Chapter 19
Two days had passed since that day at the Four Seasons in Baku.
Now, the sun burned bright outside the Dubai Opera House, glass and steel gleaming like something out of science fiction.
Designed to resemble a traditional Arabian sailing vessel, Voodoo couldn’t help but think it looked like a hat as they drove up to it.
Its curved, hull-like exterior glowed against the skyline with a striking silhouette.
Stepping inside, it was just as breathtaking.
The floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of the Dubai Fountain and mega-tall Burj Khalifa building.
After stopping to admire the view for a moment, Voodoo then escorted Savannah into the main auditorium.
He looked around the intimate yet grand space.
It was full of warm wood accents, rich velvet seating, and tiered balconies that wrapped around the stage where Brian, Savannah’s tuner, sat alone at a piano.
As she chatted with the man, he scanned the theater, unable to shake the tension in his shoulders. Danger didn’t punch a clock and he couldn’t escape the feeling that more was coming.
While Brian worked on the Steinway in meticulous silence, he and Savannah walked into the wings.
Savannah paced in the dim space, one hand in her pocket, and he could clearly see her fingers fidgeting with something.
He was worried about her. She hadn’t been sleeping well.
Neither of them had. The horrors from that day in Baku were still front and center in both of their heads.
Voodoo’s mind flicked back to their departure from Azerbaijan.
The farewell with the SEAL team at the airstrip had been quick but solid, with firm handshakes and quiet nods.
He’d been beyond grateful for the assist and said as much.
Mustang had clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Take care of your girl, Voodoo.”
He hadn’t corrected him. Because that was exactly what Savannah was. His girl. Whether they’d said it out loud or not.
He couldn’t help but watch her. She drew his eye no matter where they were.
Today, she was dressed down, or at least as dressed down as a senator’s daughter could be.
Her slacks were navy, long and straight.
Her top was a striking red that complimented her complexion.
She looked sexy and poised, despite the fact that her fingers continued to move subtly in her pocket in a way he’d come to recognize. Fidgeting.
He tilted his head, curiosity tugging at him. “What do you always play with in there?”
Savannah blinked, surprised. Then, without a word, she pulled her hand free and opened her palm. Resting in the center was a small, smooth wooden shield pendant, darkened with age and worn at the edges. His breath caught.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he murmured, reaching out slowly. “You kept that?”
She gave him a small, shy smile. “You made it for me. Back when we thought we could make anything with duct tape and tree branches.”
“And aluminum foil,” he teased.
“Like the dog tags you made yourself,” she said with a laugh.
He took the pendent gently, running his thumb over the surface.
It was warm from her touch. He could barely make out the letters he’d carved with a pocketknife all those years ago.
SG—tucked inside a crude heart. The once-sharp grooves had been softened by time and, apparently, years of nervous fingers.
“You wore it down,” he said softly, glancing up at her. “You’ve been carrying this all this time?”
She nodded. “It reminded me of a time I felt like me. Of you.”
Something heavy and quiet settled in his chest. Not sorrow. Something warmer, heavier. Reverence, maybe.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he pulled his knife from its hidden sheath in his boot. Savannah gasped. “Holy cow. I had no idea that was there.”
He smirked. “Can’t reveal all my SEAL secrets.”
Holding the pendant in one hand and his knife in the other, he began to re-carve the heart and initials.
As he pressed his knife harder into the wood to etch deeper, more lasting marks, a wave of reverence washed over him.
What did it say that she’d kept it all these years?
It was obvious the item was important to her.
Its constant presence in her pocket spoke volumes.
It also gave him hope that he was just as important to her.
Finished with the carving, he replaced his knife, then took her hand. He lay the pendant in her palm and closed her fingers gently around it, holding her hand a beat longer than necessary.
“I’ll get you something better someday,” he said, voice low, and he couldn’t help but imagine the diamond ring he’d slip onto her finger one day. “Maybe something that’s made out of stronger stuff and will last longer.”
Savannah smiled, but her eyes were glassy. “This one’s already strong. It’s lasted this long, hasn’t it?”
And in that moment, Sawyer realized she hadn’t just carried the pendant. She’d carried him with her all along.
Daphne arrived, and they met with the stage manager while a translator interpreted for them. They went over the details for that evening’s concert, Daphne proving she was well organized and good at her job. The new phone helped considerably.
With their meeting complete, Savannah turned toward him, rubbing her arms like she felt a chill. He stepped in behind her, wrapping her in his arms. She leaned back into him, head tilting to his shoulder, and for a moment, the world fell away.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice low.
“Trying to be.” She smiled faintly. “I always forget how quiet theaters are before a performance. It’s like they’re holding their breath. It’s kind of eerie. The ghost light doesn’t help.”
“What’s a ghost light?”
She pointed to a floor lamp with a single exposed light bulb. “That’s a ghost light. Theaters all around the world have them. They are supposed to be lit when the theater is empty.”
“Why?”
“Well, the obvious reason is so that employees can see where they are going if they are working late.”
“And the not so obvious reason?” he asked, liking the fact that he was learning more about her world.
“It is said that every theater has a ghost. The ghost light provides a constant and steady light for any spirits to be able to see and even ‘perform’ on the stage. It sounds spooky, but there have been many stories about the sightings of these spirits that have allegedly happened.”
“Huh,” he uttered then glanced around the theater as if looking for something. “Do you think the ghosts are watching us right now?”
“Most definitely,” she answered with a soft laugh, and Voodoo kissed the side of her head.
Something tugged at his instincts, sharp and unwelcome and not ghost related. He looked up and spotted Brian, standing off to the side with his equipment case in his hand, watching them.
That wouldn’t be a problem normally, but it was the way he was watching. His eyes were narrowed in a fierce glare. If Voodoo didn’t know any better, he’d say the guy looked angry. But why?
Brian quickly looked away and walked off the stage, acting like nothing had happened. Still, the air shifted in Voodoo’s lungs.
Savannah stepped away to take her place on the piano bench. Her fingers settled on the keys and melodic sounds spilled into the empty auditorium. But even the beautiful and precise music couldn’t smother the tension crawling up his spine.
That’s when the doors at the back of the house banged open.
The Senator, ever the showman, stormed down the aisle, flanked by Olivia, who looked like she’d been sprinting to keep up. The click of her heels echoed like gunshots in the silent space.
“Savannah!” the Senator called, voice full of overacted relief. “Oh, thank God. My sweet girl.”
Savannah stood slowly. “Senator,” she said carefully. “I’m fine.”
He swept in and pulled her into a dramatic embrace. Voodoo watched with clenched teeth as the press—yes, of course there was press—filed in behind him, cameras already rolling.
The Senator kissed the side of Savannah’s head and gripped her arms like a concerned parent assuring himself his child was unharmed.
“This brave young woman survived something unimaginable,” he announced, voice perfectly modulated for the cameras. “And still brings beauty and diplomacy to the world through her music.”
Voodoo fought the urge to roll his eyes.
He didn’t miss how Savannah stiffened in the Senator’s grip. Didn’t miss the way Olivia stood nearby, wringing her hands, eyes flicking between Savannah and the press with open concern. The Senator prattled on for nearly half an hour, eating into Savannah’s rehearsal time.
Eventually, the media lost interest and were ushered out by aides and theater staff.
The second the doors clicked shut, the Senator dropped the act like shedding a costume.
He turned on Voodoo, his expression cold.
“You had one job,” he snapped, stepping close enough that Voodoo could smell his cologne.
“Protect her. And you let her get dragged into the middle of a goddamn terrorist siege.”
Savannah stepped between them. “He saved me.”
The Senator’s gaze narrowed. “I wasn’t talking to you, Savannah. Mind your place.”
Voodoo held his ground. “You wanna talk blame? Maybe take a look at the list of enemies you’ve made. The kind that don’t forget.”
The Senator’s nostrils flared. “You think I give a damn what some third-world radicals believe? They don’t touch American diplomacy. But you—you’re expendable.”
Voodoo gave a tight smile. “Try me.”
“Enough,” Olivia said sharply. “Not here.”
The Senator exhaled, regaining his political composure. “Walk with me,” he ordered Voodoo. “Now.”
Voodoo hesitated, glancing at Savannah, who looked beaten down and resigned.
“I’ll be okay,” she murmured to him. “Go. Get it over with.”
With a sigh, Voodoo followed McNabney out into the corridor, the man already muttering about optics and liabilities.
The long corridor outside the stage door felt dark, empty, and strangely hollow, echoing with an unnerving silence.
Voodoo could see why the ghost light was a necessary tool.
The floors of the Dubai Opera House echoed with the sharp staccato of the Senator’s polished shoes as he led Voodoo down the short hallway and into an empty dressing room.
The moment the door clicked shut, the mask was off again. McNabney turned, jaw tight, eyes hard with something between rage and calculation. “You listen to me, sailor,” he said, voice low and sharp. “You may think you’re some kind of hero after Baku, but don’t mistake dumb luck for competence.”
Voodoo didn’t react. Didn’t blink. He knew this kind of man. Had taken orders from a few of their like before. But this time, he wasn’t some green kid on his first deployment.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Voodoo said evenly. “Pretty sure I remember dragging your stepdaughter out of a hostage situation you helped create.”
McNabney’s lips curled. “You arrogant little—” He cut himself off and straightened his tie with a practiced flourish. “Remember, if it hadn’t been for me and my connections, that SEAL team wouldn’t have been deployed to assist you.”
That was a blatant lie, and they both knew it. That SEAL team’s assistance had been because of Flynn Condor and his considerable connections. Voodoo didn’t bother to call the man on his lie.
“This tour is a diplomatic miracle,” McNabney went on. “It took years to line up the right partners, the right optics. Savannah is the centerpiece. And if she breaks down, or worse, gets caught up in more political fallout, then everything I built burns.”
There it was. Not fatherly concern. Not worry for Savannah’s safety or well-being. Only damage control.
Voodoo folded his arms. “You’re not worried about her. You’re worried about your portfolio, your press coverage, your reelection. She’s not a daughter to you—she’s a goddamn press release.”
McNabney’s eyes darkened. “You’re out of your depth, son. Whatever thing you think you have with her . . . it won’t last.” He smiled then, a revolting tilt of his lips as if he knew something no one else did. “You’re a tool, a hammer, if you will. Useful in a fight, but clumsy everywhere else.”
Voodoo took a slow step forward, calm and steady. “Maybe. But I’d rather be a hammer than a coward who hides behind diplomats and disposable daughters.”
McNabney’s jaw twitched. “I could have you sent home,” he said. “One call. She’ll be forced to go on without you.”
“You could try,” Voodoo said, voice low. “But if you think I’ll let you leave her exposed after what happened in Baku, you don’t know me at all.”
For a long moment, neither man moved. Then McNabney let out a short, bitter sounding laugh. “She won’t choose you. Not in the end. When this is over, she’ll realize she’s meant for more than . . . whatever this is.”
Voodoo said nothing. He didn’t need to. Because deep down, the Senator knew he was already losing her. And there wasn’t a power suit or press conference in the world that could fix that.
McNabney straightened his cuffs. “Stay out of my way. Or I will bury you.”
Voodoo tilted his head. “You should worry less about me . . . and more about the people who may be coming for you. If they use her again to get to you, so help me . . .” he left the threat hanging watching as McNabney flinched—just slightly.
Then he turned and strode out, the door swinging shut behind him with a sharp click.
Voodoo exhaled slowly and ran a hand down his face. The man was worse than he’d imagined. Dangerous not because of what he did—but because of what he refused to take responsibility for.
He headed back toward the stage, one hand already reaching for his phone. He needed to check in with Haley. That moment with Brian earlier was still gnawing at him.
Whatever this next chapter held, he wasn’t letting Savannah walk through it alone.
Not now.
Not ever.