Page 125 of Critical Mass
Natalie started to relax, started to think maybe this was really over?—
Then she saw Dimitri.
He emerged from behind a container to her right, moving with surprising stealth. His shoulder was bleeding—someone had hit him in the earlier firefight—but he was still upright, still armed, still dangerous.
And he moved directly toward Hudson’s exposed back.
She saw Dimitri’s arm come up, saw him aim at Hudson, saw his finger move to the trigger.
Natalie didn’t think. Didn’t plan. Didn’t hesitate.
She raised the gun Hudson had given her, gripped it with both hands the way she’d seen in movies, and aimed at Dimitri’s broad torso because she knew she’d never hit anything smaller?—
Then she pulled the trigger.
CHAPTER
SEVENTY
The recoil shockedNatalie and nearly knocked her backward. The sound was deafening, louder than she’d imagined.
But the bullet flew true.
Dimitri jerked, his shot going wide, the bullet sparking off a container ten feet from Hudson. Dimitri spun toward Natalie, rage and surprise warring on his face.
She pulled the trigger again. And again.
One shot hit his shoulder—the same one that was already bleeding. Another went wide.
But it was enough.
Dimitri stumbled, going down on one knee.
The next instant, the FBI poured into the container yard like a tidal wave—dozens of agents in tactical gear, weapons drawn, voices shouting commands in that authoritative tone that meant they were taking control.
“Drop your weapons! Federal agents! Face-down on the ground!”
Brass’s remaining men started surrendering, hands going up, weapons clattering to concrete.
It was over.
Or at least, that was what Natalie thought . . . until she looked back toward Hudson and Brass.
Hudson heard the commotion around him. Heard the gunfire. Saw the feds moving in.
But out of the corner of his eye, he also saw that Natalie was okay.
Relief filled him.
He wanted to run to her, but he couldn’t.
He had to finish this first.
He kept his gaze on Brass.
“You died.” Hudson’s voice sounded rough with emotion he couldn’t quite suppress. “We all thought you died, Brass. We mourned you. Your wife—your wife was devastated.”
“I know.” For just a moment, something flickered in Brass’s expression. Pain maybe. Or regret. “Had to be that way. Had to make it believable.”
