Stealing the Wrong Treasure

Ripping open the dossier, a photo immediately caught my attention: the backdrop was the orphanage from back in the day.

There stood the little blind boy in the corridor, lips pressed tight, his young face shadowed with a gravity beyond his years.

My eyes drifted down to another photo: there was Bradley, sharp-suited, his gaze icy, in front of the Gilbert Group's skyscraper.

I stared at the two eerily similar faces.

Bradley was the little blind boy?

Old Fox watched me with a sly grin, slowly starting to speak, "Bradley, the boy you've been searching for, the Gilberts' long-lost illegitimate son, wasn't always blind. After you were trafficked, his uncle found him, brought him home, and his sight was restored with surgery. He later exacted a bloody revenge on the Gilbert Group for his mother's sake.

"Ever since he could see again, he had been on a quest to find a girl from his orphanage days. Three years ago, he was sure he'd found her."

My hands shook uncontrollably. I wondered, 'Am I the one he's been looking for all these years?'

"We confirmed the target three years ago."

"Who did he find three years ago?" I demanded, locking eyes with Old Fox.

The answer was nearly palpable: Rosemary.

The woman trembling in my embrace, the one he would protect at all costs.

"Rosemary, she's one of yours, isn't she? You planted her close to him on purpose?" I asked.

Old Fox just smiled at me, a knowing glint in his eyes.

"Kid, you're in too deep. By involving Rosemary, you've sealed your fate with our organization. There's only one way out now, and you won't be leaving alive.

"Join me. Kill Bradley, and earn back your freedom."

"I may be caught, but you're not off the hook either," I shot back at Old Fox.

Meanwhile, Black Viper removed his helmet and stepped forward.

"You don't get it. Messing with Bradley's stuff has been a game for many, though none have succeeded. And none faced the ultimate punishment, except for the one who took Rosemary.

"In this game, you're the only one who's truly crossed him."

I left the base, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts, but one stood out: I had to find him and reveal the truth.

Out of nowhere, a black SUV pulled up to the curb.

I had not even had time to process what was happening when a wet cloth clamped down over my face, its stinging odor flooding my senses.

When I came to, I found a torn rag jammed in my mouth, my hands bound to the chair arms.

My arm throbbed from a still-bleeding gunshot wound, and my calf screamed in pain, probably snapped when I took that desperate leap from the building.

The room was pitch black except for a single monitor on the wall that showed Bradley sitting and staring out at me.

His eyes met mine, icy and devoid of any hint of warmth.

I fought against my restraints, desperate to speak, to warn him about Rosemary, but only muffled cries escaped.

Bradley's voice, icy and detached, floated from the speakers, "Fond of thievery, are you? Let's see how you fare without the use of your hands."

With a casual flick of his finger, two shadows stepped forward: one pinning my hand, the other brandishing a three-inch nail and a hammer.

I knew what was coming.

I thrashed wildly, shaking my head at Bradley's image, but my pleas were silent.

Helplessly, I watched as the nail approached, piercing my skin and burrowing into the nail bed.

Waves of agony crashed over me as I saw my own nails split and separate from my flesh.

The nails, driven deep by relentless hammering, sank into my fingers, through to my palm.

One after another, until nails protruded from the back of my hand, glistening with blood.

My screams filled the hollow basement, but they were not done. They grabbed pliers, yanking at the nails still clinging to the nail beds.

They did not stop until every nail was torn away, every bone in my fingers shattered...

Time lost its meaning until, at last, they ceased their gruesome work.

I forced my eyes open, the sweat stinging like needles, and caught sight of Bradley on the monitor, cool as a cucumber, flipping through some papers, and at times, glancing at the camera.

Right when they were about to hammer a nail into my left hand, the guy in the monitor screen shot up and lunged at the camera. "Hold on," he said, his voice taking on a new edge. "What's that around her neck?"