Page 43 of Freeing Savannah

“What’s he got?”

Voodoo could hear Haley’s keyboard clacking across his comms. “Shit. How in the world did he uncover this so quickly?”

“What is it?” Voodoo asked.

“Twelve years ago, Savannah’s stepdad pushed through a joint counterterrorism and energy pact with Azerbaijan. But the aftermath was brutal. The Azerbaijani regime used the intelligence and legitimacy gained from the deal to crack down on opposition groups, labeling them ‘terrorists.’ Dissidents, journalists, and NGO workers were muzzled, arrested, or tortured. Foreign-funded advocacy groups were blacklisted or shut down. Entire families disappeared, allegedly taken by security forces.”

“Of course,” Hoot said, his voice a low, smooth drawl that held an edge of sarcasm. “All under the guise of strategic diplomatic alliances.”

“Or more likely . . . oil,” Duncan “Spark” Breckenridge, another Condor teammate and their medic, stated.

“The Senator ignored repeated warnings from human rights groups, brushing them off as ‘regrettable complications of progress,’” continued Haley.

Flint grunted. “Perfect breeding ground for vengeance.”

The sudden, sharp crack of a gunshot made Voodoo jump, his body tensing with a fear he was accustomed to feeling. He focused again on the screen. The man was still crouched in front of Savannah, but now held a gun. Savannah appeared unharmed, but he could read the fear in her expression clear as day.

“Shit,” Hoot cursed. “He just killed a hostage.”

Voodoo was already moving through the hotel’s underbelly. “They see Savannah as the symbol. The smiling pianist draped in Western ideals. They think she’s part of the machine that destroyed them.”

“You need backup,” Flint said flatly.

“No shit.”

More clacking of the keyboard sounded over the comm. “Lucky break,” Flint continued. “SEAL team based in Hawaii just finished a joint training op at a NATO base outside the city. Mustang’s team.”

Mustang. One of the best. And his team was solid.

“They’re rolling now,” Flint confirmed. “ETA fifteen.”

Voodoo reached the maintenance exit and slammed the emergency release. Fresh air hit his face as he waited. Finally, down the street, he spotted a black transport vehicle barreling around the corner.

Moments later, the doors opened. Mustang, tall, square-jawed, and all business, jumped out with his team behind him. Midas. Aleck. Pid. Jag. Slate. Every one of them wore a full tactical loadout. They waved him over to the back of the SUV where gear was waiting for him.

Voodoo didn’t bother with greetings as he geared up. “They’ve got my charge, Savannah Gaines, Senator McNabney’s stepdaughter. Ballroom. Two dozen-plus tangos. Civilian hostages. I need a breach plan with minimal collateral and max speed.”

Mustang nodded. “You got eyes inside?”

“Absolutely,” he replied holding up the tablet.

Midas was already bringing up a digital map of the hotel on his own tablet. “Service hallways, dumbwaiter shaft, stair access from the kitchen. We can approach from multiple angles.”

“I assume they’ve somehow locked or barricaded the doors. We’ll have to use breaching charges,” Mustang ordered. “Midas, Aleck, Pid, neutralize the threats. Jag and Slate, secure the hostages. Voodoo—you’re with me. We get your girl.”

Voodoo nodded, throat tight. His voice was low and deadly steady when he said, “She’s not just my girl. She’s the reason I breathe.”

CHAPTER 16

Savannah’s buttached from sitting on the cold marble floor, but she didn’t dare move. The barrel of an assault rifle rested on the shoulder of a terrified diplomat beside her. Any twitch, any glance, might be interpreted as defiance.

The leader, pacing the center of the room, had a voice like gravel. Cold and calculating. “Thirty minutes,” he repeated into a satellite phone. “Deliver the Senator. Or we begin shooting. Maybe we’ll start with the girl,” he taunted.

Savannah couldn’t control the queasiness that suddenly struck. Somehow, she always knew the Senator would be the death of her. She just didn’t think it would end like this.

She felt the heat of eyes shift toward her. The “girl” wasn’t some random hostage. She wasthetarget. Her fingers trembled in her lap. She curled them tightly into the folds of her gown.

Beside her, Daphne was shaking uncontrollably, eyes wide, breaths short and shallow. Kandy sat on her other side, deathly quiet. Her usual self-assured composure drained away, lips pressed together like she might vomit. Henry was bleeding from a gash near his temple but remained upright, his hand on Kandy’s shoulder in a quiet show of solidarity.

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