Page 48 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

I turn to the monitors—at least six flat screens mounted on the wall, displaying different areas of the penthouse in high definition. The living room appears empty. The kitchen, too. The hallway leading to the bedroom shows no movement. Every entrance and exit point is under constant surveillance.

“I can see the entire apartment on his security system,” I whisper. “But there’s no camera in here. The panic room itself is a blind spot.”

A small desk beneath the monitors holds communication equipment and what looks like a satellite phone. This space wasn’t designed for a few hours of refuge—Blackwell could live here for days, maybe even weeks, with the right supplies.

The air seems different down here, too. Filtered, recycled, with a subtle metallic tang that reminds me I’m in a sealed environment. The kind where screams wouldn’t carry beyond these walls.

“Makes sense,” Xander replies. “Blackwell wouldn’t want recordings of whatever happens in there. ”

I pull out the compact mirror camera, angling it through the vent slats to give the team a view.

“Excellent,” Xander’s voice sounds in my ear. “Now, remove the vent cover. Remember, counter-clockwise.”

I begin working on the screws. One comes loose easily, dropping into my waiting palm. The second takes more effort, my fingers slipping twice before it gives.

“Two down, two to go,” I murmur.

A sudden, loud crash from somewhere in the building makes me jump, banging my head against the metal shaft.

“What the hell was that?” I snap, rubbing my skull.

“Distraction,” Darius answers through the comms. “First phase. Keep going.”

The third screw comes out just as another crash reverberates, followed by shouting.

“Is everything okay out there?” I ask.

Calloway’s voice fills my ear, sounding altogether too amused. “Just creating ambiance. Apparently, Lazlo took ‘cause a distraction’ literally. He’s...redistributing artwork in the main gallery.”

“By which he means,” Darius cuts in, “Lazlo just toppled a six-foot marble statue of Aphrodite through a glass display case.”

“It was hideous,” Lazlo defends. “I did Blackwell a favor.”

I bite back a laugh as I work on the last screw. “Almost through here.”

“Security’s responding,” Thorne reports, his voice calm as ever, “as planned.”

The last screw gives way, and I remove the vent cover, setting it aside. I wiggle forward until my head and shoulders emerge into the room. With an ungraceful scramble, I pull myself through the opening and drop to the floor.

“I’m in,” I whisper.

My heart thuds against my ribs as I scan the security monitors.

On screen three, a blur of movement catches my eye. Xander.

“I see you,” I whisper into the comms. “Three guards heading toward the east wing where Lazlo’s creating his art installation. None watching the monitors.”

I glance at the main security desk feed. The guard who should be watching these screens is standing up, neck craned toward the commotion.

“You’re clear all the way to the bedroom,” I say.

He moves past the living room, ducking below windows with their sweeping views of Boston’s skyline. The corridor to the master bedroom stretches ahead of him on monitor four. I hold my breath as he advances, watching for any sign of movement.

I study the control panel near the panic room’s entrance. It’s sleek, minimal—a keypad and a fingerprint scanner.

“We’ve got a problem,” I say. “There’s biometric security here.”

“As expected,” Thorne’s voice cuts in. “Check your right pocket.”

I pat down the pocket of my black tactical pants and pull out what looks like a thin film.

“What am I looking at?” I ask.

“Synthetic fingerprint. Lazlo created it from a champagne flute Blackwell used at the charity auction.”

My eyes widen. “You guys are terrifying. ”

“Thank you,” four voices respond simultaneously.

On the monitor, I watch Xander reach the office.

I wrap it around my finger and press the synthetic fingerprint against the scanner. A green light flashes.

“We’re in,” I announce, pressing the release button.

The metal door slides open.

Xander stands in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. His eyes lock with mine through his mask, and despite the darkness of the moment—what we’re here to do—I feel a surge of something electric pass between us.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, stepping inside.

Xander crosses to me in two long strides, and before I can think, his hands frame my face. His eyes search mine for a heartbeat, intense beneath the edge of his black beanie.

His fingers find the edge of my mask, tugging it up, then his own.

His lips find mine, crashing against me with an urgency that steals my breath.

I melt into him, my body responding before my brain can catch up. My gloved hands grip the front of his tactical vest, pulling him closer with a desperation that should frighten me. His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me as he presses me against the wall.

“Jesus Christ, this is gross. We can still hear you guys, you know.” Lazlo’s voice cuts through our moment, crackling in our earpieces.

I pull away from Xander, breathless and disoriented. His eyes stay locked on mine, pupils blown wide, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth before we tug our masks back into place .

“Sorry,” I whisper, touching my fingers to my swollen lips.

“Don’t be,” Xander murmurs, only for me.

“Seriously,” Lazlo continues in our ears. “I can hear you breathing. Like, every little gross wet noise. It’s like being trapped inside someone else’s porn session. At least put us on mute.”

Xander’s lips quirk up at one corner as he scans the panic room. “How long before Blackwell returns?”

“An hour, give or take,” Calloway says.

Xander pulls off his backpack and unzips it. “Time to prepare our welcome party.”