Page 124 of Critical Mass
SIXTY-NINE
Hudson’s earpiececrackled to life as he positioned Natalie and her father behind a shipping container, shielding them from the ongoing firefight.
“Vans are dead,” Maverick’s voice came through. “Hacked the engine management systems. They’re not starting without a complete rewire.”
Relief flooded through Hudson. “Copy that. Good work.”
“FBI is three minutes out,” Colton added. “Hold your positions and let them sweep in. Don’t be heroes.”
Hudson glanced at Natalie—pale but determined, gripping the gun he’d given her like a lifeline. And her father, who looked like he’d aged a decade in the past hour.
Too late for not being heroes. They were already neck-deep in this.
“Hudson!” Jake’s urgent shout came through the comm. “Brass is on the move, heading toward the north container yard. He’s got something. A detonator maybe? Releasing the chemicals in those drums here at the port could still be devastating.”
Hudson’s blood went cold. Brass. His former teammate, his brother-in-arms who was supposed to be dead.
The man who’d apparently been orchestrating this entire nightmare.
“I’m going after him,” Hudson said into his comm.
“Negative,” Colton’s voice was sharp. “Wait for FBI?—”
Hudson was already moving. “Natalie, stay here. Don’t move until I come back for you.”
“Hudson, wait?—”
Then he was gone, sprinting toward the container yard, his rifle up, following the route Jake had indicated. Behind him, he heard more gunfire, shouts, the wail of approaching sirens.
The FBI was almost here. They just needed to hold on a little longer.
Hudson ran, his boots pounding on concrete, his mind racing through everything he knew about Brass, about how his former teammate thought, how he moved.
And there—a figure darting between containers, heading for the perimeter fence.
“Brass!” Hudson’s voice echoed across the container yard. “Stop!”
The figure froze, then slowly turned.
Derek Brassen looked older than Hudson remembered. Harder. There was a coldness in his eyes that hadn’t been there three years ago, before the helicopter crash that was supposed to have killed him.
“Hudson.” Brass’s voice was flat, emotionless. “I should’ve known you’d be the one to find me.”
Natalie pressed herself against the shipping container, the gun heavy in her hands, her heart hammering so hard she could barely hear anything else.
Hudson had told her to stay put. To wait.
But through the gap between containers, she saw movement. Saw Jonathan—Brass—standing in the open about thirty yards away.
Hudson walked toward him, his rifle lowered, his posture less tactical and more . . . grief-stricken.
The two of them were talking. She couldn’t hear the words over the chaos of the firefight still raging near the pier, but she saw Hudson’s body language.
He was trying to reason with Brass, wasn’t he? Trying to get through to him.
Behind them, sirens grew louder. Red and blue lights flashed through the container yard, painting everything in strobing colors.
The FBI. Finally.
