The Return of the Cannon Fodder Trillion Heiress - Chapter 744

Chapter 744: Chapter 744 Extracting Information

Now that Leo had a clear understanding of the situation, Terry’s investigation would be much faster and more precise. Without this information, starting from the ground up would have required more time and manpower to uncover the full picture. However, thanks to the other four filling in the blanks, Leo now had a solid foundation to work with.

After his brief chat with Dave and the others, Leo arrived at the villa. Terry escorted him inside while his men followed, swiftly positioning themselves around the property in an organized manner.

Without a care, Leo stepped in and shrugged off his blood-soaked coat, tossing it onto the rack. Terry grimaced and quickly retrieved it, passing it to a helper for dry cleaning.

Meanwhile, Leo headed straight to the second floor and into his room to take a shower. Terry, now settled on the sofa, coordinated with the other subordinates, ensuring updates on the cleanup and the transportation of the captured Cartel Leader were properly handled.

After twenty minutes, Leo descended from the second floor, now dressed in a fresh set of clothes. He wore a sleek black dress pants paired with a black shirt, the top two to three buttons undone, revealing a glimpse of his chiseled chest.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, accentuating his defined arms and the prominent veins trailing from his forearms to his sculpted fingers. He looked like a tempting devil—dangerously alluring—his slow, deliberate descent mesmerizing to the eye.

Yet, the chilling aura he exuded was anything but inviting, sending an unmistakable sense of unease through the air.

“Sir, the captive has been successfully transported to the safe house. We’re ready to move out as soon as you give the order,” Terry reported as he stood up, positioning himself behind the couch.

Leo, exuding effortless cool, sank into the couch, leaning back with a relaxed posture while draping one arm over the backrest. Without needing further instruction, Terry poured a glass of whiskey from the rack and handed it to Leo.

Taking the glass, Leo brought it to his lips, taking a slow sip before resting his hand back on the couch, still holding onto the drink with an air of quiet dominance.

“Great. Prepare the car—we’re heading there now,” Leo said, taking another sip of his whiskey. He swallowed smoothly before running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, his expression unreadable.

Terry wasted no time, swiftly sending out the order through his phone. Moments later, one of the men stationed at the entrance stepped inside.

“Sir, the car is ready,” he reported promptly.

Leo rose from his seat, setting the unfinished whiskey on the coffee table before striding away with an air of authority. Terry followed closely behind, swiftly opening the back seat door for him. Once Leo settled inside, Terry took his place in the front passenger seat, and the driver immediately set off.

After two hours of driving, their convoy arrived at what appeared to be a deserted, run-down shack—completely unassuming to the outside world. However, inside the shack was a heavily secured metal door leading underground. It was so thick and heavy that it took three of Leo’s men to lift it open.

As soon as the door was raised wide enough, Terry took the lead, descending the hidden staircase with Leo following behind. The descent was long—five minutes down an almost claustrophobic flight of stairs—before they reached another reinforced metal door.

Two guards stood watch from the inside and outside, their expressions impassive. At the sound of a familiar rhythmic knock, they unlocked and pulled the door open.

Beyond the door lay a stark contrast to the damp, cold exterior. The inside resembled a high-tech bunker—sleek, sterile, and temperature-controlled, more akin to a high-security vault than an underground hideout.

The entire room was stark white—white marble floors, pristine white walls, and a ceiling just as immaculate. The sterile environment contrasted sharply with Leo and his men, who stood out in their all-black attire.

As Leo moved deeper into the space, a chilling sound pierced the air—a bloodcurdling scream, raw and hoarse, stretching in agony.

It was the kind of scream you’d hear in a horror thriller, the desperate wail of someone on the verge of death or as if his skin was being peeled off of him as he scream his lungs out. And truth be told, the man behind that scream wasn’t far from such a fate.

Leo’s men were quite literally peeling their captive’s skin off, inch by inch, with a razor-sharp knife. Each delicate slice was followed by a generous handful of salt, mercilessly rubbed into the raw, exposed flesh.

It was the very definition of adding salt to the wound—only this time, in the most excruciatingly literal sense.

Even the guards stationed outside the torture room couldn’t help but grimace, their stomachs churning at the mere thought of the agony unfolding within.

“FUUUCK!!! JUST KILL ME ALREADY!!!” the man bellowed, his voice raw and guttural, barely human anymore. Desperation dripped from every syllable, but the one inflicting the torment remained unmoved.

His expression was cold, detached—like a craftsman meticulously carrying out his work. There was no flicker of emotion in his eyes, no trace of hesitation in his steady hands. To him, this wasn’t personal. It was just another task to complete.

The torturer finally set down his knife, granting the man a brief reprieve—if it could even be called that. But there was no true relief, only the relentless agony of exposed flesh seared by coarse rock salt.

The pain was inescapable, a living fire coursing through every nerve. He tried to shift, to recoil, but the heavy chains binding him to the wall allowed little movement. His body sagged, meant to stand yet barely able to support itself.

His wrists burned from the strain, but that agony was nothing compared to the raw, gaping wounds that marred his body.

Strips of skin were missing from his arms, his shoulder, the side of his stomach, his legs—no pattern, no mercy, just the random cruelty of a hand that knew exactly how to prolong his suffering.

Blood soaked his tattered clothes and dripped onto the pristine white floor beneath him, the stark contrast making the scene all the more grotesque. His face, once human, was now a horror show.

The right side of his cheek had been peeled away, leaving raw muscle and exposed tissue where skin once belonged. He was unrecognizable—just another broken thing in the hands of a man who did not flinch while inflicting pain on others.

Now that the torturer had set his knife down, he adjusted his gloves with an unsettling calm.

His eyes darted over the array of tools neatly laid out on the metal table before him, as if he were carefully selecting his next instrument of torture. Each blade, every implement, gleamed under the harsh white light, waiting to be wielded.

The man chained to the wall could barely keep his eyes open, the pain weighing on him like a crushing force. Every nerve in his body screamed, and every breath felt like shards of glass cutting through his lungs.

It was as if his very soul was being seared; the torment was so overwhelming that he wondered how his heart hadn’t already given out.

And yet, he was still alive. Still holding on. But for what?