“Didn’t recognize him.”
Pushing people left and right, he got to the women’s room. Some irate ladies screamed at him but he didn’t give a fuck.
“Elle?” he yelled, flinging open the doors of the stalls.
Nothing.
He ran back out and scanned the surroundings. The band was playing some popular song that had everyone singing and bouncing, those damn pulses of light hindering his sight. In all that mayhem, he thought he saw a glimpse of what looked to him like her leg tattoo, shiny white, flanked by men and about to go through the front door.
He burst into movement, but when he made it out of the bar, there was no sign of Elle anywhere.
Then he remembered all the bugs he’d had on her. She’d disposed of some of those in one of her defiant stunts, but he’d planted more in her clothes and accessories. Would she have any on? Blood roaring in his ears so fucking badly that he was sure that people around could hear his heartbeat, he rushed to his truck. From the hidden compartment at the back, he took his computer and turned the tracking program on. Praying to all the gods he knew, all of those he’d stopped praying to as soon as his mother had started beating the shit out of him regularly, that something would fire on the screen, a small bleep. Just one. All he needed was one. And there it was, a green dot, blinking and moving slowly but surely away from the bar, going south down Pasadena Street. Fuck, he felt like crying. No time for that. He broke into a run toward a group of people and tackled one of them.
“What the fuck, 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 asshole. 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 asshole 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 asshole by the throat against the wall. He was whimpering and thrashing, the chair where he’d been sitting tipped on the floor.
“Don’t fucking dare talk about her like that.”
Whatever Biggs said in response was all gibberish, seeing as he could barely draw a breath.