Page 8 of Stealthy Seduction (SEAL Team Blackout Charlie #5)

“Your tie to her has you compromised,” Con said bluntly. “Your head’s not in the game, and I can’t have you making decisions based on your dick instead of tactical assessment.”

Heat flared in Steele’s chest. “This isn’t about—”

“Isn’t it?” Con’s voice was calm but implacable. “When’s the last time you’ve been glued to your phone during a brief?”

Steele’s jaw worked, but he couldn’t argue the point. Con was right, and they both knew it.

He raked his fingers through his hair. “She’s walking into a trap. Anonymous donors don’t just appear out of nowhere to fund medical clinics. Not unless they get something in return.”

“Which is why Chase and Chickie are going to make sure nothing happens to her,” Con replied. “And why you’re staying here where you can think with your brain instead of your emotions.”

The logic was sound, but it didn’t make the decision any easier to swallow. Steele sank back into his chair, fists clenched, every instinct screaming at him to go after Izzy himself.

Her background, her time as a hostage, the trauma that still made her tuck her thumb with the scar from Syria into her fist—it all painted a target on her back.

“Steele,” Dante called out, not looking up from his screen. “You need to see this.”

He didn’t like the tone of Dante’s voice. At. Fucking. All.

He looked up at the screen as Dante filled the remaining team members in on what they were seeing.

“Hartwell and Associates’ client list. There were three other anonymous charitable donations in the past two years, all to organizations with ties to conflict zones. Medical facilities, refugee assistance programs, trauma counseling centers.”

Steele’s blood chilled further. “This benefactor isn’t funding random charities.”

“No,” Dante agreed grimly.

Con was already reaching for his radio. “Chase, Chickie—be advised, this may be bigger than a simple meet-and-greet. Approach with extreme caution.”

Steele pulled out his phone and fired off a quick text to Izzy.

Let me know you’re safe. Please.

He stared at the screen, waiting for the three dots that would indicate she was typing back.

They never came.

“She’s not responding.”

“Steele.” Con’s tone was a warning.

Reeling, he gripped the table edge to keep from disobeying orders. He was never rattled. Not even in the heat of battle.

But his next thought made his blood run cold.

“What if Cipher’s got access to her communications the same way he did with Kennedy?”

Dante’s stare flashed to his. He knew better than anyone about that.

If Cipher was monitoring Izzy’s phone, every text Steele had sent, every flirtatious message, every hint of connection between them—all of it could be used against Blackout Charlie.

“We’ll handle it,” Con said quietly, picking up the fear in Steele’s statement. “But I need you focused on the mission, not on worst-case scenarios.”

Steele gave a jerky nod, but his gaze drifted back to the silent phone in his hands. Somewhere across the city, Izzy was walking into a meeting with people who might want her dead, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it except wait.

And pray that his teammates got there in time.

* * * * *

Izzy’s heart beat a little too fast. Felt a little too fluttery.

And her palms were sweating.

She touched the crystal around her neck and drew a deep breath as she entered the restaurant.

Nothing bad was going to happen to her. She was surrounded by people talking and laughing as they enjoyed their meals. She had successfully completed her first assignment after a long hiatus and was on to the next.

She spotted the man seated at the corner table she had reserved for the meeting and made her way toward him. As she moved past tables, she picked up snippets of conversations. None of them made any sense to her.

She touched a fingertip to the crystal, sending it swinging lightly between her breasts.

“Mr. Drysdale,” she breezed out in a voice filled with false cheer as she reached the table.

The man dressed in a dress shirt and tie pushed away from the table to greet her. She took his hand, drinking in everything from his shrewd green eyes to his suit jacket draped over the back of the chair and the gold cufflinks glinting under the lights.

“I’m Callie Northwood.” She pumped his hand in a firm shake before slipping into her seat across from him.

This was the donor’s power of attorney. Hartwell and Associates had contacted him at her request, but she could already tell that pulling information from this man wasn’t going to be easy. She saw the secrets locked behind the steel vault of his eyes.

Still, she felt compelled to dig deeper because it was associated with Syria.

Ever since that traumatic event, she’d chased down every shred of knowledge about the country, the people and the stories no one dared to put into words.

Her therapist would tell her it wasn’t healthy, that she needed to find a way to cope with the trauma.

Instead, she slapped a smile on her face and made small talk with the person who acted on the anonymous donor’s behalf.

As soon as she shifted the topic to what she really wanted to know, Drysdale responded to her questions with basic answers that told her nothing.

She settled back in her chair, hoping to disarm him more with her relaxed body language, even though she felt far from relaxed. Curling her fingers around her glass of pinot noir, she offered him a small smile.

“Why does a person wish to keep their role in the charity—a charity that does wonderful works for the community—a secret?”

He flicked his gaze over her as if he’d already answered this question a dozen times. “Some people don’t need to get anything out of people knowing, Ms. Northwood. Some people don’t need a pat on the back for the things they do.”

“Ah.” She took a sip of her wine, more to cover the unsteadiness wisping through her like smoke. “I wonder if the person is so influential—for instance, a celebrity—that influence might be good for others. Generate more interest to bring in even more donations.”

“Certainly those with influence could do so.”

He was very good at this game. In fact, the guy was evasive as hell and clearly didn’t wish to be here. He’d barely touched his drink before, but lifted it to his mouth now. “Of course, if a lot of people know you have money, people come out of the woodwork to get some.”

Izzy forced another smile, recognizing a dead end when she hit one. The man across from her was a professional wall built to keep information in and reporters out. She’d gotten all she was going to get, which was essentially nothing.

“Well, Mr. Drysdale, I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.” She closed her notebook and slipped it into her purse, the movement practiced and smooth despite the disappointment churning in her stomach. “I know your client values their privacy, and I respect that.”

“I’m sure you understand.” He reached for his jacket, sliding it on with efficient movements. “Some stories are better left untold.”

The comment sent a chill down her spine, but she kept her expression neutral. “Of course. Shall we walk out together?”

“That’s fine.” He stood, straightening his tie. “After you.”

They made their way through the restaurant, exchanging polite pleasantries about the weather and the quality of the food neither had eaten. Normal conversation that felt anything but normal given the tension humming beneath Izzy’s skin.

The evening air nipped her face as they stepped outside, and she drew her long camel-colored wool coat around herself to cut the chill. What she wouldn’t give for some hot tub time at the SEAL base now.

The street was busy with the usual dinner crowd—couples strolling hand in hand, businesspeople hurrying to catch buses. All the comfortable chaos of a city evening.

“Well, thank you again.” Izzy paused and extended her hand for another professional handshake. “If your client ever changes their mind about speaking…”

“I doubt that will happen.” Drysdale’s grip was firm, final. “Good evening, Ms. Northwood.”

He turned to head down the sidewalk toward the parking garage, his stride confident and unhurried. Izzy watched him go for a moment, her journalistic instincts buzzing with frustration. Dead ends were part of the job, but this felt different. More deliberate, constructed.

She was reaching into her purse for her car keys when she heard the beat of footsteps.

She whipped around again and saw two men sweatshirts with the hoods up closing in on Drysdale, quick and with purpose.

Their movements were too coordinated to be casual.

Izzy’s gut coiled.

“Hey!” one of them called out. “Hey, man, you got the time?”

Drysdale turned, his expression mildly annoyed. “It’s just past six—”

The first man moved with practiced efficiency, grabbing Drysdale’s coat sleeve while the second one stepped closer. But instead of running like any normal mugger would, the second man’s hand came up. In his grip, something dark and metallic gleamed.

Time slowed.

Izzy’s mouth opened to scream a warning, but the sound stuck in her throat as the crack of gunfire split the evening air.

Drysdale jerked backward, his hands flying to his chest as dark stains bloomed across his tailored shirt. He hit the sidewalk hard, his body convulsing once before going terrifyingly still.

The two men were already moving, disappearing into the crowd with the kind of smooth efficiency that spoke of military training.

Not muggers. Assassins.

Izzy’s knees nearly buckled as the familiar taste of copper flooded her mouth. Her vision tunneled, the sounds of the street fading to a distant roar as her body tried to decide between fight or flight.

A man was just murdered right in front of her.

People around her were screaming now, some rushing toward Drysdale’s body while others scattered. Someone was shouting about calling 911. The chaos was immediate and overwhelming, and all Izzy could think was that she needed to get away from here. Now.

Without conscious thought, she stumbled backward, then broke into a run. Her boots clicked against the pavement as she fled, her purse clutched tight against her chest. She didn’t stop until she reached the corner, where a yellow taxi was idling at a red light.

She yanked open the door and threw herself inside.

“Drive,” she gasped. “Please, just drive.”

The cabbie, a middle-aged man with concerned eyes, glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “You okay, lady? You look—”

“I’m fine. I just need to get out of here.” Her hands were shaking as she dug through her purse for her wallet. “Take me to Maple and Thornton.”

It wasn’t where she needed to go—it was nowhere near the SEAL team base—but she couldn’t risk giving the driver the real destination. Not if someone was watching. Not if they’d planned this whole thing.

She wasn’t supposed to know anything about the base at all. Explaining how she knew the location was going to be another difficult chapter in her already complicated life.

The taxi pulled away from the curb, and Izzy slumped back against the seat, her heart hammering against her ribs. Drysdale was dead. Shot right in front of her, minutes after their meeting. That couldn’t be a coincidence. That was a message.

Or maybe it was meant to be a double murder, and she’d just gotten lucky.

The thought made nausea roil in her stomach.

“Actually,” she said when they were still several blocks from her destination, “this is good. I can walk from here.”

“You sure? It’s no trouble to—”

“I’m sure.” She shoved a twenty at him through the partition and bolted from the cab before he could argue.

The evening air felt too thin as she stood on the sidewalk, making it difficult to catch her breath as she watched the taxi disappear into traffic. She was alone now—truly alone—and every shadow seemed to hold a threat.

There was only one place where she would be safe.

The walk to the base took forty minutes of careful route-planning and frequent glances over her shoulder.

She stuck to well-lit streets, avoided alleys and changed direction twice to make sure she wasn’t being followed, all the while grateful that she hadn’t worn silly high heels to the meeting and opted for her sensible boots instead.

The entrance to the mansion loomed into view. She’d never actually seen the base, only the inside of the blackout hood.

Thick trees and dense hedges concealed the mansion, and heavy metal gates barricaded the driveway. Now, her legs were shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline, but she ran forward, aware of the security camera mounted above the call box that tracked her movement with a blinking red light.

Breath hitching, she pressed the button and waited, staring directly into the camera lens.

“It’s Izzy Cruz. I need sanctuary.” Her voice broke slightly. “Please let me in.”