Torture and Intelligence

South of San Francisco International Airport lies a forgotten industrial wasteland.

The abandoned aircraft maintenance hangar, its massive arched steel frame structure resembling the ribs of a prehistoric creature, supports a dome covered in rust and cobwebs. A few dim rays of light filter through broken windows, illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air. Scattered on the ground are discarded aircraft parts, rusted tools, and unidentified oil stains and grime. The air is thick with the pungent smell of aviation fuel, rusted metal, and mold.

Far from the hustle and bustle of the city, this place is sparsely populated. Occasionally, a plane flies overhead, its massive engine roar drowning out any other unusual noises.

Deep inside the hangar, a high-powered LED work light was mounted on metal scaffolding, its stark white light illuminating a relatively clean open space. In the center of the space stood two heavy steel industrial chairs, welded to the ground with bolts.

Deshawn and Malik were tied to the two chairs respectively.

Their hands were cuffed behind their backs to the chairs, and their ankles were secured to the chair legs with plastic straps. Their oversized T-shirts and ripped jeans were covered in dust and blood from the "arrest" —Deshawn's gunshot wound to his wrist had been simply and roughly bandaged, and blood had soaked through half of his sleeve, pooling into a dark red puddle under the chair. Malik had no external injuries, but the wet patch on his groin and the deathly paleness of his face showed that he was on the verge of a mental breakdown.

Six men in black stood around, like silent statues, scattered throughout the hangar, their MP5Ks hanging at their sides, but the muzzles of their guns pointed intentionally or unintentionally at the two bound men.

The crew-cut man—the one known as "K"—stood before Deshawn, slowly and methodically putting on a pair of black tactical gloves. His movements were unhurried, as if he were preparing for a precise task requiring focused concentration.

Deshawn gasped for breath, the excruciating pain in his wrist and the blood loss blurring his consciousness, but the instinct for survival forced him to lift his head and look at the expressionless man before him. His voice was hoarse, trembling with despair. "You... what do you want... money? I can give you money... our gang has money..."

K didn't answer, or even look at him. After putting on his gloves, he turned around and took something out of a metal toolbox next to him.

It was a pair of pliers. Not ordinary household pliers, but industrial-grade heavy-duty pliers, with serrated jaws and a long handle. The lever principle allowed it to generate tremendous biting force. Under the harsh white light, the metallic luster of the jaws appeared exceptionally cold.

Deshawn's pupils suddenly contracted.

K, holding the pair of pliers, walked up to Deshawn, squatted down, and looked him in the eye. His grey eyes held no emotion, only a calm and focused demeanor akin to that of a laboratory researcher.

"Mr. Deshawn," he began, his voice steady, even polite, "I'm about to ask you some questions. If you answer truthfully, the pain will end quickly. If you lie, or try to hide something—"

He shook the heavy-duty pliers in his hand, and the jaws made a crisp "click" sound.

"--This process will be prolonged."

Deshawn made a hissing sound as he shook his head frantically, "No... no... I'll talk! I'll tell you everything!"

K nodded, seemingly satisfied with his cooperation. He then asked his first question:

"What's your gang's name? Where's your base?"

"South District Black Snakes... We're at the ' Snake Den ' bar in the Bayview District..." Deshawn blurted out almost without hesitation.

"The exact address of the ' Snake Den ' bar."

Deshawn quickly gave an address.

K gestured to a man in black beside him to take notes. Then, he continued to ask:

How many people are in your gang? Who are the main members? Who is the leader?

"About... about thirty or forty... a dozen or so core members... the leader is ' The Big Snake' —that's what we all call him, I don't know his real name... he usually hangs out in bars..." Deshawn said, his voice trembling with blood loss and fear.

K didn't seem too concerned about this information, simply instructing his subordinates to record it. He then asked a more crucial question:

What kind of business does your gang mainly do?

Deshawn hesitated for a moment, but seeing K slightly raise the bolt cutters in his hand, he immediately backed down. "Mainly... collecting protection money... occasionally helping people collect debts... and selling some leaves too..."

"Are the drugs your own source, or are you selling them for someone else?"

"It's... it's something I did myself... I sourced it from Oakland..."

K nodded and then asked, "Do you have any conflicts with the Fuqing Gang or other Chinese gangs?"

Deshawn paused, not understanding why he was asking this, but still honestly answered, "No... no... we don't have much contact with them... they're mainly in Chinatown..."

K paused for a few seconds, seemingly assessing the value of this information. Then, he asked the last question, the one that terrified Deshawn and Malik the most:

Where do your family members—parents, siblings, girlfriend—live?

Deshawn and Malik froze simultaneously.

They are very clear about what this issue means.

Deshawn struggled violently, the chains rattling against the chair back. "No! You can't touch them! They're innocent! Take it out on me! Don't touch my family!"

Malik finally managed to squeeze out a voice from his breakdown, pleading in a tearful voice, "Please... my mother doesn't know anything... she's just an ordinary person..."

K watched their reactions without any change in expression. He stood up, put the pliers back in the toolbox, then took a white cloth out of his pocket and slowly wiped non-existent stains off his fingers.

"You're lucky," he said calmly. "Our boss doesn't like indiscriminate killing. As long as you cooperate, your families will be fine."

He paused, then added, "On the premise that you are telling the truth."

Deshawn and Malik exchanged a glance, both seeing despair and a sliver of hope in each other's eyes. They didn't know who this "Mr. Lin" was, or why he was targeting their small street gang. But they knew they had no other choice.

"I'll tell you... I'll tell you everything..." Deshawn lowered his head, his voice hoarse, "My mother lives... my sister lives..."

Malik also broke down, intermittently revealing his home address and family information.

K gestured for his men to record all this information. Then, he nodded to a man in black standing nearby.

The man in black understood, took out another, even sharper knife from his toolbox, and walked up to Malik.

Malik's eyes widened in terror. "No! You said you wouldn't kill me! I've told you everything!"

The man in black ignored his struggles and simply and cleanly cut the plastic straps on his wrists.

Malik was stunned.

"You can go now," K said calmly. "Go back and tell your ' Big Snake ' that ' Mr. Lin ' is very dissatisfied with some of the recent actions of your ' South District Black Snakes '. Tell him to prepare to welcome the 'guest'."

Malik stared in disbelief at his freed hands, then at K's expressionless face, as if he couldn't believe he'd really been let go. He staggered to his feet, glanced at Deshawn, who was tied to a chair beside him and looked equally shocked, then at the men in black around him who looked like the Grim Reaper. Not daring to linger for another second, he turned and stumbled toward the hangar door.

His figure disappeared into the blinding light outside the door.

Silence returned to the hangar.

Deshawn stared in the direction Malik had disappeared, a complex mix of emotions welling up inside him—fear, anger, and a sliver of relief. At least Malik had survived. Maybe... maybe they really would let him go?

He looked up at K, his eyes filled with pleading and hope. "I... I've already said everything... Can you let me go now?"

K turned around, looked at him, her face still expressionless.

He slowly shook his head.

"Mr. Deshawn," his voice remained steady, but carried an undeniable chill, "You are different."

The hope on Deshawn's face froze instantly.

"You touched the wrong person." K walked up to him, looking down at him. "That female boss, Feng Ya —she's Mr. Lin's niece. You not only smashed up her shop, but you also tried to... insult her."

Deshawn's face turned deathly pale. He finally understood the root of all this. It wasn't gangland feuds, nor was it a conflict of interest—it was that Asia woman he had thought was just an "ordinary sheep"!

"I... I don't know... I really don't know..." he stammered, but his voice grew weaker and weaker, because he knew that any explanation was pointless.

K didn't say another word. He turned around, walked towards the hangar door, his back to Deshawn, and made a simple gesture to the remaining men in black—

A throat-slitting gesture.

Deshawn let out a final, desperate scream.

But the roar was quickly drowned out by a muffled, silenced gunshot.

Silence returned to the hangar.

Only the strong stench of blood in the air added to the already strong smell.

K stepped out of the hangar, stood in the afternoon sun, took out his encrypted satellite phone, and dialed a number.

"Boss, it's all done."

On the other end of the phone, Lin Feng's calm voice came through:

"Hmm. Next target, ' Snake Den ' bar. Tonight's the move."

"Clear."

K hung up the phone, glanced back at the silent, tomb-like abandoned hangar, then turned and walked towards the black sedan parked by the roadside.

The engine started, and the car drove away from the industrial ruins, heading smoothly towards downtown San Francisco.

As the sun sets, it casts long shadows across the city.

Another night is about to fall.