Page 94 of Critical Mass
Couldn’t find any security images of Brass from Ravenscroft’s office.
Hudson frowned. A dead end.
But if that had been Brass, maybe he had the resources to erase any camera footage of himself.
He pulled up a photo—this one showing a detailed cargo list for one of the Zephyr containers. The items were listed as industrial chemicals, individually legal but collectively suspicious:
Methyl phosphonyl difluoride. Isopropyl alcohol. Diisopropylamine.
His blood ran cold. It was just as they’d thought—and feared.
Those weren’t random industrial chemicals. Those were precursor compounds. Ingredients that, when properly combined by someone who knew what they were doing, could create VX nerve agent.
And Brass would know exactly how to do that.
Hudson typed rapidly:
It’s just like we thought—Zephyr containers carrying VX precursors. Arrival window matches Critical Mass timeline. If Brass is alive and involved, he’s the cook. He’s the one who can weaponize these compounds.
Colton’s response came quickly:
If Brass is alive and working with Sigma, he’s not just an asset—he’s the key piece. He knows how to properly synthesize and deploy nerve agents.
Hudson looked at the photos again, seeing them with new clarity.
This wasn’t just about stopping a shipment or preventing an attack. This was about stopping someone who’d once been his brother-in-arms, who’d supposedly died three years ago, who apparently had been working for the enemy this whole time.
Or had he?
What if Brass hadn’t died? What if he’d been captured instead? Turned? Recruited by Sigma when he was at his most vulnerable?
Or what if—and this thought made Hudson’s stomach churn—what if Brass had been working for Sigma all along? What if his death had been faked, his three years of absence allpart of some long-term operation Hudson couldn’t begin to understand?
CHAPTER
FIFTY-THREE
Hudson woketo sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows.
The immediate awareness hit him: Today was the day everything would either come together or fall completely apart.
Thursday. The shipment was arriving tonight.
That meant eighteen hours until this was over.
Just the remembrance made his adrenaline start pumping.
He still had a few hours before brunch. He spent that time corresponding with his team and reviewing everything they knew.
Then he showered and dressed in clothes from the overnight bag he’d brought—casual but presentable.
When he descended to the dining room, Natalie was already seated at the table. Her father sat at the head reading something on his tablet. The morning paper lay folded beside his coffee cup, and brunch had been laid out—fresh fruit, pastries, eggs, bacon.
The picture of domestic normalcy.
Except for the armed security guard visible through the window and the tension radiating off Natalie like heat waves.
“Good morning.” Hudson took the seat beside her, acting as if everything was normal, like they weren’t playing a deadly game.
