You don't know where they've taken her. In fact, you don't know who's taken her. You have your suspicions, your hatred and your loathing, but there are no facts, no definites, and that makes you furious beyond words. It passes (as it always does) straight from anger to the ice-cold heart of fury, fueling you, powering you, making you work harder and faster to make the tools you need to successfully find her and bring her back.
Nobody will get in your way. Oh, they have tried. And they will try again. But you will rend them apart, let them stare at the world through a haze of white as the blood freezes in their veins and their hearts stop with a shuddering jolt. You will lash out and shatter them, let them watch their own limbs crash into pieces, never to be healed again. It's the least they deserve for daring to get in your way, for daring to come between you and her, you and your goals, your work.
As you pull together the last part of your armor, the suit that keeps you alive, you think to yourself that this will make the whole city remember why you are not to be interfered with - and that she cannot, will not, ever know what you have done.