Page 1 of Hunting Brooklyn (Stalkers in the Woods #5)

Prologue

Slade

M y gloved fingers drag along the inside seam of the elevator’s service panel, seeking the slight misalignment I left hours ago.

Not a sound in the shaft except the rising tremor of the counterweight and my own breathing.

Above, the executive suites of the building bloom in amber light, sleeping giants waiting to be gutted.

I count the floors by vibration, not by sight; the riser cable’s hum betrays the approach to level forty-one. In this world, trust is for the desperate and the dead, so I test the kill switch on the elevator camera a second time before the doors part. Red goes to black. My cue.

The service hallway is nothing. Blank carpet, emergency lighting, a few landscape prints hung for the benefit of cleaning staff and the occasional mid-level peon.

The air is chill, the recycled ozone tang reminding me I am not in a real city, not really, but a vertical facsimile built for men who plan to die behind locked glass.

I don’t bother with the main corridor; that’s where the real cameras feed straight to security.

Instead, I slip left, trailing the invisible abyss of dead space I mapped last week, where the wireless overlap leaves a margin wide enough for a cat or a careful man.

Fucking Kairo and his death missions. Should have been Creed, but apparently the hunt was more important.

Beyond the first blind spot, I find the utility access panel—just as I left it.

I pop the cover, bypass the alarm with a paper-thin transponder, and tap into the building’s secondary grid.

Johannesburg’s best and brightest sleep behind three-factor authentication, but nobody ever patches the legacy boards.

Five keystrokes, and the suite alarms report “all clear” even if someone breaks a window or sets the carpet on fire.

I thumb the transponder into my pocket and wipe the panel with a square of alcohol.

I know exactly which cleaners use this floor—two Zulu women, one Portuguese, none of whom give a shit about the state of an aluminum access hatch at dawn.

But I don’t leave fingerprints because I don’t underestimate the boredom of the ambitious or the curiosity of the terminally underpaid.

I reach the end of the corridor, counting footsteps and the static hiss of the fluorescents overhead. At the T-junction, a convex mirror bounces a distorted view of the world.

The suite’s outer doors are glass, heavy, inset with some pseudo-Scandinavian logo—ten intertwined rings on top of an electric grid.

It’s pretentious and stupid. All to convey the power of his energy empire.

I slip a hand into my jacket, touch the cold weight of the suppressed pistol, then withdraw a slender wedge of plastic from my pocket.

I trace the seam between door and jamb, slip the card home, and in three seconds I am through.

Inside, the office is as I expected: a showcase for someone’s ego, not a workspace.

Each step sinks into midnight-blue carpet that looks like it costs more than my car.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook a dead city, pinpricked by the occasional traffic light, each one a distant accusation.

Desks are burnished steel, the chairs anonymous and predatory.

There’s a smell of lemon oil and very old money.

I take my time moving to the CEO’s inner sanctum.

No need for rush; his driver logs show he won’t arrive until six fifteen, and the city below is still cocooned in its own paranoia.

I scan the suite for sensors—two by the door, one embedded in the smoke alarm, and a pinhole cam set into the base of a credenza.

The first two are already looped, the last is child’s play.

I slide a magnetic coin from my palm and clamp it over the pinhole.

Lens flare: the universal sign of a malfunction.

Someone will notice, eventually, but not yet.

I wait in the dark, standing behind the CEO’s desk, breathing in the silence.

The only light comes from the faint glow of a wireless charging dock, the rim of a desk lamp set to minimum.

My eyes adjust. I take in the details: a crystal decanter still half-full of twelve-year whiskey, a faux-leather desk pad with a monogrammed fountain pen, and a trio of framed photographs.

Wife, daughter, dog. I study the faces, and something about the way his daughter looks so sweet and innocent has me just about second guessing this.

She’s beautiful. Thick as fuck with big thighs and a soft stomach.

My ideal woman. Her big blue eyes shine and on her lips plays a secretive smile.

She’s everything, and yet nothing. Tearing my eyes away, I sit in his chair. I don’t need ghosts.

The handgun is already suppressed, the slide locked back, magazine checked and rechecked. My gloves are thin, black nitrile—not the latex most prefer, but a variant that leaves no powder, no trace for an overeager forensics tech.

At six twelve, the elevator dings. I count the seconds until the glass doors slide open.

The CEO enters exactly on time, his gait betraying the sort of over-confidence only the untouchable can afford.

His suit is charcoal, tailored within an inch of its life, and his hair is gray but perfect.

He smells faintly of sandalwood and the synthetic sweetness of vitamin supplements.

He doesn’t see me… not at first. He sets his briefcase down, shrugs off his jacket, and walks to the windows, hands clasped behind his back. He stands there a moment, staring out at the dying city, his reflection a ghost against the darkness.

I step forward, silent as a cat. I don’t announce myself. There’s no need for it. Death is part of our business and it’s just his turn. He only turns when the suppressed gun’s muzzle rests against the back of his head.

He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t speak. Maybe he knows why, maybe he doesn’t, but he stands very still. He closes his eyes.

I fire once. There’s a wet sound and then nothing. The body crumples forward, folding at the knees, forehead leaving a brilliant red brushstroke across the glass before settling to the carpet. Blood seeps outward in a slow, deliberate circle, soaking into the blue, darkening to black.

Holstering the weapon and kneeling by the corpse, my hands move with confidence.

Searching his pockets: wallet, keycard, a folded slip of paper with a single phone number.

I snap pictures of the contents, then place them back as found.

I don’t touch the briefcase—there’s nothing in it I need.

Snapping one more of his blown-out brains, I text Kairo that it’s done.

Dusting off my hands, I move to the wall safe behind some “award-winning” abstract sculpture.

The combination is a joke, and the security override was posted in the company’s own employee portal three years ago.

Inside, the documents: hardcopy ledgers, three USB drives, and a burn phone.

I take photos of each page, careful not to leave a shadow or a smudge.

When I’m finished, I head back and look at the body.

The bullet entered just behind the right ear, exited below the left eye.

Instant. Minimal suffering. Even in death, the man holds his dignity—a privilege.

I feel nothing because there’s nothing to feel.

Just a simple execution of the competition that was encroaching on our territory.

I check the scene twice, once forward and once in reverse, replaying every movement in my mind’s eye.

The sense of satisfaction that floods me is intense.

Almost overwhelming. No evidence, no signature, nothing but the memory of a moment.

I slip out the same way I entered, gliding through the hallways like a shadow with somewhere better to be.

I reach the stairwell. Behind me, the city’s crown jewel has a new vacancy, a new wound. By the time the world wakes up, I will be another face in the crowd, already halfway gone.

Control is not a choice. It’s the only thing that matters.

On floor twenty-six, I stop at the garbage can: toss the gloves, shed the tailored overcoat, switch to a nondescript navy windbreaker, slip the suit jacket and tie into a canvas bag.

By the time I reach the ground floor, I am every other man in the building—face smooth, hair mussed just enough, badge clipped to the pocket with a name that’s never been mine.

I walk past security with a bored nod, bracing for the one percent chance the night shift operator decides to cross-check faces with the outflow log.

He doesn’t. Nobody ever does, not really.

The lobby hums with early arrivals, each one chasing a different flavor of ambition.

Phones to ears, bags slung tight across torsos, caffeine pulsing through the herd.

Nobody notices me, except for the one secretary with resting predatory smile; she clocks my presence, but not my purpose.

In a city of twelve million, the odds are always with the ghost.

Outside, Johannesburg is breaking into morning with the reluctant clarity of a hangover.

The sky is a bruised violet, the glass towers stretching upward to spear the first anemic rays of the sun.

Traffic is beginning to coagulate, the arterial streets already throbbing with impatience.

I cut north, away from the main entrance, shoes slapping cleanly on damp concrete.

A street vendor is setting up a cart near the corner, the aroma of hot oil and bread punctuating the metallic edge of the city air.

I walk fast, but not too fast. I allow myself one glance back: the building stands undisturbed, reflecting gold and gray in the light of morning. Inside, the body I left will not be found for another hour, maybe two. The world continues, blithely unaware of its fresh vacancy.

Then I see her.