Keep Me (Twist Me #2)

Julian
There are days when the urge to hurt, to kill, is too strong to be denied. Days when the thin cloak of civilization threatens to slip at the least provocation, revealing the monster inside

dozen empty beer cans propped on a wooden table some fifty feet away. Handing her the 9mm, I instruct her on how to use it and then have her aim at the cans.
To my shock, she hits ten of the twelve cans on her first try. “Dammit,” she mutters, lowering the weapon. “I can’t believe I missed those two.”
Surprised and impressed, I have her try out the other guns. She’s comfortable with most types of handguns and hunting rifles, hitting most of the targets again, but her arms shake when she tries to aim the AK-47

my annoyance, it takes most of the morning to break Ahmed. For a new recruit, he’s surprisingly resilient. He ultimately gives in, of course—they all do—and I learn the name of the man who acts as an intermediary between their cell and another one that’s run by a more senior leader. I also learn of a plan to blow up a tour bus in Tel-Aviv—information that my contacts in the Israeli government will find quite useful.
I let John watch the whole process, up until the moment Ahmed takes his last breath. Even though John may be trained to withstand torture, I doubt he’s psychologically prepared to see his colleague taken apart piece by piece, all the while knowing that he, John, will be next. Few people are capable of maintaining their cool in a situation like that—and I know that John is not one of them when I catch his gaze dropping to the floor during a particularly gruesome moment. Still, I know it will take us at least a few hours to extract anything from him, and I can’t neglect my business for the rest of the day. John will have to wait until this afternoon, after I’ve had lunch and caught up on some work.
“I can start if you’d like,” Peter says when I tell him this. “You know I can do this on my own.”
I do know that. In the year that he’s worked for me, Peter has proven himself more than capable in this area. However, I prefer to be hands-on whenever possible; in my line of work, micromanaging often pays off.
“No, that’s okay,” I say. “Why don’t you take a lunch break as well? We’ll resume this at three.”
Peter nods, then slips out of the shed, not even bothering to wash the blood off his hands. I’m more fastidious about these matters, so I walk