Page 14 of Stealthy Seduction
“Ms. Northwood? I hope you haven’t been waiting on me. Emergency surgery ran longer than expected.”
“Not a problem at all, Doctor.” Izzy extended her hand. His grip was firm and confident—the hands of a man who saved lives for a living. “I appreciate you making time for this interview.”
His eyes crinkled pleasantly at the corners when he smiled. “Please, call me Sam. And honestly, I’m flattered anyone wants to hear about our little operation.”
They entered the café. Hospitals always tried for a quaint coffeehouse vibe for the patrons, but to Izzy, the walls felt too close and the lighting too harsh. Still, it beat the third-world countries she’d reported from in the past.
Dr. Samuel Webb paid for her latte and a black coffee for himself. Then he gestured toward a quiet corner with two chairs pushed haphazardly around a small table. “Will this work?”
“Perfect.” Izzy settled into her chair with her drink in front of her. She pulled out her video recorder and placed it between them. “I hope you don’t mind if I film this?”
“Not at all.” Sam leaned back, relaxed despite the exhaustion etched around his eyes. “So, you’re interested in my charity work?”
Izzy had prepared her standard questions—funding, patient demographics, success stories. But as Sam began talking about his work, something in his voice caught her attention. There was a passion there, a fire that went deeper than professional pride.
“You speak about this work like it’s personal,” she observed, pen poised over her notepad. “What drew you to this particular field?”
Sam was quiet for a moment, his gaze growing distant. “I suppose it is personal. I’ve seen what happens when people don’t have access to basic medical care. When politics and geography determine whether someone lives or dies.”
The way he said it, with such quiet conviction, made Izzy lean forward. This wasn’t a rehearsed sound bite. This was real.
“Can you tell me more about that?”
“I spent three years working with Doctors Without Borders.” His voice took on a reverent tone. “Mostly in conflict zones. Syria, Yemen, Afghanistan. Places where the need is…” He shook his head. “Overwhelming doesn’t begin to cover it.”
The location hit Izzy like a physical blow.
Syria.
Her chest tightened, and suddenly the café felt far too small, too warm. She forced her expression to remain neutral—in theprofessional mask she knew very well how to slap on even as her palms began to sweat.
“Syria,” she repeated, proud that her voice remained steady. “That must have been challenging.”
“Challenging is an understatement.” Sam’s eyes grew haunted. “The things I saw there…... the people we couldn’t save…”
Izzy’s vision began to blur at the edges. The familiar sensation of walls closing in, of oxygen becoming scarce.
Men in masks aiming automatic weapons at the people around her.
Aiming ather.
She touched the crystal at her throat, running her thumb over its smooth surface as her therapist had taught her.Ground yourself. Count five things you can see. Four things you can hear. Three things you can touch.
The camera on the table. Sam’s concerned expression. The potted plant by the window.
The hum of the air conditioning. The distant sound of a phone ringing. Someone’s soft footsteps across the café.
The cool surface of the crystal. The texture of her notepad. The armrest beneath her palm.
“Ms. Northwood? Are you all right?”
She blinked, refocusing on the doctor’s worried face. “I’m fine. Sorry, just…taking notes mentally. Please, continue.”
But even as she tried to listen, her mind was pulling her backward, to that cramped room where she spent three terrifying days surrounded by the stench of fear and unwashed bodies. The sound of gunfire echoing through the compound where she and several other Americans had been held hostage.
The way her captor’s voice had sounded when he talked about the American journalists they’d caught and what they planned to do to her.
“I was one of the first on the scene at a Red Cross station after it was bombed,” Sam was saying, his words filtering through the fog of Izzy’s memories.
