Chapter 297: What’s the Evidence?

After driving at a steady speed for half an hour, the vehicle screeched to a sudden halt.

The doors were yanked open, and a flurry of rough hands descended. The men were unceremoniously kicked and thrown to the ground, then seized by the arms and dragged forward. The coarse ground tore through their clothes, scraping their skin raw until it burned with pain.

The black hoods were suddenly ripped from their heads, and the dim, glaring light assaulted their eyes.

This was a deep, sealed dungeon.

In an environment that never saw the light of day, the damp, musty smell mingled with the thick, pungent stench of blood. It clung to the air, so heavy it was suffocating. An entire wall of cold stone was densely covered with all sorts of chilling torture instruments. Their sharp blades glinted with a faint, cold sheen, reflecting terrifying slivers of light in the gloom. Every single piece was steeped in a menacing aura of violence.

When had Harry ever seen a scene straight out of Purgatory like this? His legs instantly went soft, and he subconsciously staggered back half a step. Overwhelming fear surged in his eyes as he hurriedly began to beg for mercy.

“I’m with Rick Shepherd! Sirs, this is definitely a misunderstanding, a huge misunderstanding!”

Silas Chandler stood in the shadows, his figure tall and aloof. He merely shot Harry a sideways glance, his expression impassive, completely unmoved by the name he had dropped.

“Give them a proper welcome,” he said, his voice flat and emotionless. He then raised his eyes and gestured. “This one, take him to the interrogation room next door.”

“Yes, sir.”

Two subordinates in black stepped forward at the command. They hoisted up Hector Garland, who was the most severely injured, and dragged him out of the dungeon.

Just moments later, bloodcurdling screams tore through the air from the adjacent room. The sound of weeping and begging for mercy pierced the thick stone walls, shrill and desperate, echoing endlessly in the spacious dungeon.

At this moment, Hector Garland was propped up on one knee. The wound on his thigh had torn open again, and dark red blood soaked through his pant leg, dripping steadily down his calf to form a small puddle on the cold stone floor. Massive blood loss had left his face as white as a sheet and his lips colorless. He couldn’t stop trembling.

Leon Quillan slowly strode forward, his tall figure casting a shadow over Hector. The sense of oppression was suddenly overwhelming, and his low voice carried a bone-chilling coldness.

“You know why we brought you here.”

A flicker of wishful thinking flashed through Hector Garland’s eyes. He clenched his jaw and played dumb, his tone deliberately panicked and innocent.

“I don’t know! I have no history and no grudges with any of you. Why would you capture me?!”

‘He knew perfectly well that the moment he told the truth, he would be useless to them. As long as he kept his mouth shut, they wouldn’t kill him so easily.’

Leon Quillan let out a low, humorless chuckle. The smile didn’t reach his eyes, leaving only a chilling ruthlessness.

He lifted his foot and, with vicious precision, ground his heel into the wound on Hector’s thigh that was already bleeding profusely.

There was a faint sound of tearing flesh.

The damaged wound burst completely open, and hot blood instantly began to gush out.

“ARGH—!!!”

Hector Garland’s entire body convulsed violently as he let out a gut-wrenching roar of pain. Veins bulged on his forehead, and cold sweat instantly soaked his hair. The extreme agony twisted his features, his eyes filled with the torment of a man on the verge of death.

“Since we were able to track you down so precisely, it’s only a matter of time before we dig up the person who hired the Black Dragon Society back then.” Leon Quillan leaned down slightly, his voice cold and sharp, every word a killing blow. “I’m giving you a chance to live. You’d better take it. Otherwise, once you’re dead, it’ll be too late to talk.”

Hector Garland gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently from the pain.

“If… if I talk… will you let me go?”

“That depends on your performance.” Leon Quillan crouched down, his fingertips suddenly clamping onto Hector’s jaw. The grip was immensely powerful, leaving no room for evasion. His dark eyes were as deep as a frozen pool, radiating an overwhelming sense of intimidation.

“Don’t try to be clever with me. In here, you don’t have a choice. You can only confess. Speak. Who was the client that hired you back then?”

A moment of hesitation flickered in Hector Garland’s eyes as he mentally calculated his chances.

The next instant, Leon’s fingers tightened. With a soft CLICK, he dislocated Hector’s jaw.

Pain shot straight to the top of his skull, and a broken groan of agony escaped Hector Garland’s throat.

“I warned you not to play games,” Leon Quillan said, his expression cold and unmoved. “It seems you didn’t listen to a single word.”

He raised his hand and gestured. A subordinate at his side immediately handed him a sharp dagger.

A cold glint flashed. Leon’s fingers flew, deftly twirling the blade in a sharp, clean flourish. The movement was crisp and efficient, without a single wasted motion.

In the blink of an eye, the dagger, carrying a bone-deep chill, plunged viciously into Hector Garland’s other, uninjured thigh!

“AAAAARGH—!!!”

A horrifyingly shrill scream exploded through the dungeon, completely drowning out the intermittent sobs from the next room. It echoed madly, making one’s eardrums tremble.

In the adjacent room, Harry and his men, who were also being interrogated, heard the inhuman shriek. Their psychological defenses crumbled completely. They trembled uncontrollably, their faces ashen, all fight gone from them.

Standing silently to the side, Silas Chandler had taken in the entire scene. A flicker of approval quietly passed through his eyes.

‘President Hawthorne’s personal bodyguard is decisive and swift, his methods ruthless and clean. His gaze never wavered, his focus never broke. His techniques are frighteningly sharp.’

‘A truly tough character, ruthless to the bone, who never shows mercy.’

With two severe injuries, the combination of excessive blood loss and extreme pain caused Hector Garland’s vision to go black as he passed out completely.

Leon Quillan’s brow furrowed slightly, annoyed that Hector was wasting his time. He gestured for a subordinate to bring a basin of cold water and splash it all over Hector’s face.

The bone-chilling water shocked him awake instantly.

Hector Garland choked and coughed, his eyes flying open. His consciousness was hazy, and his body was wracked with unbearable pain, as if every bone was being crushed.

Leon Quillan held the dagger, slowly and methodically wiping the blood from its blade onto Hector Garland’s filthy clothes. His movements were unhurried, but his eyes were cold, devoid of any warmth.

“Speak,” he said, sparing his words, his tone one of absolute control. “Confess everything clearly, and I’ll have someone treat your wounds immediately. I’ll let you live.”

‘He knew the nature of bottom-feeding desperados like Hector Garland all too well. They were utterly selfish, cowardly, and terrified of death. The only way to pry open his mouth was to hold his life in the palm of his hand.’

As expected, the instinct to survive in the face of death completely shattered Hector Garland’s last line of defense.

He struggled to move his trembling lips, his breath weak and hoarse.

“I’ll talk… I’ll tell you everything.”

Leon Quillan leaned in close. The moment he heard the three words, his previously cold and casual expression turned grave, and a sharp light glinted in his eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t dare lie,” Hector Garland gasped weakly, no longer daring to hide anything.

“What proof do you have?” Leon Quillan pressed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“A letter!” Hector Garland answered hurriedly, his words tumbling out. “The commission letter he wrote by hand back then! I’ve kept it safe all this time, hidden in a metal lockbox under the bed where I live!”

Leon Quillan narrowed his deep-set eyes, studying Hector for several seconds. After confirming there were no signs of lying, he slowly straightened up.

“Get a doctor,” he ordered coldly. “Treat his wounds. Keep him alive.”

‘Keeping Hector Garland alive had its uses. He couldn’t be allowed to die here.’

Silas Chandler nodded slightly and gestured to his subordinates. Men immediately came forward and dragged the weak, limp Hector Garland out of the dungeon to be treated.

Leon Quillan casually tossed the bloody dagger onto a nearby stone table. The blade struck the stone with a sharp, cold CLANG.

“I’m going back to report. You can handle the rest of them.”

“Mm,” Silas Chandler acknowledged, saying no more.

He walked out of the dark, damp dungeon and got into a car, shutting out all the blood and cries behind him.

Leon Quillan dialed Jared Hawthorne’s number. The instant the call connected, he spoke in a low voice.

“President Hawthorne, Hector Garland has confessed everything.”