He had enemies, a lot of them. If one of them had grabbed Drea, then she was as good as dead. She might be kept alive for a while to be used as leverage against him, but he'd never see her again except in bits and pieces. In his world, violence was commonplace; the only things of value were money and survival. It was a world he thrived in, a business model he excelled at, but now it made him sick to his stomach to think of sweet, dumb Drea being raped and tortured.
He had all of his men gathered in the penthouse, the one place he was certain his conversations couldn't be monitored. Orlando knew what he was doing, so Rafael had sprung for all the fancy safeguards that kept the feds from listening in on everything he said. "Somebody had to have seen something. There are cameras on all the entrances and exits, right?" He directed the last question to Orlando.
"Should be, but who knows what kinda security they got? Who breaks into libraries? I'll see what I can find out."
Obtaining a search warrant was out of the question-no one even suggested it. Call the cops? What a laugh. The cops would piss around with all their legal shit-and that's assuming they'd do anything at all. Rafael wasn't wasting time with that; he'd do things his way. He'd find out who had snatched Drea, and then he'd hit the fucker with everything he had.
"Maybe, when she found out she'd lost her wallet, she went looking for it," Hector offered.
"Dumb ass," Amado replied in a sour growl. "Why doesn't she answer her cell phone?"
"So maybe somebody grabbed her purse, and she chased after him and got lost." Hector was grabbing at straws, and the sadness in his dark eyes said he knew it, but he still felt compelled to offer every possible alternative to what they knew had probably happened.
"She wouldn'ta done that," Amado said. "She turned her ankle getting into the car, and she was limping. She couldn'ta chased nobody down. Besides, if somebody grabbed her purse, she'd of screeched to high heaven, and everybody in the library would've known about it."
"Whoever grabbed her was slick," Orlando said. "When she comes out, put an arm around her like you're friends, only your other hand is holding a gun shoved in her side. She'd have gone with him without making a sound."
If the snatch had happened outside, the library cameras might not have caught anything, Rafael thought, then he realized it didn't matter. Whoever had grabbed Drea would want him to know, because they'd grabbed her for a reason. Just to take her and kill her didn't make any sense; probably whoever had done it would be contacting him soon, asking for money, or maybe something else. He thought furiously, wondering if whoever it was knew what he'd hired the assassin for and had figured out who was behind it. He was pretty sure there was no way. And even if someone had, if killing Drea was vengeance for what he'd done, whoever had done it would want him to know, otherwise there was no point.
"We don't have to check the library's security," he said heavily. "Whoever took her will call." One way or another, whether Drea was dead or alive, they would call. Until then, all he could do was wait.
Unable to stand there in front of his men any longer, Rafael abruptly turned and left the room, going down the hall to her bedroom. Pushing the door open, he stepped just inside, then halted as if he'd hit an invisible wall. Her presence was so strong he could almost touch it. The scent of her perfume hung in the air. The television was on, as usual, the voices of the shopping channel hosts so cheerful they reminded him of chirping birds. Her laptop was open, because she never closed it, and though the screen was dark the power light told him it was in sleep mode and would come to life at the touch of a key. The closet door was standing ajar, the light on inside so the jumble of her clothing was clearly visible. Costume jewelry was scattered across the top of the dresser.
Drea was like a magpie, going for the shiny and colorful. She was messy, careless, and childlike in her enthusiasms. She deserved better than to die a brutal death at the hands of men to whom she meant nothing.
His vision clouded, and to his dismay he realized he was getting teary-eyed. He couldn't let anyone see him like this, so he forced himself to walk farther into the room, to look into her bathroom where the vanity was littered with cosmetics and the air was even thicker with her scent, a feminine mixture of perfumed bath gel, scented candles, lotions, and sprays. Drea loved-had loved-all the frills of being a woman.
There was a huge weight on his chest, and an emptiness inside. He could barely breathe under the pressure, and even his heartbeat seem labored, heavy and slow, from his misery. He'd never before felt such pain, as if he would never be free of this ache. She was gone. It wasn't fair; he had realized he loved her only to lose her the very next day. He resented her for being upset with him yesterday, for forcing him to really see her, resented her for the weakness she'd caused in him, resented her for being gone. Damn her-and damn himself, for being such a fool.
DREA WOKE IN the middle of the night, gasping for air, fighting the sheet as if it were a rope twisting around her. She bolted upright, looking wildly around the room. Enough streetlight seeped in around the edges of the curtains that the room wasn't truly dark; if it had been, she might have had heart failure, but as it was she could plainly see that no one was there. She was blessedly alone.
She'd dreamed of the assassin, dreamed he somehow found her here in this motel and got inside the room, and that this time, after he had sex with her, he really was going to kill her. She couldn't see him, but she'd sensed him there in the shadows, watching her. In the weird way of dreams, she knew that as long as she stayed awake he wouldn't be able to do anything, but in spite of her best efforts to keep her eyes open she got sleepier and sleepier until finally she couldn't resist and fell asleep-now, there was something she'd never done before, dreaming about trying to stay awake and falling asleep instead-only to wake with him on top of her, inside her, and with his hands wrapped around her throat.