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.
“I think if she lifts her hands or feet, the whole stage goes,” Voodoo replied grimly. “And she knows. Look at her posture. Like she’s afraid to play the next note but fears stopping more.”
A stunned beat passed. Then Haley again. “I’m following along with the music. She’s almost at the end.”
He focused back on Savannah. He was familiar with the piece, having heard her play it several times over the course of the tour.
She was nearing the end. The final movement.
The big finish. And she wasn’t slowing. If anything, she looked more like a statue than a woman performing one of the most technically demanding pieces ever written.
Then her pinky dropped to strike the final note.
Click.
Sawyer’s ears were trained to hear what most never could. That click wasn’t part of the piano.
A stunned beat passed. Then Haley again. “She just hit the final chord. I see a countdown timer on the iPad. twenty minutes.”
Voodoo was moving before the last chord could dissipate. He ran onto the stage, heedless of the thunderous applause. Savannah didn’t move.
Didn’t bow.
Didn’t shift.
“Shit. And another message.”
“Tell us,” Eggs prompted.
“‘Let that last chord resonate. Otherwise . . . boom!’”
“Fuck,” Hoot murmured.
Ignoring his team, he ran to the woman he loved. He didn’t care to know what the messages said. Savi was in trouble and he had to get to her. He dropped to his knees beside her before anybody even realized he’d just stormed the stage. “Savi,” he whispered her name.
Savannah’s face hadn’t changed, but her eyes—her eyes were wide and locked straight ahead, unblinking.
Like she was terrified to even breathe wrong.
The moment Savannah saw him, something in her expression broke. Just for a flicker. But it was there—the terror she’d been suppressing with every note.
“I’m here,” he mouthed as he approached slowly. “I’m right here.”
Then her broken voice. “I-I th-think I tr-triggered someth-something.”
“Then that chord . . .” Eggs started.
“Triggered the clock,” Haley confirmed. “She can’t move. Not without risking detonation.”
“Fuck,” Eggs muttered. “Like pressure sensors?”
“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Hoot. “We need to get the President out. Quietly.”
Voodoo continued to ignore their conversation, his focus solely on Savannah.
“I know. It’s okay Savi. I’m just gonna take a look around the piano.
” He crouched low so he could see the undercarriage of the piano.
Looked clear there. No obvious wires. No blinking lights.
No signs of a device. But that didn’t matter.
The enemy had gone digital. Buried deep and clean, like all the best weapons.
“Careful, Voodoo. Anything could have triggered it,” Flint warned. “Could be one thing or a combination—keys, pedals, maybe even body heat sensors.”
“Understood,” he muttered, replying to his boss’ warning.
He stood and leaned over the soundboard of the piano under the lid. There it was, tucked into the corner, hidden from view by the rack holding her music. “Piano’s rigged.”
Haley’s voice dropped. “Looping in Secret Service. I’ll keep it low profile as long as I can.”
“Do it,” Flint ordered. “Hoot, Eggs—start moving toward exits. Quiet evac, fastest routes. Coordinate with security detail. We can’t cause a stampede.”
He glanced up as Secret Service began clearing the presidential box. Agents moved like shadows, coordinated and discreet. The President was gone in under sixty seconds.
An emergency announcement was made and requested everyone to quickly and orderly make their way to the closest exit. It was the only way to get the audience moving and avoid dawdling.
But Voodoo’s attention never left her.
“You did good,” he said, voice low, steady, as he kneeled beside her again. “You held it together.”
“I d-didn’t have a choice,” she whispered, voice shaking. “I d-didn’t know what would happen if-if I moved. I still don’t.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re not alone anymore.”
Her eyes shimmered and he noticed her hands shaking harder as she struggled to hold the keys down. “Sawyer . . . there’s a bomb.”
“I know.” He placed a hand gently on her back. “I know. And we’re going to disarm it. Together,” he promised. “Someone find me some tools.”
“On it,” Eggs shouted before taking off into the wings.
Voodoo kept his attention on Savannah. Her fingers were cramping. Her leg trembling from keeping the pedal down so long. She was nearing the edge of endurance.
And the timer on the iPad kept ticking down.
00:17:24
00:17:23