Page 63 of X Marks the Stalker
Numbers calculate automatically in my brain. If I help, risk to Hemlock Society operations increases by thirty-one percent, personal exposure jumps to dangerous levels, but her survival probability increases by seventy-eight percent.
The most logical choice is obvious. But logic has nothing to do with why I’m still here.
“You should put fresh ice on that eye,” I say, defaulting to practical concerns when emotions become too complex to process.
She doesn’t move, just keeps looking at me with that unwavering stare.
“I need to go,” I say, standing.
Her hand catches mine before I can turn away, fingers wrapping around my wrist with surprising strength.
“Does this mean you’ll help me?”
I should say no.
“Stay safe,” I say, pulling my hand free. The words hang in the air, too small for what I mean, too shallow for what I want to promise. A poor substitute for everything I can’t bring myself to say. “I’ll be in touch soon.”
I turn toward the door, forcing my feet to move. I don’t look back, but her whisper follows me into the hallway.
“Thank you.”
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a moment.
They won’t touch her again.
They won’t get the chance.
Chapter 16
Xander
“Come on, show me something,” I mutter, fingers flying across the keyboard as I switch between camera angles.
I log in to the city’s traffic camera network, something I shouldn’t have access to but gained years ago during a job involving a corrupt traffic commissioner. Ethics are flexible when you’ve got blackmail material on the right people.
The feed loads, showing intersections near the Boston Sentinel building. I create a timeline based on Oakley’s description of the attack, narrowing my search to a thirty-minute window.
There, a dark van with no plates circles the block three times before parking. The timestamp matches.
I zoom in, enhancement algorithms cleaning up the grainy footage.
“Found you, assholes.”
I follow their route through the city’selectronic eye network, jumping from camera to camera as the van moves north, then east, turning onto an access road that leads to an area with spotty coverage.
I pull up property records, cross-referenced with known Blackwell holdings through shell companies. Three potential locations.
This operation violates every protocol I’ve established over the years. No surveillance period. No dossier building. No planned kill scenario crafted to deliver justice that reflects their crimes.
Only three dead men walking who touched what’s mine.
I gather my equipment. Glock 19 with suppressor, latex gloves, face mask, black clothing, disposable booties for my shoes.
Then I go hunting.
The first house sits dark and silent, a modest colonial lost among dozens just like it in this forgettable suburb. I approach from the rear, the thermal scanner confirming what my instincts already told me—empty. Another property in Blackwell’s vast portfolio of shells within shells.
I return to my car parked three blocks away and pull up coordinates for the second location. Twenty minutes east.
