"Wake up!" Mark Ocha was jolted awake from his coma after a series of slaps.
Drowsily, he opened his eyes to find himself in a basement, his hands and feet bound to a chair with wire.
"Hey! Look at me! Look at me! You have to focus!" Brian slapped him again, and his face visibly swelled.
Then, Brian stabbed a steel nail, each as long as a knitting needle, into Mark Ocha's thigh as he watched in horror.
"Ahhh!"
Mark Ocha wailed, his entire body shaking violently in agony.
"You'd better stay outside," Frank said, noting the pain on his son's face. "Seeing the pain on his son's face, Frank tilted his head toward the outside, signaling that Cassel could leave first.
The great writer stubbornly shook his head. "I'm fine. Isn't Jack here?"
"Do you have some misunderstanding about us FBI?" Jack bared his teeth at him.
After kicking Cassel out of the basement, he continued watching the CIA interrogation program. By then, Brian had already clamped the two electric clamps connected to the car battery, the left zero and the right fire, onto the long steel nails.
Mark Ocha was quite tough. After a few grunts, he stopped yelling and just stared at Brian with hatred.
Brian pulled out photos of two girls and held them in front of him. "Where are these two girls?"
"Pah!" Mark Ocha spat in Brian's face.
Brian didn't flinch, but wiped his hands with a handkerchief. With a grimace, he walked over to the power box and flipped the switch.
"Ah! Ah! Ah!!!" Along with Mark Ocha's screams, the smell of burning protein instantly filled the basement.
That's it? Jack thought this electric shock was even worse than pulling out a nail or dripping hydrochloric acid.
As expected, when Brian returned to Mark Ocha to question him again, he was met with another mouthful of spit.
"Your CIA electric shock doesn't seem very scientific," Jack said coldly from the side.
Before Brian could say anything, Frank, who was also watching the "fun," responded. "What? Do you FBI have a more scientific method?"
"I don't know if the FBI has one," Jack said with a smile. "But as a man, and a medical examiner, I know that certain specific areas can cause unparalleled pain."
—
"No, stop it, you pervert, stop it now, don't do this to me, please, don't do this to me!!!"
Mark Ocha, who had just been defiantly trembling, felt his balls being clamped tightly together by two small clamps. This time, it wasn't pain, but pure, deep-seated fear.
"Don't worry, everyone has two. If they burn, we'll switch sides." Jack wiped his hands with a wet tissue in disgust and, without waiting for the guy to say anything, flipped the switch.
"I haven't heard a tenor as good as Pavarotti since he died," Frank said with a heartfelt sigh as the switch was turned off again.
"Putting aside the fact that Pavarotti is only one of the world's three great tenors, this voice is actually closer to the pharyngeal sound of a castrato, right?"
Jack, ignoring Mark Ocha's devastating screams, teased him heartlessly.
"I sold them. Volkov told me I could do with them as I pleased, just keep them hidden. Virgins like that fetch a fortune, so I sold them as quickly as possible. I beg you, please stop torturing me." Mark Ocha gasped for air, the wires binding him digging into his flesh from his desperate struggle. The pain in his "sorrowful place" far outweighed the pain elsewhere, and even after Jack had turned off the power, his entire body continued to convulse.
"Where did you sell them? To whom?" Brian grabbed him by the collar, demanding sharply when he finally spoke.
"St. Clair, Patricia St. Clair, Patricia St. Clair." Seeing that Mark Ocha was already fading from consciousness, Brian retrieved a syringe from a nearby medicine box and inserted it into his vein.
Stimulated by the drugs, the failing heart muscle regained its strength, pumping fresh blood into the arteries. Mark Ocha's eyes widened.
"Where do I find him? Tell me!" Brian continued.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!" Mark Ocha gasped for air, his once stylishly slicked-back hair now damp with sweat, returning to the curls common among Eastern European men.
"I don't know. I swear I don't know."
He turned to look at Jack, who had already placed his hand on the switch, his eyes filled with pleading. "I don't know. I don't know! Please, no! I really don't know! Please! Have mercy on me, kill me, anything, just let me go!"
"Please, please!"
Seeing his tears welling up in his eyes, Jack lowered his hand from the switch. "Okay, I believe you."
"Whoosh!" Mark Ocha let out a long sigh of relief, his head drooping.
"I'll leave this to you." Brian, having received his name, eagerly left the basement. Frank, stroking his bald head, also turned and left. "I'll make some calls too."
Jack was about to pull out his Viper when ,as if struck by a thought, he suddenly asked, "Do you remember how many girls begged you like you just did ?"
"What?" Mark Ocha jerked his head up, only to see Jack's hand on the switch again. "
No !!!
Aa ... After burying the body in the forest and burning the clothing and other belongings, Jack and Cassel returned to Frank's safe house number two. Patrice St. Clair's identity had been initially ascertained.
Combining the information Frank and Brian had gathered through their respective connections, Jack asked Justin to browse the French criminal database. A figure resembling Epstein had clearly emerged.
(Chapter end)