Page 59 of Critical Mass
“How sweet.” Margaret’s smile was genuine. “She’s mentioned you a few times. Says you make her laugh.”
Something tightened in Hudson’s chest at that. Had Natalie really said that? Or was Margaret just making conversation?
“I try,” he said with what he hoped was a modest smile. “Though my Pad Thai still needs work.”
Margaret laughed. “Well, you’re doing something right. I haven’t seen her this happy in?—”
Her desk phone rang, cutting off whatever she’d been about to say.
“Excuse me,” she said, reaching for the receiver. “Ravenscroft International, executive offices.”
Hudson stood, stretching legs that were starting to cramp from sitting. He moved toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Elizabeth River, giving Margaret privacy for her call while also scanning the area.
The executive floor was quiet—tastefully decorated with maritime art and ship models. It was the kind of place designed to impress clients and remind employees exactly how much power resided behind these doors.
Outside, he could see a cruise ship at the terminal waiting to leave. Could see the ferry running from Waterside toPortsmouth. All places where innocent people were conducting their lives as normal, without a clue as to what could be unleashed.
He was turning back toward his chair when movement down the hallway caught his eye.
A man emerged from one of the corner offices—tall, lean, moving with the controlled precision of someone with military training. Dark suit, expensive shoes, salt-and-pepper hair cut short.
Hudson’s heart stopped.
The profile. The way he carried himself. That distinctive scar above his left eyebrow.
Brass.
Derek “Brass” Brassen. His former teammate. His friend.
The man who’d died three years ago.
Hudson had attended the funeral. Had stood with Brass’s wife while she sobbed. Had carried the grief of seeing a colleague die.
But that man walking down the hallway?—
The figure turned slightly, and Hudson got a clearer view of his face.
Itdidlook like Brass. Older, maybe. Harder.
Hudson took an involuntary step forward, his mind reeling.
You’re seeing things. It’s stress. Lack of sleep. The operation getting to you.
But his training screamed otherwise. That was Brass’s gait. Brass’s posture.
The man—Brass—disappeared around a corner, heading toward what looked like the secure elevator banks.
Hudson should follow.
But doing so might blow his cover.
He only had a second to decide what to do.
“What really happened?” Natalie’s father repeated, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.
She forced herself to meet his eyes—the same eyes that had looked at her with love on a thousand ordinary days.
Were these the eyes of a terrorist?
