Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(82)
“What the f*ck, man?”
“Where did you get this purse?” Jack demanded.
“It was on the ground,” he said, scrambling up. “I didn’t steal it.”
Shit. “Did you see who dropped it? Which direction she went?”
The man shook his head.
Jack searched around in desperation. He’d lost her.
Chapter Nineteen
“Look at the photos again,” Jack snarled. “Are you sure none of these men hit you?”
He was so losing patience with this *. He’d found Biggs at the door of the club, blood running down his nose, yelling left and right at the bouncer how he’d been assaulted while trying to fend off someone he had a restraining order against.
That had been all that Jack had needed to drag him aside.
How he’d gotten access to the club’s security tapes was beyond him; he’d never been the picture of diplomacy, but when he’d approached the club’s personnel, claiming one of their patrons had been kidnapped, he’d been like an out-of-control eighteen-wheeler, bulldozing over anybody in his way.
“I already told you. It’s none of these,” Biggs answered affronted. “Why are you keeping me here in this claustrophobic room?”
Jack had gone through the data and pics gathered by Simon, on the premise that whoever had wanted to snatch her must have kept an eye on her and probably got caught in some of the shots that Simon had taken, but no luck. He’d even shown them to Biggs but the * hadn’t recognized anyone.
According to all his contacts, Maldonado’s people had gone back to Miami and were keeping a low profile, but nevertheless Jack had pulled some pictures from his laptop and forced Biggs to look at them.
Nico Grabar, all of Maldonado’s bodyguards and security detail personnel. The middlemen too. None of them had been the one with whom Elle had left the club. Not that the world was short of scumbags ready to accept a contract hit for a big cartel.
He’d studied the security video, desperate to get a glimpse of Elle and whoever had her, refusing to think about the endless possibilities. That road would lead nowhere very fast and he would lose his mind. More than he was losing it already.
He’d spotted her walking out of the club, a bit wobbly, wearing the same dress she’d had on the day of the damn fund-raiser, being escorted out of the bar by two guys who must have known where the cameras were because their faces were not visible.
“Go through the photos again,” Jack ordered.
“I told you—”
Jack didn’t want to hear the same shit. “Think. Do you remember anything about the men who took her? Anything.”
“I saw them from the back, leaving with the woman. I only care about the one who attacked me. And I don’t understand why you keep saying they took her. Look at her,” Biggs smirked, pointing at one of the screens, where the tape was frozen over the image of Elle exiting the club flanked by the two men. “She obviously left with them voluntarily. If they are even snuggling, for God’s sake. They are probably now screwing her brains out in some hotel room.”
No. Jack knew Elle better than that.
“That bitch—”
Next thing Jack knew, he was holding the * by the throat against the wall. He was whimpering and thrashing, the chair where he’d been sitting tipped on the floor.
“Don’t f*cking dare talk about her like that.”
Whatever Biggs said in response was all gibberish, seeing as he could barely draw a breath.
Through his murderous haze, Jack heard Simon’s voice. “Put him down. He’s not worth it.”
No, he wasn’t. Beating the shit out of him wouldn’t help Elle. Jack released him, and Biggs crumpled to the floor, gasping for air.
One of the security guards came in with a cup of coffee and a bunch of newspapers. Biggs was sputtering something about lawsuits and abuse of authority.
“Sit,” the guard said, as he left the coffee and the papers on the table. “And let’s try to remain calm. Here, have something to read while we sort this out.” Then he turned to Jack. “Are you sure she was kidnapped?”
Jack stared at the image in the screen. Trying to tamp down his fury. “She didn’t leave voluntarily.”
“That’s the man who assaulted me,” Biggs suddenly said, pointing at the newspaper on the table.
All the muscles in Jack’s body tensed. “What?” In between the sore throat and the bashed nose, the guy sounded a bit weird.
Biggs tapped on one of the newspapers. It was a picture of the fund-raiser for abandoned dogs.
“Isn’t that David Exxum and his bodyguard?” Simon asked. “What does he want with Elle?”
Realization froze his insides. Man, he’d been so stupid. “Not with her. With me. Exxum is after me. She just got caught in the middle.”
The only way to contact Alex Ayala was through the Internet. He accessed the chat room, entered his password. There it was, a message for him.
Your life for hers. You have 24 hours, then she dies. After her, it will be her family.
The brightness blinded her the second Elle tried opening her eyes, a sharp stab of pain making her brain throb. Ouch. Mega, super-duper hangover, although for the life of her she couldn’t recall drinking last night. Squinting, she slowly scouted her surroundings. Where the heck was she? Then the events of last night rushed over her like a frigging tsunami swallowing her, her breath catching, her heart thumping in her throat. While Mr. Asshole had gotten punched, she’d been stabbed in the arm with a needle and two men she hadn’t recognized had grabbed her. She’d wanted to yell and wrestle, but she couldn’t. Her body hadn’t been obeying her, a terrifying feeling of falling deep into the rabbit hole had spread over her as they’d taken her out of the bar and she’d been able to do nothing to stop them. Oh God, the ache in her head intensified, but she swatted it away. Last she remembered, she’d been forced into a car. Then a blank slate. She reached for her arm. Yeah, the needle mark was there. She’d been drugged. The fact that she was still wearing the black dress and her shoes were strapped to her feet gave her a small measure of relief.