"Wake up!" A series of sharp slaps landed, forcing Mark Ocha out of his unconscious state.
He groggily opened his eyes to find himself in a basement, bound to a chair with steel wires securing both his hands and feet.
"Hey! Look at me! Focus!" Bryan delivered another few slaps, and Mark Ocha's face visibly swelled.
Then, Bryan held up a steel nail, nearly as long as a knitting needle. Under Mark Ocha's horrified gaze, he drove it straight into his thigh.
"AAAAHHH!!!"
A piercing scream filled the basement as Mark Ocha convulsed violently in excruciating pain.
"You'd better wait outside," Frank said, noticing the reluctance on his son's face. He gestured toward the door, suggesting that Castle should leave.
But the writer stubbornly shook his head. "I'm fine. Jack is here, isn't he?"
"Do you have some misunderstanding about the FBI?" Jack bared his teeth at him in a mock grin.
After kicking Castle out of the basement, he continued watching the CIA's interrogation show. By this point, Bryan had already attached two alligator clips—connected to a car battery—to the long steel nail.
Mark Ocha turned out to be surprisingly tough. After some initial groaning, he stopped making a sound, instead glaring at Bryan with eyes full of hatred.
Bryan pulled out two photographs of the girls and held them up in front of him. "Where are they?"
"Spit!" Mark Ocha shot a glob of saliva onto Bryan's face.
Bryan didn't even flinch. He simply wiped it off with a handkerchief, sneered, and walked over to the power box, flipping the switch.
"AAAHHHHH!!!"
Mark Ocha's screams echoed through the basement, filling the air with the acrid stench of burning flesh.
That's it? Jack thought this kind of electrocution was weak—less effective than pulling out fingernails and dripping acid on the wounds.
Sure enough, when Bryan stepped forward to question him again, he was met with another wad of spit.
"This CIA torture method doesn't seem very scientific," Jack remarked dryly.
Before Bryan could respond, Frank, who was also watching the "entertainment," chimed in. "Oh? Does the FBI have a more scientific approach?"
"Whether the FBI does or not, I don't know," Jack smirked. "But as a man, and a forensic expert, I do know a few special areas that can cause unparalleled pain."
——
"No! Stop! You sick freak! Please, stop! Don't do this to me! I'm begging you, don't!"
Mark Ocha, who had been defiant moments ago, now trembled violently—not from pain, but from a primal male fear—when he felt the small clamps latch onto his testicles.
"Relax, you've got two of them. We'll fry one first, then switch to the other." Jack casually wiped his hands with a wet napkin. Without giving the man another chance to speak, he pulled the switch.
"Ever since Pavarotti died, I haven't heard a tenor this impressive," Frank mused as the switch was flipped off.
"Pavarotti was only one of the Three Tenors," Jack corrected. "Honestly, this sounds more like the falsetto of a castrato."
Ignoring Mark Ocha's bloodcurdling screams, the two exchanged dark humor with ease.
"I sold them," Mark Ocha finally gasped between ragged breaths. "Volkov told me I could do whatever I wanted with them—just as long as they were never found. Virgins like that fetch a high price, so I got rid of them as quickly as possible. I beg you, please, no more. Don't torture me anymore."
He struggled against his steel-wire restraints so hard that they dug deep into his flesh, but the agony in his "wounded area" far surpassed any other pain in his body. Even though Jack had shut off the power, Mark Ocha's entire body still twitched uncontrollably.
"Who did you sell them to? Where?" Bryan grabbed him by the collar and growled.
"Saint-Clair… Patrice Saint-Clair… Patrice Saint-Clair…" Mark Ocha's voice was growing weak, and his consciousness was slipping.
Bryan yanked a syringe from a nearby medical kit and plunged it into his vein.
The drug worked instantly, forcing his failing heart to pump fresh blood back into his arteries. Mark Ocha's eyes snapped wide open.
"Where do I find him? Tell me!" Bryan demanded.
"Huff… huff…" Mark Ocha gasped for air. His once perfectly slicked-back hair was now drenched in sweat, curling into the natural waves common among Eastern European men.
"I don't know, I swear! I really don't…"
He turned his desperate gaze toward Jack, who had already placed his hand back on the switch. "I don't know! I don't! Please, don't! I swear! Just kill me, anything! Just let me go!"
——
"Please! I beg you!"
Seeing the man sobbing pitifully, Jack hesitated for a moment, then finally let go of the switch. "Okay, I believe you."
"Hahhh…" Mark Ocha exhaled in relief, his head drooping in exhaustion.
"This is your show now," Bryan said impatiently as he left the basement. Frank rubbed his bald head and followed. "I need to make a few calls."
Jack pulled out his "Viper" pistol, but just as he was about to finish the job, something occurred to him. He suddenly asked, "Do you remember how many girls begged you like that?"
"What?" Mark Ocha jerked his head up, only to see Jack's hand back on the switch.
"NO!!! AHHHHHH!!!"
——
So it is possible to die from testicular pain, Jack mused, recalling bizarre cases he had read about online in his past life. He never expected he'd get to test that theory firsthand.
Working with two veteran CIA operatives was a real pain in the ass. They had zero interest in cleaning up after themselves—just like in the movies, they planned to walk away and leave a massive mess behind.
Jack had no idea if France had an organization like "cleaners" for these situations, and even if they did, he didn't know them. So, begrudgingly, he had to handle the dirty work himself.
After burying the bodies in the forest and burning any traceable clothing or evidence, Jack and Castle finally returned to Frank's second safe house. By then, Patrice Saint-Clair's identity had already been partially confirmed.
Frank and Bryan had gathered intelligence through their respective contacts. Jack then asked Justin to take a stroll through France's criminal databases.
The result? A figure much like Jeffrey Epstein had emerged, clear as day.
______
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