Page 134 of X Marks the Stalker
“Control, we have a situation. The panic room is sealed with Mr. Blackwell inside. No response to communication attempts. He doesn’t answer his phone. Request instructions.”
They wait, heads tilted toward their earpieces.
“Roger that. We’ll attempt the manual override with Ms. Blackwell’s credentials.”
The lead guard turns to his team. “Control is contacting the ex-wife for her override code. Johnson, stay here and keep trying to establish contact. The rest of you, secure the perimeter and prep for medical entry.”
Five guards scatter, leaving one stationed at the door.
I exhale. They’ll be coming back with override codes. When that door opens, they’ll find a very dead Blackwell and—if I don’t hurry—a very alive suspect.
My gaze lands on the massive safe built into the far wall—one of those luxury models for the paranoid ultra-rich.
“When in doubt, hide in the money pit,” I mutter, approaching the vault door.
It’s substantial—maybe four feet tall and three feet wide. Big enough for me to squeeze inside if I channel my inner contortionist. The steel walls would shield me from thermal scanners, and the construction is soundproof by design.
But the air... that’s a critical variable. A sealed box this size might hold enough oxygen for six, maybe eight hours if I regulate my breathing. Not ideal.
Still, no other options are presenting themselves. I could drag Blackwell’s body and chair over here, position him for a retinal scan, then clean up the drag marks. It might?—
Fuck. If I can use Blackwell’s retina to access the safe, so can the police when they find his body. They’ll open it during evidence collection and find me playing sardine.
My mind races through alternatives, but they all lead to the same conclusion.
I turn to look at Blackwell’s body, his vacant eyes stillfixed on the ceiling. A wave of revulsion washes over me as I accept what needs to happen next.
“This wasn’t in the protocol,” I mutter to myself, pulling on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves. “This is definitely not in any protocol of mine.”
I crouch beside Blackwell’s body, taking out my tactical knife.
“God, I hate eyes. Like, fucking hate them.”
I position the blade near Blackwell’s right eye socket. My stomach performs gymnastics routines.
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter to myself. “I’ve removed a man’s heart while it was still beating. But eyes? Nope. Hard limit.”
I tap the knife handle against my palm, stalling. The cold metal bounces against my skin while I try to psych myself up.
“What kind of professional killer has an eye phobia? That’s like a chef who can’t stand the sight of onions. Or a librarian terrified of paper cuts.”
The knife hovers while my hand trembles. Blood continues pooling beneath the body, inching closer to my shoes. I shift my position, buying a few more seconds of delay.
“Come on, Rhodes. They’re just gelatinous spheres. Orbs of goo. Nature’s original surveillance cameras.”
I swallow hard, my throat clicking in the silent room.
“Oh great, now I’ve made it worse by anthropomorphizing them.”
My free hand braces against Blackwell’s cold forehead, steadying both of us for what comes next.
“Not going to puke. Absolutely not puking. Definitely going to puke.”
Vitreous fluid oozes between my fingers as I complete the extraction.
I gag, protein bar threatening a reappearance. I’ve gotten my hands dirty—literally—plenty of times, but something about eyes triggers a reaction I can’t override.
“This is so much worse than I anticipated,” I mutter, placing Blackwell’s eye in a plastic bag. I shudder, wiping sweat from my forehead with my forearm.
