American Medicine: I survived the death knell thanks to the devil.

Chapter 87 Who's Behind the Scenes?

The Taurus was driving smoothly on its way to the abandoned factory in the Bronx.

Lynn sat in the back seat, and by the flickering streetlights outside the car window, opened the dark briefcase beside her.

First, there's the red label at the very front.

It contains Victoria's commute times, favorite restaurants, gym attendance records, and parking space information for the past two weeks.

The blue-labeled section is:

Subscription data trends of anonymous accounts, peak interaction times, and screenshots of six published videos.

There are no backend login records; the operational profiles are all derived from publicly available external data.

The thickest section, labeled yellow, is nearly thirty pages long.

Publicly available Vanderbilt family financial information, Harvard Medical School student records, residency training evaluations, and real estate lien records in the New York State court's electronic system —

Lynn turned to the last page.

I flipped through it again from the beginning.

The entire report, from page one to page thirty.

He wasn't there.

There is no mention of "Lynn," no mention of an "Asian resident," and no record of any men in Victoria's life.

His finger paused on the last page for two seconds.

A few weeks earlier, he was still riding in Victoria's sports car to the gym and directing her in front of the camera to shoot videos.

This report will definitely contain his relevant information.

And once his name appears in these documents, the man in the driver's seat absolutely cannot be allowed to live to see the sun rise tomorrow.

Lynn turned her head to look out the window.

He suddenly realized an extremely dangerous fact.

In the short two minutes he had just spent reviewing the files, his brain had automatically generated three plans to destroy the evidence.

He has never killed anyone with his own hands.

If it really comes to that, should we hand people over to Satch and have them thrown into the Hudson River?

Or should we just throw Arjun into the septic tank in the South Bronx?

Or could we simply pack them up and send them to Tuco to be used as filler in the desert on the US-Mexico border?

This absolute power of life and death, like the purest medical morphine, rushes straight up the spine to the cerebral cortex.

Lynn clenched his fists, suppressing the turmoil in his mind.

Four o'clock in the morning.

A meat processing plant in the Bronx.

The man was awakened by a bucket of ice water being poured over his head.

He was tied to a rusty iron chair with his hands behind his back, plastic cable ties digging deep into his wrists, and his feet were locked to the chair legs with iron chains.

Lynn stood ten steps away, leaning against the supporting pillar with his arms crossed.

Sachi stood directly in front, blocking most of the light from the powerful flashlight.

"Dennis Kowalski".

Lynn's voice came from the shadows.

"Former Detective of the 19th Precinct of the New York Police Department, with 21 years of service, Senior Liaison Officer of the Counterterrorism Intelligence Unit. Retired and licensed to conduct private investigations, license number PIA-091743."

At the hospital, Victoria was Lynn's carefully chosen partner, his core asset in breaking down the barriers of high society, and a good superior at the hospital.

Kowalski's tracking directly crossed Lynn's red line.

In the darkness, Lynn needed absolute safety; anyone who tried to look into his eyes had to be completely gouged out.

Kowalski shook the water off his head and took a few seconds to adjust to the bright light.

He stared at Lynn, grinned, and revealed his bloodied teeth.

"The background check was very thorough."

Kowalski's voice was hoarse.

"Then you should also know that I worked undercover for 18 months in the 75th Precinct in 2008. The Jamaicans in East New York interrogated me for six hours with a drill pressed against my kneecap, and I didn't even give them my blood type."

He tilted his head and spat out bloody saliva.

"Don't waste your time, kid. If you want to get something out of my mouth, get in line behind those Jamaicans."

Sachi dragged his army green canvas bag, the zipper sound extremely jarring in the empty factory.

"Who hired you to monitor that woman?"

Kowalski kept his mouth shut and fixed his gaze on the out-of-focus area in front of him.

The standard anti-interrogation stance cuts off dialogue channels.

Sach pulled out a towel soaked in ice water and skillfully covered Kowalski's mouth and nose.

With the other hand holding the bucket, the water seeped steadily into the towel along its edge.

Kowalski's body jerked violently, the iron chair scraping against the concrete floor with a sharp noise, his throat remaining tightly locked.

A full forty seconds.

Sachi ripped off the towel.

Kowalski coughed violently, choking out water from his lungs.

He hunched over and dry heaved for half a minute, his chest heaving rapidly.

When he looked up, the muscles on his face still maintained a defiant curve.

"Guantanamo Standard Procedures".

His throat was blocked with thick phlegm. "Keep the duration under forty seconds to avoid substantial pulmonary edema. Brother, which unit are you serving in?"

His eyes quickly scanned Sachi's stance, the angle of his grip on the bucket, and the distance between his movements.

"The method is legitimate. It's a pity I spent three years from 04 to 07 working with a CIA liaison officer at the JTTF. Your SERE..."

I've read through the stress management training materials twenty times.

Sachi, expressionless, put down the bucket and looked at Lynn, their eyes meeting only briefly.

This guy is really tough.

Lynn nodded slightly.

Sachi changed tactics.

Three types of physical pressure are applied systematically within fifteen minutes.

Strike the solar plexus with the heel of the palm.

Kowalski convulsed and arched his back, stopped breathing for ten seconds, and then continued cursing after catching his breath.

The knuckles are used to crush the periosteum of the tibia.

The dull pain contorted his face, cold sweat poured from his forehead, and he clenched his teeth, remaining silent the entire time.

Sachi used both hands to press the pressure point where the trapezius muscle meets the clavicle.

Kowalski let out a short, muffled groan, then quickly shut his mouth, adjusted his breathing, and locked his body back into the shell of an undercover detective.

Sachi took two steps back, leaned close to Lynn's ear and whispered, "If my methods are upgraded any further, they might kill him."

Lynn opened the compartment of his backpack and took out a flat stainless steel instrument case.

The instruments are neatly arranged on the sterile blue cloth.

One Cooley vascular clamp, two Ellis tissue clamps, one ultra-fine medical syringe, one roll of No. 4 absorbable suture, and one needle holder.

Kowalski stared at the metal.

This was the first time tonight that the former detective showed hesitation.

This hesitation stems from confusion, but it transcends the realm of fear.

He was proficient in firearms and knives, and familiar with stun guns and waterboards.

The cold, gleaming objects in the operating room before him were beyond his comprehension during his 21 years of law enforcement experience.

"Who hired you to monitor that woman?" Lynn stood in front of him and repeated the question from before.

Kowalski licked his chapped lips and put his tough-guy mask back on.

"Listen, kid. I don't care what kind of gang you're in, you'd better think before you act. If you mess with a licensed private investigator, the FBI will definitely—"

"Your left arm."

Lynn interrupted him, "There is a superficial depression on the inside of the elbow joint, anatomically called the ulnar groove."

"There's a fragile peripheral nerve hidden inside. If I bump my arm on a table corner, my whole arm will feel a tingling, electric shock-like numbness."

He went around to the left.

Sachi worked seamlessly together, having already used scissors to cut open the sleeves, exposing the skin.

Lynn precisely placed his index and middle fingers on the bony depression, his movements as gentle as palpating a pulse.

"This syringe is filled with a 10% hypertonic sodium chloride solution. The concentration far exceeds the normal physiological limits for the human body."

The needle tip is held vertically against the skin.

"I will precisely insert it into your nerve sheath. The hypertonic saline will instantly dehydrate the nerve cells, inducing extremely high-frequency ectopic discharges within one to two seconds."

Kowalski's eyes were fixed on the needle point, and his neck tendons were taut.

"Pain signals travel at approximately 120 meters per second, reaching directly to the brain's somatosensory cortex. The only way the central nervous system interprets this signal is:"

"My entire arm is being shredded alive by the meat grinder."

Lynn placed his thumb on the push rod.

"Who hired you to monitor that woman?"