel on the ground.

A Glock 17 pistol fitted with a silencer presses against the back of his head.

The gun muzzle cold, tight against the spot below the occipital bone.

This is where the brainstem lies, a bullet here would be instantly fatal.

"Last time." Lemont's voice finally carries traces of impatience: "Coordinates. Speak them, and this ends. If not, the bullet will enter below your occipital bone and exit through your forehead. Death is almost instant, but in the final moment before death, you'll know your life has ended."

Milosh kneels there, his body covered in blood and sweat, his left hand twisted grotesquely.

Yet he lifts his head to look at Lemont, using his last breath to squeeze out a twisted, nearly manic smile.

Then he speaks in clear English:

"In 1999, you bombed my home but couldn't make me kneel. Now you can kill me, but still can't make me kneel."

He pauses, speaking one last sentence in Serbian—a poem his father taught him:

"Flesh can grow on stone, but stone's spine will never bend."

The interrogator holding the gun looks at Lemont.

Lemont closes his eyes, silent for a long time.

Then he waves his hand.

The gun does not fire.

"Record: the subjected passes the ultimate test."

Lemont retrieves his notebook again.

"Transfer to special detention status, medical treatment, maintain incarceration. Await further orders."

As Milosh is dragged away, he is already in a semi-conscious state. But his lips still move, repeating that word:

"Njet... Njet... Njet..."

No.

When Lemont exits the interrogation room, Ryan is waiting at the end of the hallway.

"Results?"

"He gave us two words: 'White House' and 'North 34'."

Lemont says: "This might be a clue, or a misdirection. But under extreme interrogation, he never provided the complete coordinates. Even in his most confused state, when touching core information, his physiological reaction remains resistant."

He opens the notebook to show Ryan the monitoring data: "Look here, every time coordinates were inquired, his skin resistance suddenly rises, heart rate shows abnormal fluctuations. This is a typical stress suppression reaction, not an information extraction reaction. He's instinctively stopping himself from saying it."

Ryan silently watches Milosh being dragged away at the other end of the hallway.

The Serbian's body is already like a ragdoll, but while being carried away, his fingers are still moving slightly.

That's not a seizure, but repeating a certain gesture.

"Serbian." he finally says, with a complex tone, "Their bones indeed are hard."

"What now?" Lemont asks, "Continue interrogating others? Or..."

"Send him to the special detention room. Maintain medical surveillance, but don't let him recover too quickly."

Ryan turns to leave.

"As for 'White House' and 'North 34'—let the intelligence team cross-analyze all possible locations. As for others... continue interrogating. Song Heping couldn't have given secrets only to one person. Someone will speak."

But when only Ryan's footsteps remain in the hallway, Lemont writes the final sentence in his notebook:

"Sometimes, the hardest bone surely can break all hands attempting to bend it. But wars never stop because of the hardness of one bone. It only searches for the next easier bone to break—or finds a way to break all bones."