Chapter 15
Voodoo had been on edge since the curtain fell on Savannah’s final bow.
Something in the air felt wrong. Thick. Pressurized.
He leaned in closer to one of the so-called “elite” security guards stationed near the ballroom entrance.
In terms of their demeanor, they seemed to be on the same level as a security guard you would find at a shopping mall, lacking any discernible elite qualities.
Frustration boiled up inside him. This was how the Senator protects his people?
“Radio checks every fifteen minutes?” Voodoo asked, voice calm but edged.
The man blinked at him, confused. “We . . . weren’t briefed on that.”
Figured. When this was over, he planned to have a few choice words with the Senator.
Voodoo clenched his jaw and glanced across the ballroom.
Savannah stood near the far wall, flanked by foreign dignitaries and staffers, her back straight but her eyes scanning.
She looked beautiful, regal even, but he could see the strain in the curve of her shoulders.
Her anxiety had grown since Paris. And now here she was in another gilded prison, surrounded by politicians, all under the illusion of peace.
His gut twisted.
A loud boom erupted through the vast space.
The ballroom doors slammed open like a thunderclap, crashing against the marble walls.
In stormed a few dozen figures clad in black, rifles raised, and eyes hidden behind masks.
Screams erupted as guests dropped to the floor.
Security froze like mannequins in a mall storefront.
Voodoo’s world narrowed to Savannah.
She turned sharply at the sound, but too many people were between them. Too many bodies, panicked and pushing toward exits that no longer existed. He surged forward—
“Savannah!”
But she was gone in the crush. Swept into the sea of stunned, crawling humanity.
He didn’t hesitate. He pivoted on his heel and slipped through the hidden door to the service hallway he’d scoped out earlier. The moment he cleared the ballroom’s perimeter, he spoke to his team back at the Condor’s Overwatch headquarters through his comm.
“Tell me you’re watching,” Voodoo hissed.
“I’m here,” Haley replied, breath clipped. “We lost visual for ten seconds, but I got it working again. We can see what’s going on.”
“Talk to me.” Flint’s voice, strong and confident, sounded in his ear, bringing Voodoo a bit of calm.
“Terrorists. Two dozen, maybe more. Semi-automatics. Savannah’s in there. So is half the diplomatic corps.”
“Jesus,” Hoot’s voice cut in.
“One just unmasked himself. Seems he’s leading the charge,” Haley informed. “Running facial rec.”
“Shit. I need eyes on that room.”
“Down the hall, to your left,” Haley instructed. “The security room. The tablet on the desk will have what you need.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Halestorm.”
Voodoo made his way to the room and ignored the bored-looking guard sitting behind the bank of computer screens as he grabbed the tablet. The guy didn’t even seem concerned that his hotel had just been taken over by terrorists. Another failure to add to the list.
In his hands, the tablet lit up, and a vivid, high-definition live video feed immediately filled its screen.
You. The man said while pointing to one of the senior U.S. diplomats. You helped fund the regime that butchered our fathers. And you. Voodoo watched as his eyes snapped to Savannah. Daughter of the man who smiled and shook hands with the tyrant who signed our brothers’ execution orders.
“We need to figure out what this is all about,” Flint stated.
“Working on it,” Haley replied.
The man continued to speak about music and murder, mentioning the Senator several times. When he spoke of the country paying for its sins in blood, several distressed cries rang out in the room.
Voodoo’s heart then lodged itself in his throat as he watched the terrorist crouch directly in front of Savannah. “Fuck.”
Daughter of the man who sold our country’s soul for oil and silence. You come here in the name of peace?
Shit. He needed to get back in there. But he was only one person against dozens. There was no way he was coming out of there alive if he attempted a rescue.
“Anything on this guy yet?”
“Working . . . wait,” Haley said. “Him again.”
“Jester?” Flint asked.
“Hm-mm.”
“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.”