Chapter 1851 - 1394: Milosh's Stubbornness

Interrogation Room No. 2, 4:35 a.m.

The room has no windows; the only door is a fifteen-centimeter-thick explosion-proof metal door.

Milosh is shackled to a steel chair fixed to the ground, with the handcuff chain passing through a ring below the chair.

Standard restraint procedure, but it gives him some upper body movement.

This is intentional, to observe his reaction under limited freedom.

He faces a one-way mirror alone.

He knows there are people behind the mirror, possibly more than one.

This is the first stage of interrogation: solitary waiting.

Silence amplifies the sound of time passing, darkness nurtures fearful imagination.

During training in the Serbian "Red Beret" Special Forces, the first lesson of counter-interrogation training was: the initial silence is the most vulnerable moment.

He closes his eyes and begins to silently recite passages from De Sanctis' "Psychology of War" in his mind.

He read it years ago in the Belgrade Military Library, used it to keep his mind clear.

The door opened, Ryan walked in, followed by Lemont. Lemont had changed into a white lab coat, holding a leather notebook and a pen.

He was out of place in this environment, like a university professor who stumbled onto a battlefield.

"The search results are interesting."

Ryan came straight to the point, sitting down beside Milosh.

"Song Heping found all our surveillance devices, and found and destroyed them. But he didn't report it to the base or Duke, didn't request an investigation, didn't even change rooms. What does this indicate?"

Milosh laughed: "Does it show that your dear mother has a fling with him?"

Ryan's eyes flashed, he raised his eyelids, coldly stared at Milosh in front of him: "Milosh, that joke is not funny."

He continued: "It indicates he expected to be monitored early on, it indicates he has his own intelligence sources, it indicates he…"

Ryan paused for a moment, and then said: "Is playing a game we haven't fully understood yet. And you, Mr. Milosh, are a crucial part of this game."

Lemont sat down opposite Milosh, opened the notebook, and unscrewed the pen cap.

Slow, deliberate movement, full of ceremony, maximizing his aura as the station chief of the CIA intelligence station in Iraq.

"Let us start from the basics." Ryan said: "Milosh Kovac, born in 1978, Sarajevo. Joined the Serbian Army in 1995, became part of the 'Red Beret' Special Forces due to outstanding performance. During the NATO bombing in 1999, you served as a communications coordinator at the Belgrade Air Defense Command."

Milosh remained silent.

"The files show that during the bombing, your unit was hit with heavy losses, you were injured as a result, and after the war, you chose to retire, soon leaving Serbia to mingle in the mercenary circles."

Milosh still didn't speak, but his eyes seemed to redden.

Lemont spoke at this moment: "Human memory has its self-protective mechanism, Mr. Kovac. Sometimes, after experiencing extreme trauma, individuals may cope by reconstructing memory or selective forgetting. Do you feel that certain experiences in 1999 have affected your judgment in the current situation, preventing you from making the right decision?"

Milosh finally looked at Lemont, his eyes became even colder.

"Don't play games with me, Lemont. During the years my country was divided, my father died from a sniper's bullet, my mother died from infection after shelling. In 1999, I watched in Belgrade as cruise missiles destroyed my alma mater, the hospital where my sister worked, the apartment building where my grandparents lived for fifty years."

He paused: "You ask if I was affected? Every breath I take is affected. But you ask if it caused me to misjudge the current situation? No. I distinguish very clearly. War is war, commission is commission. I work for money, that's all."

Ryan took over: "Then deal with the situation professionally. Song Heping took Misu away, our dispatched squad also seems to have lost contact; even if some are still alive, they are likely in your Boss's hands."

"You must clarify the current situation, your Boss holds hazardous intelligence. Acting independently outside the chain of command already constitutes a threat to United States national security. By shielding him, you are an accomplice."

"Our company, including the current missions of the Boss, all have direct authorization from Major General Duke." Milosh said: "We have copies of the written orders."

"Major General Duke's orders have legally expired. If he isn't dead now, he'd likely be under investigation."

Ryan leaned forward slightly.

"More critically, before Blake Squad returned contact, we received firefight information, indicating they are engaging in combat with Song Heping's squad, hence your so-called written authorization and orders have already become meaningless."

He pressed the remote control.

The one-way mirror turned transparent.

Seeing the scene in the neighboring room.

The other captured mercenary from the "Musician" company.

A young Serbian named Petrovich, his face bruised, shackled to a chair, looking dazed.

A person in medical personnel uniform was injecting him with some kind of drug.

Ryan's voice continued, steady yet deceitful: "If you don't speak, your subordinates will. According to the testimony they provide, you are Song Heping's confidant and know quite a bit."

Milosh stared into the neighboring room, a sudden cold smile on his lips.

"Mr. Ryan." For the first time, his voice carried obvious sarcasm: "Do you think you can extract any valuable clues from those mercenaries under me? They'll only tell you I have a close relationship with the Boss? Ha."