Page 72 of Critical Mass
Even if the truth destroyed her.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
The Ravenscroft estatesprawled across five acres of prime waterfront property. It was the kind of real estate that required generational wealth or serious criminal enterprise to acquire.
Probably both, in Richard Ravenscroft’s case.
As Hudson drove through the security gate—reinforced steel disguised as decorative ironwork—he took in the layout. Eight-foot stone walls topped with discreet cameras. Motion sensors hidden in the landscaping. At least three visible security personnel, which meant twice that many invisible ones.
The house itself was a modern architectural masterpiece, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that captured the sunset over the Lafayette River. Beautiful and completely impractical from a security standpoint—too much glass, too many sight lines.
Unless you wanted to see threats coming from every direction.
Hudson pulled into the circular driveway and parked, noting Mr. Ravenscroft waiting at the front door. Security cameras tracked their approach, and the lights were strategically placed to eliminate shadows after dark.
Professional setup. Military-grade security for a shipping magnate.
Or for a terrorist organization leader.
“Ready?” he asked Natalie softly.
She nodded, but her face was pale, her hands clenched in her lap.
Hudson reached for her hand, desperate to offer some comfort. But as soon as their fingers touched, Natalie flinched, and he instantly regretted the action.
Hudson squared his shoulders and prepared himself for what might be his hardest mission yet.
He’d faced down armed insurgents with better odds than this.
They stepped out of the car, and Richard Ravenscroft descended the steps with the controlled authority of a man used to command. He wore casual but expensive clothes—tailored slacks, a linen shirt, and leather loafers—but Hudson recognized the posture of someone always ready for violence.
“Natalie.” Ravenscroft’s expression softened as he kissed his daughter’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Hi, Dad.” Natalie’s voice sounded steady, but Hudson heard the tremor hiding in her tone.
Ravenscroft turned to Hudson, and the warmth vanished from his expression. “Mr. Shaw. Thank you again for keeping my daughter safe last night.”
“Of course, sir.” Hudson shook Ravenscroft’s offered hand, noting the firm grip, the calluses that suggested regular weapons training. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”
“We’ll see about that.” Ravenscroft gestured toward the house. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Here went nothing.
As Hudson and Natalie followed Ravenscroft inside, Hudson soaked in every detail.
Open floor plan with sight lines to multiple exits. Artwork that probably hid safes or stored weapons. Staff scattered about—housekeepers, a private chef, and security personnel trying to look like household staff.
This wasn’t a home.
It was a command center.
Ravenscroft led them toward the dining room, but his phone rang before they reached it.
He glanced at the screen, and something shifted in his expression—a tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible tension in his jaw. The pleasant host mask slipped for just a fraction of a second.
“I need to take this,” he said, his tone apologetic but firm. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll just be a moment.”
