Maurice Baker had examined the gun confiscated by the military police—the metal inscription on the grip showed it was an M201K rifle manufactured at the Atlanta Armory in 2036. The effective range of this gun was no more than 480 meters, using 5.56mm caliber bullets. However, the entire rifle had clearly been modified. The chamber had been transformed into a launch device resembling a magnetic energy field, and the 9mm bullets in the magazine were longer and heavier than ordinary rounds of the same caliber. They bore signs of manual modification. Its performance was similar to, or even surpassed, the latest “Shadow Kill” sniper rifle. But in appearance, it was nothing more than a pile of junk cobbled together from rags and various spare parts.

No spy would be stupid enough to use something like this. Unless, when he came out of his mother’s womb, his head had been squeezed flat by forceps.

The uniform he wore was second-hand. By spectrographic analysis of the nylon fibers, Maurice Baker successfully traced the batch of high-elastic fabric to the Third Garment Factory of Asia. Comparing samples and the blurred serial number at the collar of the uniform, the factory confirmed—this was indeed their product from nineteen years ago. The product number and military code showed that this batch of combat uniforms had been issued by the Republican Army Logistics Department. As for the receiving unit... it was the reorganized 81st Division stationed at the S12 mining area at that time.

Maurice Baker was an extremely seasoned intelligence officer. He paid attention to details and was skilled at analyzing the whole situation from side branches that others overlooked. However, the mysterious young man’s flaw was just too obvious—after searching through the entire roster of the reorganized 81st Division stored on the computer, there were a total of eleven people with the same name, but none matched the information he provided.

He kept insisting he was only eighteen years old.

It was simply a boring joke.

“This guy... must be a severe patient who escaped from some mental hospital.”

Closing the folder, Maurice Baker shut his eyes and gently pressed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. After nearly three minutes, he reopened the case file, frowned, and silently stared at it.

No matter what, before sending him to a mental hospital, at least he should be interviewed once.

Section Five: Evidence

The interrogation room was located on the second basement level of the Intelligence Department. Strictly speaking, this was actually a general term for the entire floor. The small room where Isaac Carter was currently located was just one of many buildings with similar functions.

The room was not large, about twenty square meters. Apart from the table placed in the center, there were only two alloy folding chairs. On the adjacent wall, a huge mirror occupied the entire surface. In reality, it was a one-way mirror that blocked the line of sight.

Looking at his own face in the mirror, now sporting a short, thick beard, Isaac Carter smiled faintly and shifted his attention to Maurice Baker sitting across from him.

“I’ve carefully checked your personal belongings. Among them, I didn’t find any medication for treating tonic-clonic seizures.” (sedatives)

Captain Maurice Baker gave him a meaningful look, slowly opened the notebook in front of him, and said, “Perhaps you don’t need such things at all?”

“I’m not a psychiatric patient. My thinking and memory are both normal.”

Isaac Carter clearly understood the hidden meaning in his words.

“Well then! For the rest of this conversation, we can dispense with unnecessary baggage and save a lot of time.”

The captain shrugged and smiled, “Can you tell me why you did this?”

Isaac Carter looked at him, speaking calmly and sincerely, “I’m not a spy. Things aren’t as you imagine.”

Maurice Baker couldn’t help but frown, the smile on his face gradually fading. In the depths of his eyes, a cold sharpness of scrutiny appeared.

“It seems we still have to return to the original topic.”

“I am indeed a survivor of the reorganized 81st Division.”

Isaac Carter didn’t argue, only emphasized: “The only one.”

“I don’t like jokes—”

A chill of anger appeared on Maurice Baker’s face, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. He suppressed his urge to lose his temper, raised his voice, and said in a deep tone, “You’re very young, I can understand doing things for so-called ideals, even to the point of disregarding your own life or giving up your freedom. But it’s not worth it. Before using such a clumsy excuse to disguise your identity, you should at least have trained yourself to be more skillful. The reason I haven’t thrown you straight into prison or handed you over to a military tribunal is because I want to give you a chance to come clean.”

At such close range, Isaac Carter could clearly see the anger in Captain Maurice Baker’s eyes. In them was the accumulated experience and wisdom of an old intelligence officer, a trace of pity for him, and a stance and resolve that would never change.

“Can you give me a pen? I want to write something.”

He reached out his right hand and pointed to the notebook on the table in front of the captain: “And some paper.”

A trace of involuntary doubt flashed in Maurice Baker’s eyes. Although he didn’t know what he was up to, he didn’t refuse the request.

About fifteen minutes later, the notebook was handed from Isaac Carter to Maurice Baker. Along with it came the carbon ink pen that the captain had kept a close eye on, never letting it out of his sight, as it could potentially be used as a weapon.

On the page were written a series of names.