Page 26 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

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 before discovery 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.

I need to act now.

The security system announces 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 realizing the 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 cardiac arrhythmia. 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?”

“Time constraints. I also need medical supplies. Specialized ones for opening a skull.” I glance at my screen, at the images of Wendell’s victims. “I want him to experience what his patients felt. I want him conscious while I work.”

“Jesus, Xander.” Lazlo sounds impressed rather than disturbed. “That’s twisted. I love it.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“I’ll text you a list. There’s a medical supply warehouse with minimal security. I can have everything ready by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

After hanging up, I return to my planning. Every detail matters. Every contingency must be planned for.

My phone pings with Lazlo’s list. Cranial drill. Retractors. Neural probes.

I organize my approach. Entry points. Security bypass. Staff schedules. Escape routes. Each component locks into sequence.

By dawn, I have a complete plan for dealing with Dr. Malcolm Wendell. The monster who thinks a medical license gives him the right to violate others will experience his own medicine. Poetic justice, delivered with surgical precision.

And after Wendell, Blackwell. After Blackwell, anyone else who dares touch what’s mine.