Page 69 of Freeing Savannah

Savannah stood and watched him go, the knot in her chest tightening. The eerie warning Brian had given her clung to her, a persistent, unsettling feeling that shadowed her every step as she proceeded down the backstage corridor to the dressing rooms. The corridor was dimmer here, with crew members hustling between tasks, radio chatter echoing faintly in languages she couldn’t begin to interpret.

As she rounded a corner, a figure in the typical black stagehand vestments ducked abruptly into a storage alcove. Odd. Most crew didn’t skulk, and fewer still flinched like they’d been caught doing something they shouldn’t. Savannah slowed her steps, eyes narrowing. The man had something clutched in one hand. A square device, half-wrapped in gaffer’s tape. Not the standard comms unit she’d seen the crew use so many times on the tour. Her pulse stuttered.

He turned, and for a second their eyes met. She didn’t recognize him. No nametag. His expression flickered before he disappeared deeper into the storage area.

Deciding she’d better report what she’d just observed, she turned and walked back toward the stage. Out in the house, she spotted Sawyer down in the orchestra seating, backlit by stage light. He was clasping hands with two men she hadn’t seen before. One tall and lean with strawberry hair, the other thick-set whose hair was buzzed short, glasses perched on his nose. Both wore the muted casual manners of military types, trying not to look like military types. His team. Reinforcements.

Sawyer glanced up, sensing her gaze. Their eyes locked across the stage.

Savannah’s heart thudded once, hard.

Something was wrong. They hadn’t had a minute to talk since she’d gotten up so late this morning. She’d been running behind ever since. The Chinese media had insisted on interviewing her, and with the pauses for the translators, the meeting had gone on forever. It had made her late for her own rehearsal, which she always tried to avoid since so many people were waiting on her.

Now, she wished she’d taken a few more minutes to talk with Sawyer.

Savannah stepped down from the stage, the vastness of the hall swallowing her footfalls until they softened against the rich red carpet of the center aisle.

Sawyer stood near the back of the house, arms folded, a black T-shirt stretching over his chest, looking utterly out of place in the grandeur of the venue. And yet, somehow, like he belonged everywhere.

She felt her breath slow just seeing him.

“There she is,” he said, voice low but proud. “You sounded great.”

She offered a wry smile. He always made a point of encouraging her, showering her with heartfelt compliments that boosted her confidence. “Thank you.”

He nodded to the two men flanking him. “Savannah, meet Hoot and Eggs.” She startled for a moment, not expecting the strange names.

The taller of the two, lean and wiry with sharp eyes and a crooked grin, gave her a short nod. “Don’t worry. We get that reaction all the time to our nicknames.”

She should have recognized they were nicknames. Sawyer went by Voodoo, after all. She must be more tired than she realized, having not caught that sooner.

The other, broader, with a calm, grounded presence and a face that looked like it had seen too much and still kept going, smiled. “Ma’am,” he said simply.

She shook their hands with Eggs holding on a little longer than necessary as he said, “I’ve become a big of your work on the way over.”

“Oh . . . um . . . thanks.”

“Even bigger fan of keeping you alive.”

Savannah blinked, and in her peripheral saw Sawyer roll his eyes. “Well . . . that’s good to hear.”

Sawyer gestured for them to give her a little space, and Eggs finally released her hand. “They’re gonna act as an internal sweep team,” he explained quietly. “We think some more of the crew, staff, or maybe even security could be working for your stepfather. Hoot and Eggs are here to help flush them out, track patterns, listen in, disrupt if necessary.”

Savannah’s stomach twisted. “Then I should probably tell you what I saw backstage.”

Sawyer tensed immediately. “Go on.”

She glanced toward the stage, making sure no one lingered. “There was one of the lighting crew. I’ve seen him a few times. Today, he was in the far wings, alone. And he had this device. I thought it was a walkie at first, but it wasn’t. It was smaller. Sleeker. No accompanying headset like the crew usually wore, just this odd blue glow. He seemed a little squirrelly.”

Eggs snickered. “Squirrelly.” Hoot smacked him on the back of the head.

Sawyer’s jaw tightened. “You know his name?”

She shook her head. “No, but I could point him out.”

He pulled out his tablet and brought up the crew records, complete with pictures. They swiped through a few pages before she spotted him. Matt Simpson. From Virginia. Sawyer turnedand signaled subtly to Hoot, who gave a slight nod and stepped out to make a call.

“We’ll run it,” Sawyer said, already shifting into operative mode. “And you stay close tonight. Don’t go anywhere alone. I want you in arm’s reach, just in case.”

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