The Parking Garage Abduction and a Turn in the Interrogation Room
Saint Dian Hospital, underground parking level 2.
It was past midnight, and the daytime hustle and bustle had long since subsided. The stark white fluorescent lights cast a cold, even beam of light from the low ceiling, illuminating rows of neatly parked vehicles and the empty concrete driveway. The air was thick with the smells of tire rubber, engine oil, and the slightly damp, dusty odor unique to underground spaces. The occasional faint echoes of vehicles entering and exiting the ramps in the distance only served to accentuate the profound silence buried deep underground.
Two men in light blue hospital aides' uniforms walked out of the elevator, chatting and laughing, their footsteps echoing through the empty parking lot. Both were around forty years old, one fat and one thin. The fatter one, named Frank, was gesturing wildly, describing a thrilling moment from an amateur baseball game last weekend. "... and then that idiot Mike, with the bases loaded, hit an airball! God, you didn't see the coach's face, it was as green as an emergency room monitor!"
The skinny one, named David, was carrying a sports backpack. He laughed and patted Frank on the shoulder, "Come on, Frank, you didn't even touch the bat last time you played, and you have the nerve to criticize others. Our team is playing the ' West City Badgers ' this weekend, are you coming? We need a right fielder."
"Come on! Of course I'm coming! I'm on fire this week, watch me hit a few home runs..." Frank's words were cut short.
Just as they reached the shaded area between a row of SUVs and vans, something unexpected happened!
From behind a tall, black Chevrolet Suburban and a thick concrete pillar beside it, two figures suddenly appeared like ghosts! They were dressed in dark hoodies and work pants that blended into the parking lot environment, and their faces were covered with black masks that only revealed their eyes, mouths, and noses. Their movements were so fast that they left only blurry afterimages!
Frank and David's smiles froze instantly, their eyes widened in horror, and their mouths opened, not even having time to utter a complete gasp—
Two large hands wearing black tactical gloves shot out from behind with lightning speed, one covering Frank's mouth and the other choking his neck, pulling him backward! Almost simultaneously, another figure subdued the tall, thin David with the same technique! The force was immense and the technique skillful, instantly disrupting their center of gravity and ability to speak.
"Waaaaaah!!"
"Well--!!"
The two men only managed to squeeze out short, muffled whimpers from their tightly covered mouths before their bodies instinctively began to struggle wildly. Frank's obese body twisted erratically as he tried to elbow the attacker behind him; David kicked at the vehicles beside him, making muffled thuds.
But the attackers were faster and more professional. In the instant they struggled, both men almost simultaneously felt a sharp, stinging pain on the outside of their upper arms! It felt like being stung by a large wasp!
It's a syringe.
The needle pierced the thin uniform, and the cool liquid was quickly injected into the muscle. The drug took effect extremely rapidly. Frank felt a strong wave of dizziness and weakness sweep over him like a tsunami; the scenery before his eyes began to spin and blur, and the strength to struggle was instantly drained. David felt even worse, as if all the bones in his body had turned into cotton in an instant, and he didn't even have the strength to lift a finger.
The two struggled, like a flame being extinguished, quickly waned. Their eyes closed limply, their bodies went limp, and they were only kept from falling to the ground by the support of the attacker behind them.
The attackers did not let their guard down. One of them whispered something quickly (the language was indistinct, but the tone was cold and hard). The other nodded. They quickly dragged the completely unconscious Frank and David into the deeper shadows of the side of the Suburban and gently laid them on the ground.
Two more figures emerged from the nearby shadows, dressed identically. The four worked in perfect harmony, silently and efficiently. Two kept watch over their surroundings, while the other two crouched down and began to quickly and carefully search the two unconscious caregivers.
His pockets were turned inside out, his Key was removed from his waist, and his sports backpack was opened and inspected. Soon, a jingling bunch of Key was pulled from Frank's work pants pocket, several of them bearing clear hospital logos and department numbers. From the side pocket of David's sports backpack, two hospital access cards and a parking permit were found.
The person holding the Key and access card examined them carefully, nodded to their companion, and made a confirmation gesture. The target item was in hand.
One of them made a hand gesture. The other two immediately stepped forward, took out high-strength plastic straps from their black shoulder bags, and quickly bound Frank and David's hands and feet behind their backs. Then they sealed their mouths with wide duct tape. The whole process took less than thirty seconds.
Then, the four of them worked together to lift the two people, who were tied up like dumplings, and carried them to a white Ford Transit van with hospital logistics markings a short distance away. The door was opened with the Key they had just obtained, and the unconscious caregiver was shoved inside and laid on the cold floor. The door was gently closed and locked.
The four quickly dispersed, like drops of water merging into the night, disappearing into different vehicles and shadows. The parking lot returned to silence, as if the lightning-fast attack had never happened. Only the white Ford Transit remained quietly parked, carrying two "Key" who were completely unaware of the storm to come.
Interrogation Room D-7, Basement Level 2, IRS Seattle Office Building.
Unlike the brief but intense confrontation in the parking lot, the silence here was frozen, oppressive, and tinged with bloodshed and despair.
Zhao Zhiyong remained pinned to the cold, hard plastic chair in that extremely painful position. His hands were cuffed behind his back, his wrists raw and bleeding from prolonged restraint and struggle, the flesh stuck to the metal handcuffs. Every tiny movement brought excruciating pain. His ankles were purple from the restraints, the numbness and tingling from poor blood circulation tormenting his nerves.
He kept his head down, his short, graying hair damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead and neck in clumps. His face was a mixture of dried blood, sweat, dirt, and new bruises and swelling, making him almost unrecognizable. His lips were cracked and bleeding, slightly parted, with only extremely faint, almost inaudible breathing as proof that he was still alive.
The bright lights shone on him relentlessly for twenty-four hours, leaving burning white spots on his retinas even with his eyes closed. The sharp, monotonous white noise in his ears relentlessly eroded his remaining will. The excruciating pain throughout his body had become numb and constant, existing on the edge of consciousness like background noise. Extreme exhaustion, dehydration, and hunger caused his consciousness to constantly teeter on the edge of lucidity and disorientation, like floating in a dark deep sea, sometimes touching the cold reality, sometimes being swallowed by the suffocating darkness.
The young detective guarding him sat in the observation area outside the interrogation room, idly flipping through a magazine through the one-way glass. Occasionally, he would glance up at the motionless figure inside, like a rag doll, purse his lips, mutter "what a tough nut to crack," and then look down again. In his eyes, this was just another prisoner destined to break down; it was only a matter of time.
Time ticked by, second by second. On the second basement level, there was no sense of day or night.
I don't know how much time passed; maybe an hour, maybe a few minutes.
suddenly--
In the interrogation room, the head that had been hanging down for who knows how long moved very slightly.
Then, it moved again.
Zhao Zhiyong slowly, with immense difficulty, raised his head. This simple movement seemed to have exhausted his last remaining strength, the muscles in his neck trembling violently. His face was filthy, but his previously unfocused and empty eyes slowly refocused under the direct beam of the bright light. His gaze moved with difficulty, finally settling on the direction of the one-way mirror—although he couldn't see the person behind him, he knew there were eyes watching him.
His cracked and bleeding lips trembled and moved as if he wanted to say something, but only a few muffled breaths escaped his lips.
The young detective in the observation room noticed the commotion, looked up, and stared inside with some surprise.
Zhao Zhiyong gathered his strength, his chest rising and falling slightly. Then, with all his might, he squeezed out a faint but clear sound from deep within his hoarse, aching throat:
"Someone come here..."
The voice was very soft, but it was clearly audible in the deathly silent interrogation room.
The young detective was taken aback, immediately put down the magazine, stood up, and leaned closer to the one-way glass to take a closer look.
Zhao Zhiyong repeated himself with difficulty, his voice slightly louder, dry and trembling from not speaking for a long time, "Call... call someone... come..."
The detective frowned, hesitating for a moment. According to protocol, he couldn't go in alone without orders from his superiors, especially when facing such a dangerous and tough opponent. But the other party seemed... to want to communicate?
He pressed the intercom and whispered to Karl Miller on duty, "Agent Miller, the prisoner in D-7... seems to have something to say, he's calling for help."
After a few seconds of silence on the intercom, Karl's calm voice came through. "Understood, I'm coming."
A few minutes later, the interrogation room door opened. Karl Miller walked in, his face expressionless, his eyes warily scanning Zhao Zhiyong, who looked extremely weak in the chair. He didn't approach too closely, standing near the doorway, and asked in a deep voice, "Zhao Zhiyong, what do you want to say?"
Zhao Zhiyong seemed to expend a great deal of effort to focus his unfocused gaze on Karl's face. His eyes were complex, filled with pain, exhaustion, and a hint of... an indescribable sense of relief, as if he had finally made some kind of decision? Or perhaps, despair before a breakdown?
He looked at Karl, his lips still trembling, and spoke haltingly in an extremely weak voice, but with great effort to enunciate each word:
"You... you guys... can you guarantee..."
He gasped for breath, as if those few words had drained all his strength.
Can you guarantee... my personal safety?
Upon hearing this, Karl Miller's pupils contracted sharply! A mixture of surprise, doubt, and a hint of barely suppressed excitement surged into his heart!
Can't take it anymore? This guy, who's been as hard as a rock and as silent as a dead man for over a day, has finally... broken down? The fact that he asked this question means a crack has appeared in his psychological defenses! He's afraid, he's seeking refuge, he's... bargaining!
Karl suppressed the turmoil within him, striving to maintain a professional and serious expression, but his tone unconsciously softened, carrying a guiding implication that "you've finally figured it out":
"It depends on your cooperation, Zhao Zhiyong. The Federal Witness Protection Program (WITSEC) exists to protect those who are willing to cooperate with the government and expose serious crimes. If you are willing to tell me everything you know—about Lin Feng, about the flow of funds, about everything—without reservation..."
He took a small step forward, his voice low and seductive:
"We can guarantee your and your family's absolute safety. A settlement payment enough to ensure your financial security for the rest of your life, new legal status, and a chance to leave this place, to go somewhere sunny where no one knows you, and start a new life. Isn't that much wiser than you stubbornly enduring this, spending your life in jail, and dragging your family down with you?"
Zhao Zhiyong listened quietly, his bloodshot and exhausted eyes fixed on Karl. When he heard "family" and "starting over," his eyes seemed to flicker for a moment, but quickly returned to a deep, still gaze.
After a few seconds, he twitched the corner of his mouth extremely slowly and very slightly. It wasn't a smile; it was more like a twisted expression mixed with endless weariness and a certain mockery.
"... Heh," he uttered a barely audible gasp, his voice still weak but seemingly stronger, "Then... I want... quite a lot."
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the cold, oppressive interrogation room filled with painful memories, a clear look of disgust and... a barely perceptible hint of calculation flashing in his eyes.
"... However," he said slowly, each word deliberate, as if choosing his words carefully, "We... can't... talk here, can we?"
He raised his handcuffed hands and gestured with difficulty to his surroundings, his eyes conveying a clear message: he felt extremely unsafe here, unable to relax, and unable to be "open" at all.
Karl's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. Change locations? Was this guy up to something, or was he truly having a mental breakdown and needed a change of scenery to start talking? He stared into Zhao Zhiyong's eyes, trying to discern the truth from the falsehood. But those eyes were filled with exhaustion, pain, and an almost numb calm, making them impossible to read.
A hint of doubt arose in Karl's mind. But the other party's initiative to demand "guaranteed safety" and "negotiate terms" was a huge breakthrough, like a tempting poisoned Apple, making it hard for him to resist. Perhaps he just needed a way out, a more "respectable" and "safer" environment to explain himself?
"Where would you like to talk?" Karl asked cautiously.
Zhao Zhiyong didn't answer directly, but simply closed his eyes wearily, as if even speaking had exhausted his strength, and murmured, "... Whatever... as long as... not here... a doctor... preferably..."
He made a seemingly reasonable request: to leave the interrogation room and to receive medical treatment for his injuries. This aligns with the psychology of a prisoner seeking basic necessities after a "breakdown."
Karl quickly weighed the options in his mind. Moving Zhao Zhiyong out of the interrogation room was risky. But keeping him here might cause him to shut down again. Moreover, if he were truly willing to talk, doing so under medical conditions might make it easier to gain his trust and obtain a confession.
"I need to ask for permission," Karl finally said, not immediately agreeing, but his tone had softened. He gave Zhao Zhiyong, who seemed extremely weak, a deep look before turning and leaving the interrogation room.
The door closed.
The interrogation room fell silent again. The bright lights continued to shine relentlessly.
In the chair, Zhao Zhiyong still kept his eyes closed, as if he had fallen into a coma or a deep sleep again. Only the slight rise and fall of his chest and the almost imperceptible, cold, rusty curve at the corner of his mouth suggested that beneath that seemingly collapsing body, something was quietly being ignited in the darkness.