Page 141 of X Marks the Stalker
“God, I hope so.”
I force myself up another flight, my thighs burning in protest. “How many more?”
“Eleven flights to go,” Darius replies.
“Empty wrappers!” I mutter, pulling a Snickers bar from my jacket’s hidden inner pocket. Emergency fuel. “You’d think billionaire buildings would have better stair access.”
“They’re designed to discourage people like you from sneaking in.”
“People trying to save lives?”
“People without elevator access codes.”
Fair point.
By the twenty-ish floor, I’m questioning my life choices. “Next time,” I gasp, “I’m killing someone who lives on the ground floor.”
“There’s a concerning level of truth to that statement,” Thorne’s voice cuts in, cool and detached.
Three more flights. My lungs burn. My calves scream with each step. But Xander is running out of oxygen, so I keep moving. Up. Always up.
I reach the penthouse level. I press my ear against the fire door, listening. Nothing.
“Darius, what am I looking at through this door?”
“One officer, standing guard. Young. Probably a rookie. He’s on his phone, not paying attention.”
I crack the door open a fraction. The hallway stretches before me, all marble and minimalist art. At the far end stands a uniformed officer, just as Darius described. He’s leaning against the wall, scrolling on his phone, looking bored out of his mind.
I’ve killed now, but this guy’s just doing his job.
The rookie cop looks barely old enough to drink. If I step out there right now, what then? This feels different. Like crossing a line I’m not ready to cross.
I wipe sweat from my forehead, hesitating with my hand on the door. My other hand clutches the syringe pen Thorne gave me, but could I use it? On a kid just doing his job?
“You’re taking too long,” Darius’ voice hisses in my ear. “Every minute?—”
“I know,” I whisper back. “Xander’s oxygen. I know. I just...”
A sound from the elevator causes me to freeze. The doors slide open with a soft chime. An elderly man shuffles out, stooped and confused. His rumpled suit hangs from his frame like clothes on a scarecrow, with wispy white hair framing a spotted scalp. He looks around, bewildered.
“Sir? Sir!” The young officer straightens, hand moving to his weapon. “This area is restricted. You need to go back downstairs.”
The old man shuffles toward him, looking disoriented. “I’m looking for apartment 4B.” His voice is reedy and thin. “Is this not the fourth floor?”
“Sir, you’re on the penthouse level. You need to get to the lobby. The building is on lockdown.”
The old man takes another step forward, then breaks into a hacking cough that bends him double. The young guard’s eyes widen in alarm, and he takes a quick step back.
“Sir! Stop right there!” The guard’s voice rises in panic. His hand now grips his gun, but he doesn’t draw it. “There’s a contagious situation downstairs. You need to maintain distance!”
The old man continues coughing, stumbling forward. “I don’t—” Hack. Wheeze. “I don’t feel well.”
“Sir! Step back now!” The guard’s voice cracks with fear.
As if his legs give out, the elderly man pitches forward, collapsing into the young officer. They both go down in a tangle of limbs.
“Get off! Sir!” The guard’s voice is muffled, panicked.
