Page 65 of X Marks the Stalker
A toilet flush shatters the silence.
Shit.
I whip the Glock back out, raising it as the bathroom door swings open. A tattooed refrigerator with legs fills the doorway. Taller and broader than the others, shirtless, with gang ink sprawled across his torso. His eyes widen before narrowing with recognition.
“You motherfucker—” He lunges at me, covering the distance with surprising speed for his size.
No time for proper aim. I fire, but he’s already moving. The bullet tears a chunk from his shoulder, blood spattering across the peeling wallpaper. He slams into me, a locomotive in human form, knocking the gun from my hand.
We crash into the kitchen counter, ceramic mugs shattering underfoot. His hands clamp around my throat, massive fingers crushing my windpipe. The pressure builds, blood vessels in my eyes swelling, my face burning.
“Who sent you?” he growls, squeezing harder.
I can’t speak, can’t breathe. My vision blurs at the edges. He’s at least forty pounds heavier, all of it muscle. I grab athis face, trying to gouge his eyes, but he jerks his head back, maintaining his grip.
The locket. I feel it pressing against my ribs as he pins me against the counter. Oakley’s face flashes in my mind.
I drive my knee up, aiming for his groin, but connecting with his thigh instead. It’s enough to make him shift his weight. I twist sideways, creating just enough space to reach down to my ankle.
My fingers close around the handle of my tactical knife.
He notices too late. I drive the blade into his side, just beneath the rib cage, angling upward toward his heart. The steel slides through muscle, between ribs, into soft organs. He roars, grip loosening just enough for a desperate breath. His fist connects with my jaw before I can dodge, snapping my head back. Pain explodes across my face.
We crash across the kitchen, upending chairs, smashing into walls. No calculated execution here—just primal survival, messy and desperate. He bleeds with every movement, dark arterial blood spurting through his fingers as he clutches his side. He remains dangerous, fueled by adrenaline and rage. The knife stays embedded in his side, my hands empty.
He slams me backward into the refrigerator, the impact shooting pain down my spine, magnets and takeout menus raining down around us. His blood smears across my chest, hot and slick. My hand searches behind me, finding a heavy glass bottle.
I swing it with all my remaining strength, connecting with his temple. Glass shatters, liquor splashing over both of us. He staggers but doesn’t fall.
Fuck. Die Already.
My gun. Where’s my gun?
I spot it under the kitchen table, just feet away. The giant shakes his head, blood streaming from his face. I dive for the weapon.
He grabs my ankle, dragging me back. I kick with my free leg, connecting with his knee. The joint cracks sideways with a wet pop, white bone punching through skin. He stumbles, momentarily unbalanced.
It’s enough.
I lunge forward, seize the gun, and roll onto my back.
He charges again, nearly on top of me, blood pouring from his side. His eyes burn with murderous rage.
I pull the trigger twice.
The rounds hit center mass this time. He freezes mid-step, confusion crossing his face. Then he topples forward, crashing to the floor beside me, the impact shaking the room.
“Shit, shit, shit.” I strain for sounds of awakening neighbors. A dog barks down the street. Lights flicker on in a house across the way.
I push myself to my feet, wincing as pain lances through my ribs.
The big man’s body blocks most of the kitchen floor, blood pooling beneath him. I step around it, retrieving my knife and wiping it clean on his shirt. Four bodies instead of three. Sloppy.
This operation resembles brain surgery performed with a rusty spoon and duct tape. I shattered every protocol established over years of careful work. No proper surveillance, no planning, blind rage driving me into a clusterfuck I barely controlled.
I check my watch. Two minutes to clear out beforediscovery risk multiplies. Every second increases the chance that someone heard something, that an insomniac neighbor spotted movement through their blinds.
More critically, I need to vanish before Blackwell discovers his men aren’t responding. The moment he realizes someone hit his operation, he’ll implement countermeasures, making it harder to reach him. This momentum window slams shut fast.
