Page 17 of Stealthy Seduction (SEAL Team Blackout Charlie #5)
T he late afternoon sun reflected off the massive digital billboards towering above Times Square, beaming into Steele’s eyes. He blinked, adjusting the audio equipment slung across his shoulder, trying to look like he belonged among the news crew setting up their shots.
The healthcare rally claimed the plaza, and a couple hundred protesters with handmade signs crowded together, competing for space with bewildered tourists clutching shopping bags and taking selfies.
It was exactly the kind of public spectacle that would draw media attention.
Steele didn’t like this. At all. And although Izzy was left in the dark about who could really be after her, he was all too aware that Cipher enjoyed media attention.
She was never out of Steele’s sight. Never more than two steps away. And he was still uncomfortable with this arrangement.
The iconic billboards flashed advertisements for Broadway shows and fast-food chains above their heads, while the constant flow of yellow cabs and the distant sound of police sirens created a symphony of urban noise that would make surveillance both easier and infinitely more complicated.
“Who the hell is this guy?”
Steele looked up to find Rick, Channel 7’s news producer and Izzy’s boss, staring at him with the kind of suspicious scrutiny that came from twenty years in television journalism. The man was built like a fire hydrant—short, stocky, and apparently immovable when he wanted answers.
Steele continued to check connections on his wireless mic system. “Sound technician,” he told the guy. “Covering for Esposito while he’s out sick.”
“I’ve never seen you before.” Rick’s eyes narrowed. “How’d you get the job?”
Steele straightened, meeting the producer’s gaze with the kind of steady confidence that had gotten him through countless cover identities over the years.
He gave the guy a flat look to match his tone meant to throw the guy off-balance. Steele needed him to wonder whether he was telling the truth or making a joke. “I have national security clearance.”
The producer laughed, but it had an edge of uncertainty. “National security? For a sound guy?”
“You’d be surprised what kind of background checks they require these days.” Steele turned his attention back to the equipment while keeping Izzy in his peripheral. “Especially for jobs that put you in close proximity to public figures and sensitive information.”
Rick studied him for another moment, clearly trying to decide whether to push the issue while looking like he just might buy it.
Finally, he grunted and walked away, apparently deciding that some questions were better left unasked.
“Smooth.” Izzy appeared at Steele’s elbow with that slight smile that never failed to make his pulse pound. “Very mysterious sound guy.”
He scanned the crowd shifting and moving around her. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Maybe a little too well. If I know Rick, he’s going to spend the rest of the day wondering if you’re CIA or FBI.”
Steele caught her arm gently, drawing her a few steps away from the bustle of the news crew. “Speaking of which, why did you volunteer me for sound duty?”
Her smile turned decidedly mischievous. “Would you have preferred camera operator? That would put you about fifteen feet away from me instead of right by my side.”
“Good choice.”
She studied his face, those amber eyes seeming to see straight through him. “I also figured that you would prefer to be the one handling my audio equipment instead of some random tech guy putting his hands all over me while he sets up my mic.”
The casual way she said it made Steele’s jaw tighten, because she was absolutely right. The thought of another man’s hands on her, even in a completely professional context, made something possessive and primitive rise in his chest.
Izzy stepped closer, close enough that he could smell the subtle scent of her perfume mixing with the crisp late autumn air. “You’d better get me wired up. The transmitter goes on my belt, and the mic wire runs up under my jacket.”
His eyes hooded as he raked his gaze over her smokin’-hot body. “I know how it works.”
“Do you? Because you’ll need to thread the wire up through my shirt and attach the actual microphone to my bra. Right here.” She indicated a spot just below her collarbone, her fingertip tracing along the edge of her blouse.
Steele’s hands stilled on the equipment. “Did I tell you what a good idea it was that you made me the sound guy?” His voice dropped to a murmur as he stepped even closer, using his body to shield them from the crew’s view.
Her breath came in faster puffs. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to handle watching some other guy run his hands over me…even for something as innocent as audio setup.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He clipped the transmitter to her belt with efficient movements, then slid his hand under her jacket to find the bottom of her blouse. His knuckles rubbed against her warm skin as he fed the wire up along her ribs.
When his fingers found the edge of her bra, he let them linger for just a moment longer than necessary, his thumb stroking across the swell of her breast as he positioned the tiny microphone.
Izzy’s eyes fluttered closed, her head falling back slightly as a soft sound escaped her throat.
“You had issues with me just speaking to Sinner.” Her voice was breathy.
“You think I’m threatened by the pizza guy?”
“Yes, I do.”
He snorted. “Please. He’s not that important.”
Steele’s hand was still under her blouse, still touching her in ways that were making it hard for either of them to think straight.
She gave him a pointed stare, the look in her eyes smug because, yeah, she read him so perfectly it was almost unsettling.
The moment was broken by the pop of his earpiece coming to life.
“Charlie Five, this is Base. How’s our perimeter looking?”
Steele touched the nearly invisible communication device in his ear, his other hand reluctantly leaving Izzy’s warmth as he stepped back to a professional distance.
“Copy, Base. All as clear as it can be here.” He scanned the crowd again. He was trained to pick out anything strange or outside of the norm, but he didn’t like the size of the crowd.
Through his earpiece, he could hear Mason’s voice reporting from his position across the square. “Charlie Six, southeast corner. No unusual activity. Crowd’s staying peaceful.”
The area did look like organized chaos, Steele had to admit.
The rally had claimed its corner of the famous intersection, where a woman with graying hair stood on a portable platform near the steps, her voice amplified by a crackling PA system as she spoke passionately about healthcare access, though her words were nearly drowned out by the rumble of traffic and the electronic jingles from the towering digital displays.
Around her, protesters held signs reading Healthcare is a Human Right and Fund Community Clinics, but they were vastly outnumbered by clusters of unconcerned tourists speaking a dozen different languages, street performers in costume and vendors selling everything from hot dogs to knockoff purses.
NYPD officers in riot gear were posted at strategic points throughout the square, their presence both reassuring and ominous.
The Naked Cowboy strummed his guitar in his underwear twenty feet from a group of activists chanting about medical funding as a family took photos in front of the giant M&M’s store, completely oblivious to the demonstration happening around them.
Still, a chill iced down Steele’s spine, because despite all their preparation, despite the drones overhead and Charlie team positioned throughout the crowd, there were still too many variables.
Too many people, too many blind spots, too many ways for someone determined to slip through their net to get to her.
“Base, this is Charlie Five,” he said quietly into his mic. “Any movement on our suspect profiles?”
“Negative. Facial recognition is running, but with this crowd density, we’re getting a lot of false positives. Also, the woman giving the speech has been arrested nine times.”
He glanced over at the gray-haired lady wearing a thick quilted coat. She looked like she belonged at home with her cat instead of courting another arrest.
If he wasn’t so nerved up, he might have chuckled. “You never know who you’re really looking at.”
Steele felt his unease growing. It was the same feeling he got before missions went sideways—a prickling at the back of his neck, an instinctual awareness that something was wrong even when everything looked right.
He’d learned over the years to trust that feeling. It had kept him alive through more close calls than he could count.
Something was coming. He felt it in his bones, in the hyperaware state that his mind used to prepare him for whatever would happen.
He only hoped to hell he was ready when it hit.
* * * * *
Izzy took her position in the heart of the crowd, feeling the press of bodies from all sides as tourists and protesters created a human sea around her.
The energy was overwhelming—voices in many languages mixing with chanted slogans, the electronic jingles from billboards competing with street performers and car horns.
But despite the disorder pressing in on her from every direction, she drew strength from Hudson’s presence just a few feet away, his steady gaze a reassuring anchor in the madness.
She could do this. She’d reported from war zones, from disaster areas, from places where chaos was measured in body counts rather than decibel levels. Times Square on a busy afternoon was nothing compared to what she’d survived.
Taking a deep breath, she smoothed her jacket and signaled to the cameraman that she was ready. The red light blinked on, and she felt the familiar shift into professional mode—the place where her fear took a back seat to the story.