Chapter 29
The music poured from the stage in a haunting, hypnotic wave. Savannah’s piano piece weaving a spell across the audience. Voodoo wasn’t watching the show but hearing her play, he was just as captivated. Always had been whenever she played.
He stood in the shadows of the mezzanine, eyes sweeping the darkened wings and tech corridors that snaked behind the opulence of the National Centre for the Performing Arts. Hoot was in the left wing, eyes tracking movement backstage, while Eggs monitored the right.
“Voodoo,” Haley’s voice cracked in low and tight through their shared comms. “You’re not going to like this. Jester struck again.”
“What this time?” Voodoo asked his voice muted so as not to distract the audience.
“The Senator’s off-grid. Took a Learjet out of a private airstrip in the middle of the night. No public manifest. Destination: Beijing.”
Voodoo’s jaw flexed. Of course he’s here.
“Tell me he’s not coming to the reception,” he muttered, gaze flicking to the velvet-draped balcony where Chinese officials sat in rapt attention.
“SIBYL predicted a 92% probability.”
“Could just be a diplomatic visit. Showing support for Savannah again,” Hoot voiced.
Or could be cover for something worse, Voodoo thought grimly.
A flash of movement near the lighting rig snapped him to attention. There.
“Eyes on Simpson,” Voodoo murmured. “Grid left, catwalk access.”
“I see him,” Hoot replied. “Moving erratically. Left hand’s in his pocket.”
“Let’s roll,” Voodoo said.
They moved fast, silent, cutting through the side corridors as Savannah’s concerto climbed toward its crescendo. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Her music like champagne and fire, filling the air with passion and purity, while they stalked through shadows toward something corrupted.
They intercepted Simpson near the storage wing, where foot traffic thinned and security lights dimmed. The crewman spun, startled, but didn’t run. Just froze with guilt written across his face.
“Matt Simpson,” Voodoo said, stepping into his path. “Let’s have a chat.”
The man hesitated, then bolted.
Eggs tackled him mid-stride, slamming him into a crate with practiced efficiency. A soft grunt escaped the man as Voodoo and Hoot descended.
Voodoo fisted Simpson’s collar in a tight grip, holding the man against the stack of crates. Eggs and Hoot flanked him, one on each side.
“Pocket,” Voodoo barked. Hoot reached in and pulled out the device.
“Got it,” Hoot said, holding up the sleek, black device that was still blinking blue. He turned it over in his hand, then pulled off some of the gaffer’s tape, studying it. “I recognize this. Pretty sure it’s an encrypted signal emulator.”
Haley’s voice crackled in. “Scanning now . . . yep. This device was programmed to mimic a burst transmission to a flagged foreign military frequency. If it had gone off in Savannah’s dressing room or on her person . . . Jesus.”
“Espionage,” Hoot muttered.
“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 exactly was the 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 a surgical 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.”