“Someone may have just hit their mic by accident,” he says, looking at the open comms app on his desktop like it might’ve malfunctioned.
The static comes again, lasting longer this time before cutting off, replaced by the eerie silence of nothing.
“Weston?” Carter says. “Report.”
Silence.
Our eyes meet, and I see the same look of annoyance and fear that I know is on my face.
Carter breaks eye contact and tries again. “Weston? Report. Weston!” Carter is practically shouting now as he touches his finger to his comms device a third time.
“It’s not coming through to me,” I say. “Call him,” I demand, pointing to his phone.
He nods and pulls up Weston’s contact information when suddenly, every single image on my screen goes dark.
I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as my phone vibrates in my hand.
Lila
We’re on it. Lincoln says to give him 30 seconds.
I flash my phone to Carter, who nods, still clicking Weston’s name to call him.
The cameras on my screen flicker on and off, but it’s not enough. The comms system crackles again, and this time, a voice comes through, saying something I can’t make out.
“Weston, report. Now,” Carter says as soon as a voice comes through the line.
That’s when it hits me—the cold rush of dread spreading through my veins.
It wasn’t just a flicker on the screen. It wasn’t a random glitch. This is planned. They tested our systems, and now they—whoever they are—are putting it to use. Our equipment is all failing at once, and there is no doubt in my mind that it’s on purpose.
Carter’s eyes meet mine, and I know something is wrong. Everything about him is tense, from his shoulders to his hands as they grip the phone too tightly.
“Shit,” I mutter, grabbing my phone and calling Lila.
It was bound to happen. I knew—I knew—it couldn’t have been for nothing. No one puts in that much effort so a streaker can get on stage. How was I unprepared for this?
What?I mouth, but he just holds up a finger.
“We’re working on comms and video,” Lila says when she answers.
“Good,” I say. “But I think there’s more. Hold on.”
“We’ll be right there, keep knocking, but wait for us,” Carter says before hanging up. “Jaxon’s door is locked, and he’s not answering.”
“What?” I ask, my mind running through a million different scenarios. Like Bennie kidnapping him and cutting off all his toes.
“Don’t go there,” Carter says. “Maybe he locked the door and fell asleep. The room is huge, so maybe he didn’t hear the knocking. There’s a bathroom attached too, maybe he’s in there. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to be bothered by all the people constantly around him anymore. I know it would drive me insane.”
Carter starts locking down his computers, clearly believing the drivel he’s spouting about Jaxon falling asleep this close to his show about as much as I do—not at all.
“My gut says this is serious, but how could it be?” I ask Carter, trying to shake the feeling of unease flowing through my stomach as I follow him out of the room at a pace that is purposeful but not so fast as to draw attention to ourselves. “He’s in his dressing room surrounded by security personnel—how could anyone get to him? Plus, shouldn’t his prep team be in there with him?”
Carter’s hand runs through his hair, his jaw tightening. I can see the wheels turning in his head. He’s piecing together the same things I am. The cameras going down at the same time as the comms, andthenJaxon doesn’t answer? It doesn’t seem like a coincidence.
His phone rings again, and Carter answers, listening to someone give an update. “Do we have confirmation of that?” Carter asks whoever he’s on the phone with now. “He’s not with any CPOs? He’s notin the bathroom somewhere? He’s not down at the concessions stand wearing dark sunglasses?”
The hand he runs aggressively through his hair is all the answer I need.
