Devil's Rescue

POV: Scarlett

Cold water hit my face like a slap.

I gasped awake, choking and sputtering. My head felt heavy, like someone had filled it with cotton. Everything hurt.

"Good. You're awake."

That voice. Deep and rough, like gravel mixed with honey. The same voice that had saved me from Rico Valdez and his killers.

My eyes focused slowly. I was sitting in a metal chair in the middle of an empty room. Rope bound my wrists behind my back. My ankles were tied too.

The man from the motorcycle stood in front of me, holding an empty bucket. Water dripped from my hair onto the concrete floor.

In the dim light, I could see him clearly for the first time. Tall and muscular, with dark hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it. But it was his eyes that made my breath catch. Gray like storm clouds, and just as dangerous.

He was beautiful in a deadly way. Like a knife with a perfect edge.

"Where am I?" I asked. My throat felt like sandpaper.

"Safe," he said. "For now."

"If I'm safe, why am I tied up?"

He pulled up another chair and sat down facing me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and dark.

"Because I don't know who you are," he said. "And in my world, unknowns get people killed."

His world. What kind of world was that?

"You saved me," I said. "Why would you hurt me now?"

"Maybe I made a mistake." His gray eyes studied my face like he was trying to read my thoughts. "Maybe I should have let Rico finish the job."

Fear shot through me. "You wouldn't."

"I've done worse things than kill lying girls."

The way he said it, calm and matter-of-fact, made my blood turn cold. This man was no hero. He was something much more dangerous.

But he had saved me. That had to mean something.

"My name is Sarah Miller," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm nobody important."

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Try again."

"It's the truth."

"Sarah Miller doesn't exist." He pulled out a phone and showed me the screen. "I had my people check. No Sarah Miller matches your age and description in any database. No college records. No credit history. Nothing."

My heart sank. I'd been so careful with my fake identity for years. How had he broken through it so quickly?

"Everyone leaves traces," he continued. "Unless they're very good at hiding. Or unless they're dead."

"Maybe I'm just a private person."

"Private people don't attract professional killers." He leaned forward in his chair. "Rico Valdez charges fifty thousand dollars per hit. Someone paid serious money to have you killed."

Fifty thousand. For me. The number made me sick.

"I told you, I don't know why they wanted me dead."

"Another lie." His voice got softer, which somehow made it more frightening. "You're scared. That part is real. But everything else is an act."

He stood up and started walking around my chair. Like a shark circling prey.

"Rico said something interesting before I killed him," the man said. "He mentioned your daddy. Said your father killed his brother."

My stomach dropped. "I don't know what he meant."

"FBI raid in Detroit two years ago. Ring any bells?"

How did he know about Detroit? How did he know so much?

"No," I whispered.

He stopped in front of me again. Those storm-gray eyes seemed to see right through me.

"You know what I think?" he said. "I think your daddy is someone important. Someone with enemies. Someone who makes people angry enough to kill his little girl for revenge."

Tears burned behind my eyes, but I wouldn't let them fall. Not in front of this dangerous stranger.

"You're wrong."

"Am I?" He crouched down so we were eye level. "Then explain the phone call."

"What phone call?"

He pulled out his phone again and pressed play on a recording.

My own voice filled the room: "They found me. Three men. They're shooting at me."

Then Detective Martinez: "I'm tracking your phone. Keep moving. I'm five minutes away."

My blood turned to ice. He had recorded my conversation with Martinez.

"Ray Martinez," the man said. "FBI. One of the good guys, from what I hear. Question is, why would an FBI detective be tracking a nobody college girl's phone?"

I couldn't breathe. He knew. Somehow, this dangerous man with storm-cloud eyes had figured out exactly who I was.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said desperately.

He sighed and stood up. "Wrong answer."

He walked to a table against the wall and picked up a knife. The blade gleamed in the dim light.

"Wait," I said quickly. "What are you doing?"

"I don't like being lied to." He tested the knife's edge with his thumb. A drop of blood appeared. "Makes me cranky."

"You said I was safe here."

"I said you were safe for now. Now is over."

He walked back toward me, knife in hand. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Please," I whispered. "Don't hurt me."

"Then stop lying."

The knife touched my throat. Not hard enough to cut, but cold and sharp against my skin.

"Last chance," he said. "Who are you really?"

I stared into those gray eyes and saw no mercy. No kindness. Just cold calculation.

This man would kill me if he thought I was a threat. He'd already killed three people tonight without blinking. What was one more?

But if I told him the truth, he might kill me anyway. If he knew I was FBI Director Marcus Justice's daughter, I'd become a target worth millions. Or worse, a weapon he could use against my father.

"Sarah Miller," I said again, even though my voice shook. "I swear that's who I am."

He pressed the knife a little harder against my throat. I felt a thin line of blood trickle down my neck.

"Wrong," he said softly. "But I admire your commitment to the lie."

He pulled the knife away and walked back to the table. My whole body sagged with relief.

"Here's what's going to happen," he said, still holding the knife. "You're going to stay here while I dig deeper into your past. And when I find out who you really are – and I will find out – we're going to have another conversation."

"What if you don't find anything?"

He smiled, and it was the most frightening thing I'd ever seen.

"Then I'll know you're even more dangerous than I thought."

He headed toward the door, then stopped and looked back at me.

"One more thing. People don't send professional killers after nobody," he said. "Fifty thousand dollars says you're somebody very important. Somebody with secrets worth killing for."

The door slammed behind him, leaving me alone in the dark.

My hands pulled frantically at the ropes, but they were too tight. I was trapped.

And somewhere in the darkness, a question echoed in my mind:

What would happen when this dangerous man with storm-gray eyes discovered that I was the daughter of the FBI director who'd been hunting his kind for twenty years?