Chapter 17
Voodoo’s back pressed against the marble wall just outside the Segah Ballroom, the soft click of a comms check buzzing in his ear.
The breaching charge was set and ready on the door; now, he waited, anticipating Mustang’s signal to initiate the breach.
With his rifle raised and his finger delicately poised beside the trigger, he stood ready.
His earpiece buzzed with quiet confirmations from the others, positions secured, their own charges ready.
The ornate corridors of the embassy were deceptively silent, as if the building itself were holding its breath.
So was he.
He could feel the weight of the moment in every muscle, the calm before violence. But as the countdown began in his ear, his mind drifted to her.
The look in her eyes last night, soft and unsure, lips kiss-bitten from the way they’d clung to each other. That kiss had started sweet, but quickly became all-consuming. Years of silence and longing igniting in one crash of mouths, hands, need.
She had trembled against him, gasped his name as she found her pleasure. The sight of her coming was something that he would never forget. For the first time in forever, something inside him moved. Something he’d thought long buried.
He wanted more than just that night. He wanted a future with her.
Whatever it took, he made a solemn pledge to fight for that future.
They’d face whatever challenges that lay ahead together.
She would never have to face this life alone again.
And if they survived this ordeal, he was determined to begin building that future.
Voodoo wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers.
In all his wildest imaginings, he had never thought he would be about to execute a mission while wearing a tuxedo, but that was the reality he found himself in.
At least he’d taken off the jacket and tie, even if he had no memory of where he’d left them.
The corridor was dim, the ambient hotel lighting down to emergency levels, perfect for a strike.
He wiped his palms again. He’d never been this nervous about a mission before.
But this one was the most important mission of his life.
Because of Savi. If anything happened to her .
. . he didn’t even want to complete that thought.
Nothing would happen to her. He wouldn’t let it.
Mustang signaled to the rest of the SEAL team through their comms as they fanned out around the ballroom: Midas, Pid, Jag, Slate, and Aleck—all highly trained ghosts in motion.
The team had easily accepted Voodoo as another teammate, and they worked seamlessly together.
The SEAL methods were so ingrained in him that, without conscious thought, he fell back on his elite training as if it were an extension of himself.
Haley’s voice came through the comm, tight with tension.
“Voodoo, I’ve got an ID on the leader. Facial recognition hit from a five-year-old Interpol file.
Name’s Nariman Bakhtiar. Former teacher turned activist. Used to organize student protests against the regime.
His wife and two brothers were taken in the purge after the Senator’s deal with Azerbaijan. None of them were ever seen again.”
Flint’s voice cut in next. “Word is, Nariman went underground. Built a following of radicals who gave up on peaceful reform. They think Savannah’s tour is just political theater—a smokescreen.”
Voodoo ground his jaw, eyes darting to the closed ballroom doors. “You’re saying she’s not the target? She’s the message.”
“Exactly,” Haley replied. “They want to shame the Senator. Show the world what his diplomacy really cost.”
“How much time’s left on their deadline?” Pid asked.
“Five minutes,” Haley answered.
Mustang, who was stationed at the second set of doors in the same hall, nodded at Voodoo. “We hit hard and fast. Contain the tangos. Protect the hostages. You peel off and go for Nariman. We’ll handle the rest.”
Voodoo’s pulse thudded in his ears as the countdown began. “Breach in five . . . four . . .”
Voodoo’s grip tightened on the rifle. His pulse steadied as his focus locked in. Before the final second ticked off, he whispered under his breath, “Hold on for me, Savi. I’m coming.”
Three . . . two . . . one . . .
The loud pop of breaching charges sounded throughout the hotel. The doors blew inward with a concussive boom, and the SEALs stormed in like a tidal wave. The world exploded into noise and motion and he charged toward the woman who had already stolen his heart.
Screams rang out, and hostages ducked. The sound of gunfire was muffled, barely audible above the cries from the hostages. Flashbangs cracked, and the air thickened with smoke and adrenaline.
A tango moved into Voodoo’s line of sight, and he didn’t hesitate. He fired, and the guy dropped. He took out three more before spotting Savannah, huddled with Daphne, Kandy, and Henry. She was wide-eyed, but alive. Relief slammed into him. But there was no time to let his guard down.
Nariman wasn’t among the tangos. Fuck. Did he slip away?
Voodoo turned, instincts screaming. “East stairwell,” Haley said through his comm, and Voodoo gave another prayer of thankfulness for Haley.
“On it.” He called.
“Heading toward the spa level.” Voodoo sprinted. Following Haleys instructions as she followed their prey on the hotel’s surveillance cameras.
Past the concierge desk. Up seven flights. Through a dim reception area and down the mosaic-tiled hallway toward the Four Seasons’ famed indoor pool, a surreal glass-roofed space now cloaked in eerie silence.
Nariman ran along the edge of the water, and Voodoo shouted for him to stop. Surprisingly, he did, his hand shaking as he slowly turned, gun drawn. “It’s over. Put the gun down,” Voodoo ordered.
“You think this is justice?” he snarled instead of listening. “That man smiled with the butcher who signed my wife’s death order. Called it a victory.”
Voodoo raised his hands, slowly approaching.
“That man” was clearly the Senator and he couldn’t deny that, in his opinion, McNabney was most definitely a villain due to the reprehensible way he treated Savannah.
But there wasn’t much he could do about that at this moment. “This isn’t how you win, Nariman.”
The man’s eyes widened as if shocked Voodoo knew his name.
“This is how the world hears us.” His voice cracked.
“We begged for help. The West gave our enemy weapons and oil contracts instead. You . . . you let them parade that girl around as a symbol of peace while we buried our families in unmarked graves.”
The man was becoming increasingly unhinged. He had to act quickly to de-escalate the situation before it spiraled out of control. He nearly failed to see it, yet as a flicker of movement caught his eye, Voodoo reacted immediately and braced. Nariman lunged.
The two men collided, and Nariman’s gun went clattering across the wet tile. As he was wearing his dress shoes, not the ideal footwear for hand to hand combat, Voodoo slipped, resulting in a clumsy fall that sent both of them into the water. The splash echoed loudly off the tile, marble, and glass.
After surfacing, they fought in the pool’s blue glow. Grappling with fists flying, while water thrashed around them. Voodoo’s ribs took a brutal elbow from a lucky knee strike to his stomach. Twisting under Nariman, he surged upward, slamming the man against the wall of the pool.
Nariman came back hard, grabbing for Voodoo’s throat, but he ducked under the water―he was a SEAL after all―and resurfaced behind him, locking an arm around his neck.
“Enough!” Voodoo growled. “This won’t bring them back!”
Nariman sputtered, weakened, his rage giving way to grief. “He . . . needs to answer . . .”
Voodoo pulled him to the edge of the pool and wrenched him over. Nariman went limp in his grasp, alive, but spent.
Footsteps pounded down the corridor. Mustang and Midas burst in, weapons drawn, eyes scanning.
“I got him,” Voodoo said between gulps of air. “He’s done.”
As Mustang zip tied the subdued leader’s hands behind his back, Voodoo leaned against the cool tile, drenched, heart still thundering in his chest.
He only had one thought now.
Savannah.