Page 13 of Freeing Savannah

“I know it’s not much to go on. Maybe I am just a worried mother. But my instincts are screaming at me that something more is happening.”

He nodded, mentally filing away every detail. “Never ignore your instincts.” That was the first lesson he’d learned in the SEALs. A gut feeling about something could be the difference between returning home in one piece or in a body bag.

“You should’ve told us sooner. You should’ve said something to my boss when you spoke with him.”

“I’m telling you now.” She stepped forward, eyes fierce. “Because I remember who you were when she was five and youwere seven and you punched a bully for pulling her braid. You’ve always protected her. I can see you never stopped.”

His chest tightened. “I never wanted to.”

Olivia’s voice softened. “I don’t know what this is. But I don’t trust the people around us. Around her. And I trust you. I just . . . I needed to know you’ll keep her safe.”

Voodoo let out a breath. “You don’t need to ask.”

“I’m asking anyway.”

He glanced back toward the group, saw Savannah laughing for the cameras, but her eyes weren’t smiling. Not really.

He turned back to Olivia. “She’s safe with me,” he said. “Whatever this is—you have my word.”

Olivia reached out and touched his arm again. “Thank you.” She stepped back, exhaled like it hurt, then turned toward the crowd again. She was already slipping the mask back on. Like mother, like daughter.

Voodoo lingered in the shadows for a moment longer, eyes on Savannah. She was posing with Kandy on one side and the Senator on the other. Her laugh still rang clear, but her body language didn’t match it. Too rigid. Too calculated.

He tapped his earpiece. “Halestorm, did you get all that?” he murmured to Haley “Halestorm, Lamb, Condor’s Overwatch’s resident computer expert. If anyone could uncover what the hell was going on, it was her.

“Copy. SYBIL’s already digging,” she answered. SYBIL, which stood for Surveillance Yield-Based Behavioral Intelligence Lattice, was the program that Haley had spent years developing and had recently launched for Condor’s Overwatch. Engineered to work in the shadows, it could slip undetected through encrypted channels, hack devices, and intercept whispers in digital shadows. It gathered everything: voices, videos, metadata—building invisible profiles across continents.

What really made SYBIL extraordinary was its predictive engine. An almost prophetic, digital sentinel that turned raw data into foresight. By analyzing behavioral patterns, anomalies, and context, it could forecast threats before they could materialize.

SYBIL didn’t just monitor. Itunderstood.

“I want complete background re-checks on each and every individual involved in this tour. Performers, crew members, media personnel, assistants . . .everyone. By tomorrow morning.”

“You’ll have it,” promised Flint who’d been listening as well, his voice firm and reassuring, and Voodoo felt the tension ease in his shoulders knowing his boss had heard and was acting on the new intel.

Voodoo turned, scanning the room again. Savannah was still smiling for the press, that too-perfect smile on display.

Despite a lack of clear evidence, he felt something significant was taking place. Something about this tour wasn’t right.

CHAPTER 4

Savannah’s cheeksached from holding the same smile for far too long.

She adjusted her posture under the weight of the clicking camera lenses, their flashes slicing the air in timed bursts. The press line buzzed with questions, laughter, and the occasional shouted name, but it all blurred together, a dizzying hum that barely touched her.

The Senator’s arm tightened like a vise around her waist, a suffocating reminder of her role, and she despised it. A tremor ran through her, threatening to send her to her knees, but with fierce determination, she battled against the weakening in her legs and arms, refusing to succumb. Although she desperately wanted to flee, her smile remained fixed in place, betraying none of her inner turmoil.

Beside her, Kandy sparkled. Literally. The subtle sequins in her outfit caught every glint of light and flung it back. She posed with practiced ease, tossing her too tight dark ponytail over her shoulder, answering questions like they were old friends.

Savannah stood frozen in her perfectly tailored navy slacks and pink satin blouse, hands clasped in front of her like a disciplined student. The buttons on her cuffs dug into her wrists,sharp little reminders of the faux stage she was standing on. A stage she’d never asked for.

The cameras loved her when she played. Behind a grand piano, she could lose herself in Rachmaninoff, drown out the noise of expectations. But this posing, smiling, and pretending . . . this wasn’t music. This was a performance of a different kind, one that hollowed her out the longer it lasted.

She smiled. Because that’s what was expected.

Her fingers, so used to dancing over piano keys, itched at her sides. As she always did when she needed solace, she reached into her pocket, her fingers finding the familiar smoothness of the pendant, and derived comfort from its presence there. Despite the dazzling lights and rapid-fire questions, the designer top felt constricting and foreign against her skin, its smooth satin offering no comfort. The neckline was higher than Kandy’s and somehow, that made her feel even more exposed. Her smile, though rehearsed, started to crack beneath the weight of questions and cameras.

“How does it feel to be representing classical music in a world dominated by pop culture?”

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