Page 64 of X Marks the Stalker
Each minute ticks by in agonizing slowness. The memory of Oakley’s split lip, her bruised cheekbone, the space where her mother’s locket should hang—it all burns behind my eyelids.
I park on a side street and move through backyards, hugging shadows. The neighborhood outranks the last—homes spaced further apart, yards deeper, fewer streetlights. Better hunting ground.
I freeze when I spot it. A windowless van parked in thedriveway of a modest split-level. Same model, same dark color as the one from the traffic footage. My heartbeat accelerates, then steadies as training kicks in.
“Bingo,” I whisper, setting down my pack and removing my scanner.
Thermal imaging shows three heat signatures inside. Not moving. Probably asleep. I scan the rest of the house. There’s a room tucked behind the kitchen, just out of view. My gut prickles at the oversight, but the scanner shows no movement. I make a mental note to check it.
I circle the property, identifying entry points and security measures. Two cameras, basic motion sensors, nothing sophisticated.
I double-check my weapons, securing the suppressor. My fingers trace the familiar outline of the tactical knife strapped to my calf. I pull on thin latex gloves, the material stretching over my skin with a clinical snap.
The rage I felt watching Oakley’s tears recedes, replaced by the cold precision I need now. Revenge is emotional. Justice requires calculation.
Inside, the stench hits me first. Rancid takeout containers, stale beer, sweat-soaked clothes piled in corners, and underlying everything, the unmistakable sour-sweet odor of marijuana and unwashed bodies. My nostrils flare, stomach clenching against the assault. Beer cans and fast food wrappers blanket every surface. A pizza box sits open, crusted with something green. I navigate the space in silence, gun raised, listening.
Snoring guides me to the first man, sprawled across a stained mattress on the floor. The second sleeps in a recliner, mouth open, deep in what I suspect is a drunken stupor. Thethird occupies a bedroom converted from what might have been an office.
I stand in the doorway, watching them sleep. In a perfect world, I’d have time to create something more fitting. Something that would make them understand the pain they caused before they died. Something worthy of the Hemlock Society’s standards.
But sometimes efficiency trumps artistry.
I start with the recliner occupant. The suppressed shot makes a sound no louder than a dropped book. The round punches through his left eye, the back of his skull erupting in a spray of bone fragments and gray matter that speckles the wall behind him. His body convulses once, then slackens.
Before the echo fades, I’ve moved to the mattress, pressing the suppressor against the temple of the second man. His skin dimples under the pressure. I pull the trigger, the pillow beneath him darkening as blood and cerebrospinal fluid soak through the cheap fabric. His leg spasms, foot drumming against the floor.
The third—the one who tore Oakley’s locket away—startles awake at some subconscious awareness of danger. His eyes widen as he registers my masked face, his hand fumbling under his pillow.
“Too slow,” I murmur, and put a round through each kneecap. His scream dies in his throat as I press the gun barrel between his eyes.
“She had a locket. Where is it?”
His eyes dart sideways, then down at the mattress. My second shot takes his jaw off. Blood fountains from the wound, drenching the sheets. He gurgles, hands clutching atthe ruin of his face. I watch him suffer for thirty seconds, remembering Oakley’s tears.
“That’s for touching her.” The final round tunnels through his frontal lobe. His body arches and collapses in a heap of twitching limbs.
The locket isn’t on the bed. Not in his pants pockets, not around his neck. A surge of panic rises in my throat. If they’ve already passed it along to Blackwell?—
I drop to my knees, scanning the floor. A glint catches my eye near the bed frame. I reach under the bed, fingertips brushing against the chain.
The locket.
I pull it out, relief washing through me as I examine it in my palm. A simple oval pendant on a delicate chain, tarnished with age and constant wear. The clasp is broken where it was yanked from Oakley’s neck, several links dangling loose.
“You filth. You didn’t even care about it,” I whisper to the cooling corpse on the bed, blood still seeping into the mattress beneath him. “You took the only thing she had left of her mother just for spite.”
This wasn’t some trophy proudly displayed or valuable item secured away. They’d discarded it on the floor like trash, forgotten within minutes of the attack. Something precious enough that Oakley wept over its loss meant nothing to them.
I close my fingers around it, feeling its significance. My thumb brushes over the surface, imagining her relief when I return it.
No one hurts her. Ever again.
I slip the locket into my jacket pocket, separate from mytools and weapons. It sits there, a tiny warm spot against my chest as I move through the house, completing my work.
I conduct a final sweep, checking for anything that might connect to me or contain useful information about Blackwell’s operations. Burner phones, cash in small denominations, weapons that I leave in place.
I move toward the back door, the same way I entered, stepping around the takeout containers and beer bottles. The house has fallen silent. No breathing, no movement. Just the faint tick of a clock from somewhere in the kitchen.
