Page 3 of The Torturer's Target

“That son of a bitch in there knows what happened to the drugs and who stole them. He knows! Why won’t he talk?” Vicker slammed his fists on his desk, his rage overwhelming him. He wanted answers, goddamnit!

Oliver chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry, sir. He will talk.”

Vicker turned to him, glaring. “What are you talking about, Oliver? He's refused to talk for four fucking days. We've beaten him, tortured him, starved him! What could possibly make him talk now?”

“The Torturer.”

The Torturer. A name known by all, feared by all, commanding the highest level of respect and terror. The mere mention of this title was enough to instill fear, sending chills down the spine.

Vicker's eyes widened as if he had seen—or in this case, heard—of a terrifying monster. “The Torturer? She's here?” He kept his voice low.

Then, as if on cue, a scream of immense pain erupted, shattering the quiet. It came from the basement of Vicker’s house, where the informant was being held.

And he knew she was, indeed, here and was already doing what she did best. Inflicting pain.

“How did you get her, Oliver? Where did you find this woman?” Vicker hissed, his voice tinged with an excitement he couldn't hide.

Although everyone knew her name and knew the terrible harm she could inflict, she was rarely seen and rarely accessed. If you could lay your hands on her, or see her with your eyes, then you had struck gold. Whether or not you would be alive to tell the tale was another story.

Oliver smiled smugly. “I have my ways, boss. No need to worry about it.”

“But Oliver, you have to tell me where you—”

The sentence was cut short as another horrifying scream—even louder than the first—erupted, so loud that their skin pricked with goosebumps.

Oliver and Vicker shared a look.

“Let’s go see,” Vicker stated and rushed out of the lounge, with Oliver following closely behind. They walked down to the basement and, just as they were contemplating whether to knock and go in or wait for her to come out, the door opened, and she stepped out.

Their jaws dropped.

The woman before them exuded a unique beauty, one that could be described as otherworldly. Her looks were so ethereal, that it was almost as if she were an angel sent from heaven. A striking contrast to her demonic actions, really.

Her hair was dyed a striking burgundy that shone like molten lava, flowing down her back in a sleek ponytail. Her olive skin was silken and smooth, perfectly complementing the fierceness of her hair. She was dressed in black leather and matching leather boots. Foreign letters were tattooed on her upper left arm.

But it was her eyes that truly captivated anyone who laid their gaze upon her. The gleaming brown orbs seemed to radiate their own light, like jewels. They were mesmerizing, yet dangerous. Lifeless. One could see the beauty in them, but one could never truly touch it, as they gleamed with a menacing glint that suggested danger for anyone who dared to come too close.

Her brows were furrowed, and her plump coral lips were permanently set in a scowl, as if she had never smiled in her entire life. She was a woman of enduring beauty, yet also savage and dangerous.

“Water,” she said, paying no mind to the two men visibly admiring her beauty.

“Water?” Vicker repeated. He looked down at her hands and was taken aback by the sight of blood staining them. His eyes shot back up to her, and he couldn’t believe how unbothered she seemed by the fact that she had just tortured a man.

“Yes, water. To wash my hands,” she replied, irritated. Her voice crisp and sharp.

“Yes, j-just a moment,” Oliver said, scurrying off to get some water for the Torturer, leaving Vicker alone with her, more than a bit scared. A frown marred her brows as she looked at her perfectly manicured blood-stained fingers.

Oliver returned with a bowl of soapy water and a towel. The Torturer washed her hands and dried them off.

“Is he dead?” Vicker asked.

She paused in her towel-drying, looking up at Vicker. “He’s alive. It was not in our deal to kill him, or he would be dead,” she handed the bloodied towel back to Oliver. “Vladimir attacked your ship and stole your drugs. The man in there is one of his men. Vladimir went back to Russia, currently hiding from another rival.” She finished by giving him the address of the Vladimir’s hideout.

Vicker was happy for the first time since his shipment was stolen. Finally, he would get the bastard that thought he could get away with stealing billions of dollars of his drugs. But how did this woman get that man to talk? Vicker’s men had worked on him for four days, giving him no food or water and tortured him with various devices and electricity, yet he refused to say a word.

But this woman, in less than twenty minutes, had made him reveal everything. What kind of woman was this?

Exactly the type of woman he wanted to get to know better.

---