Page 80 of Disavowed

No, no, no, she wanted to scream but couldn’t. The only sounds coming from her mouth were incoherent.

The elevator doors opened, and he shoved her out and into the alley behind her building. Outside, cool air hit all the exposed parts of her body. Vaguely, she noticed a white van with what could have been the Magellan Foods logo on the side. The van’s door slid open, then her feet left the ground as she was carried inside the van and dumped onto something hard. Her head lolled to the side, and she realized she was inside a box. A large wooden crate, to be exact.

Something warm squeezed her bare thigh and began rubbing up and down. His hand. She wanted to puke. Wanted to pummel his face with her knee. She was conscious, but her limbs wouldn’t respond to her brain’s signals. And she was sleepy, so, so sleepy.

“That’s right. Take a nap.”

And she did.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Dom slammed the truck’s door shut and charged to the uniformed officer standing at the bottom of the stairs to Daisy’s building. Not recognizing the cop, he tugged the spare detective shield from his pocket and badged him, hoping the guy didn’t know him or the fact that technically, he’d been fired from the NYPD. “Did Daisy Fowler leave this building?”

“No, sir.” The cop came to attention, clearly flustered by the unexpected appearance of a first-grade detective. “Detective Yates texted me a picture of her, so I know she hasn’t left.”

Dom drew his brows together. Could be Daisy was ignoring his calls, but something still bugged the shit out of him. “When’s the last time you checked in with your partner out back?”

“About an hour ago, sir,” the cop said. “All’s quiet.”

Dom glanced to Daisy’s living room window, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. Something’s not right here. I fucking know it.

“Call him. Now,” Dom ordered over his shoulder, taking the stairs three at a time, anger buzzing in his head like gunfire. Behind him, he heard the young officer trying unsuccessfully to raise his partner on the radio.

Dom flung open the vestibule’s outer door, then tried the inner door, knowing it was locked. Next he tried Daisy’s intercom buzzer, but she didn’t answer. After ringing it several more times with no response, he pounded on the vestibule’s glass door. “C’mon, c’mon,” he gritted out. But the hallway was empty.

Shit. He yanked out the Smith and Wesson holstered at his ankle, then held his forearm in front of his eyes and brought the butt down hard against the door. Glass shattered, most of it falling inside the vestibule. He reached in and turned the knob, letting himself in. Gun still drawn, he tore down the hallway and whipped open the door to the stairwell.

Hair on the back of his neck rose even more. He had a bad feeling about the unresponsive cop guarding the rear door.

As he ran up the stairs, his heart pounded and his gut churned with foreboding. This is so not fucking good. When he flung open the door and stepped into the deserted hallway outside Daisy’s door he froze.

The door to her place was wide open.

He aimed the .40 caliber at the open doorway. His heart raced, and he breathed through his mouth, trying not to make unnecessary noise. When he got to the door and looked inside the apartment his heart seemed to stop beating altogether.

Pottery shards littered the floor. Soil darkened the rugs, furniture, and walls.

With his weapon extended and his heart in his throat, he searched the kitchen next, then the bedroom and bathroom.

Daisy was gone.

He couldn’t breathe, and for a moment his tactical mind froze and he was incapable of rational thought.

Get it together. She needs you.

The phone in his back pocket vibrated and he pulled it out.

No caller ID.

Clenching his jaw, he answered the call and put the phone to his ear.

“I’ve got your girlfriend, asshole.”

He gripped the phone tighter, breathing through clenched teeth.

Smith. The fucker has Daisy.

“Get your ass to the hotel. Room 225. Come alone or she dies.” The line went dead.