Chapter 39
CHAPTER
THIRTY-NINE
The Ravenscroft estate sprawled across five acres of prime waterfront property. It was the kind of real estate that required generational wealth or serious criminal enterprise to acquire.
Probably both, in Richard Ravenscroft’s case.
As Hudson drove through the security gate—reinforced steel disguised as decorative ironwork—he took in the layout. Eight-foot stone walls topped with discreet cameras. Motion sensors hidden in the landscaping. At least three visible security personnel, which meant twice that many invisible ones.
The house itself was a modern architectural masterpiece, all clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows that captured the sunset over the Lafayette River. Beautiful and completely impractical from a security standpoint—too much glass, too many sight lines.
Unless you wanted to see threats coming from every direction.
Hudson pulled into the circular driveway and parked, noting Mr. Ravenscroft waiting at the front door. Security cameras tracked their approach, and the lights were strategically placed to eliminate shadows after dark.
Professional setup. Military-grade security for a shipping magnate.
Or for a terrorist organization leader.
“Ready?” he asked Natalie softly.
She nodded, but her face was pale, her hands clenched in her lap.
Hudson reached for her hand, desperate to offer some comfort. But as soon as their fingers touched, Natalie flinched, and he instantly regretted the action.
Hudson squared his shoulders and prepared himself for what might be his hardest mission yet.
He’d faced down armed insurgents with better odds than this.
They stepped out of the car, and Richard Ravenscroft descended the steps with the controlled authority of a man used to command. He wore casual but expensive clothes—tailored slacks, a linen shirt, and leather loafers—but Hudson recognized the posture of someone always ready for violence.
“Natalie.” Ravenscroft’s expression softened as he kissed his daughter’s cheek. “I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Hi, Dad.” Natalie’s voice sounded steady, but Hudson heard the tremor hiding in her tone.
Ravenscroft turned to Hudson, and the warmth vanished from his expression. “Mr. Shaw. Thank you again for keeping my daughter safe last night.”
“Of course, sir.” Hudson shook Ravenscroft’s offered hand, noting the firm grip, the calluses that suggested regular weapons training. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”
“We’ll see about that.” Ravenscroft gestured toward the house. “Come in. Dinner’s almost ready.”
Here went nothing.
As Hudson and Natalie followed Ravenscroft inside, Hudson soaked in every detail.
Open floor plan with sight lines to multiple exits. Artwork that probably hid safes or stored weapons. Staff scattered about—housekeepers, a private chef, and security personnel trying to look like household staff.
This wasn’t a home.
It was a command center.
Ravenscroft led them toward the dining room, but his phone rang before they reached it.
He glanced at the screen, and something shifted in his expression—a tightening around his eyes, a barely perceptible tension in his jaw. The pleasant host mask slipped for just a fraction of a second.
“I need to take this,” he said, his tone apologetic but firm. “Make yourselves comfortable. I’ll just be a moment.”
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.