5. Hudson
HUDSON
My legs are stretched out in front of me. Each time I move, the cheap wooden chair creaks under my weight, as if it might give out.
The redhead stands across from me, staring.
Dirt is tangled in her curls. Small rocks are stuck in the scraped skin on her palms. Blood has dried in uneven lines down both knees.
Mostly superficial.
For now.
She finally stops pacing, her chest rising sharply with every breath.
“You done?” I ask. “All that screaming’s giving me a fuckin’ headache.”
“Fuck you,” she snaps, voice rough and shredded from fighting me the entire drive here.
Honestly?
I’m a little impressed.
She clawed, kicked, and cursed at me whenever she could. The blood under her fingernails belongs to me.
She got me good a couple of times, too.
Not that I feel much of that shit anymore.
Truth is, I barely feel much of anything these days.
“Eva Sorenson,” I say, letting her name linger on my tongue.
Her glare sharpens.
“Yeah?” she snaps. “And what exactly is the master plan here? You kidnap me and sit there acting like a fucking psycho?”
“More or less.”
She lets out a short, sharp laugh. Completely humorless. “You’re out of your fucking mind.”
“I’ve been told.”
She goes still again. She watches me, sizing me up without showing anything.
Doesn’t matter.
I already know exactly who she is.
I’ve seen her face in surveillance photos, briefings, and polished PR shots meant for the public for years.
The Saints love pretending they’re legitimate.
Community outreach.
Charity work.
They talk about family values, but it’s just a cover for guns and blood money.
The Eagles and the Saints don’t coexist.
We grind each other down.
Steal from each other.
We make each other bleed whenever we get the chance.
Now that we have the Saints’ leader’s daughter, it’s a big deal.
I’ve dreamt of having an opportunity like this for almost two decades.
Eva Sorenson hasn’t been my target that whole time. She’s just a means to an end.
Baron Roybal getting shot is just a bonus. He spent years doing Jonas’s dirty work—the kind that leaves scars that never heal.
I look at her and know I can really hurt Jonas Sorenson now.
“You killed people,” she finally says, shaking me from my thoughts.
I look at her without reacting.
“Is Baron dead?” she asks.
I start to scowl.
“Unfortunately, I think that motherfucker will probably live.”
She reacts differently than I expected.
No relief.
No panic.
If anything, she seems disappointed.
Interesting.
“Shame,” she mutters.
That almost makes me react.
“If you think my dad is going to come storming in here to save me,” she says, “you’re delusional.”
I lean back a little in the chair.
“Yeah?”
“I’m serious,” she snaps. “He won’t. He’ll let me sit here and rot if it suits him.”
I watch her. She’s telling the truth.
Men like her father don’t move unless it benefits them.
“We’ll see.”
Her eyes narrow.
“Doesn’t really matter anyway,” I add. “You’re dead either way.”
She goes completely still for half a second.
Then her anger returns, stronger than before.
“You dragged me out of there,” she says slowly, “just to fucking kill me?”
“Pretty much.”
“That might genuinely be the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“You got a better plan?”
“Yeah,” she fires back. “Don’t kidnap me in the first place.”
“Little late for that.”
She lets out a sharp breath and starts pacing again, trying to burn off nervous energy she can’t hide.
“You’re a fucking psychopath.”
“Maybe.”
She stops and looks at me again, eyes sharp and searching.
“And you didn’t kill me in the alley,” she goes on. “Which would’ve been easier. So what the hell is the point of this? Some kind of delayed murder fantasy?”
I push slowly out of the chair.
She watches me move, her shoulders tense. She shifts her weight forward, ready to fight if I get too close.
I take one slow step closer.
She holds her ground.
“Point,” I say quietly, “is that you’re here.”
She lifts her chin, defiant.
“And now?” she asks.
I hold her gaze.
“Now,” I say, “we wait.”
“For what?” she snaps.
“For your father,” I answer. “He deserves to die, too.”
Her eyes flicker.
Only for a second.
Then the anger slams back into place.
“Yeah,” she says. “Good fucking luck with that.”
I don’t answer.
I should've killed her in the alley.
Instead, I brought her back for Martin.
I push that thought away.
“You’re in a fortress, so don’t try to run. Guards are everywhere, at every exit. There’s one outside your door. If you need something, knock, and he might help you. Or he might not. You’re not a guest, you’re a prisoner.”
“What if I have to piss?” she asks.
I gesture toward the old-fashioned chamber pot in the corner.
“No princess shit for you here.”
She levels me with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.
And she doesn't look away.
She didn't in the alley either.
Most people do.
Eva just digs in her heels and stares right back.
There's fear there. I caught a glimpse of it earlier.
But now it's buried beneath something harder.
Pride.
Anger.
Stubborn little thing.
Fine, two can play this game. I stare back at her, not blinking or looking away, until her cheeks turn red.
There it is.
I step closer again.
This time, she retreats, backing onto the narrow twin bed behind her.
Even better.
Now she gets it.
Good.
I want to finally see fear cross her face.
My mother wore that same expression for years when Baron’s grip got too tight.
I want her to feel the pain my mother felt every time she 'fell' and ended up with a black eye, a bruised cheek, or a broken rib.
It’s payback, or at least it will be once she’s dead.
“You gonna keep staring at me,” she snaps, voice razor-sharp, “Or are you actually going to tell me what the fuck you want?”
I don’t answer. I just opened the door and checked that the guard was outside to lock her in.
“All good?” he asks.
“For now.”
I step into the hallway without looking back.
The lock clicks shut behind me.
She’s trapped.
And for the first time in nineteen years, Jonas Sorenson has something to lose.
I walk down the hallway, looking for Martin.
He’s not in his office.
I find him on the back porch, smoking under dim security lights that look out over a big courtyard.
Far off, I see the garage lights where Lucian is still working with the club’s head mechanic.
Martin glances at me as I step beside him and light my own cigarette.
“Quite the operation tonight,” he says. “Congratulations.”
I grunt in response, the smoke burning in my lungs.
Martin huffs out a laugh.
“I really shouldn’t still be surprised by you,” he says. “You’ve got absolutely no self-preservation instinct.”
His mouth twitches a little.
“Probably why you made such a good goalie. Most men flinch when something’s flying at their face. You throw yourself in front of it.”
Hockey and the Eagles haven’t felt separate in a long time.
It's all the same life now.
It’s just one long cycle of putting myself in danger.
“You just singlehandedly fucked over the Saints,” Martin continues. “Recovered the shipment. Sent a message to the Russians.”
“Wasn’t singlehanded,” I mutter. “Rick and Omar were there.”
He scoffs.
“Sure. Team effort. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” His eyes sharpen slightly. “It was your operation, Hudson. Your plan. And not only did you recover our weapons…”
He pauses.
Watches me carefully.
“You brought me something interesting.”
My stomach tightens.
I don’t like how he says that.
I don’t like the look in his eyes when he says it, either.
“Jonas Sorenson’s daughter,” he says slowly. “Not bad.”
I shift my weight, cigarette hanging loose between my fingers.
“What do you plan to do with her?”
I take a slow drag before answering.
“Kill her.”
Martin chuckles softly, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. He’s getting older now, with gray starting to show in his blond hair.
But he’s still as dangerous as ever.
“That feels a little anticlimactic,” he says.
“Does it?” I ask flatly. “Feels like justice to me.”
“Ah.”
He drops his cigarette on the stone and crushes it under his boot.
“That’s the eleven-year-old talking.”
I say nothing.
“The kid who watched his mother die wants revenge,” Martin continues. “But a grown man should understand leverage.”
He looks out at the dark courtyard below.
“Jonas Sorenson would burn half this city down before letting anything happen to that girl.”
I’m not so sure about that.
Eva sounded pretty fucking certain he’d let her rot.
Martin looks back at me.
“A bullet is quick,” he says. “But leverage lasts.”
My jaw tightens.
I don’t want leverage.
I want Jonas Sorenson on his knees the way I was on that apartment floor with my mother’s lifeless body.
I want him broken.
Grieving.
I want him to know exactly what it feels like to lose the person he loves most and be too late to stop it.
And yet,
“Whatever you say, boss,” I hear myself say.
Martin’s eyes narrow slightly at that.
He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether I actually mean it or if I’m just telling him what he wants to hear.
I give him nothing.
“She secured?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
I tell him.
“Guarded?”
“Twenty-four-seven.”
He nods, satisfied.
“Good.”
I roll my shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension.
“You can do whatever you want with her,” I add.
His brow lifts slightly.
“But when this is over…” My voice stays flat. Steady. “I’m the one who kills her.”
He watches me for another second before nodding.
“Fair enough.”
I turn toward the door.
“Hudson.”
I stop and glance back over my shoulder.
Martin leans against the railing now, smoke curling around him.
“You did good tonight,” he says.
I don’t answer.
Because I don’t know what “good” is anymore.
I flick my cigarette to the ground, put it out, and head back inside.
My footsteps echo in the hallway as the familiar weight settles in my chest again.
Heavy.
Controlled.
Jonas Sorenson's daughter is here.
Alive.
Locked behind a steel door with guards at every exit.
Nineteen years.
That's how long I've carried this hatred around inside me.
And now revenge is finally within reach.
All I have to do is finish it.