Page 13 of Critical Mass
Hudson opened his mouth to explain, to find some way to make her understand that the feelings had been real even if everything else had been fabricated.
Then headlights cut through the darkness at the marina’s entrance.
His blood turned to ice.
“We need to go. Now.” He reached for Natalie’s arm.
She jerked away from his touch. “I’m not going anywhere with you?—”
“Natalie, listen to me.” He kept his voice low and urgent.
He scanned the approaching vehicle. Dark SUV, no plates visible, moving slowly like they were looking for something.
Or someone.
“We don’t have time for this. Those people—whoever they are—they’re not here for a midnight fishing trip.”
“You’re being paranoid. It’s probably just?—”
The SUV’s headlights swept across the marina, and Hudson saw the exact moment Natalie registered the threat.
The vehicle stopped at the entrance, blocking the only road out.
Two figures emerged, silhouettes against the headlights.
Even from this distance Hudson could see the unmistakable profiles of tactical rifles.
“What . . . ?” Natalie whispered.
Hudson grabbed her arm, harder this time, and pulled her behind the stack of overturned dinghies. “Listen to me very carefully. Those men are armed, and they’re here to either take us or kill us. Probably both. I need you to trust me right now, just for the next few minutes. Can you do that?”
She stared at him, her face pale in the dim light, then nodded shakily. “Yes.”
He pulled his gaze away from her and glanced around.
“My car?” she asked.
“Blocked in. We’d never make it. Getting to mine is too risky also.” His mind raced through options, discarding them as quickly as they appeared.
The marina was a kill box—limited cover, no alternate exits, nowhere to run except into the water.
The water.
His eyes locked onto a twenty-foot center console fishing boat tied up at the nearest slip. Old but serviceable and, most importantly, it had a motor.
“Can you swim?” he asked.
“What? Yes, but?—”
“Good. Stay low and follow me. Don’t make a sound.” He paused. “Swimming is a last resort—but it might come down to that, depending on how things go.”
Hudson moved in a crouch toward the dock, acutely aware of Natalie behind him. She was trying to stay quiet, but her breathing was too loud, her movements too hesitant.
She was a civilian. Untrained. Terrified.
He couldn’t blame her.
They reached the boat just as voices carried across the marina—low, professional, coordinating a search pattern.
