Page 9 of Critical Mass
There was nothing else out here. But why would he head this way?
Through her windshield, a small marina materialized from the shadows. There appeared to be a weathered dock with maybe a dozen boat slips, all but three of them empty. A single securitylight flickered near what looked like a locked equipment shed, casting long shadows across the warped wooden planks.
The place appeared closed for the season, abandoned even, with a chain-link gate hanging partially open as if someone had forgotten to secure it properly.
The October breeze carried the smell of brackish water and decaying seaweed through her barely cracked window. Spanish moss swayed from the live oaks surrounding the property, their branches creating an eerie canopy that blocked out most of the moonlight. This wasn’t the kind of place you came for a romantic evening sail.
This was the kind of place people came when they didn’t want to be seen.
Her stomach churned.
What if Timothy really was meeting another woman here?
It would explain so much—the vague answers about his schedule, the apartment she’d never seen, the phone calls he always took in another room.
Maybe her father’s warning had nothing to do with danger and everything to do with infidelity.
Maybe Timothy wasn’t different from her past boyfriends after all.
Her heart sagged at the thought.
She had seconds to decide what to do.
Drive away and preserve whatever illusions she had left? Or follow him and face whatever truth waited at that decrepit marina?
Her heart hammered as she parked her car behind a cluster of trees, trying to stay as far from Timothy’s vehicle as possible.
The sensible part of her brain screamed that this was foolish, that she should turn around and go home.
But the curious side of her, the side that demanded answers—the truth—caused her to reach for the door handle.
There would be time for common sense later.
Hudson had led the sedan—the one that had been maintaining a careful distance behind him since he’d left Natalie’s neighborhood—exactly where he’d wanted.
The driver appeared professional enough to stay hidden behind him, but not professional enough to avoid detection by someone with his training.
Sigma had finally made their move, hadn’t they?
He pulled into the small marina off Back Bay, gravel crunching under his tires as he parked near the equipment shed.
The night air carried the briny smell of brackish water along with diesel fuel and rotting wood. Somewhere in the darkness, a loose halyard clinked rhythmically against a mast, the sound echoing across the empty slips like a broken metronome.
Hudson cut his engine and lights, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. The flickering security light provided just enough illumination to see—and just enough shadow to hide in.
Through his rearview mirror, he watched the vehicle following him as it slowed on the access road.
His tail had arrived.
The driver would most likely park and approach on foot. Standard surveillance protocol.
He slipped out of his Lexus—not his normal vehicle, but one that fit his consulting job persona—and moved silently toward a stack of overturned dinghies near the dock. The wood was slick with moisture and smelled of brine and mildew, familiar scents from his days as a Navy SEAL.
He crouched behind them and reached for his gun.
From this position, he had a clear view of the parking area and could control the confrontation.
The breeze picked up, rustling through the Spanish moss overhead and carrying voices from the water—probably late-season fishermen anchored in the bay.
