Chapter 21

I sat mesmerized by the sweet-sounding voice that filled the vocal booth. Georgie’s voice — smooth as velvet, with a smoky undertone that made every note ache with emotion — floated through the air like a spell. There was no mask to cover her face this time, no enigmatic persona to shield her identity. Just Georgie, her radiant beauty laid bare, singing as if the entire world had dissolved away and only the two of us remained. Yet, even stripped of the mysterious allure of Mockingbird, her voice carried the same haunting magic. It wrapped around me, tender and raw, each note a ribbon of sound that lingered in my soul.

Her hands moved effortlessly over the double-necked Gibson Custom, the crimson finish gleaming under the soft studio lights. The guitar was a masterpiece, its upper twelve-string neck adding a shimmering, ethereal quality to the melody while the lower six-string growled with a richer, more resonant tone.

Georgie’s fingers danced across the twelve-string like a painter’s brush on canvas, weaving a tapestry of sound that was intricate yet heartbreakingly simple. Each strum produced a cascade of harmonics, ringing like a delicate wind chime in a gentle breeze. When she slid into the lower neck for a solo, the tones deepened, taking on a throaty, soulful timbre that resonated in my chest, grounding the celestial beauty of the higher notes.

Her voice and the guitar intertwined seamlessly, a duet between human and instrument. The upper neck’s high, chiming strings matched the lilting clarity of her voice, while the deeper growl of the six-string underscored the warmth and power in her lower register. Together, they created a sound that was both ethereal and grounded, light and shadow in perfect balance.

It was heavenly — an intimate, unspeakably beautiful performance meant only for me. The lyrics were a soft confession, the kind of raw poetry that left no corner of the heart untouched. Every word, every note, felt like a secret shared in the stillness of the night, and I was utterly lost in her world.

The song by Ben E. King took on an entirely new meaning in the way Georgie performed it. Her voice carried the familiar melody to a place I’d never imagined, infusing every word with a tender strength and vulnerability that cut straight to the core. The Gibson’s twelve-string shimmered through the opening chords, each note like sunlight glinting off rippling water, while her voice rose above it, unguarded and achingly sincere.

As she sang, “When the night has come, And the land is dark, And the moon is the only light we’ll see. No, I won’t be afraid, oh, I won’t be afraid. Just as long as you stand, stand by me...” her lower register softened into a gentle plea, and the guitar answered with a deep, resonant echo, a promise etched in sound.

By the time she reached the chorus, her voice swelled with quiet determination, a vow carried on a melody as old as love itself but made entirely her own. The double-necked Gibson added a symphonic grandeur, the twelve-string’s sparkling resonance weaving a celestial backdrop against the earthy, steady rhythm of the six-string. It was like hearing the song for the first time, as if its soul had been stripped bare and laid tenderly before me.

My heart clenched with the realization that her voice, her presence, her vulnerability, had unlocked something deep inside me.

And at that moment, I vowed that I would — “Stand by her.”

I called Ash. I had to. A formal ground strike on a civilian target weighed heavily on me. Even though the target was a known threat, the fallout could be catastrophic if we misstepped. Questions would be asked — questions I couldn’t answer.

“Hi, friend. What’s up?” Ash’s voice was casual, but I could sense the edge beneath it.

“I’m having second thoughts.”

“What? About the strike?”

“Yes. How do we know the merchandise is in that truck?”

“It will be. The intel’s solid.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Alex?”

“Yes, Ash. I know you trust the intel, but what if it’s wrong?”

“What if, what?”

“Where did the info come from?”

“From Sloan Thornton. He’s cutting a deal — selling out his buddies.”

“Exactly. From Sloan Thornton.” I let the silence stretch. “Don’t you think there’s a chance he’s setting us up?”

Ash didn’t answer right away, and I pressed on.

“Think about it. Andreotti is clever. He could’ve fed Sloan false information to bait us. We hit a civilian truck, and if the media gets wind of it? Scandal. The FLO would be crucified.”

A slow breath escaped Ash. “You’ve got a point...”

“Glad you agree. How about we set up a roadblock instead?”

“A roadblock?” Scepticism coloured his voice. “And then what? How do we prove there’s cocaine in the water?”

“Simple,” I said, keeping my tone even. “We run a field test. Cocaine reacts to cobalt thiocyanate — turns blue if it’s present. It’s called the Scott test. Fast, portable, widely used.”

“But it’s a presumptive test,” Ash countered. “False positives happen — lidocaine, benzocaine, all that.”

“True,” I admitted. “That’s why we follow up with cocaine test strips. No reagents, no fuss. They’re designed for liquids, and they’re highly accurate.”

Ash grunted. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Or,” I added, “we could bring in Joe with a portable mass spectrometer or ion-scanner. Those things can detect drug molecules with pinpoint accuracy — no ambiguity. Some law enforcement teams already use them.”

Ash mulled it over. “Okay. I’ll call you back.”

The line went dead.

Georgie was feeling much better and was still fooling around in the sound studio. Nadia, Roxy, Mai-Loan, Darya and Ronny were roaming around outside. They felt that by dispersing around the farmyard they would be in a better position if Andreotti or Borrelli made any move again to get to Georgie or me.

With the target now moved away from Zara and to me, the Angels and Ash felt that Zara was safe. Not entirely safe, but safe for now. Leon has moved Zara and Ally out of the province to go and visit family in the Free State Province. Five hundred kilometres away.

I walked back to the sound studio and found Georgie just sitting there in the vocal booth, plugging away at a guitar.

“Hi Gorgeous! Ain’t you getting tired?” I spoke into the sound system connected to the vocal booth.

“Nah ... This is therapy for me,” She replied, and then her eyes lit up. “Listen to this!”

I sat down at the console and shifted the chair back. My hands behind my head. From inside the booth the guitar sounded up and then Mockingbird’s voice filled the air.

Georgie strummed her guitar, eyes closed as she lost herself in the song. The warm, mellow chords echoed through the studio, followed by her voice — rich, soulful, and tinged with just the right amount of heartbreak. Every note felt like a confession, every word a story told in quiet confidence:

“Hey mister bluebird sing me your song.

My Baby left me...

Now I am so blue.

Don’t even talk, if I call on the phone...”

It was then when the studio door opened, and Devon Joss walked in. He looked at me and then to Georgie through the glass panel of the vocal booth, and back at me. He stood rooted to the spot with his mouth half open.

“Alex ... is that who I think it is?”

“Hi, Mister Bruce McIntyre!” I greeted and got up from the chair, reaching out my hand to greet him. “What brings you to my part of the woods?”

“Just passing through and felt like some good coffee ... But, WHO IS THAT?”

“Don’t ask questions I am not supposed to answer, Bruce.”

“Alex ... Is that Mockingbird without her mask?”

“Maybe...”

Bruce’s jaw dropped. “You old rascal! How did you pull this off? Where the hell did you find her?”

I sighed, feigning exhaustion. “Life’s got a funny way of throwing curveballs at one.”

He turned back to the glass, practically pressing his nose against it now. Georgie strummed and sang on, blissfully unaware of the presence of Devon Joss.

Bruce, meanwhile, was having a meltdown. He spun around, his eyes wide with recognition. “Wait a minute! I know that face. That’s Georginia Harper. The TV lady! The one who’s always reporting from war zones and disasters. But she sounds exactly like—like—”

I cut him off, “Sit down, Bruce. Take a breath.”

He collapsed into the chair, shaking his head in disbelief. “Are you recording this?” His voice was a hushed demand, eyes flicking to the console.

“Nope. She’s just fooling around.”

Bruce’s head snapped toward me, incredulous. “Fooling around? Fooling around? You call that fooling around?” He gestured wildly toward Georgie,

I leaned in, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Bruce. Shut up. Listen. Like the choirs of heaven do. They stopped singing the moment Gee opened her mouth.”

And he did. Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the console, eyes glued to Georgie. The disbelief melted from his face, replaced by awe. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, muttering under his breath, “If this isn’t Mockingbird, she’s the next best thing.”

I chuckled softly. “Told you. Curveballs.”

Without a further word Bruce, or Devon Joss, as he is known to the public, leaned forward on the console and rested his head in his hands, not taking his eyes off Georgie in the vocal booth. Georgie was still unaware of Bruce’s presence while she sang her heart out on “Hey Mister Blue Bird.”

Georgie still strummed her guitar, eyes closed as she lost herself in the song.

“Hey Mister Blue Bird, sing your melody.
I left my baby.
I’m as blue as can be...

Thought I’d be happy,

If I could be free...

Hey Mister Blue Bird,

Sing your melody...”

The melody drifted through the air, curling around the room like smoke, drawing everyone into its orbit. I leaned back in my chair, letting the music wash over me, while beside me Bruce sat perfectly still. His eyes were locked on Georgie, his mouth slightly open, but he made no sound.

The chorus hit with a quiet intensity, Georgie’s voice lifting just enough to pull at something deep inside. She wasn’t just singing—she was feeling every word, and it showed.

Bruce’s hands slowly dropped to his lap, his gaze unwavering. He didn’t move. He didn’t blink. The man who always had something to say about everything was, for once, silent. Georgie transitioned into the bridge with a soft, haunting hum, the guitar’s gentle strumming keeping time.

“Hey, Mister Blue Bird.

Hey Mister Blue Bird.
Yours is the saddest,
Song that I heard...”

“Hey Mister Blue Bird,

You’re sounding so blue.

Hey Mister Blue Bird,

I’m bluer than you...”

“Hey Mister Blue Bird,

You’re making me cry.

I feel so lonely,

He told me goodbye.

This is more I can take,

Tell me, did I make,

A foolish mistake...”

“Hey, Mister Blue Bird.

Hey Mister Blue Bird.
Yours is the saddest,
Song that I heard...”

“Hey, Mister Blue Bird.

Hey Mister Blue Bird.”

When the final chord faded, the room seemed to hold its breath. Even the hum of the studio equipment felt distant. Georgie stayed still for a moment, eyes closed, letting the last note linger. Then, she slowly opened her eyes, looking toward the glass panel.

That’s when she noticed us.

Her face lit up with a grin. “What’s with the serious faces? You guys planning a mutiny or something?” She had recognised Devon Joss, but kept her expression neutral.

Bruce, still visibly stunned, blinked several times before finally finding his voice. “No mutiny,” he managed, voice hoarse. “Just ... listening.”

Georgie tilted her head, curious but amused. “Listening, huh? Didn’t know I had such a captive audience.”

Bruce finally turned to me, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. “Alex ... this is...” He gestured wildly, searching for words. “This is incredible. How — where did you —”

I cut him off with a knowing smirk. “Curveballs, Bruce. Life’s full of them.”

Georgie glanced between us, still smiling but clearly confused. “Okay, seriously, what’s going on?”

Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes sparkling with excitement. “What’s going on, darling, is that you just sang the pants off a song that could stop traffic.”

Georgie laughed. “Thanks, I guess?”

Bruce shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. “You’re more than welcome. Trust me — you have no idea what you just did.”

“I’m just me...” Georgie demurred, trying to brush it off with a casual shrug, but there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

“I need to speak to you, but not through this glass,” Bruce replied, his voice serious for the first time. “I need to discuss something with you.”

“Okay...” Georgie said, her fingers lingering on the strings of her guitar as she carefully placed it on the stand behind her. She got up slowly, casting a glance at me, her brow furrowed as she walked into the control room.

“What happened to her? She looks like she had a rough time...” Bruce whispered to me, his voice hushed, though still laced with curiosity. He leaned in closer, covering the microphone with his left hand as if he were sharing a secret.

“Long story. The short version — she had a little accident ... She’s recovering here at Pilgrim’s Nest,” I replied, my gaze softening as I watched Georgie enter the room. I didn’t want to say too much. She’d tell her story when she was ready.

“Well ... Here I am...” Georgie said, her voice quiet but steady as she took her place in front of Bruce, crossing her arms defensively.

“I recognised your voice,” Bruce began, a knowing look in his eyes. “You are Mockingbird, aren’t you?”

“Maybe...” Georgie said with a sigh, rolling her eyes. Her unease was palpable, but she didn’t want to show it.

“It’s okay, Gee. Bruce is a long-time friend. He will treat you right,” I added, hoping to put her at ease. But even as I said it, I wasn’t entirely sure what Bruce was getting at. I hadn’t expected this conversation to take such an interesting turn.

“Georginia, may I call you Georginia?” Bruce asked, a warmth to his tone that made it sound less like an interrogation and more like an old friend reaching out.

“Call me Georgie...” she replied, her voice soft but firm.

“Georgie, Alex knows me as Bruce McIntyre, but my stage name is Devon Joss,” he said with a little grin, clearly enjoying the moment of revealing something personal.

“I know,” Georgie replied with a knowing look. “You produced one of my singles, though we never met in person.”

“That’s right,” Bruce said, leaning forward, his voice full of excitement. “And I’m currently working on something big for the Eurovision contest. Part of my assignment is to bring over one or two South African artists as guest performers. And I want you!”

Georgie blinked, taken aback. “No way! Me?” she repeated, her voice disbelieving.

“Yes, you,” Bruce confirmed, his eyes never leaving hers, his conviction clear. “I want you to perform your two best songs at Eurovision. And I’ve got a third one that I think will be perfect for you.”

Georgie raised an eyebrow. “But why? I mean, that’s a huge deal. Eurovision? Really?”

Bruce leaned back, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table. “I know it’s a big thing to ask, but I think you have something that will blow the audience away. Can you sing in Dutch, Flemish, or Belgian?”

Georgie hesitated for a moment, the uncertainty creeping in again. She rubbed her temple, tugging at a strand of her fire-red hair. “I can try...” Her voice trailed off, still not fully convinced.

“I think you’ll steal the audience’s hearts if you do it in Dutch, accent and all,” Bruce said, his tone encouraging, trying to build her confidence.

“But I only perform with my crew...” Georgie countered, still reluctant. She glanced over at me, silently seeking reassurance.

“No problem,” Bruce said quickly. “I’ll bring them over too, of course. But you — you’ll do this one song with a full symphonic orchestra. Imagine that! The full experience.”

Georgie’s eyes widened. “WHAT?!” Her shock was evident, and I could almost see the wheels turning in her head. A symphonic orchestra? She was a rock star, not a classical singer.

“Yes!” Bruce said, undeterred. “You’ve got the chops for it; I know you do. It’s not opera, it’s symphonic pop. You just sing, and the orchestra will do its thing.”

For a moment, Georgie looked like she was about to bolt. The pressure of it all seemed to hang heavy in the air. She slowly looked at me, and I caught the flicker of doubt in her eyes. I could see it was making her hesitate.

Without saying a word, Georgie suddenly sat down on my lap, her body soft against mine, and placed her arm over my shoulder. She sighed deeply, her face serious now, but there was something vulnerable in her expression. “Okay ... Give me the lyrics and the score. Get me a back-track, and I’ll see what I can do...” she said, though her voice still carried a hint of hesitation.

Bruce watched the exchange between us, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the quiet intimacy of the moment. A sly smile tugged at his lips, but he didn’t comment, simply nodding in approval. Then, without a word, he stood up and walked out of the studio. “Give me five minutes to grab my laptop from the car. I’ll be back with everything.”

Georgie and I sat in silence for a moment after Bruce left, and I could feel the tension begin to rise in her again. She rested her head against my shoulder, her eyes still wide with uncertainty.

“I really don’t know if I can do this, Alex,” she murmured, her voice small, unsure.