She shook her head. “He had an athletic build. The other was shorter, stockier and with broad shoulders. They moved like…” She paused, searching for the right words. “Like soldiers. I’ve seen soldiers in Syria. These men were the same—their movements were coordinated. Professional.”
“Race?” Dante’s tone was gentle but focused.
“Both appeared to be white. The taller one had dark hair visible under his hood, and he was clean-shaven. The shorter one wore a baseball cap underneath the hood—I couldn’t see much of his face.” She wrapped her arms around herself, the memory making her skin crawl. “They asked Drysdale for the time, like they were just random people on the street. But the way they positioned themselves, the way they moved… I know now it was tactical.”
“How long from approach to the shooting?” Con asked.
“Maybe thirty seconds. The tall one distracted him with the question while the shorter one moved to his blind spot. The gun…” Izzy’s voice wavered slightly. “It looked like a small pistol. Dark colored. A single shot to the chest, then they disappeared into the crowd like they’d never been there.”
Dante was typing furiously. “I can pull street cam footage from that area, cross-reference with the timeline. I’m sure the cops already have most of the work done for us. I’ll tap their systems. But if the shooters cased the location beforehand, we might get clearer shots of their faces.”
“It happened right outside the main entrance.”
Beside her, Steele’s jaw flexed as if he was chewing over what she told them. On the surface, his expression gave nothing away. But when she glanced down at his arm, the tendons were popping from the fist he made. Every vein stood out in stark relief against his skin.
“I can help.” The words were out before she could second-guess them. “I’m good at research. Really good. I know how to dig into financial records, trace patterns and follow paper trails that most people would miss.”
She looked directly at Hudson as she spoke, needing him to understand that she wasn’t asking for charity or protection. She was offering to be an asset.
“You need someone who can think like a journalist, who knows how to find the stories that people try to bury.”
Hudson’s lips curved in the slightest hint of a smile. Approval and something warmer that made her pulse quicken glimmered in his eyes.
“Let her stay,” he said simply.
The room fell quiet again as all eyes turned to Con, waiting for his decision. Izzy held her breath, her gaze moving betweenthe commanding officer and Hudson, trying to read the silent communication passing between them.
Finally, Con’s shoulders relaxed slightly, and he gave a reluctant nod.
“Against my better judgment, you can stay. But you follow orders without question, and if the situation becomes too dangerous, you go where we tell you to go. No arguments.”
Relief flooded through Izzy so completely that her knees may have buckled if she hadn’t already been sitting. “Thank you.”
She was staying. She was part of this now, for better or worse.
And somehow, with Hudson looking at her like that, it felt like it was going to be much, much better.
SIX
The backyard patio glowed with warm, golden light from string lights that May and Kennedy had strung in crisscrossing patterns. The bulbs created soft pools across the pavers, and the flickering flames from the propane heaters stationed around the seating area added to the glow.
Steele stood near the outdoor bar, nursing a glass of sweet tea and watching his teammates make dinner.
The outdoor kitchen hummed with activity, and one of the guys had the idea to fire up the brick pizza oven. It was their thing, making homemade pizzas after a successful op.
They hadn’t completed an op, but Steele felt the morale in the group lifting just from the buzz of having a common goal along with the scent of pizza sauce in the air.
Tonight felt different. After everything that happened with Izzy, with Drysdale’s murder, with the growing threat of Cipher closing in, they all needed this. A moment to breathe. To remember what they were fighting to protect.
Across the patio, Mason was arguing with Chickie about sauce distribution while Sinner worked the pizza oven with the kind of intense concentration usually reserved for defusing bombs.
Steele’s attention kept drifting to Izzy.
She sat at one of the wrought-iron tables with Alyssa and Sophie, the light catching the auburn highlights in her hair. The women were chatting quietly, their voices mixing with the hum of the heaters.
But Izzy wasn’t interacting with them. She just sat there, her hands wrapped around a mug of something hot, staring off into the darkness with that hollow look he was beginning to recognize and those cute freckles standing out starkly in the pale moon of her face.
Worry gnawed at his chest as he watched her. She’d been through hell tonight—witnessed a murder, fled through the city in fear, forced her way into their base seeking sanctuary. Most people would be a wreck.
