Page 139 of X Marks the Stalker
“Exactly,” Lazlo says, unzipping his bag to reveal what looks like a theatrical makeup kit. “And I’ve been perfecting my synthetic hemorrhagic fever presentation for months. The pustules alone took six trial runs to get right.”
The rest of us stare at him.
“What?” He shrugs. “Everyone needs a hobby.”
“That’s...brilliant,” I admit. “A forced evacuation would clear most of the police from the scene.”
Thorne studies the building schematics on one monitor. “Calloway, Lazlo, if you’re in, you’ll need to positionyourselves in the lobby first. Once Oakley and I are inside, trigger your...performance. Create enough panic to force evacuation downward and out, leaving the penthouse clear.”
“I have an entire portfolio of biological threats I’ve been dying to try out,” Lazlo says, digging through his medical bag with enthusiasm.
“Count me in.” Calloway’s eyes light up. “A biohazard scenario is the perfect canvas for my performance art skills. I’ve been conceptualizing a piece on the intersection of disease and modern society.”
“You had me at pustules,” Lazlo grins, pulling out a makeup palette with colors no human skin should ever naturally display. “I’m thinking of hemorrhagic fever with some artistic liberties. Do we want traditional blood-from-the-eyes, or something more avant-garde? I’ve been experimenting with a technique where the lesions appear to pulse.”
“Glorious,” Calloway claps his hands together. “We’ll create a masterpiece of medical horror. I’m thinking something modernist. Rothko-inspired lesions, perhaps?”
“You’re both enjoying this way too much,” I mutter, watching Lazlo organize his vials of fake bodily fluids with the precision of a sommelier arranging wine bottles. But beneath my disgust, relief floods through me. They’re going to help.
“Ambrose,” Thorne says, “we’ll need someone coordinating communications. Are you in?”
Ambrose straightens, nodding. “I’ll establish a secure tactical command position and maintain operational oversight.” He pauses when we all stare at him. “What? I served in Delta Force Team Six Rangers.”
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is happening. We’re going to rescue Xander.
“Operation Rescue Stalker Boy is a go,” Lazlo declares, pulling out vials of theatrical blood. “Now, who wants to be patient zero? The mortality rate is spectacular.”
Twenty minutes later,we’re huddled in a van parked two blocks from Blackwell’s building. Darius orchestrates chaos across the city from his laptop while Lazlo transforms Calloway into a walking biohazard.
“Bomb threat reported at South Station,” Darius says, monitoring police channels. “Another at City Hall. They’re scrambling units from across the district.”
“Still too many officers at the scene,” Thorne notes, studying the surveillance feeds.
“That’s where we come in,” Lazlo says, applying gray-green makeup to Calloway’s face with surprising skill. “The key to a convincing biological threat is the right shade of pallor and convincing mucous membrane discoloration.”
I watch in morbid fascination as Lazlo creates realistic-looking lesions along Calloway’s jawline. “Where did you learn to do this?”
“Community theater.” Lazlo dabs theatrical blood around Calloway’s nose.
My fingers find the silver locket around my neck. I picture Xander trapped in that vault, oxygen depleting with every breath.
“How much air does he have left?” I ask.
“High-security vaults are virtually airtight,” Thorne says, his voice measured. “Six to ten hours of breathable air, assuming standard dimensions.”
I check my watch. “It’s been almost five hours. We need to hurry.”
“Stand by for tactical oversight deployment,” Ambrose announces through our earpieces from his position back at headquarters. “I’m initiating Operation Eagle Talon Wolfpack.”
“Is he always like this?” I whisper to Thorne.
“Unfortunately,” Thorne mutters.
Calloway practices his stagger, then collapses dramatically onto the floor of the van. Lazlo critiques his performance, suggesting more labored breathing and perhaps some convincing vomit.
“I brought theatrical blood that smells like actual blood,” Lazlo says, pulling out a small vial. “It contains trace amounts of iron oxide for authenticity. Had a small sample analyzed at the hospital lab. They think I’m writing a medical thriller.”
“Will that be enough to get them rushing down?”
