Page 4 of Stealthy Seduction (SEAL Team Blackout Charlie #5)

A s soon as Steele shouldered through the door of the war room, he rumbled a low growl.

Con lifted his gaze from the laptop in front of him, a lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “Well, look who finally rolled out of bed. Nice to see you up bright and early, Steele.”

The legs scraped loudly across the floor as he dropped into it.

“Hell of a comfort,” Steele shot back, grabbing a pen to occupy his hand and flipping it between his fingers before fixing his eyes on the big screen on the wall.

Mason arched a brow at him. “Maybe the reason our buddy Steele is stuck with the shittiest seat has something to do with Izzy Cruz.”

Inside, he jerked at her name. On the surface, he remained cool and unreactive.

Chase eyed him as if he already had a bead on what actually happened. “Alyssa got up this morning to take Izzy home. But she wasn’t in the guest room. Apparently, she left in the night.”

Steele fixed his gaze on his buddy. “I saw her up and about, cleaning up the kitchen. She asked if I could take her home. She gave me her address; I made her wear the hood. I walked her to her door. She’s safe. Don’t worry—I followed all the rules.”

Chase exchanged a look with Dante as if the pair had some private joke about him.

Mason leaned back, eyeing up Steele. “Maybe we need to put you in the truth chair.”

It was a common joke around the Blackout Charlie base. The chair read a person’s body like a damn lie detector.

Chase and the others were laughing. “Doesn’t matter if your face is stone cold, Steele. If your sphincter tightens, the chair knows you’re lying.”

Mason snorted. “Your face can hide it, but your ass never lies.”

The group burst into laughter, and Steele joined in despite him being the “butt” of the joke.

Not only had he arrived late to the briefing—something he never did—but he felt out of sorts after what happened between him and Izzy. He could use a reset, even if the team was laughing at his expense.

Con pushed away from the table and stood, his presence cutting through the lingering laughter like a blade. “All right, settle down. Time to get serious.”

The shift was immediate. Steele felt his shoulders square automatically, muscle memory kicking in as the team transitioned from razzing each other to operational mode.

It was a hell of a lot easier than thinking about soft skin and whispered demands in the dark.

“Dante, you’re up.” Con clasped his hands behind his back, legs braced wide, at the ready for the report.

Dante King, intel and tech specialist for the team, tapped a few keys, bringing up streams of data on the wall-mounted screens. His voice took on the clipped, professional tone he always used during briefings. “I’ve got the daily intelligence update on Cipher’s activities.”

Steele leaned back in his chair, pen still rotating between his fingers as he focused on the feed. The familiar rhythm of the briefing helped settle the restless energy that had been crawling under his skin since he’d woken up with Izzy’s scent lingering on the sheets.

“There are questions about whether any recent incidents are tied to Cipher.” Dante scrolled through surveillance photos and data streams. Several big recent events around the country flashed across the screen.

Steele folded his arms. “Looks like some car bombings. Explosives discovered on a dock. Nothing like what we’ve seen from the terrorist in the past.”

Cipher thrived on making a spectacle. His signature was chaos that splintered through governments and civilians alike—planes grounded, cities burning, operatives buried under twisted wreckage.

Every mission they’d run had shown the terrorist’s hunger to dominate and reminded them that no one was beyond his reach.

His current silence didn’t give any of them relief. A storm was gathering.

Mason shook his head. “No mass killings.”

Chase blew out a breath. “No Blackout teams going down in a chopper crash.”

Everyone fell silent as they remembered Echo team. Chase was the last man standing from Echo, which placed a target on his back.

After a long beat, Dante continued, “I’ve got alerts set up across multiple channels.

I’ve done a deep dive on financial systems too—I’m looking for large amounts money being moved, or multiple small sums. I have a pulse on all communications between persons of interest who we suspect had dealings with Cipher in the past, as well as alerts for dark web chatter.

” Dante looked up at Con, who picked up where he left off.

“Sophie’s still working through the cryptograms we recovered from the last op. She’s uncovering new pieces daily, but nothing definitive that points to his next move.”

Steele nodded, filing away each kernel of information. Cipher was like smoke—always there, always dangerous, but impossible to pin down.

But not for long.

“However,” Dante continued, his tone sharpening, “I did confirm something significant about Daniel Sheen.”

Their attention zeroed in at the mention of Cipher’s real name.

The man had lost his mother in a bombing in Syria.

But the grieving son wasn’t only targeting the people who failed his mother.

He was picking off everyone who, in his mind, prevented people from saving her—SEAL teams and anybody involved in a hostage situation going on at the same time, as well as those even remotely tied to her death.

And Daniel Sheen—Cipher—wouldn’t stop until the entire chain of command had bled dry.

“Sheen worked for the CIA for six months before faking his death. He escaped notice by using a back door he built into the CIA’s system, probably before he quit. He was able to alter records, create a false death certificate, the whole nine yards.”

Steele’s pen stopped mid-flip. He leaned forward, shrewd eyes fixed on the screen. “And the back door?”

“I closed it,” Dante confirmed with a nod. “The back door’s been sealed, and I’ve added an alarm system that’ll alert me if anyone tries to access it again. No new breach attempts detected since I shut it down.”

A collective exhale went around the table. One less vulnerability was always good news, but they knew better than to relax. Cipher was like a virus—close one entry point, and he’d find another.

The briefing shifted. They discussed world events and unusual patterns, anything that might indicate Cipher could be behind it.

Steele tapped his pen on the table. “Patterns are there if you look for them. He might be making small moves on different continents. Keeping busy while staying off our radar.”

His mind circled back to Izzy.

She was one of the hostages held during the time Cipher’s mother was killed.

“He’s not done. Not even close.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with experience. The fact that things had been quiet lately didn’t mean safe. It meant he was planning.

Con tipped his head toward Dante. “Keep us posted on everything you dig up.”

“Copy.”

As Con wrapped up the meeting, Steele felt the familiar gnaw of frustration in his gut. They had intelligence, they had suspicions, they had pieces of a puzzle—but nothing actionable. Nothing that would let them go on the offensive instead of constantly reacting to situations.

The team began to disperse, chairs scraping against the expensive marble floors that ran throughout the mansion.

Even though Steele’s back faced an open door, he remained seated for a moment longer, his mind already turning over contingency plans.

His protective instincts were running hot, honed by everything they’d just discussed and everything he couldn’t say.

Izzy’s face flashed through his mind, trusting and vulnerable as she’d stared at him in the darkness.

He pushed back his chair. “Con, can I talk to you?”

“Sure.”

He circled the table to stand before his commanding officer. “Izzy was one of the hostages during the time Cipher’s mom was killed.”

He nodded. “Already noted. Chase is keeping tabs on her.”

“Is that enough?”

Con folded his arms. “Let’s just say that I knew you walked her to her door before you told us.”

So they had eyes on her. Good.

But was it enough?

He had to keep his distance. The team couldn’t know what went down last night. Not because he was ashamed, but because the fewer people who knew about his connection to her, the safer she’d be.

But that didn’t mean he was going to stop thinking up ways to keep her protected without her even knowing she needed protecting.

* * * * *

Izzy stood outside the newsroom, shoulders squared. Anxiety flickered along her nerves, the exact sensation she dreaded when she made the decision to come here.

Breathe.

She drew a slow breath in and held it for three beats before exhaling through her nose.

I’m steady. I’m safe.

The exercise was supposed to quiet racing thoughts and lower her heart rate. Some days it worked better than others.

She had to do this. If she didn’t keep moving forward, she knew what would happen—she’d slip back into the shadows, live behind a peephole, waiting for the food delivery guy to leave before she dared to step outside.

That wasn’t living. That was prison.

She drew another breath and squared her shoulders before pushing through the glass door of the newsroom.

She wasn’t going to let fear cage her, not again. Fake it till you make it, she told herself.

At the SEAL base, she’d felt safe—nothing to be afraid of there with hardened special operatives watching every corner.

Nothing to be afraid of in the throes of ecstasy in the arms of Hudson Steele.

Her insides clutched, and then she remembered she was stepping into the big, scary world of reporting again.

The SEAL team wasn’t here. In the bright chaos of the newsroom, it was all on her.

The morning meeting was already underway, her producer handing out assignments. Everyone liked to joke about him being more of a traffic controller than storyteller, because he controlled who got airtime.

Izzy slid into the room, smoothing her skirt and lifting her chin.

His gaze landed on her, and she saw a flicker of interest behind his eyes.

Sitting in this room again felt surreal. The last assignment he gave her, she ended up as a hostage.

It took her years to reach this point in her healing journey. And months after she made the decision to return to journalism to decide that she was going by her old journalist name.

Callie Northwood .

The syllables had weight, recognition. People knew that name. She’d covered countless pieces, but what people remembered was that she’d once been held hostage overseas, her face splashed across headlines.

Maybe she really should use her real name now. Start fresh.

No. Callie Northwood was the one who survived, the one who kept standing. And if she had to step back into the fire, she’d do it as her.

Several people, old faces and new, nodded at her in greeting and recognition. She folded her hands in her lap and listened to the roster of assignments being handed out around the table, from breaking news to an exposé on local crime and a feature on the mayor’s budget.

The meeting wrapped up, and everyone left with their assignments in hand.

Everyone but her.

Heart sinking, she started to get up and leave, but he called out, “Izzy. Stay a minute.”

She settled once more. When the producer leaned across the table, pinning her with his stare, Izzy’s stomach dropped.

Oh no. Now what?

“You’re comfortable with this, Callie?” He slid a slim folder her way. “You’ve only just come back into the field. I don’t want to push you too hard.”

Her pulse spiked, but she forced a smile. “I’m good. I’ve got therapy. Medication. I’m not going to crack on air, if that’s what you’re asking.”

He studied her for a long second, then tapped the folder. “This is a charity piece.”

“A fluff piece?” She held out a hand for the folder, and he passed it to her.

“Call it what you want, but I need you to interview the new head of a well-known charity. Human interest, soft edges. Good reentry story.”

Yup. A fluff piece. She should’ve been insulted, but instead, relief poured through her. She could do fluff. She could do charity.

She took the file without even glancing at the contents. “Thank you. I’ll give it my best.”

His smile was warm. “I know you will.”

She started out of the room, just like she was one of the team again.

“And Callie,” he called out.

She swung around.

“Welcome back.”

Her insides warmed as she returned to her cubicle. It wasn’t the same one she had years ago, and there was nothing remotely personal about it. No photos on the walls, no trinkets on her desk. Just her and the assignment.

It was a start. For now, it was enough.

Izzy opened the file and started the research. With each minute she searched, she felt the old throb of excitement.

The charity director she would interview was actually a medical doctor. He’d traveled the world helping people, and had now broadened his focus to help the charity raise nearly two million dollars in its first year.

Some of that money helped rebuild schools in war-torn countries. It provided clean water projects and even gotten veterans back on their feet through a therapy program in Wyoming. All the glossy bullet points she needed to string everything together into a feel-good package.

She jotted questions—how many people they’d helped, what partnerships they’d formed and how others could get involved.

By the time she closed her laptop, her nerves had steadied. She had an assignment. A goal. Tomorrow, she’d sit down with the doctor and run through her questions.

A small bubble of hope flickered in her chest. Maybe she could do this. Maybe this was her first step back to… normal .

When a shadow of dread curled in her stomach, dark and low, she pushed it aside.

It was just a charity story. Just a feel-good piece.

Nothing dangerous about that.