The reinforced metal door to the holding room exploded inward, torn from its hinges with a shriek of tortured metal and a shower of concrete dust. It slammed against the far wall with a crash that made the floor tremble beneath Giana's cage.
Framed in the jagged opening, backlit by the harsh fluorescent glare of the corridor beyond, stood a figure. Dustmotes danced in the light, swirling around him, catching on the dark fabric of his clothes.
He wasn't wearing a suit. He was clad in black tactical gear, soaked in places, with darker, wet patches that gleamed under the lights.
Blood. So much blood. It streaked his face, matted in his close-cropped beard, and dripped from his hands. He held two long, wicked combat knives, their blades dark and wet.
He filled the shattered doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, radiating lethal power and with an aura of pure, feral rage.
Rodrigo.
5
Giana's breath hitched, a ragged, painful gasp that tore at her throat. It wasn't a fever dream.
Rodrigo is here.
He was covered in the blood of her captors, dust clinging to him, his eyes scanning the room with terrifying, unhurried precision, and Giana had never been so happy to see him.
The two guards, momentarily frozen by the sudden, brutal violence of his entrance, reacted a second too late. The first managed half a shout before Rodrigo was on him. Blades flashed in a horizontal arc of gleaming steel. It opened the man's throat from ear to ear in a spray of crimson that painted the grimy wall behind him. The man crumpled, a wet gurgle escaping the ruin of his neck.
The second guard fired. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space. Giana flinched, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them, the second guard was staggering back, clutching at the knife buried hilt-deep in his chest. He looked down at it, bewildered, then slumped to his knees and was dead before he hit the concrete.
Rodrigo stepped over the bodies as if they were litter, his gaze sweeping the room, dismissing the carnage he had created. His eyes locked onto the cage in the corner.
Giana met that gaze, and the world narrowed to the space between them. The rage in his eyes didn't fade, but it shifted, intensified, focusing with laser precision. He studied the cage and her body curled inside it. He saw the blood on her face, the swelling around her mouth, the ruined hand she cradled protectively against her chest.
"Rodrigo…" she whispered in a ruined voice.
Something in his expression shattered, and the controlled killer vanished. An animal snarl of pure wrath ripped from his throat.
He took a step toward the cage, then stopped. His head snapped toward the doorway leading to the interrogation room. A figure stumbled out, blinking against the sudden light and the carnage.
"What is going on?" he demanded and froze.
It was the man with the pliers. His eyes widened in terror as he took in the scene: his dead guards, the blood, the dust, and the avenging demon standing amidst it all, staring at him with hellfire in his eyes. The man whimpered, backing away until he hit the wall.
Rodrigo's gaze cut back to Giana, still huddled in the cage.
His voice, when he spoke, was deceptively calm. "Giana, is this the one who laid his hands on you?"
His eyes flicked to her mangled left hand, then back to her face, demanding confirmation.
Giana stared at the torturer, fear contorting his features, the piss stain darkening the front of his trousers. She remembered him whispering threats, the cold metal of the pliers, the excruciating rip as her nail tore free. She remembered the taste of her own blood filling her mouth as he'd worked on her teeth.
Cold hatred surged through her. This man had hurt her for money, for power, and for a last name that meant nothing but grief.
She met Rodrigo's burning gaze and croaked, "Yes."
The word was shredded by her swollen throat and missing teeth, but it rang like a death knell in the silent room.
Rodrigo wrenched his combat knife free from one of the corpses with a sickening, wet sound. He didn't look at the blade, slick with gore. His eyes never left the torturer. The man screamed, a high-pitched, ragged sound of pure terror. He scrambled along the wall, trying to get to the shattered main doorway.
Rodrigo was faster. He covered the distance in two strides, grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt and hauling him off his feet as if he weighed nothing.
With brutal strength, he slammed the man face-first onto the grimy concrete floor, pinning him with a knee grinding into his spine. The man's screams dissolved into choked, wet sobs.
Rodrigo shifted his grip, grabbing the man's right wrist. He yanked the arm straight out, palm flat against the concrete. The man shrieked, thrashing uselessly.
