Page 122 of X Marks the Stalker
Calloway appears from nowhere, adding his arms to the group hug. “Hemlock’s first journalist! We need someone who can write. Thorne’s mission statements read like funeral directives.”
“Could we focus on the impending deadline?” Thorne’s voice cuts through the room. “Blackwell’s plane leaves in a few hours.”
Lazlo sets me down but doesn’t step back. Instead, he plants a lingering kiss on my forehead, his hands still resting on my shoulders. “Welcome to the family, Little Journalist.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees. Xander extracts me from Lazlo’s touch with such controlled violence that it makes my pulse jump.
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against him until I feel every hard line of his body. His eyes never leave Lazlo’s, a silent warning that speaks volumes.
“Don’t. Touch. Her.” Each word falls like a blade.
The air between them crackles with dangerous energy. I press my palm against Xander’s chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath my fingers. His possessiveness shouldn’t thrill me like this, but heat pools low in my belly.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, my lips brushing his ear. I let my hand slide down his chest, a deliberate caress that makes his breath hitch. “I’m yours, baby. Only yours.” I press closer, my voice dropping to something only he can hear. “You’re the only one I’m going to fuck later.”
His grip on me tightens, and the look he gives me promises delicious retribution.
Thorne clears his throat, activating the central display embedded in the obsidian table. Building schematics materialize, rotating in three dimensions above the surface like a hologram from a sci-fi movie.
“That’s so cool,” I whisper.
“Blackwell Enterprises. Twenty-three floors of excessive security and corporate ego.” Thorne’s finger traces the executive floor. “Our target occupies the penthouse office. Unfortunately, our original medical approach is no longer viable.”
Xander steps forward, swiping through security footage. “Current situation is far from optimal. Blackwell knows someone’s coming for him.” The display shifts to live feeds of Blackwell’s building. Men in black suits with telltale bulges under their jackets patrol every hallway.
“There are twenty-four armed guards in the building, sixteen security cameras, and biometric scanners on every door in the executive floor,” Xander continues, highlighting each security measure. “He’s converted his corporate headquarters into a fortress.”
I wander away from the table, drawn to the bookshelves lining one wall. Ancient volumes on toxicology sit beside modern forensic textbooks. Each spine is perfectly aligned, not a speck of dust anywhere. Who cleans the secret murder chamber?
“What about a direct approach at his home?” Darius suggests.
“Better. The Archer has more guards than usual,” Calloway notes, “but the building itself wasn’t designed as a fortress. It’s luxury apartments, not a corporate vault.”
“Even with doubled security, his penthouse is more accessible than that office building,” Lazlo says.
I run my fingers along the spines, catching bits of their impossible conversation. My attention diverts to a small wooden box tucked between two volumes on criminal psychology. I ease it out, feeling its weight.
“We can’t guarantee he’ll be there,” Thorne says. “But he’s in his offices right now.”
I open the box, revealing a collection of antique keys. Palace keys, by the look of them. Heavy iron things with elaborate patterns. I pick one up, feeling its weight against my palm while the men continue arguing behind me.
“He’ll be there. He still needs to go home before flying to Zurich.” I move toward the table, studying the schematics floating above the obsidian.
Xander’s expression shifts as he follows my logic. “She’s right. His plane leaves in the morning. He’ll need to pack.”
“He could send someone,” Darius notes.
“No. Not Blackwell.” I shake my head. “His personal safe is at home. He’ll want whatever’s inside before disappearing, and he won’t trust anyone else with it. He’ll be there.”
“And we don’t need full building access,” Xander murmurs, already pulling up new schematics. “Just one specific location within it.”
The display shifts, rotating to show detailed layouts of The Archer’s penthouse floor. “Here,” Xander points, zooming in on a reinforced room nestled in the center of Blackwell’s residence. “His panic room.”
“What good does that do us?” Lazlo asks. “If he reaches the panic room, he’s untouchable.”
“Not if we’re already inside it,” Thorne says, understanding dawning on his face.
Xander’s fingers manipulate the 3D model. “The panic room is soundproofed, reinforced, and sealed. No one can get in without the override codes, which only Blackwell and his ex-wife possess.”
