"You love her?" The question comes from Valdes.

"I already told you I do." The words leave a bitter taste in my mouth. "Even though the gun was on me at that point, I went over to my father's body to see if he was still breathing. He wasn't. It also got the gun away from Anna's direction and solely on me. While I was crouching over my father's body, I was. .h.i.t on the back of the head, I'm guessing with the gun. That was the last thing I remember."

"And that's when you fell into the crime scene, laying in it while you were unconscious, causing contamination?" Detective Decker asks while perusing his notes as if he has to check on that fact.

"Yes."

"And that's why the clothing covered in blood was found in your bathroom and blood was found in your sink?" The question comes from Decker.

"Yes, when I woke up I was lying next to my father's body in a pool of his blood. Understandably, I was anxious to clean it off me."

"And Anna Walker was gone?" Valdes asks for the one-hundredth time.

I show my anger at this point, since it fits the bogus story I'm giving the cops. "Yes, like I already told you, Anna was gone. I can only a.s.sume the killer took her with him." It's true, in a way. The killer did take my Anna away. It's hard for me to come to terms with the fact that the girl I love doesn't exist.

"After waking up what'd you do?" Detective Decker asks.

"I went downstairs and told my mom. She then ran upstairs and I followed after her. When she saw my father's body she broke down. I had her sit on the couch and called 911 for the police, ambulance, whatever. Then I called the guardhouse down at the gate and asked for someone to come up to the house. When the guard arrived, I had him stay with my mother. I went to my room, cleaned up and changed clothes. Then I left."

"Why?" Detective Decker asks me.

"I already told you," I say in an annoyed tone. "I was freaking out about Anna being missing. The only place I could think to look for her was at the hotel. I didn't know if I would find her there, but I had to try. I sped over there in my car and rushed up to her suite, but she wasn't there."

"We didn't find any belongings of hers in the suite when we checked it. Unfortunately, the maids had already been in there early this morning to clean the place up. Do you really believe the shooter kidnapped her, or do you think that she ran away out of fear?" Valdes seems eager to look at all possible scenarios. Why am I covering for her? I should just throw her to the justice system's mercy.

Well, she definitely ran like a coward, I think to myself. But I tell the cops, "I really don't know, but what I do know is that you have to find her for me. She could be hurt, scared or in the hands of a murderer."

"We've ran the information you gave us. We found no record of an Anna Walker, seventeen-years-old, matching the description you provided. Are you sure you don't have a picture of her? There's no record of her even attending high school."

I grind my teeth, as a pain runs through my chest and down into my gut. "No. What about hotel security? Don't they have her on tape?"

The detectives share another look. "That's the oddest part. Early this morning their computer systems crashed. All recent footage was lost."

Clever girl, she sure made a fool out of me. I push back those thoughts. They aren't for now, but later. "So, what are you going to do about finding Anna?"

"Aren't you also worried about us finding your father's murderer?" Detective Valdes asks, with a speculative look on his dark face.

Little does he know, my girlfriend and my father's murderer are one and the same. I glare at him. "Of course I am, but my father is dead and Anna is still alive out there somewhere. You need to find her."

"I think it's time that my client goes home to support his mother through their mutual grief," Mr. Rogers says decisively.

"Just a minute," I tell my lawyer, while watching Valdes and Decker. "Why would someone kill my father? What do you know of my father's business dealings?"

The detectives glance at each other again. Valdes answers, "Not much at this point, but what we do know would be confidential information."

I look at them in disbelief. "Even from his son?"

"Of course, any information you wish to provide would be helpful, but we can't exchange information. As to who killed him? We're just as stumped as you are." Detective Decker seems genuinely perplexed, but I have a feeling that he's not telling me everything he knows. Obviously, they must know something. But if my father was a criminal like Anna said, wouldn't they question me to see what I knew of his activities? Anna was definitely lying. She has to be. My father was a great man, not some monster. I would have known otherwise.

My lawyer stands up, with me following his lead. The detectives see us out to the sterile lobby of the police station, promising to stay in touch with their progress in the case, each giving me their cards. I part ways with my lawyer in the parking lot.

Getting in my car, I punch the steering wheel. "f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k! f.u.c.k!"

I've been holding it in for hours now. Last night when I woke up alone in Anna's hotel room, I broke down, but then picked myself up and went home. The place was a madhouse, with people walking in and out and all around the grounds. Forensics, paramedics, detectives, uniform cops and family called in for support. Not to mention the journalists who were clamoring outside the gates, trying to get the story out of anyone coming on or off the grounds.

After leaving the police station, instead of going home, I drive to Max's house. My mom and I are going to be staying with them until the police are done with our house and give us the okay to return. Even then, I'm not sure if it's good idea to go back right away. The paramedics had to medicate my mom because she was hysterical. Aunt Lucy has been a big help with her, having lost her own husband years ago in a car crash. This morning, the police asked me to come in for questioning. My mom will be questioned later when she's in a better frame of mind. Aunt Lucy and Max will go in for questioning when I get to their house to take over with my mom's care.

As I enter their house, Aunt Lucy brings me in for a hug with tears in her eyes. "How are you feeling, Gabe?"

I hug her back, needing the small comfort. "s.h.i.tty, I need some sleep. How's mom?" I'm concerned about the long term effects of the trauma on my mother. She really loved my father a lot. Her whole world revolved around me and him.

"Eva just went to sleep. I gave her a sleeping pill so she'll be out for a while," she explains, looking distressed.

Max comes downstairs. "Ready to go, mom?"

"Yes. Gabriel, I guess we'll be back whenever the detectives are done with us." She grabs her purse from a living room end table, pulling out a tissue to wipe her nose.

"Aunt Lucy?"

"Yes?"

"You work . . . worked with my father in his businesses. Everything was legit, I mean legal, right?"

She gives me a funny look. "Yes, of course. Your father was a good man and a great businessman. I have no idea why anyone would want to kill him." Aunt Lucy breathes deeply to regain her composure, obviously grieving, but trying to keep it together for the rest of us. This is hard for her too. She's just repeating what I already know. If my father was a criminal, she would know. They've worked side by side for years.

As they go out the door, Max embraces me, patting me on the back. "Anything you need, cousin."

"I know, thank you." I watch them pull down the driveway, then close the front door, locking it behind me.

I take the stairs up to the guest room my mom's staying in. Opening the door just a few inches, I peek inside. Her small figure is bundled under a thick comforter, sound asleep, with the ceiling fan circulating cool air around the room. Closing the door softly, I walk to the guest room I'll be staying in. The black suitcase on the carpeted floor must be the one my aunt said she'd have Max pack for me and bring over.

Lying down on the bed, I allow my turmoil take over. The cops thought I was angry about Anna's disappearance, in addition to my father's murder, but not in the way they think. I'm angry that she ran away from me. I'm angry that she lied to me from the beginning. I'm angry that she used me to get to my father. Most of all, I'm angry that she murdered my father.

I'm suspicious about so many things now. She was unlike any other teenage girl that I'd ever met, which was why I was so interested to begin with. She was worldly, confident, well-traveled, mysterious and knowledgeable on things that most teenage girls aren't. Is she even really seventeen? What's her real name? Obviously, the so-called 'parents' that were staying at the same hotel never existed. That would explain why I never met them. At the time, I was just happy that my girlfriend could spend all the time she wanted with me, without restrictions.

But, I did meet someone, the fake Russian. Who is he really? He and Anna seemed close. Is he her partner? Is he the guy that Anna really loves? The thought of it has me burning with jealousy. I feel like killing someone myself, him in particular. She was a virgin, so if they are together, he's in for a rude awakening. That thought puts a smug smile on my face. Banged the deceiving b.i.t.c.h first. Not that I wouldn't beat the c.r.a.p out of him if he touched her.

It's also obvious that she never loved me. She pretended to and made me love her in return. It was all a game, a deception. I have to wonder if any of it was real. It wasn't necessary for her to give me her virginity. I already loved her and she knew it. I would have given her the world. What about the tears? Were those real? I can't see how they were necessary for the deception. But then again, I'm not an a.s.sa.s.sin. I don't know what she believed was necessary to fake.

It doesn't matter. The facts are that she didn't love me and she used me to kill my father. I don't need to know anything else. My dad wasn't a criminal, a drug dealer or a murderer. He was a good man who was murdered in cold blood by my pretend girlfriend.

I told her that my love for her was turning into hate, but that's not exactly true. I do love her still, but I hate that I love her. I aim to murder my love for her in the same way that she murdered my father. My love for her is pathetic. I shouldn't even feel it after what's happened, but I still do. Hate is good. Hate will help me get over her. Hate will help stop the heartbreak.

The sad truth is I am heartbroken. Anna was my everything. I loved her so much and, in my stupidity, still don't love her any less. Making love to her was unlike anything that I'd ever experienced with any girl before. It was heaven exploding. Now the memories of it are going to be pure h.e.l.l for me.

I told the cops that she was kidnapped so they'll search for her, thinking to find a victim. I have no idea where to even begin looking myself. I'll do whatever it takes to find her. I'll use my father's money, connections and resources. In the end, no matter how long it takes, I will find her.

I didn't tell the cops that she killed my father because I don't want them to punish her for it. I just want them to find her for me, if they can. I have to find her.

And when I do find her, I plan to make her pay.

I plan to kill her.

Yes, hate is good. Hate will fill the void she created with her betrayal. Hate will be my greatest ally in getting vengeance against the lying b.i.t.c.h that destroyed my life by taking my father's. I plan to make her suffer far more than I'm suffering now.

Chapter 17.

Annabelle Dublin, Ireland - January The lighting is a dim yellow. The bar smells of Irish beer, sweat and the working man. With a long, horizontal mirror lining the back bar wall, where liquor bottles fill the shelves, I get a good look at the goings on behind me while sitting in my seat at the bar. The pub has booths lining the walls with solid wood tables and matching benches. The art on the walls features Irish football teams and beer makers. Gla.s.s hanging lamps hover over the booth tabletops and around the bar. The stained and leaded gla.s.s windows are beautiful, blocking most of the sunlight and offering privacy from any pa.s.serby. The feeling is one many bars strive for, that of being in a coc.o.o.n, a haven. Makes the customers want to stay and drink more of their beverages.

I tip my head back as the Irish whiskey burns down my throat on its way to my stomach. Slamming the double shot gla.s.s down on the scarred wood bar top, I slide off the barstool. As I'm walking to the rear of the pub, I pa.s.s by my target's table. James Doyle is a man in his mid-forties, with reddish-blonde hair and green eyes. He's a former high-ranking IRA member and, presently, leader of an organized crime group. The Irish government is just having a wee bit of trouble proving it.

That's where I come in.

Taking note of the men sitting at the table with him, I recognize them from the surveillance photos that Simon sent me. Two are his bodyguards, not particularly important in the criminal scheme of things. The fourth man, however, is extremely important in Doyle's network. His name is Brian Walsh. He's Doyle's second-in-command, also his explosives and weapons supplier. The job was to kill just Doyle, but I'm feeling charitable towards my anonymous employer of the moment. I think I'll throw Walsh in for the heck of it.

Entering the women's restroom, I go into the stall furthest from the door and check my weapons. Throwing knife tucked into each sleeve of my leather jacket, mini stun gun in the inside pocket of my jacket and much more deadly 9mm handgun tucked in the holster at the small of my back.

Exiting the stall, I check my appearance in the mirror above the sinks. I'm wearing a black wig with bangs, black sungla.s.ses, brown leather jacket with fur lining and brown leather gloves. The cold winter day in Dublin is a valid excuse for the gloves, which will ensure that no fingerprints are left behind. The old-fashioned pub doesn't have surveillance cameras, but the wig and sungla.s.ses help to hide my features from anyone sober and in possession of a good memory.

I don't feel entirely clearheaded after drinking five shots of whiskey, but I'm anxious to get the job done. I've tried to keep myself busy over the past two months with work. Idle time leads to thinking about things that are better left in the past. Two months in the past. Killing Xavier Sanchez last November seems like a lifetime ago.

I grip the porcelain sink and shake away thoughts from the past that are trying to intrude on my present. My plan is to follow Doyle and his criminal comrades to the car they have parked in the alley behind the pub, where I'll pull the trigger. Maybe I should hold off on the kill and plant a bomb under his car. Seems like a more exciting way for Doyle and Walsh to die. Despite being a tad drunk, I don't feel very relaxed. I feel anxious and wound up. Closing my eyes, I roll my neck back in an effort to relieve some of the tension. It's doesn't work.

Gabriel's face flashes through my mind and pain viciously stabs my heart. Grinding my teeth, I reach back to grip my gun. The action soothes me, gives me a sense of control. It doesn't last long.

I can hear Gabriel's voice in my head as we made love for the first time, 'I love you, Anna'. Then I hear his bitter last words to me, 'I hate you so much that it's killing all the love I had for you'. Remembering, my heart dies all over again.

I grip the gun handle so tightly that it causes my hand pain. The comfort from the action fades. My other hand is still gripping the sink in front of me. I pull the gun out of the holster and use the back of my hand holding the gun to push my sungla.s.ses up and wipe away my tears at the same time.

My pain turns into anger. It's the only way to cope. Anger at myself for hurting Gabriel. Anger at Gabriel for not believing me when I told him that his dad was a monster. Anger at Xavier for being a monster and forcing me to kill him. Anger at all monsters for making my job a necessary evil. Anger for having to be born into this existence. If I'm forced to feel anything, anger is the easiest to deal with. Anger, I can control.

Clenching my teeth, I tap the barrel of the gun against my forehead, trying to force Gabriel out of my head. I feel impatient and panicky. I need another shot. I need action.

Clicking the safety off I turn on my heel to barge out of the bathroom, re-entering the crowded pub. Instead of pa.s.sing by Doyle's table again, I stop in front of it and let off four shots. Down drops one dead crime ring leader, one dead right-hand man and two dead thugs. As I pa.s.s by the shocked bartender on my way out, I reach over the counter for the bottle of Irish whiskey he was pouring for me earlier.

Using my back to push the heavy front door open while leaning my head back, I take a drink straight from the bottle. Walking out onto the street, right before the pub door closes, I hear a woman scream and men shouting.

You're welcome, I silently tell the world.

Gabriel Miami, Florida - February 14th Happy f.u.c.kin' Valentine's Day. Max insisted on taking me clubbing to cheer me up and get my mind off of my missing girlfriend for a while. Bad idea. I met her at this very same club. At least I've got the good sense to get drunk. Maybe by the end of the night I won't remember my name, let alone hers. Or how much I wish she'd been real.

It's been over three months and both the police and the private investigators that I've hired have come up with nada. It's like she never existed. Of course, I know better than that. She felt pretty d.a.m.n real to me. If she'd never existed, then my life wouldn't be so screwed up. I haven't told anyone about what really happened the night my father was killed. The night that heartless b.i.t.c.h destroyed my world and tore out my heart in the process.

At the club, Max and I meet two chicks I'm contemplating taking back to my house. It's not like my mom will care since she's all drugged up on prescription meds. Anti-depressants, pain killers, you name it, she takes it. She's like a f.u.c.king zombie nowadays. I lost both my parents that night in November.

The few times she's been coherent enough to have an actual conversation, I've tried talking to her about my dad. She swears up and down that she has no idea why anyone would want him dead. That he was a legitimate and honest businessman, a good man. Then she breaks down and takes more pills until she can't think anymore. Funny, I'm using alcohol for the same thing tonight.

Aunt Lucy has taken over my dad's business interests until I'm old enough to run the companies on my own. She says the same things my mom does about my dad, that he was a good and caring man. My relationship with him wasn't what I would call good or bad. Sure, I didn't see him much growing up because he was always traveling on business, but when he was around, he was a good father. If he was some sort of drug lord criminal someone would have known about it.

So, here I am on Valentine's Day, sitting across from Max at a booth in the VIP section, while some chicks we just met draw out lines of cocaine and start snorting away. Nice. They look up at us with expectant looks on their faces. One of them holds out the rolled up dollar bill for our use.

Max waves his hand in a gesture of refusal and takes another drink of his beer. I stare at the lines of white powder for a moment then, with a shrug, accept the rolled up dollar bill, leaning over to snort a line. Why the f.u.c.k not? When I straighten back up, Max has a look of disapproval on his face. I don't care, because I can already feel the high coming on. Nice, really nice.