The Best Way to Protect a Secret

Chapter 39: The Best Way to Keep a Secret

Fran saw David approaching, struggling desperately to escape but utterly unable to get away.

"Help! Someone help!"

He tried to shout, his voice carrying far, but in this abandoned suburban factory, no one would ever come.

David stepped closer step by step, each footfall like the death knell of hell striking against Fran's heart, driving him into uncontrollable terror.

"Listen, imprisoning and assaulting a detective is a federal felony!"

Fran swallowed hard and said.

A seventeen-year-old high schooler might just be acting on impulse—he tried to persuade and intimidate David into abandoning his reckless move.

Slap!

David unhurriedly knocked over Fran, who was tied to the chair, forced his head straight, and laid a wet towel over his face.

"Waterboarding, since its birth in the Middle Ages, has been called one of the most inhumane torture methods in human history."

His calm, steady voice carried a chilling coldness that seeped into the bones.

"I like this method—simple, efficient, and no bloodshed."

"No... no!"

Realizing what was about to happen, Fran screamed in panic.

He tried to struggle, twisting his head, but that hand was like an iron clamp—utterly immovable, impossible to break free from.

Splash!

A bucket weighing dozens of pounds, David held steady with one hand, pouring water slowly and steadily, flooding into Fran's mouth and nose beneath the towel.

"Hel... help..."

Fran's pleas for mercy were drowned by the water, choked into silence.

He wanted to breathe, but the soaked towel clung tight to his face, blocking oxygen.

Within thirty seconds, as the oxygen in his blood rapidly depleted, the suffocating agony of near-drowning began. Veins bulged on his neck, his legs twitched and jerked like a strangled rabbit.

"Breathe deeply—dizziness is normal."

At this moment, the interrogation truly began. David reminded him kindly.

Oxygen deprivation forced uncontrollable gasps and gulps, flooding large amounts of water into Fran's stomach, lungs, and bronchial tubes, making the suffocation even more agonizing. He screamed in desperate, slurred cries, not a single complete syllable escaping before being swallowed by water.

The abandoned factory echoed with harrowing screams.

"From the Spanish Inquisition to modern intelligence agencies, eighty percent of those subjected to waterboarding have broken.

I hope you're not part of that twenty percent, Jax Fran."

His tone carried a hint of hope.

"Because the rest were all victims accidentally tortured to death by the executioner."

"Mm... mm..."

Intense pain and terror overwhelmed Fran's body and mind, shattering his already fragile will. Just thirty seconds after feeling the suffocating agony, he began trying every possible way to signal his willingness to confess.

But his mouth couldn't speak, his hands and feet were bound—so even though he wanted to confess, he still endured torture meant to make him talk.

In darkness and suffocation, he endured two agonizingly long minutes.

Fran's consciousness began to blur, his limbs twitching abnormally.

"That's enough—any more and the scene won't look good."

David set down the bucket.

Those subjected to waterboarding, if prolonged, would lose control of their bladder and bowels.

"Ugh..."

The towel was pulled from his face. Fran, covered in tears and snot, saw light again, gasping greedily for air like a fish washed ashore. It took over ten seconds for his pupils to focus, as if he'd circled back from the gates of hell. His face pale, body trembling with fear, he looked at David as if about to speak.

"Oh, right!"

Seeing his expression, David raised an eyebrow, a smile on his face, as if just remembering something.

"I forgot to tell you in advance—how to signal me if you want to confess."

Fran couldn't detect any trace of genuine recollection on David's face. He stared like he'd seen a demon, eyes wide, terror written all over his face, teeth chattering.

"De... demon!"

"You've wasted quite a bit of my time. Time to tell me what I want to know!"

Righting the chair, David dropped his smile and spoke slowly.

"Or do you want a second round?"

"I... I'll talk!..."

Like an electric shock, Fran begged frantically. If not for the chair binding him, he would surely have been on his knees, kowtowing repeatedly, willing to give anything just to avoid that agony again.

Slap!

The scheduled email was canceled and deleted with a tap of the spacebar. David looked up at the shaken Fran and closed his laptop.

"Thanks for your cooperation."

"You... you're not an ordinary person either." Fran, hugging himself and trembling, spoke with a quivering voice.

"What did you say?"

David acted as if he hadn't heard clearly.

"Just now, your hand was like an iron clamp, unnaturally strong. When you grabbed my face, no matter how I struggled, I couldn't budge an inch."

Recalling the searing pain that nearly crushed his cheekbones, Fran finally understood everything. He stared at David like he was a terrifying monster, eyes wide.

Why else would Clark treat his brother's actions with such alarm? Clark had clearly agreed to him, then vanished—only one explanation remained.

"You're a bigger monster than your brother!"

"I don't like the word 'monster.'"

David walked up to him, towering over him, casting a shadow that swallowed him whole.

"I just have a few tricks for dealing with Clark."

"You... what do you want?"

Sitting in the chair, Fran's heart was gripped by a giant hand of fear. Intense dread twisted his gut, and he regretted ever provoking this man.

"Let me go, please!"

"Sorry, but the best way to keep a secret is—a dead man!"

David flicked his finger. The fifty-cent coin shot out like a bullet from a chamber, effortlessly piercing his head, embedding itself into the brick wall behind with a trail of blood.

Fran's eyes bulged, dead but unseeing. He toppled backward with the chair, stirring up a cloud of dust.

"Even though you lost, this fifty cents is still yours."

"You killed him, David?"

That afternoon after school, in the warehouse attic.

After waking up at noon, Clark had kicked that piece of Kryptonite into the sewer. He'd searched for Fran two or three times around town—both at noon and after school—but found nothing. Now he stormed up, furious.

David gazed calmly at the night outside. "That's right."

"He was a detective!" Taken aback that his brother admitted it so easily, Clark froze for a moment.

"I handled it cleanly."

He had no rule against killing. The reason he hadn't killed those Metahumans before was simply to maximize Emotion Points. This Fran was just an ordinary man, useless to keep.

The body was buried beneath the concrete floor of an abandoned factory. No one would ever find it.

"What I mean is, he might not have committed any serious crime."

Clark said in a low voice.

That detective, so skilled at threats, was unlikely to be a good cop.

But maybe he hadn't broken the law severely—otherwise, working at the police station, he'd have been caught and thrown in jail long ago.

"Your naivety is laughable, my brother."

David had expected him to think that way and shook his head.

He turned the laptop on the attic table around and pressed play.