Page 126 of X Marks the Stalker
I reach the vent opening and peer through the slats into Blackwell’s panic room.
The room below isn’t what I expected. It’s big, with sleek black and chrome furnishings that scream money and masculine ego. Not just a panic room, but a luxurious bunker. Aking-sized bed dominates one wall. Opposite stands an equipped kitchenette with gleaming appliances and a mini-fridge. There’s even a small bathroom area concealed behind frosted glass.
Of course, he has a fucking king-sized bed. Of course, he has a mini-fridge probably stocked with imported water and a bathroom with frosted glass and sleek chrome fixtures. My parents died choking on their own blood, and this bastard gets silk sheets and a panic button. My fingers clench around the screwdriver in my pocket. One way or another, this room is going to serve its purpose.
He’s going to panic.
I turn to the monitors—at least six flat screens mounted on the wall, displaying different areas of the penthouse in high definition. The living room appears empty. The kitchen, too. The hallway leading to the bedroom shows no movement. Every entrance and exit point is under constant surveillance.
“I can see the entire apartment on his security system,” I whisper. “But there’s no camera in here. The panic room itself is a blind spot.”
A small desk beneath the monitors holds communication equipment and what looks like a satellite phone. This space wasn’t designed for a few hours of refuge—Blackwell could live here for days, maybe even weeks, with the right supplies.
The air seems different down here, too. Filtered, recycled, with a subtle metallic tang that reminds me I’m in a sealed environment. The kind where screams wouldn’t carry beyond these walls.
“Makes sense,” Xander replies. “Blackwell wouldn’t want recordings of whatever happens in there.”
I pull out the compact mirror camera, angling it through the vent slats to give the team a view.
“Excellent,” Xander’s voice sounds in my ear. “Now, remove the vent cover. Remember, counter-clockwise.”
I begin working on the screws. One comes loose easily, dropping into my waiting palm. The second takes more effort, my fingers slipping twice before it gives.
“Two down, two to go,” I murmur.
A sudden, loud crash from somewhere in the building makes me jump, banging my head against the metal shaft.
“What the hell was that?” I snap, rubbing my skull.
“Distraction,” Darius answers through the comms. “First phase. Keep going.”
The third screw comes out just as another crash reverberates, followed by shouting.
“Is everything okay out there?” I ask.
Calloway’s voice fills my ear, sounding altogether too amused. “Just creating ambiance. Apparently, Lazlo took ‘cause a distraction’ literally. He’s...redistributing artwork in the main gallery.”
“By which he means,” Darius cuts in, “Lazlo just toppled a six-foot marble statue of Aphrodite through a glass display case.”
“It was hideous,” Lazlo defends. “I did Blackwell a favor.”
I bite back a laugh as I work on the last screw. “Almost through here.”
“Security’s responding,” Thorne reports, his voice calm as ever, “as planned.”
The last screw gives way, and I remove the vent cover, setting it aside. I wiggle forward until my head and shouldersemerge into the room. With an ungraceful scramble, I pull myself through the opening and drop to the floor.
“I’m in,” I whisper.
My heart thuds against my ribs as I scan the security monitors.
On screen three, a blur of movement catches my eye. Xander.
“I see you,” I whisper into the comms. “Three guards heading toward the east wing where Lazlo’s creating his art installation. None watching the monitors.”
I glance at the main security desk feed. The guard who should be watching these screens is standing up, neck craned toward the commotion.
“You’re clear all the way to the bedroom,” I say.
