Page 76 of Freeing Savannah

But panic crept like a slow drip of poison into her veins. Every hair on her body stood on end, a prickly sensation that ran from the nape of her neck to the tips of her toes.

And Savannah knew that this finale might be more than just a performance.

It might be a warning. Or a trap. Or retribution.

But no matter what, she strongly suspected the finale would be explosive.

CHAPTER 33

From the shadows backstage,Voodoo stood just beyond the velvet curtain, one eye fixed on Savannah under the spotlight. To most, she looked like the picture of grace; elegant, composed, and divine. Her fingers flew across the Steinway’s keys with a power and fluidity that made the entire hall seem to hold its breath.

But he knew her.

And something was wrong.

Her jaw was too tight. Her shoulders, too rigid. The sweat glistening at her temple wasn’t just from the heat of the stage lights. And her smile, bright but brittle, cracked at the edges.

He pressed a finger to his comms. “Hoot, Eggs, you seeing this? Something’s off.”

“I see it,” Hoot said immediately, his voice sharp. “She’s stiff. Look at her left hand—she’s trembling.” There was a brief moment when the orchestra led, and she wasn't playing. He clearly saw that she was trembling.

From his position in the wings, Voodoo hadn’t moved in over five minutes. Not a twitch. Not a breath wasted. His eyes were locked on Savannah. He couldn’t chalk this up to nerves even though she was playing for the President of the United States.

Something was most definitely wrong, and he kicked himself that he hadn’t made Savannah wear an earpiece so he could communicate with her.

But this was supposed to be over. The Senator was in custody. All his dirty deeds laid bare before the world. She should have been safe. Was there a second party working with the Senator who decided to take revenge for Savannah’s role in the takedown?

“Talk to me,” he muttered into the comm.

“I’ve got nothing unusual in the crowd,” Hoot replied from somewhere on the mezzanine.

“Same here,” came Eggs’ voice, clipped and low. “Security’s tight with Secret Service here, no movements, no signals.”

Then Haley’s voice broke in with a sharp urgency that immediately tightened the coil in Voodoo’s gut. “Guys—Jester just popped in. Left me a breadcrumb trail and a message.”

“What message?” Voodoo asked, eyes still on Savannah. Her hands glided over the keys like silk, but she was still trembling. He could see every bit of the tension she was feeling in the lift of her shoulders. In the sweat at her hairline.

“‘Hack the iPad. She’s playing for her life.’”

Voodoo’s blood ran cold.

“You’re in her tablet?” he asked.

“I’m in now,” Haley confirmed. “Jesus . . . Guys—messages. Flashing text while she’s performing. Threats. Warnings. Timed to the music. ‘Explosive performance.’ ‘One wrong note and they die.’”

“Is this a hack?” Flint asked over comms.

“Yes. And targeted,” Haley said. “But sophisticated. They buried the signal in the digital sheet music files. Jester somehow unzipped it before I could even see it. Hell, I didn’t even think to look at her tablet.” Voodoo could hear the guilt in her voice, but couldn’t afford a moment to spare her feelings.

“Who the hell is behind this?” Eggs hissed.

But Voodoo was already doing the math. His gaze darted to the iPad, too far away for him to see anything, then back to her trembling fingers. Her left foot never lifted from the pedal. The sustain was too long. Too . . . deliberate.

A trap.

“It’s the piano,” Voodoo said, voice low, filled with dread. “It’s not just the iPad. It’s the damn piano.”

“You think it’s wired?” Hoot asked.

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