Page 71 of Freeing Savannah

“Where were you going just now,” Voodoo asked, and Simpson remained quiet. Voodoo’s fist in his shirt tightened, and he shook the man. Gritting his teeth to keep his anger in check when all he wanted to do was punch the guy’s daylights out, he asked again. “Where were you going?”

“I’d tell him, if I were you,” Eggs taunted. “This all threatens his girl. The man’s already at the end of his rope.”

“Yeah,” Hoot joined in. “Pretty sure he’s at his breaking point.”

“Where. Were. You. Going?” Voodoo repeated, emphasizing each word to show just how close he was to snapping. He drew his hand back, intending to punctuate his words with his fist.

“Dressing room,” Simpson shouted before he sagged. His resistance wilted in an instant. “They told me it was a just-in-case plan,” he blurted. “Fail-safe if Tomas disappeared. I wasn’t supposed to even do anything unless I got the signal.”

“What signal?”

“A word. Just one word: ‘Starfall.’ I got it last night in a scrambled message.”

“Who’s your point of contact? Who sent the signal?”

“I don’t know. Never met him in person.”

“You sure he’s a male?” Eggs asked.

“Yes. I mean, he sounds like a male. Spoke perfect English, but with an accent that kinda sounded Asian. Said I needed to execute the plan before the Beijing reception.”

“And what exactlywasthe plan?” Voodoo asked.

Simpson swallowed hard. “Plant the device in her dressing room. Make sure it pinged Savannah’s name on proximity trace logs. A data dump would follow. Planted photos, fake texts, geotags. All linking her to foreign contacts. The whole thing would blow up into an intel scandal by the time she left China.”

Haley cursed in his ear. “That would’ve buried her. It’d look like she was laundering secrets through her tour.”

“And the Senator?” Voodoo pressed. “What’s his part?”

Simpson hesitated. “He’s . . . not hands-on. That’s the thing. He’s smart. Doesn’t leave fingerprints. Or a trace of anything that could lead back to him. But he knew. He funded the dummy front. ‘Eurasia Foundation for Cultural Unity.’ It’s all a shell game. He moves money through it to pay guys like me while diverting attention with his diplomatic actions. Tomas disappeared, and he figured it was because of you. Now Savannah looked like a liability. You as well. This was the fix.”

Hoot stepped back, disgusted. “He was going to destroy his own stepdaughter. Just to protect his name.”

Voodoo stared at Simpson, jaw clenched.

This wasn’t a setup. It was asurgical character assassination—a father using state tools and deniable assets to cut away an inconvenient piece of his legacy. And Savannah, still playing her soul out to a room full of strangers, had no idea how close she’d come to ruin.

Voodoo straightened. “Secure him. Let’s get the device to Haley. I want it logged, cracked, and documented.”

Then, quietly, he added, “And call Flint. Tell him the Senator just declared war.”

CHAPTER 30

The reception wasopulent in the way all diplomatic gatherings were—too much gold, too many chandeliers, and far too many people pretending to care.

Savannah smiled for the third time in as many minutes, nodded politely as an Asian businessman praised her “emotive phrasing,” and let the compliments wash over her like cold rain. She was exhausted, not from the performance, but fromthis. The talking. The pretending. The game. Then there was her asshole stepfather.

It was bad enough she had to stay “on” all the time, schmoozing all these people, but now she had to worry about the Senator ruining her. Or worse. The migraine had been building since the end of her performance and she rubbed her forehead. If only she could escape with Sawyer and he could rub the peppermint oil into her temples again.

She clutched her champagne flute filled with water tighter, her eyes drifting across the crowd. Sawyer stood near the entrance to her right, tall and sharp-eyed in his tux, posture relaxed but his gaze constantly shifting. Nearby, Hoot moved with casual grace past a dessert table, pretending to examinethe pastries. Eggs leaned against a pillar, chatting up a bored-looking translator. All of them were watching. Waiting.

And all of them looking far too hot in their tuxedos. It was probably the worst time to notice such a thing, but here she was. They exuded a casual sexiness that was undeniable, but she knew they were ready and waiting.

Waiting for the Senator.

She hated that her body still hummed with the leftover rage and betrayal from what Sawyer had told her in the car. That Simpson had been sent here to ruin her. And her stepfather had orchestrated it. Or at least enabled it. Cold, calculated, and efficient.

The walls began to close in.

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