Chapter 129
Evelyn's POV
I stood there in the parking garage, phone still clutched in my hand, watching Julian's taillights disappear up the ramp. Adrian was kidnapped. Julian was mounting a rescue operation. And I was supposed to go to the bank, act panicked, and stall for time while his team tracked down the location.
I could do that. I'd played far more difficult roles under worse pressure.
I got into my car and sat for a moment, hands on the steering wheel, forcing myself to think tactically instead of emotionally. I needed to look the part when I arrived at the bank. Frightened but functional. Desperate but not hysterical. The kind of woman who would do anything to save her stepson, including wire twenty million dollars to an offshore account without asking too many questions.
My phone buzzed before I could start the engine.
Julian: Tech team is working the cell tower data. Need you to call them in 30 minutes. Keep them talking minimum 3 minutes for triangulation. Longer is better.
Me: Understood.
Julian: Webb will text you updates. Stay calm. You've got this.
I stared at that last message for a moment, feeling something warm and painful unfurl in my chest. Even now, even after everything I'd said to push him away, he was still trying to reassure me. Still treating me like someone worth protecting instead of the weapon I'd been trained to be.
I started the car and pulled out of the garage, heading toward my bank in Midtown. The fever had broken overnight, but I still felt weak, shaky in a way that would actually help sell the frightened woman act. My hands trembled slightly on the steering wheel—partly from residual illness, partly from genuine fear for Adrian, and partly from the adrenaline that always came before an operation.
Because that's what this was. An operation. Just one where my weapon was my voice instead of a gun.
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The bank was mercifully quiet when I arrived, the mid-morning lull between the opening rush and lunch hour. I approached the nearest available representative with what I hoped looked like barely controlled panic.
"I need to speak with a manager," I said, letting my voice shake. "It's urgent. I need to arrange a large wire transfer and I don't—I've never done anything like this before and I need help."
The young woman behind the desk took one look at my face and immediately stood. "Of course, Mrs. Winthrop. Let me get Mr. Patterson for you right away."
Mrs. Winthrop. The name still felt foreign, even after years of marriage and six months of widowhood. But it opened doors. Got me ushered into a private office within minutes instead of being told to take a number.
Mr. Patterson was in his fifties, silver-haired and professionally sympathetic in the way that senior bank managers learned to be. "Mrs. Winthrop, how can I help you today?"
"I need to wire twenty million dollars," I said, and watched his eyebrows rise. "Today. As soon as possible. It's a family emergency and I can't—" I let my voice crack slightly. "I'm sorry, I'm not explaining this well. There's a situation and I need to move funds quickly and I don't know the proper procedures for amounts this large."
"Of course, of course." He was already pulling up my account information on his computer. "Let me just verify your available balance and we can discuss the best way to proceed."
My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out with shaking hands—not entirely faked—and saw Webb's message.
Webb: Target location narrowed to Red Hook industrial district. Keep stalling.
Twenty-eight minutes since Julian's last text. Two more minutes until I was supposed to call the kidnappers.
"Mrs. Winthrop?" Mr. Patterson's voice pulled my attention back. "I'm showing a current balance of eight point three million in your primary account. For a transfer of twenty million, we'll need to liquidate some of your investment holdings. That will take some time to arrange—"
"How much time?" I asked, letting desperation bleed into my voice.
"For this amount? Several hours at minimum. Possibly until tomorrow morning to avoid significant losses on the liquidation." He leaned forward, his expression concerned. "Mrs. Winthrop, if this is truly urgent, perhaps you should consider contacting other members of your family who might be able to assist with—"
"No." The word came out too sharp. I softened it, made myself sound helpless instead of commanding. "No, I can't involve them. This is—it's complicated. Please, isn't there anything you can do to expedite this?"
My phone buzzed again.
Webb: Confirmed warehouse location. Team moving into position. Make the call now.
I looked up at Mr. Patterson, forcing tears into my eyes. "I'm sorry, I need to take this call. It's related to the emergency. Can you—can you start the paperwork or whatever needs to happen? I'll be right back."
I didn't wait for his response, just stood and walked out of the office toward the lobby, my heart hammering against my ribs. This was it. Time to play my part and pray that Julian's team was as good as he claimed.
I dialed the kidnappers' number with fingers that genuinely shook now, listening to it ring once, twice—
"You have the account information?" The distorted voice was impatient, aggressive.
"Yes, I have it, but there's a problem." I let my voice waver, injected panic into every syllable. "I'm at the bank right now and they're saying I don't have enough liquid assets. They need to liquidate investments and that's going to take hours, maybe until tomorrow, and I don't know what to do—"
"That's not my fucking problem," the voice snarled. "You have eleven hours. Figure it out."
"I'm trying!" I let my voice rise, let it crack with what sounded like genuine hysteria. "But they're saying for an amount this large, they need multiple approvals, and there are regulations about same-day transfers over ten million, and I don't understand any of this—" I took a shaky breath. "Can you just—can you explain it to me? What exactly do I need to tell them? What forms do I need to fill out?"
Keep them talking. Three minutes minimum. I glanced at my phone's timer—forty-two seconds so far.
"Jesus Christ, are you serious right now?" The voice was getting angrier, more volatile. "You're calling me for fucking banking advice? Wire the money to the account we gave you. That's it. That's all you need to do."
"But which type of wire?" I asked, letting confusion bleed into fear. "The banker was asking if it's domestic or international, and what the purpose of the transfer is, and I didn't know what to tell him because I can't tell him the truth—"
"Tell him it's a fucking investment!" The distorted voice was practically shouting now. "Tell him it's a business expense! I don't care! Just get the money transferred!"