Page 70 of Freeing Savannah

Savannah looked at him—her protector, her friend, the man who kissed her like she was more than a mission.

“I’m not afraid,” she said softly.

He drew her into his arms, unafraid to show his affection in front of a teammate. “I am. I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Sawyer replied. “But I’ll make damn sure they’re more afraid of me.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the auditorium around them and danger creeping closer, she believed him.

Down to her bones.

CHAPTER 29

The music pouredfrom the stage in a haunting, hypnotic wave. Savannah’s piano piece weaving a spell across the audience. Voodoo wasn’t watching the show but hearing her play, he was just as captivated. Always had been whenever she played.

He stood in the shadows of the mezzanine, eyes sweeping the darkened wings and tech corridors that snaked behind the opulence of the National Centre for the Performing Arts. Hoot was in the left wing, eyes tracking movement backstage, while Eggs monitored the right.

“Voodoo,” Haley’s voice cracked in low and tight through their shared comms. “You’re not going to like this. Jester struck again.”

“What this time?” Voodoo asked his voice muted so as not to distract the audience.

“The Senator’s off-grid. Took a Learjet out of a private airstrip in the middle of the night. No public manifest. Destination: Beijing.”

Voodoo’s jaw flexed.Of course he’s here.

“Tell me he’s not coming to the reception,” he muttered, gaze flicking to the velvet-draped balcony where Chinese officials sat in rapt attention.

“SIBYL predicted a 92% probability.”

“Could just be a diplomatic visit. Showing support for Savannah again,” Hoot voiced.

Or could be cover for something worse,Voodoo thought grimly.

A flash of movement near the lighting rig snapped him to attention.There.

“Eyes on Simpson,” Voodoo murmured. “Grid left, catwalk access.”

“I see him,” Hoot replied. “Moving erratically. Left hand’s in his pocket.”

“Let’s roll,” Voodoo said.

They moved fast, silent, cutting through the side corridors as Savannah’s concerto climbed toward its crescendo. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Her music like champagne and fire, filling the air with passion and purity, while they stalked through shadows toward something corrupted.

They intercepted Simpson near the storage wing, where foot traffic thinned and security lights dimmed. The crewman spun, startled, but didn’t run. Just froze with guilt written across his face.

“Matt Simpson,” Voodoo said, stepping into his path. “Let’s have a chat.”

The man hesitated, then bolted.

Eggs tackled him mid-stride, slamming him into a crate with practiced efficiency. A soft grunt escaped the man as Voodoo and Hoot descended.

Voodoo fisted Simpson’s collar in a tight grip, holding the man against the stack of crates. Eggs and Hoot flanked him, one on each side.

“Pocket,” Voodoo barked. Hoot reached in and pulled out the device.

“Got it,” Hoot said, holding up the sleek, black device that was still blinking blue. He turned it over in his hand, then pulled off some of the gaffer’s tape, studying it. “I recognize this. Pretty sure it’s an encrypted signal emulator.”

Haley’s voice crackled in. “Scanning now . . . yep. This device was programmed to mimic a burst transmission to a flagged foreign military frequency. If it had gone off in Savannah’s dressing room or on her person . . . Jesus.”

“Espionage,” Hoot muttered.

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