Chapter 130
Evelyn's POV
One minute, eighteen seconds. Not enough. I needed to keep them engaged, keep them angry enough to keep talking but not angry enough to hang up.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm just so scared and I don't know what I'm doing." I let myself sound on the verge of tears. "They hurt him. When they called earlier, I could see—there was so much blood, and he looked so scared, and I just want to get him back safely but I don't know if I'm doing this right—"
"You want to see more blood?" the voice demanded. "You want to see what happens when you waste my time with stupid questions? Because I can arrange that. I can send you another video right now, show you exactly what we'll do if you don't stop fucking around and get me my money."
Two minutes, six seconds. Come on. Just a little longer.
"No, please, I'm not trying to waste time, I swear." I was pacing now, my free hand clenched into a fist at my side. "I just want to make sure I do this right. Can you—can you walk me through it? Step by step? What do I tell the bank manager when I go back in there?"
There was a pause, and I could hear something in the background. Voices? Movement? It was hard to tell through the distortion.
"You tell him you're wiring money to an offshore investment account," the voice said, slower now, like he was talking to a particularly stupid child. "You give him the routing information we sent you. You authorize the transfer. That's it. It's not complicated."
Two minutes, forty-one seconds. Almost there.
"And they won't ask questions? About why I'm sending twenty million dollars to—" I paused, pretending to look at my phone. "—to a bank in the Cayman Islands?"
"That's not your problem. Rich people move money offshore all the time. They won't care."
"But what if they do care?" I let my voice rise again, riding the edge of hysteria. "What if they report it to someone, or freeze the account, or—"
"Then your stepson dies." The voice was cold now, final. "Is that clear enough for you? You either get me that money by tonight, or Adrian Winthrop's body ends up in the Hudson River. Those are your options. Now stop calling me with stupid questions and—"
The voice cut off abruptly. Not like he'd hung up, but like something had interrupted him. I heard a crash, then shouting—undistorted now, raw and panicked.
"What the fuck—get down, GET DOWN—"
More shouting. The sharp crack of gunfire. Someone screaming.
Then Julian's voice, clear and commanding even through the chaos: "ON THE GROUND NOW! HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!"
The line went dead.
I stood there in the middle of the bank lobby, phone pressed to my ear, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst through my chest. Three minutes, twelve seconds. They'd gotten the location. They'd breached. They'd—
But I didn't know if they had Adrian. Didn't know if he was alive or hurt or if the kidnappers had killed him before Julian's team could reach him. Didn't know if Julian was okay, if any of his people were injured, if the whole operation had gone sideways.
I wanted to call him. Wanted to demand an update, to know what was happening, to hear his voice confirming that it was over and everyone was safe. But I couldn't. Couldn't risk distracting him during an active tactical situation. Couldn't be the liability that got someone killed because I needed reassurance.
So I stood there, phone clutched in my white-knuckled grip, and forced myself to breathe. To wait. To trust that Julian knew what he was doing and would contact me when it was safe.
"Mrs. Winthrop?" Mr. Patterson's voice made me jump. He was standing in the doorway of his office, concern written across his face. "Is everything all right? You look—"
"I need to go." The words came out steadier than I felt. "I'm sorry, something's come up. I'll have to come back later to finish the transfer."
I was moving before he could respond, heading for the exit with quick, controlled steps that wanted to break into a run. I made it to the street before my legs started shaking so badly I had to lean against the building's facade.
The call had ended four minutes ago. Four minutes of silence. Four minutes of not knowing if Adrian was alive or dead, if Julian was hurt, if everything had gone according to plan or catastrophically wrong.
My phone buzzed, and I nearly dropped it in my haste to check the screen.
Webb: Extraction successful. Target secured. All team members accounted for. Stand by for debrief.
Target secured. That meant Adrian was alive. They'd gotten him out.
I sagged against the wall, relief hitting so hard it left me dizzy. He was alive. They'd saved him. It was over.
But Webb's message had been clinical, professional. No details about Adrian's condition or what they'd found at the warehouse. No message from Julian himself.
I stared at my phone, willing it to ring, to buzz with another update. Anything to fill the agonizing void of not knowing.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
Finally, my phone lit up with an incoming call. Julian's name on the screen.
I answered before the first ring finished. "Did you get him? Is he—"
"We got him." Julian's voice was rough, strained in a way that made my chest tight. "He's alive, Evelyn. Banged up, dehydrated, but stable. We're taking him to Titan's medical facility now."
The relief was so intense it made my knees weak. "And you? Your team?"
"Everyone's fine. Minor injuries, nothing serious." A pause. "You did good. Kept them on the line long enough for us to pinpoint the location. Textbook stalling technique."
There was something in his voice—pride, maybe, or satisfaction. Like he was impressed despite himself.
"What about the kidnappers?" I asked.
"In custody. NYPD is on scene now taking statements." Another pause, longer this time. "Evelyn, we need to talk. About what we found. About who was behind this."
My stomach dropped. "It was Blackstone."