Page 49 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

“ H ide,” Xander whispers, pulling me behind the sleek metal console just as the exterior security feed shows a black Bentley pulling into the private garage beneath the building.

My heart hammers against my ribcage. Pressed against Xander’s chest, I struggle to keep my breathing quiet while the panic room’s monitors flicker with multiple angles of Richard Blackwell’s penthouse. Watching his private world through these screens makes us voyeurs to a life built on blood money.

“He’s alone,” I whisper, scanning each feed. “He left the guards outside.”

On the main screen, Blackwell bursts through his front door like a cornered animal. His silver hair sticks up in tufts, his bespoke suit wrinkled as if he’s been sleeping in it.

“Look at him,” I breathe. “Like he can sense he’s going to die.”

Blackwell beelines for his bedroom, yanking his closet door open hard enough to dent the wall. He tosses a sleek black suitcase onto his king-sized bed.

“He’s running,” Xander murmurs against my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

The comm crackles in my ear. “Showtime in three, two, one...” Calloway’s voice purrs.

On the security feed covering the building’s art gallery space, a crimson explosion erupts. What looks like gallons of blood-red paint sprays across priceless artwork and pristine white walls.

Alarms shriek through the building’s security system, red warning lights flashing across our monitors.

“Jesus, what did you do?” I hiss into the comm.

“A little something I call ‘Crime Scene Number Five,’” Calloway replies, practically purring. “The red represents the bleeding corpse of capitalism, while the splatter pattern evokes the violent?—”

“Save the artist statement for your gallery opening,” Thorne cuts in. “Is it drawing enough attention?”

As if summoned, Blackwell’s personal phone rings. He snatches it up, his face contorting.

“What do you mean ‘vandalism’? I don’t care about the fucking art!” Blackwell shouts. “Who breached the building? How many? Do they have weapons?”

He continues stuffing clothes and documents into his suitcase while barking orders. Another monitor shows security guards rushing toward the gallery space, guns drawn.

“Sir,” a voice crackles through Blackwell’s phone, loud enough to carry through the monitors. “We have an unknown number of intruders. Protocol says you need to get to your panic room.”

“I just need five more minutes,” Blackwell snaps, wrestling with his suitcase zipper. “And we can leave.”

“Sir, we can’t guarantee your safety if you?—”

Another explosion rocks the building, close enough to vibrate through the soles of my boots.

“Jesus!” Blackwell shouts.

The monitor displaying the penthouse’s grand entrance hall transforms into chaos. Thick green smoke billows through the space, and bizarre mechanical contraptions—what appear to be wind-up teeth with legs—skitter across the marble floor.

“What the hell did you unleash, Lazlo?” Xander whispers into the comm.

“Medical grade smoke bombs,” Lazlo responds cheerfully.

“Non-toxic, but extremely disorienting. And the little guys? Just some prototypes I’ve been working on.

They’re programmed to seek body heat and make terrifying clicking sounds.

No real danger, but absolutely nightmare-inducing. I call them ‘anxiety incarnate.’ Fun.”

“Sir, you need to move now!” The security guard’s voice pitches higher.

On the monitor, Blackwell abandons his suitcase and dashes for his office. He slams the door, locks it, and moves toward the hidden entrance to the panic room—toward us.

“He’s coming,” I whisper, pressing deeper into our hiding spot.

Xander’s hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing once. His lips brush my ear. “Remember, follow the plan.”

The control panel beside the panic room door lights up as Blackwell’s fingerprint is scanned on the other side. My heart pounds so hard I’m certain it will give us away.

The hydraulic door slides open with a soft hiss.

Richard Blackwell—the man who destroyed my family, who had my source killed, who’s evaded justice for decades—steps into the panic room.

With us.

The door slides shut, sealing us in with Blackwell. His shoulders slump with relief.

That’s it. We’re locked inside.

Xander launches himself from our hiding spot. Before Blackwell registers our presence, Xander slams into him. They crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs and startled shouts. Blackwell’s phone skids across the floor toward me.

“What the—” Blackwell’s words die as Xander’s fist connects with his temple.

I pull the zip ties from my pocket and dash to where Blackwell lies stunned on the floor, his expensive suit rumpled beneath Xander’s weight.

“Get his arms,” Xander pants.

Blackwell thrashes as comprehension dawns. “Who the hell are you people? Do you have any idea who I am?”

“I’ll take ‘Things People Say Before They Die’ for $500, Alex,” Xander mutters, flipping Blackwell onto his stomach and pinning his arms behind his back.

I kneel beside them, cinching the thick plastic ties around Blackwell’s wrists with a satisfying zip-click.

“The chair,” I say, nodding toward the ergonomic office chair bolted beside the main console.

Together, we haul Blackwell’s struggling form across the room. His Italian leather shoes scrape against the floor .

“You can’t do this,” Blackwell gasps, blood trickling from his temple. “There are cameras everywhere. Security will?—”

“Security is a bit preoccupied,” I say, helping Xander position Blackwell in the chair.

We secure his torso with more zip ties, pulling them tight enough to make him wince. I bind his ankles to the chair legs while Xander circles behind, checking our handiwork.

“I have money,” Blackwell says, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll triple it.”

I step back to survey our work. Richard Blackwell—media mogul, real estate tycoon, murderer—secured to his own panic room chair. His hair sticks to his forehead, his eyes darting between us.

“Do you know who I am?” he screams.

“Do you know who I am?” I ask back, pulling up my mask.

Blackwell’s confident sneer doesn’t waver.

“No? Then let me tell you.” I step closer, invading his space until his expensive cologne and fear-sweat fill my nostrils. “I’m Oakley Novak. Daughter of Detective Sean Novak and Dr. Katherine Novak.”

Recognition flickers across his face—a microsecond tell before his mask returns.

“My father was investigating your organization. He found evidence linking you to human trafficking, money laundering, and three murders.” I lean in until our faces nearly touch. “You couldn’t let him continue, could you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blackwell says, but his voice betrays him with a slight tremor.

“You framed him for corruption. You fabricated evidence that he murdered my mother and then killed himself.” My voice stays steady. “A sixteen-year-old girl came home to find her parents’ bodies and a narrative that destroyed not just their lives, but their legacy.”

Blackwell’s eyes dart to the door, then to the security monitors.

“No one’s coming,” I say. “Just like no one came when Martin Reeves called for help. Or when those three girls disappeared from your Bayside property development.”

“You’re insane,” Blackwell stammers, attempting outrage that sounds like naked fear.

“I’ve spent twelve years tracking every move you make. I know about the offshore accounts. The judges you’ve paid off. The witnesses who have mysteriously changed their testimony or disappeared.”

Xander steps forward, knife gleaming in his hand. Without a word, he presses the blade to Blackwell’s chest, dragging it across the expensive fabric of his shirt. The material splits, revealing pale flesh. Blood wells up in a perfect line as Xander carves a deliberate “X” into Blackwell’s skin.

Blackwell screams—raw and desperate—but the panic room swallows the sound. No echo, no reverberation. Just the three of us in this soundproof box.

I stare at the bleeding mark on his chest, the red line vivid against his skin, and something primal stirs inside me. I take the knife from Xander. Our fingers brush, electricity racing up my arm.

I step toward Blackwell and place the blade against his skin, right next to Xander’s mark. With deliberate pressure, I carve a circle—an “O” to complement his “X.” Blackwell writhes against his restraints, but I maintain steady pressure, completing the circle .

Blood beads along both our marks, tiny crimson dots forming a macabre connect-the-dots puzzle on his chest.

“XO,” Xander says, his voice warming with approval. “Fitting signature for our first collaboration.”

I reach for the black duffel bag at my feet. From inside, I withdraw a heavy-duty nail gun.

“What are you doing?” Blackwell’s voice pitches higher, his businessman’s composure fracturing. “This is kidnapping. Assault. You won’t get away with this.”

Xander steps behind me, his presence steadying. I pull out a thick manila folder—my life’s work. Years of meticulous research organized into neat, orderly evidence of Richard Blackwell’s crimes.

“Ready for the presentation portion of our program?” I ask Xander, not turning around.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Born ready.”

“You’re making a terrible mistake,” Blackwell says, his voice cracking. “I have connections. People will come looking for me.”

“Like Martin Reeves?” I slide a crime scene photo in front of his face—Martin’s body riddled with bullet holes. “Funny, no one came for him.”

“Please,” Blackwell begs, his voice rising to a shout. “I’ll give you anything! Money. Information. Whatever you want.”

Xander steps forward, ripping a cloth napkin from Blackwell’s pocket and stuffing it into his mouth.

“No one will hear you,” Xander says, “but you’re giving me a headache.”

I spread the first set of documents across the table—bank statements showing transfers to offshore accounts, names of girls who disappeared traced to Blackwell.