Page 128 of X Marks the Stalker
My heart hammers against my ribcage. Pressed against Xander’s chest, I struggle to keep my breathing quiet while the panic room’s monitors flicker with multiple angles of Richard Blackwell’s penthouse. Watching his private world through these screens makes us voyeurs to a life built on blood money.
“He’s alone,” I whisper, scanning each feed. “He left the guards outside.”
On the main screen, Blackwell bursts through his front door like a cornered animal. His silver hair sticks up in tufts, his bespoke suit wrinkled as if he’s been sleeping in it.
“Look at him,” I breathe. “Like he can sense he’s going to die.”
Blackwellbeelines for his bedroom, yanking his closet door open hard enough to dent the wall. He tosses a sleek black suitcase onto his king-sized bed.
“He’s running,” Xander murmurs against my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
The comm crackles in my ear. “Showtime in three, two, one...” Calloway’s voice purrs.
On the security feed covering the building’s art gallery space, a crimson explosion erupts. What looks like gallons of blood-red paint sprays across priceless artwork and pristine white walls.
Alarms shriek through the building’s security system, red warning lights flashing across our monitors.
“Jesus, what did you do?” I hiss into the comm.
“A little something I call ‘Crime Scene Number Five,’” Calloway replies, practically purring. “The red represents the bleeding corpse of capitalism, while the splatter pattern evokes the violent?—”
“Save the artist statement for your gallery opening,” Thorne cuts in. “Is it drawing enough attention?”
As if summoned, Blackwell’s personal phone rings. He snatches it up, his face contorting.
“What do you mean ‘vandalism’? I don’t care about the fucking art!” Blackwell shouts. “Who breached the building? How many? Do they have weapons?”
He continues stuffing clothes and documents into his suitcase while barking orders. Another monitor shows security guards rushing toward the gallery space, guns drawn.
“Sir,” a voice crackles through Blackwell’s phone, loud enough to carry through the monitors. “We have an unknownnumber of intruders. Protocol says you need to get to your panic room.”
“I just need five more minutes,” Blackwell snaps, wrestling with his suitcase zipper. “And we can leave.”
“Sir, we can’t guarantee your safety if you?—”
Another explosion rocks the building, close enough to vibrate through the soles of my boots.
“Jesus!” Blackwell shouts.
The monitor displaying the penthouse’s grand entrance hall transforms into chaos. Thick green smoke billows through the space, and bizarre mechanical contraptions—what appear to be wind-up teeth with legs—skitter across the marble floor.
“What the hell did you unleash, Lazlo?” Xander whispers into the comm.
“Medical grade smoke bombs,” Lazlo responds cheerfully. “Non-toxic, but extremely disorienting. And the little guys? Just some prototypes I’ve been working on. They’re programmed to seek body heat and make terrifying clicking sounds. No real danger, but absolutely nightmare-inducing. I call them ‘anxiety incarnate.’ Fun.”
“Sir, you need to move now!” The security guard’s voice pitches higher.
On the monitor, Blackwell abandons his suitcase and dashes for his office. He slams the door, locks it, and moves toward the hidden entrance to the panic room—toward us.
“He’s coming,” I whisper, pressing deeper into our hiding spot.
Xander’s hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing once. His lips brush my ear. “Remember, follow the plan.”
The control panel beside the panic room door lights upas Blackwell’s fingerprint is scanned on the other side. My heart pounds so hard I’m certain it will give us away.
The hydraulic door slides open with a soft hiss.
Richard Blackwell—the man who destroyed my family, who had my source killed, who’s evaded justice for decades—steps into the panic room.
