Page 40 of Secrets Beneath the Waves (Beach Read Thrillers #2)

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Paul Dietrich stepped off the plane and into the familiar heat of the Cayman Islands.

The salty air clung to his skin as he adjusted his sunglasses and walked toward the small terminal.

He instinctively flinched, almost anticipating a bullet coming out of nowhere and ending the misery that was his fear of Jamie Austen and her abilities.

A black sedan waited for him outside the airport, the driver a faceless entity in a crisp white shirt holding a sign with his fake name on it.

Paul slid into the backseat. Beads of sweat formed on his brow as much from anxiety as the weather.

He gave the driver the name of the bank, and the car pulled away, merging seamlessly into the slow-moving island traffic.

Paul breathed a noticeable sigh of relief, but none of the tension left. He wouldn’t feel secure until he was on Russian soil.

He touched the inside pocket of his suit jacket for reassurance. He resisted the urge to pull out the papers and look at them again. Unnecessary. Everything was in order. He had his passport, driver’s license, and a copy of his last bank statement.

He’d been meticulous in setting up the account. A false name, forged documents—every step was a calculated move to ensure no one could trace the funds back to him. The money had sat there for years, untouched, waiting for the right moment. And now was time to collect.

The drive to the bank was brief, but the tension in Paul’s chest built with each passing second.

As the car pulled up to the gleaming glass building, he thanked the driver and told him to wait at the curb.

As soon as he was done, he’d have the man take him back to the airport.

He’d be on the first flight out of Cayman to anywhere that would give him a connection to Russia.

When he stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, he didn’t bother glancing around. If Austen was onto him, he wouldn’t see the bullet coming. His head would explode before he knew what hit him. A preference compared to what she could do to him.

The twenty-foot walk between the car and the entrance to the bank was excruciating. His entire body was tense until he was no longer in the open. Inside, the air conditioning blasted away the island heat, sending a momentary exhilaration down his spine as he approached the reception desk.

This might work. He was minutes away from walking out of the bank with a check worth millions of dollars.

“I have an appointment with Mr. Daniels,” he said. The receptionist, a woman with meticulously pinned hair and a polite but distant demeanor, smiled then nodded. “Right this way, Mr. Smythe.”

Paul followed her through the sleek halls, the scent of polished wood and paper thick in the air. She led him to a private office, where a sharply dressed man in his fifties rose to greet him.

“Mr. Smythe,” the executive said, shaking Paul’s hand with an iron grip. “Please, have a seat.”

Paul sat, resting his hands on the top of the desk. “I’d like to close my account.” He took out the necessary documents and slid them in front of Mr. Daniels.

The bank executive smiled politely, although Paul saw a twinge of disappointment. “Of course. I understand that you’d like to withdraw your money and close your account.”

“Yes.”

“May I ask why? Are you displeased with our services?”

“Not at all. I’m leaving the country permanently.”

“We’ll be sorry to see you go.”

The banker studied the statement for several seconds. Satisfied, he looked up and said, “How would you like the money?”

“A cashier’s check would be fine.”

No way could he travel around the world carrying that much cash. He certainly wasn’t going to check it at the airport.

Paul glanced up at the security cameras. This interaction was being captured. Wouldn’t matter now. When Paul didn’t show up at work in two weeks, there’d be an investigation. More than likely, the CIA would piece everything together, but it’d take time.

They’d find his image in the Washington D.C. airport security cameras and eventually know he went to Cayman on a fake passport. They might even find his bank account. They’d no doubt see him get on a plane and track his movements to Russia.

The CIA was extremely resourceful in that way. He had done similar investigations over the years. They’d eventually figure out he had betrayed his country.

Nothing they could do at that point. The money would be gone and in a Russian account.

Surprisingly, he didn’t feel any guilt. Only a smug satisfaction that he had gotten away with it all these years. He had outsmarted the smartest minds in the world.

Mr. Daniels turned slightly in his chair, fingers hovering over the keyboard. A quick series of keystrokes. A pause. His lips pressed together. He frowned, then typed again, slower this time.

Paul’s stomach tightened. “Is there a problem?”

“One moment,” the executive murmured. His eyes flicked toward the screen. He clicked to another window. Then another. His frown deepened.

Paul forced himself to stay still, but every muscle in his body screamed at him to say something.

The executive rubbed his chin, a gesture that did nothing to calm Paul’s nerves.

Paul’s fingers twitched against the armrest.

“I don’t understand,” the banker finally said.

“Understand what?”

“Why come all this way to withdraw one dollar?”

The words hit him like a bullet.

“I have more than five million dollars in that account!”

The executive dismissed him with a slight shake of his head. He turned away from his computer and looked skeptically at Paul. His hands were folded neatly on the desk in front of him, and there was a stiffness in his shoulders now.

“There must be some mistake. Check again.”

A firmness in his voice felt like a slap in the face, “I did check. Several times.”

Mr. Daniels reached out and turned the computer screen toward Paul. Paul leaned in. His gaze locked onto the display. He scanned the numbers, his brain slow to process. His eyes finally focused on the available balance.

One dollar.

That couldn’t be right.

He blinked twice. The number didn’t change.

Paul let out a hollow, humorless laugh. “No. That’s a mistake.”

The executive didn’t respond.

“I had several million dollars in that account.” Paul reached out and grabbed the bank statement off the desk. His hands shook as he shoved the paper toward the executive. “What happened to my money?”

Mr. Daniels took the document, compared it to the screen, and then shook his head. “The funds were transferred out of this account yesterday.”

Paul’s vision tunneled and for a second he thought he might faint. No. No, no, no. His pulse pounded in his ears, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, suffocating dread.

“That’s impossible,” he croaked, the words catching in his dry throat. “I never authorized?—”

It didn't make sense. It couldn’t. His mind refused to accept it.

Then a cold realization seeped into his bones, heavier than any ocean current.

He’d been outmaneuvered. Played. And the architect of his downfall was chillingly clear.

Alex Halee.

The best computer hacker in the world. He had a reputation for dismantling illicit financial networks, siphoning money from terrorist organizations and corrupt officials, and rerouting it to a mysterious entity known only as AJAX.

A wave of nausea rolled through him. If Alex had his money, then Jamie had his money.

Which meant they knew everything.

Paul’s fingers curled into fists. His last safety net—his one escape plan—had just been ripped away.

Paul forced himself to breathe evenly. He couldn’t afford to lose control. To draw attention to himself. No amount of protesting would change the facts. The money was gone. Arguing with the banker would get him nowhere.

If anything, claiming the money was stolen would draw attention to himself, and he might be detained indefinitely. Long enough for the CIA to uncover his escape plan. The police would be called. It might give Jamie Austen enough time to discover that he was in the Caymans.

At least he had the documents in his briefcase. While they weren’t worth millions, he could get enough from the Russian oligarchs to live comfortably.

Paul clenched his fists under the table. He stood abruptly, buttoning his jacket. “Thank you for your time.”

He turned and abruptly walked out of the bank, his breath tight in his chest. He needed to get to his car. Now. Out of Cayman as soon as possible.

He scanned the street for any sign of a threat while his mind calculated the fastest way to the airport. His driver waited at the curb. Relief flickered through him. He quickened his pace, reaching out for the door handle, his lifeline to safety.

Then he felt it.

A sharp, unyielding pressure against his spine.

His body locked up. The street noise, the distant hum of engines, and the chatter of tourists blurred into nothing.

A voice, quiet but firm, cut through the noise on the street.

“Don’t move.”

It was a woman. Young. Steady.

Ellie Austen.

His mind scrambled for an explanation, but there wasn’t a reason to speculate. She shouldn’t have been there, but she was. She shouldn’t have even known about this, but she did.

Here she was, his worst nightmare. Her breath calm, her grip sure. His future flashed before his eyes and disintegrated along with any hope he had of getting out of there and going to Russia.

She nudged him forward. “Get in the car.”

The door swung open, and Paul barely had time to slide in before she followed, shutting it behind her.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at her for the first time. A gun was secure in her hand, aimed in his direction.

“To the marina,” Ellie said to the driver.

“She’s got a gun!” Paul yelped. “I’m being kidnapped! Do something!”

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, completely unfazed.

“Oh, right!” Ellie’s tone was almost cheerful. “Introductions! Paul, meet Matthew. Matthew, meet Paul, the mole, the traitor, and the soon-to-be very sorry man.”

Matthew gave Paul a friendly nod. “Pleasure to meet you. Are you comfortable back there? Can I get you something to drink?”

He winked at Ellie.

“This is insane. You don’t want to do this.”

Ellie tilted her head, considering. Then she grinned. “No, see, that’s where you’re wrong. I really do.”

“You can’t kill me. I’m an American citizen.”

“I can and I will.”

Denying that she could was a waste of breath.

“How did you find me?” Paul asked, his voice raw and cracking. He could use a beverage but wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of asking for one.

“You made one too many mistakes.”

“What mistake?”

Ellie leaned back, tapping her finger lightly against her thigh. “Snorkeling. Bioluminescent Bay. Saturday night.”

His stomach clenched and did what felt like a somersault in his chest.

“My dad planted that on Luke’s calendar,” she continued. “That’s how you knew I was scuba diving with Luke. So, I left another breadcrumb. To see if you’d take the bait.” She tilted her head slightly. “And you did.”

Good thing he didn’t follow through with trying to kill her at the Bay. He didn’t stand a chance.

His hands trembled. He felt lightheaded.If he could make himself die of a heart attack at that moment, he would.

“Thank you for the money, by the way,” Ellie said, almost mockingly. “We will put it to good use. Kind of funny, don’t you think? My dad leaving one dollar in the account?”

Paul pressed his palm against his forehead, his world crumbling around him. He had planned everything. Every detail. Every escape route. But without the money, he had nothing. No leverage. No power.

No way out.

Paul knew how they found the money. He didn’t even have to ask. Alex Halee was a magician on the computer. As soon as Paul logged on to Luke’s computer and looked at his calendar, Alex was able to track him. Once Alex had his identity, the rest was easy for him.

The car rolled to a stop.

Paul looked out the window. The marina.

“Move,” Ellie ordered.

“Don’t I get a tip?” Matthew asked.

Ellie reached into Paul’s pockets and pulled out his wallet, cell phone, and all his documents. She gave them to Matthew, who opened the wallet.

“There’s more than three thousand dollars in here,” Matthew said. “That’s a very generous tip. Thank you.”

The gun dug into Paul’s ribs as Ellie shoved him out the door and toward the waiting boat. His legs felt like lead as he stepped on board.

His gaze flicked through the marina, but there was no escape. Not now. Not ever.

Ellie climbed on behind him. Paul sank onto a bench, his hands clenched into fists.

He knew what this meant.

She was taking him to international waters.

To disappear.

He forced himself to breathe. Slow. Steady.

The only consolation was that Jamie Austen wasn’t about vengeance. She didn’t believe in torture unless it served a purpose. If Ellie were anything like her mother, his death would be quick. Clean.

As long as he didn’t resist.

No one would question his disappearance. Nobody. No investigation. The CIA wouldn’t even know what happened to him.

He lifted his head and met Ellie’s gaze.

Her eyes burned. Not with anger, not with hatred. Something worse. Something cold. Inevitable.

Determination.

She started the boat.

They headed out to sea.