Page 17 of Critical Mass
Everything was falling apart—her relationship, her sense of safety, her understanding of reality itself.
“Natalie!” Hudson’s voice cut through her spiral. “We’re almost there. Just hang on a little longer.”
Almost where? She wanted to scream. Where could they possibly go that would make this okay?
But she didn’t have the breath for questions.
All she could do was cling to the deck of the stolen boat, pray that the next bullet wouldn’t find her, and wonder how following the man she loved to a marina had turned her entire world into a waking nightmare.
Hudson’s hands were white-knuckled on the wheel as he pushed the boat through the darkness, every sense hyperaware of the pursuing vessel behind them.
The old fishing boat was giving everything it had, but it wasn’t enough.
What he wouldn’t give to have a M80 Stiletto from his Navy SEAL days right now.
The gap was closing—fifty yards, maybe less.
Behind him, he heard Natalie retching over the side, her whole body heaving with each wave of nausea. The sound cut through him worse than any bullet could.
She was sick, terrified, soaked to the bone, and it was entirely his fault.
Every choice he’d made for the past three months had led to this moment—to Natalie Ravenscroft, corporate communications director, who’d never hurt anyone in her life, being hunted.
Most likely, these guys were after him, not Natalie.
Another muzzle flash behind them.
The bullet went wide, but not by much.
Think.Hudson needed to think tactically, not emotionally.
The pursuing boat was faster, better equipped, and had more firepower. In a straight race, they’d lose. Hudson had rushed to the closest boat, but that had been a mistake.
Which meant he needed to change the equation.
Hudson scanned the darkness ahead. Back Bay was a maze of channels, marshland, and shallow water. The boat behind them looked bigger, drew more water.
If he could lure them into the shallows . . .
He yanked the wheel hard to port, cutting across the bay toward the marshy eastern shore.
The boat protested, the engine screaming as he pushed it into waters he could barely see.
“What are you doing?” Natalie’s voice sounded raw, barely audible over the engine.
“Trust me.” He knew the words were meaningless now.
Why should she trust him? He’d done nothing but lie to her since the day they’d met.
The depth finder on the console dropped fast—eight feet, six feet, four feet.
Hudson could see the dark line of marsh grass ahead, could smell the mud and vegetation. Behind them, the pursuit boat followed, closing the gap.
Three feet.
Two feet.
Hudson cut the engine and tilted up the motor at the last second, letting momentum carry them into a narrow channel between two islands of marsh grass.
