Page 66 of X Marks the Stalker
I need to act now.
The security systemannounces my arrival with a soft beep as I enter my apartment. I place Oakley’s locket on my desk before heading to the shower.
The water scalds my skin, turning pink as it swirls down the drain, carrying away the blood of four men. I’ve been thorough. No evidence connects me to those four bodies.
Four fewer of Blackwell’s thugs. Not nearly enough to pay for the bruises on Oakley’s face.
I press my forehead against the shower tile, letting the water cascade down my back. I need a plan. Not just for retrieving the information that connects Blackwell to her parents’ deaths, but for dismantling his entire operation. The man has spent decades building his empire on corruption and murder. Taking him down requires more than my usual method.
I’ll need to increase surveillance on his primary residence, monitor his key lieutenants, and map his movement patterns.
I’ll also need to keep Oakley safe without her realizingthe extent of my protection. She’s stubborn, reckless. She’ll resist being sidelined, demand involvement.
And she’s mine to protect.
The possessive pronoun feels alien, yet right. When did that happen? When did she shift from surveillance subject to...something else?
But I like it.My woman. Mine.
After drying off, I pull on gray sweatpants and return to my workstation. My mind strays to Oakley—her shoulders small under my arm, her head nestled against my chest. The purple-blue bruise marking her cheekbone, the split in her lower lip drawing my gaze, my fingertips, my silent promise to make it right.
“Focus, Rhodes,” I mutter, pulling up the secure server where I store my case files. “I need to finish this first.”
Dr. Malcolm Wendell stares back at me from my screen. Chief neurosurgeon at Boston Memorial, respected researcher, philanthropist. To the public, a medical innovator saving lives. To me, a monster who experimented on vulnerable patients without consent.
I click through surveillance photos I’ve taken over the past weeks. Wendell leaving his Beacon Hill brownstone. Wendell performing surgery.
Brain scans of his victims show unauthorized implants—experimental neural interfaces tested on patients too poor or mentally compromised to understand what was happening. Three died from complications. Two more were left with permanent disabilities. All concealed behind falsified records and intimidated staff.
“You had another week,” I tell his image. “But plans changed.”
The images of Wendell’s victims blur with Oakley’s bruised face in my mind. Vulnerable. Exploited. Left broken by men who thought themselves untouchable.
Wendell is no different. Another predator who hides behind wealth and influence, preying on those who can’t fight back. People like Oakley.
Not anymore. Wendell’s operation ends tomorrow, not next week. Blackwell’s empire will follow. I won’t stop until they all pay.
I pull up his schedule. Tomorrow night, he’s performing a demonstration surgery for visiting specialists. Afterward, he’ll return to his private clinic to document everything. Alone.
Perfect.
I prepare supplies. The rage toward Oakley’s attackers crystallizes into something colder, more focused. The methodical preparation, the calculated response—this I understand. This is my element.
Every tool fills its role in my kit. Restraints. Cameras. Custom security bypass software. The specialized blade selected for Wendell. The mirrors.
But as I review his case file one more time—the brain scans, the patient testimonies I’ve gathered, the falsified death certificates—I realize this isn’t enough. Wendell deserves something more...fitting.
I reach for my phone, dialing a familiar number.
“It’s five in the morning,” Lazlo answers, surprisingly alert.
“We’re both awake,” I reply, not bothering with pleasantries.
“True. I think I might have a rare form of cardiacarrhythmia. Been monitoring my pulse for the last hour. Either that or I’m just really excited about this new donut shop opening down the street.” A pause. “What’s up?”
“I need to accelerate the Wendell operation. Tomorrow night.”
“That’s...sudden.” His tone shifts. “Change of plans?”
