Page 133 of X Marks the Stalker
Blood pools beneath Blackwell’s body, spreading in concentric circles across the polished concrete. Time to be meticulous. Leave no trace of myself, only the message we crafted for whoever finds the body.
My reflection in the stainless steel wall catches my eye—blood spatter dotting my cheek like a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle. I scrub with an alcohol pad from my kit, then attack my face, neck, and hands. The chemical stench burns my sinuses as I scour every inch of skin.
I pull out a handheld vacuum and run it over the floor, collecting microscopic evidence we might have shed despite our protection. Probably excessive, but “probably” gets people caught.
The nail gun sits beside Blackwell, wiped clean and left as part of our tableau. Everything else goes back into my pack.
Now for the hard part—finding somewhere to hide.
I scan the panic room. It’s big, with reinforced walls, a small bathroom alcove, and minimal furnishings. The ventilation system Oakley used is the only way in or out besides the main door, and I’d need to dislocate every joint in my body to fit through it.
The cabinet—too small. Under the bed—obvious. Bathroom alcove—nowhere to hide unless I develop the ability to transform into a roll of toilet paper.
I press my palms against various panels in the walls, looking for any hidden compartments. Nothing gives. The ceiling is solid, with recessed lighting fixtures too small to provide access to any crawl space. Fuck, I was sure a man like Blackwell would have them.
I’d been convinced a paranoid billionaire like Blackwell would have hidden compartments, secret panels, something designed for emergency escapes. Turns out money can’t buy imagination.
I knew this possibility existed when I volunteered. Calculated the statistical probability of ending up trapped, accepted the risks, and stepped into this death box, anyway.
For her.
Because Oakley couldn’t do this alone, and twelve years of hunting deserved its conclusion. Watching her get justice for her parents was worth every consequence, even if my future wardrobe consists of prison orange. A color that clashes catastrophically with my complexion.
“Well, shit.” I run fingers through my hair, scanning the space again. “Rhodes, you’ve outdone yourself in the bad decisions department.”
Movement on one of the security monitors catches my eye. I freeze, watching as six guards in tactical gear burst from the elevator, weapons drawn. They’re early.
“Double shit,” I mutter, watching them sweep through the penthouse.
“Perimeter secure,” one guard says into his radio.
My pulse quickens as they move toward the office wherethe panic room entrance is hidden. In five minutes, they’ll start wondering why Blackwell isn’t responding.
I need a hiding place. Now.
The guards converge outside the panic room door, weapons raised. I watch them through the monitors, my breathing shallow. What if they have a way to open the door?
“Mr. Blackwell?” The lead guard pounds on the door. “Sir, are you in there? Please respond.”
I glance at Blackwell’s corpse, half-expecting it to answer.
“Mr. Blackwell! This is security. The building’s been compromised. We need confirmation you’re safe.”
I scan the room again. Nothing. No hidden panels, no maintenance shafts, no emergency exits. Just reinforced walls, a corpse, and me.
Blackwell’s phone lights up where it lies a few feet from his body.
The second guard presses his radio. “Control, we have no response from the panic room.”
The team leader taps at the control panel outside. “System shows panic mode activated. Door’s sealed for the next forty-eight hours.”
“So we’re locked out?”
“Affirmative.”
“What if he’s hurt in there? Medical emergency?”
I watch them debate as I assess my dwindling options.
