Page 58 of Critical Mass
Natalie watched her father process Hudson’s statement, saw him memorizing every detail, every word.
Was he suspicious? Or just being a protective father?
“And how does that make you qualified to protect my daughter? How did you manage to fight off multiple attackers?” Richard’s tone sounded conversational, but Natalie heard the steel beneath it.
“Military training,” Hudson said. “I served in the Navy before moving into consulting. Some skills you never lose.”
“Navy.” Richard’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What was your rank?”
“Operations Specialist. Nothing glamorous—radar, communications, that sort of thing.”
The lie came so easily, so convincingly. Something twisted in Natalie’s chest. This was what Hudson did. This was who he was—a man who could stand in front of her father and lie without a single tell.
“Timothy,” Natalie interrupted, “I’d like to talk to my father alone.”
Something flickered in Hudson’s expression—concern maybe, or calculation. But he nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right outside if you need me.”
She didn’t respond, just watched him leave.
Because now came the hard part. Now she had to look her father in the eye and figure out if the man who’d raised her was the same man planning to kill thousands of innocent people.
And she had to do it without letting him see that she suspected a thing.
“Natalie,” her father said gently, moving closer. “Tell me what really happened.”
The concern in his voice sounded so genuine. So real.
But then again, so had Hudson’s.
And she’d learned the hard way that people who loved you could still destroy you with their lies.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Hudson satin the reception area outside Richard Ravenscroft’s office, the leather chair too soft, the lighting too bright, everything designed to make visitors feel simultaneously comfortable and scrutinized.
His every nerve was on high alert.
The bug was planted. He’d pressed it against the underside of Ravenscroft’s desk when they’d shaken hands—a move so practiced it had taken less than a second.
Ravenscroft hadn’t noticed a thing—and neither had Natalie.
But that didn’t make Hudson feel any better about leaving Natalie alone in there with him.
He forced himself to appear casual, to check his phone like any boyfriend would while waiting. But he memorized every detail of the office space.
The layout. The security cameras. The exits. The distance from the elevator.
Margaret—Ravenscroft’s assistant—had offered him coffee, which he’d accepted more to be polite than from any real desire. It sat cooling on the side table, untouched.
Through the heavy oak door, he could hear the murmur of voices. Natalie and her father, speaking in tones too lowto make out words. Having the private conversation Hudson had suggested, the one where she’d try to extract information without revealing what she knew.
He checked his phone—nothing from Colton yet about the men who’d followed Natalie. They’d scattered after the crash, disappeared into the area’s labyrinth of streets before backup could arrive.
“So how long have you and Natalie been dating?” Margaret’s tone sounded conversational, friendly.
Hudson looked up, shifting easily into Timothy Shaw mode. “About three months. We met at a cooking class.”
