Page 46 of Stealthy Seduction
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.
“This is Callie Northwood reporting live from Times Square, where healthcare advocates have gathered to demand increased funding for community medical programs.” Her voice carried the practiced authority that came from years of reporting breaking news, even as she had to speak louder than usual to compete with the noise.
She turned toward a middle-aged woman holding a handmade sign about prescription drug costs, giving the cameraman time to adjust his angle. “Excuse me, ma’am, can I ask you a quick question?”
The woman’s face lit up with the eager expression of someone who’d been hoping to be interviewed. “Of course!”
Izzy positioned herself so the woman was fully in frame, Times Square providing a dynamic background. “Why are you here today joining the protest?”
“Well, my husband is diabetic, and the cost of his insulin has tripled in the past five years,” the woman began, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “We shouldn’t have to choose between his medication and our mortgage—”
The woman’s words were suddenly drowned out by a sound unlike anything Izzy had ever heard. Every electronic billboard, every digital display, every screen visible in the famous intersection began emitting the same piercing tone—a frequency that seemed designed to burrow into human skulls and stay there.
Izzy looked up, her blood turning to ice water in her veins.
Every screen showed the same image: a masked figure from what looked like a futuristic nightmare.
The mask pulsed in LED-embedded hypnotic patterns, creating an otherworldly effect that was both mesmerizing and terrifying. When the figure moved, the lights shifted and danced, obscuring the wearer’s features and making the mask lookalive—like something from a cyberpunk horror film brought to terrifying reality.
“Izzy.”
Her name echoed fromeveryscreen,everyspeaker,everyelectronic device in Times Square. The voice was electronically distorted, but there was something almost conversational about the tone, like the masked figures were greeting an old friend.
She stood frozen as hundreds of people around her began looking up at the screens, their confusion evident as they tried to process what they were seeing.
“A life for a life,” the voice continued, still at normal volume, almost nonchalant in its delivery.
The woman she’d been interviewing grabbed her arm. “What’s going on? Do you know what this is about?”
Izzy couldn’t answer. Couldn’t move. Could barely breathe as the screens displayed that ghastly LED mask, the lights pulsing in patterns that seemed to burn themselves into her retinas.
“Izzy! A LIFE FOR A LIFE,” the voice repeated, louder now, the electronic distortion making it sound like it was coming from inside her own head.
“A LIFE FOR A LIFE!” Even louder, the sound system straining to accommodate the volume as tourists began covering their ears and backing away from the screens.
“A LIFE FOR A LIFE!” The words screeched through the square with the force of a sonic weapon, causing people to stumble, children to cry, vendors to abandon their carts as panic rippled through the crowd.
Through her earpiece, she could hear Hudson’s voice cutting through the anarchy. “Shut it down! Shut it down, goddammit!”
He grabbed the camera from the bewildered operator and shoved both the equipment and the man toward their news van. “Move! Now!”
“What was that about?” the cameraman demanded, stumbling as Hudson pushed him along. “Who the hell is Izzy?”
Oh god. She’d forgotten—nobody knew her as Izzy. To the world, she was Callie Northwood.
To everyone except the man in the terrifying mask.
But Hudson wasn’t answering her frightened cameraman. His arm was around Izzy’s waist, half carrying, half dragging her through the panicking crowd as the masked figure’s voice continued to boom from every screen: “A LIFE FOR A LIFE! A LIFE FOR A LIFE!”
She was vaguely aware of being hustled toward a van, of Hudson barking orders to his team, of the crowd running away from Times Square.
But it all felt distant, muffled, like she was watching it through thick glass.
