Page 25 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Xander

“ C ome on, show me something,” I mutter, fingers flying across the keyboard as I switch between camera angles.

I log in to the city’s traffic camera network, something I shouldn’t have access to but gained years ago during a job involving a corrupt traffic commissioner. Ethics are flexible when you’ve got blackmail material on the right people.

The feed loads, showing intersections near the Boston Sentinel building. I create a timeline based on Oakley’s description of the attack, narrowing my search to a thirty-minute window.

There, a dark van with no plates circles the block three times before parking. The timestamp matches.

I zoom in, enhancement algorithms cleaning up the grainy footage.

“Found you, assholes.”

I follow their route through the city’s electronic eye network, jumping from camera to camera as the van moves north, then east, turning onto an access road that leads to an area with spotty coverage.

I pull up property records, cross-referenced with known Blackwell holdings through shell companies. Three potential locations.

This operation violates every protocol I’ve established over the years. No surveillance period. No dossier building. No planned kill scenario crafted to deliver justice that reflects their crimes.

Only three dead men walking who touched what’s mine.

I gather my equipment. Glock 19 with suppressor, latex gloves, face mask, black clothing, disposable booties for my shoes.

Then I go hunting.

The first house sits dark and silent, a modest colonial lost among dozens just like it in this forgettable suburb. I approach from the rear, the thermal scanner confirming what my instincts already told me—empty. Another property in Blackwell’s vast portfolio of shells within shells.

I return to my car parked three blocks away and pull up coordinates for the second location. Twenty minutes east.

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 the driveway 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. The third 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 at the 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 my tools 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.

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 at his 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.