Chapter 125
Julian's POV
The call came in while I was in the middle of a threat assessment briefing with my senior team, reviewing security protocols for a tech CEO who'd received credible death threats from a disgruntled former employee.
Webb was walking the group through the proposed protective detail rotation when my phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number—a 646 area code that my caller ID flagged as NYC Municipal Services.
I almost sent it to voicemail. Would have, if not for the fact that every instinct I'd honed over fifteen years in this business was screaming that something felt wrong about the timing.
It had been less than 48 hours since I'd walked out of Evelyn's apartment, since she'd looked at me with those ice-blue eyes and told me I was nothing more than a convenient fuck while she figured out her next move.
I held up a hand to pause Webb's presentation and answered the call with a curt, "Russell."
"Good afternoon, Mr. Russell. This is 311 calling on behalf of a resident who's reporting that your vehicle is blocking their car in a parking garage." The operator's voice was professionally pleasant, reading from what was clearly a script. "The resident has requested that you move your vehicle as soon as possible to allow them to exit. I have their callback number if you need to coordinate directly—"
"What's the address?" I interrupted, my mind already racing through possibilities. My Mercedes was parked in Titan Tower's private garage, had been since the day before yesterday when I'd driven back from Evelyn's place with my pride in tatters and my chest feeling like someone had reached in and torn something vital out.
"The Tribeca address is—" She rattled off a street number that made my blood run cold.
Evelyn's building.
"And the callback number?" I kept my voice level, professional, even as my tactical mind shifted into high gear.
The operator recited a number I knew by heart. Evelyn's cell.
I thanked her with more courtesy than I felt and ended the call, staring at my phone screen while my team waited in confused silence.
My car wasn't in Evelyn's garage. Hadn't been since I'd left. Which meant either this was a clerical error—possible but unlikely given how precisely the operator had cited both the address and Evelyn's number—or this was a message.
A very specific, very deliberate message from someone who knew I'd recognize the inconsistency.
"Sir?" Webb's voice cut through my thoughts. "Is everything all right?"
I looked up at my head of operations, at the five other senior team members seated around the conference table, and made a split-second decision. "We're done here. Webb, my office. Now. The rest of you, implement the protocols we just discussed and have the protective detail in place by 1800 hours."
I was moving before anyone could ask questions, Webb falling into step beside me as we crossed the open floor of Titan's operations center toward my private office. I could feel him watching me with the kind of sharp attention that came from years of reading people under pressure, assessing threats, identifying when a situation was about to go sideways.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly as soon as my office door closed behind us.
"I just got a call from 311." I pulled up the recent calls list on my phone, staring at that municipal services number like it might reveal its secrets if I looked hard enough. "Someone reported my car blocking theirs in a Tribeca parking garage."
Webb's expression didn't change, but I saw the subtle shift in his posture that meant he'd gone from curious to alert. "Your car's downstairs."
"Exactly." I set my phone on the desk between us, my mind working through scenarios faster than I could articulate them. "The callback number was Evelyn Valentine's. From her building."
I watched understanding dawn in Webb's eyes. He'd been with me long enough to know the broad strokes of my... relationship with Evelyn. Had been the one to drive me home yesterday after I'd shown up at Titan looking like I'd been through a war zone, had tactfully not asked questions when I'd spent the rest of the day in my office with a bottle of whiskey and a thousand-yard stare.
"Could be a mistake," Webb offered, but his tone suggested he didn't believe it any more than I did. "Wrong plate number, clerical error—"
"She memorized my plate." The words came out rougher than I'd intended. "I've seen her do it. She has this thing where she catalogs details without meaning to—license plates, exit routes, security camera positions. It's not conscious. It's just how her mind works."
How a killer's mind works, I didn't say. How someone trained to always have an escape route, to always know who's watching, to always be three steps ahead of everyone else in the room operates on a level most people can't even comprehend.
Webb absorbed this information with the same unflappable calm he brought to everything. "So if she deliberately gave them your plate number, knowing your car isn't actually there—"
"It's a signal." I was already reaching for my phone, my thumb hovering over Evelyn's contact. "She needs help but can't ask for it directly. Someone's watching her, or listening, or—" The implications hit like a freight train. "Fuck. Someone's compromised her."
I started to dial her number directly, then stopped. If she'd gone to the elaborate trouble of routing a message through 311 instead of just calling me, there was a reason. Someone was monitoring her communications.
"Webb." I looked up at my second-in-command, the man who'd followed me through three war zones and never once questioned an order. "I need you to call her. Use your phone. Pretend you're calling about the parking situation. Keep it mundane, professional. Give her room to communicate without whoever's listening getting suspicious."
Webb didn't waste time asking questions. Just pulled out his phone and dialed the number I rattled off, putting it on speaker so I could hear.
It rang three times. Four. Long enough that I started to wonder if she wouldn't answer, if this whole thing was just my desperate mind seeing patterns where none existed because I couldn't accept that she'd actually meant the things she'd said yesterday.
Then the line connected, and her voice came through the speaker.
"Hello?" She sounded breathless, strained, like she'd been running or crying or both. Nothing like the cold, controlled woman who'd eviscerated me with surgical precision.
"Ms. Valentine?" Webb's voice shifted into the professional courtesy he used with clients. "This is Webb calling. I understand there's been some confusion about a vehicle blocking yours?"
"Yes, yes, thank you so much for calling back." The relief in her voice sounded genuine, but there was something underneath it—a tightness, a careful control that suggested she was performing for an audience. "I'm so sorry to bother you with this, I know it's such a small thing, but I really need to get to the bank and I can't get my car out."