Page 73 of Critical Mass
He stepped into his study, leaving the door slightly ajar—either an oversight or a test to see if they’d try to listen.
Hudson and Natalie stood in the hallway, and he felt her hand brush against his arm. When he looked at her, she tilted her head fractionally toward the study, a question in her eyes.
Should we?
Hudson gave the smallest nod. This was exactly the kind of opportunity they’d been waiting for—Ravenscroft on the phone, speaking freely, possibly revealing something about his operations.
But it was risky. If Ravenscroft caught them eavesdropping, it would raise suspicions they couldn’t afford.
Natalie moved first, drifting casually toward a piece of artwork on the hallway wall—a large abstract painting positioned conveniently close to the study door. She studied it with apparent interest, the perfect cover for someone lingering nearby.
Hudson followed her lead, positioning himself near the doorframe as if admiring the same painting. Close enough to hear but far enough to claim innocent proximity if questioned.
“It’s beautiful,” Natalie said quietly, her voice just loud enough to sound natural. “I never noticed this piece before.”
But her eyes were locked on his, sharp and focused. She was giving him cover, creating a reason for them both to be standing here.
Hudson leaned closer to the doorway, every sense straining to catch Ravenscroft’s words. The man’s voice was low, controlled, but in the quiet house, sound carried.
“—timeline hasn’t changed. Friday, as planned.” A pause, then: “The Dubai shipment should arrive at the warehouse tomorrow. Make sure the inspection teams don’t?—”
Ravenscroft’s voice dropped even lower, and he moved deeper into the study, his words fading to an indistinct murmur.
Hudson’s pulse quickened. Dubai shipment. Warehouse. Tomorrow. This was confirmation—concrete evidence that Ravenscroft was actively involved in whatever Critical Mass was.
He needed to hear more. Needed to know which warehouse, what time, what the inspection teams were being told to avoid.
Hudson shifted his weight, leaning fractionally closer to the door, trying to catch the rest of the conversation.
Natalie’s hand suddenly gripped his arm, her fingers tight with warning.
Hudson froze. Footsteps in another part of the house—one of the staff members, or security, heading their direction.
He straightened and turned back to the painting, his posture relaxed even as his mind raced. Had they gotten enough? Would Ravenscroft realize they’d been listening?
The staff member—a housekeeper—passed by with barely a glance, heading toward the kitchen.
Natalie exhaled slowly, her hand still on Hudson’s arm. When she looked up at him, he saw the question there:Did you hear enough?
Hudson gave a slight nod. Not everything, but enough. The Dubai shipment was arriving tomorrow at a warehouse. The timeline was Friday. That was more intel than they’d had five minutes ago.
Ravenscroft’s voice grew louder as he moved back toward the study door. “—handle it personally. I’ll call you tomorrow with the final numbers.”
The call was ending.
Hudson and Natalie moved away from the door, drifting back toward the dining room entrance as if they’d simply been waiting patiently.
Ravenscroft emerged moments later, his expression neutral again, the mask back in place. “Sorry about that. Business never stops, even during family dinners.”
“No problem, sir,” Hudson said, his voice easy and casual. As if he hadn’t just overheard evidence of a terrorist plot.
As if his heart wasn’t pounding with the knowledge that they had less than forty-eight hours to stop whatever was coming.
Ravenscroft motioned toward them, and they settled into the formal dining room—a table that could seat twelve, crystal chandeliers, windows overlooking the water. Beautiful and intimidating in equal measure.
A place where power moved and deals were made.
And where Hudson was about to be interrogated by a man who’d killed before and wouldn’t hesitate to do so again if he suspected a threat.
