Page 9 of My Masked Stalker (Beautiful Stalkers #1)

KILLIAN

T he warehouse smells of oil, saltwater, and money. The kind of place where fortunes change hands without anyone ever signing a damn thing. I crouch on the mezzanine with Ethan’s steady breathing in my earpiece, watching the parade of Black Ash men below.

Cargo crates line the dock floor, stamped with Russian, Chinese, and half a dozen other languages, and I don’t need Ethan’s laptop to tell me they’re filled with things the government doesn’t want hitting American streets. Guns. Explosives. Maybe worse.

“They really leveled up,” Ethan murmurs in my ear. “This is no ordinary street crew. Last intel says they have three senators on their payroll. Whoever our client is, they’re aiming way above our pay grade.”

I grunt softly, my M110 SASS balanced against my shoulder, the crosshairs dancing over the shaved head of the man giving orders below. Viktor Kovalenko. Black Ash’s logistics head. Taking him out won’t kill the beast, but it’ll make it stumble.

I center him in my scope. Easy shot. Too easy.

My finger tightens on the trigger, my exhale steady as the world narrows to the curved line of Viktor’s skull through my glass. It would be so easy.

But my instincts won’t shut the fuck up. The hair on the back of my neck rises. Something’s off.

“Killian?” Ethan’s voice sharpens. “You waiting for a written invitation?”

I don’t answer. My eyes sweep the shadows, the catwalks, the rooflines opposite me. Too much movement below, too many guards positioned wrong. They’re not protecting the shipment—they’re protecting Viktor.

“It’s a setup,” I mutter.

And then the warehouse explodes in light.

Flood lamps sear my eyes, blinding white as my stomach drops. Fuck.

“Contact! Multiple shooters, high ground!” Ethan barks in my ear, his voice cracking with panic.

The first round punches into the steel beam two inches from my head, and the ricochet screams in my ear. I roll right, my shoulder slamming into the grate as I yank my rifle tight to my chest. Bullets chew the mezzanine floor where I’d been lying a second before.

“Get me an exit!” I snarl, pushing to my knees.

“I’m trying, I’m trying…” Ethan’s typing frantically, his voice tinny through the earpiece. “They’ve jammed half my feeds. Jesus Christ, they knew you were coming.”

No shit.

I sprint across the catwalk, my boots hammering the metal, guns flashing in my periphery as more shooters open fire. I pull out my Glock, dropping one, maybe two, but for every body I tag, another gun lights up.

The stairwell ahead is my only option. I throw myself at it, sliding down the railing as a storm of lead follows me.

A bullet catches my thigh halfway down, and white-hot pain tears up my leg.

I grunt, my teeth grinding as blood soaks my black cargo pants, but I don’t stop moving. Stopping means dying.

“Killian!” Ethan yells. “Talk to me?—”

“Leg,” I interrupt him with a hiss as I stumble onto the concrete. “Just a graze.” I think.

My vision blurs for half a second before adrenaline slams it back into focus again.

The warehouse is in chaos. Viktor’s guards scramble, shouting in Russian, automatic fire peppering the mezzanine I just abandoned. I drop behind a stack of crates, sucking air through clenched teeth. The copper stink of my blood mixes with the oil and salt of the dock.

“Reroute me, now!”

“On it, on it!” Ethan’s voice cuts, muffled swearing filling the comms. “Fuck, they’ve got the exterior covered. SUVs pulling up, four—no, five of them. They’re boxing you in.”

Of course they are.

I holster the Glock and chamber a round in my SASS, lean out, then put a bullet through the driver’s window of the nearest SUV. Glass explodes, and the man inside slumps against the wheel. The vehicle lurches, skids sideways, blocking the ramp just long enough to give me a shot at the dock doors.

I take it.

My leg screams with every step, wet heat dripping down into my boot, but I keep moving, rifle tucked to my shoulder. Another guard rounds the corner of a shipping crate. I don’t hesitate. Double tap—chest, head. He drops like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Two more on your six!” Ethan’s warning is a half-second late. The flash of bullets being fired in my direction burns my vision, rounds sparking off the steel column beside me. I duck, spin, fire. One body jerks back, the other lunges closer, knife in hand.

He’s fast, but I’m faster. I swing the SASS up like a club, the stock cracking into his temple with a sickening crunch. He folds, twitching, and I don’t wait to confirm he’s down.

“Cross, talk to me, dammit!” Ethan’s voice cracks. “You’re bleeding out, I can see it on thermal. You need to get the fuck out of there!”

“No shit,” I growl, slamming my shoulder into the dock door. It gives way with a screech of rusted hinges. Cold salt air slams into me, briny and sharp.

For half a second, I think I’ve made it.

Then headlights flare across the dock. Another SUV with blacked-out windows, coming straight at me.

“South pier!” Ethan barks. “Go now! Van’s inbound, I’ll cut you off at the loading bay. Move!”

I limp toward the pier, my rifle swinging on its strap against my chest. Every step is like fire in my thigh, blood leaking faster than I can clamp it with my gloved fingers. Another shot whines past my ear, close enough I feel the heat of it.

I duck behind a stack of pallets as the SUV skids sideways, doors opening. More Black Ash men spill out, guns leveled. My mag is almost dry. My vision narrows to a tunnel.

“Ethan—”

“Thirty seconds!” he shouts. “Hold!”

Thirty seconds in a gunfight might as well be a fucking eternity.

Emily’s smile flashes through my head. I’ve never seen it aimed at me, though. I don’t want to die before that happens.

Determined, I slam another round into the chamber, lean out, and fire. One guard goes down. I switch to my Glock again, pulling it one-handed from my thigh holster. My shots are quick and dirty. An assailant drops, another staggers. But more are coming. Fuck, there’s always more.

The world tilts for a second as my vision swims from blood loss, and my knee buckles. I brace against the pallet, dragging in air.

And then salvation roars around the corner.

The matte-black tactical van barrels down the dock, engine growling like a beast. The side door slides open before the van is fully stopped, Ethan hanging out with a suppressed MP7 in his hands. His pale face is tight with terror and fury as he sprays fire at the Syndicate men.

“Get in!”

I don’t think, I move. Limping, stumbling, firing until my Glock clicks empty.

I hurl myself at the van, half-falling into the open door as Ethan yanks me inside.

The metal floor rattles under my knees, my blood smearing dark streaks across it.

I collapse against the wall, chest heaving, the pain in my leg finally cutting through the adrenaline.

The door slams shut. Tires screech. Ethan must be back at the wheel. Bullets hammer the van’s reinforced plating.

I must have blacked out, because when I open my eyes next, the van is at a standstill, there’s no more gunfire, and Ethan is back by my side.

“Jesus Christ, Killian,” he gasps, shoving a pressure bandage hard against my thigh. I snarl at the white-hot pain, grabbing a strap to keep from passing out again.

“Viktor—” I grind out.

“They fucking knew. They knew about us. Black Ash has been watching us as much as we’ve been watching them.”

I close my eyes, head thumping against the van wall. My ears are still ringing, and my body aches. But somewhere in the back of my mind, all I can think about is Emily.

If they know about me, they could know about her. She could be in danger.

“We’re going to Damien,” Ethan says, his voice grim now, but steady with the kind of calm that comes when panic burns off. “He’ll patch you up before you bleed out.”

I grunt, darkness edging my vision again. This time, I open my eyes to Damien’s steadying sea-blue gaze.

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs before his gaze returns to the suturing he’s finishing up on my leg. He must’ve shot me up with something because it’s blissfully painless. “Why are you still getting shot at, brother? We’re far from the sandbox. Don’t tell me you missed it that much.”

I grunt with dark amusement. “It was Russians shooting at me this time.”

“I don’t want to know,” he replies with a shake of his head. “You two are gonna get yourselves killed.”

“We’d never do that to you, baby,” Ethan says, walking through the door with a greasy bag of fast food. Just what the doctor ordered.

“Hey, doc?” I hail Damien with a grin that feels droopy. “Think I’ll be good enough to chase a girl through a corn maze next week?”

“Fucking idiot.” Damien ties off the last suture and presses a bandage into place, his jaw tight. “You’re lucky the round didn’t chew deeper. You’d have bled out before I got to you.”

Ethan drops the greasy bag on the counter and fishes out a burger, unwrapping it like it’s a damn holiday. “Told him he was losing his edge. Maybe he’s just distracted.” His smirk cuts my way, but it doesn’t hide the worry in his eyes.

I grunt, closing my eyes. My tongue feels heavy, but the word slips out anyway. “Emily.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Ethan snorts. “Called it.”

Damien curses under his breath. “Jesus, Cross. You’re bleeding in my kitchen, and you’re thinking about that girl?”

“Mine,” I rasp, forcing my eyes open.

Damien shakes his head like I’ve officially lost it, muttering something about “obsessive assholes with a death wish.” Ethan just grins wider, stealing my fries.

I let them bicker, my eyelids drooping again. My leg throbs, my body feels like lead, but all I can picture is pale gray eyes in the moonlight… and a red cloak waiting for me.