Chapter 127
Julian's POV
I was already moving toward the door, my mind running through logistics, resources, what I'd need to mount a rescue operation on essentially zero notice.
"Pull up everything we have on Adrian Winthrop's movements in the last twenty-four hours. Security footage from his building, his office, anywhere he might have been grabbed. Cross-reference with known kidnapping crews operating in the tristate area. And get me a trace on Evelyn's phone—I want to know if anyone's monitoring her calls."
"You think they're listening?"
"I think she's too smart to route a message through 311 if she could just call me directly." I grabbed my jacket from the hook by the door, checking automatically for the Sig Sauer I always carried. "Which means her phone is compromised—or at least she's been told it is. Someone threatened her, made her believe they're monitoring her calls. Could be real surveillance or just psychological pressure to keep her isolated." I met Webb's eyes. "I need you to run a technical sweep. Check if her line is actually tapped or if the kidnappers are bluffing to maintain control."
Webb was already on his tablet, fingers flying across the screen as he pulled up security protocols and personnel rosters. "How many men do you want on this?"
"Start with a four-man team. Tactical entry specialists, trauma medic, tech support. Have them ready to roll within the hour." I paused at the door, looking back at my second-in-command. "And Webb? This one's personal. I need people I trust absolutely. No one who might hesitate if things get messy."
"Understood." Webb's eyes met mine, and I saw the acknowledgment there. He knew what I was really saying: I need people who won't ask questions if I have to cross lines to get Adrian back. Who won't flinch if the rescue turns into something darker.
"I'm going to Evelyn's place now," I continued. "Officially to move my car. Actually to assess the situation and make sure she's not in immediate danger. Keep your phone on. The moment you have anything—location data, security footage, known associates—I want to know."
"Julian." Webb's voice stopped me halfway out the door. "If they have Adrian, and they're using Evelyn to deliver the ransom—this could be a trap. Could be someone trying to get to you through her."
"I know." I met his concerned gaze steadily. "I'm going anyway."
Because that's what you did when someone you—when someone who mattered was in trouble. You went. You helped. You didn't let the fear of traps or ambushes or your own hurt feelings get in the way of doing what needed to be done.
Even if that someone had spent the last 48 hours convincing you she didn't give a damn whether you lived or died.
I took the private elevator down to the garage, my mind already three steps ahead. Evelyn had been smart about this—smart enough to communicate without tipping off whoever was holding Adrian, smart enough to give me the key details I'd need to start planning a rescue.
Large transfer meant significant ransom, probably eight figures given the Winthrop family's wealth. Deadline tonight meant we had hours, not days. Family emergency meant they were leveraging her connection to Adrian, which suggested they knew about the complicated history there.
But they didn't know about me. Didn't know she had access to a private military contractor with the resources to mount a full-scale extraction operation. That was our advantage.
My Mercedes was right where I'd left it, gleaming black paint reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights of Titan's underground garage. I climbed in and fired up the engine, already plotting the fastest route to Tribeca. Twenty minutes, I'd told her through Webb. I'd make it in fifteen.
My phone buzzed as I pulled out onto the street. Webb, with a preliminary report.
Webb: No security footage of Winthrop leaving his building this morning. Last confirmed sighting was 2130 hours entering Valentine's residence. No exit recorded.
So Adrian had been at Evelyn's place last night. Had probably been there all night, tending to her through the fever, playing the devoted stepson. The thought should have made me jealous—would have made me jealous twenty-four hours ago. But right now, all I felt was a cold, calculating focus.
If Adrian had left Evelyn's apartment this morning and been grabbed somewhere between there and his office, we had a limited geographic area to search. And if the kidnappers had called Evelyn specifically—if they'd targeted her as the point of contact rather than his family—it meant they knew about the connection. Knew it was exploitable.
Another text from Webb.
Webb: Ran technical analysis on Valentine's phone. No active taps, no malware, no remote access. Line is clean. Kidnappers are bluffing—using fear to keep her isolated.
So they didn't have the technical capability to actually monitor her communications. They were relying on intimidation and the threat of consequences to keep her compliant. Smart enough to be dangerous, but not sophisticated enough to have real surveillance infrastructure.
That gave us an advantage.
I wove through Manhattan traffic with the kind of aggressive precision that made other drivers honk and swerve, my mind running through tactical scenarios. Best case: I got to Evelyn's building, confirmed she was safe, got more details about the kidnapping, and we mounted a rescue operation before the deadline. Worst case: this was a trap designed to grab me too, neutralize Titan's ability to interfere, and maximize leverage against both the Winthrop and Russell families.
Either way, I was walking into it.
Because Evelyn had apologized. Had warned me to be careful. Had trusted me enough to reach out even after the things she'd said, even knowing I had every reason to ignore her call and let her handle this mess on her own.
And because somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath all the tactical planning and operational logistics, was the memory of her voice when she'd said I'm sorry. The softness in it. The fear she'd been trying so hard to hide.
She needed me. And that was enough.
I pulled up to her building fourteen minutes after leaving Titan Tower, parking in a loading zone with my hazards on. The doorman recognized me—had seen me coming and going enough times over the past few weeks to nod in acknowledgment as I strode through the lobby toward the elevators.
"Mr. Russell," he said, his tone professionally neutral. "Ms. Valentine mentioned you'd be coming by. She's waiting in the parking garage."
Of course she was. Maintaining the fiction that this was about a blocked car, keeping up appearances for whoever might be watching.
I nodded my thanks and diverted toward the garage entrance instead of the residential elevators.