Page 53 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

“ F our hours and twenty-seven minutes.” I tap my watch face, pacing the dimly lit chamber beneath the Beacon Hill Gentlemen’s Association. “That’s how long Xander’s been trapped in that vault. Every minute brings him closer to?—”

“Ms. Novak.” Thorne’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. “If you could channel that nervous energy into something productive, we might actually save him.”

Five professional killers surround me, their faces lit by the blue glow of monitors showing Blackwell’s penthouse swarming with police. None of them looks concerned enough about Xander suffocating in an airtight vault.

“We need to get him out. Now.” I rip open a packet of Red Vines, stuffing one in my mouth and chewing like I might extract a plan from the candy.

“And waltz right past the twenty officers processing our crime scene?” Calloway raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps we could distract them with a cheese plate and some small talk about the weather? ‘Lovely evening for finding a corpse, isn’t it?’”

Ambrose shakes his head. “If Xander was stupid enough to trap himself in a vault?—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll show you what he taught me about pressure points.” My Red Vine snaps between my fingers.

Ambrose’s mouth closes with a click.

“Storming a building filled with law enforcement requires precision,” Darius says, his voice level as he types on his laptop.

“We don’t have time for precision,” I say.

“The first rule of the Society is that we operate alone,” Darius continues. “Everyone knows the risks. No one gets rescued.”

“I don’t care about your rules,” I say, my voice cracking. “He’s running out of air. And I’m not leaving him there.”

The thought of Xander trapped in darkness, gasping for breath while Blackwell’s corpse sits displayed outside, sends fresh panic racing through me. I’d left him there. I’d walked away when he told me to go.

He’d told me he loved me. And I said nothing.

Thorne steps into my path, forcing me to stop pacing. “Our agreement has always been that each member assumes their own risk. That said...” He pauses, scanning the room. “I intend to extract him. But I won’t order any of you to take part.”

The room falls silent, tension crackling between them .

“You’re breaking your own rules?” Calloway asks, genuine surprise in his voice.

“I’m making an exception,” Thorne says. “Ms. Novak and I will attempt the extraction. The rest of you maintain plausible deniability.”

“Fine.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “What’s the plan?”

“First,” Thorne says, turning to face the monitors, “we need to draw officers away from the penthouse.”

Lazlo perks up from his corner, where he’s been checking his pulse for the third time. “I sense an opportunity for a medical emergency.”

“No one’s buying your hypochondria this time, Lazlo,” Calloway says, not looking up from his phone. “Last week, you diagnosed yourself with Tibetan mountain fever. We live in Boston.”

“No. Not mine this time.” Lazlo grins, patting his medical bag. “There’s a difference between faking illness and staging one. A big one. Like a biohazard.”

Darius nods. “A biohazard situation would trigger evacuation protocols.”

“Exactly,” Lazlo says, unzipping his bag to reveal what looks like a theatrical makeup kit. “And I’ve been perfecting my synthetic hemorrhagic fever presentation for months. The pustules alone took six trial runs to get right.”

The rest of us stare at him.

“What?” He shrugs. “Everyone needs a hobby.”

“That’s...brilliant,” I admit. “A forced evacuation would clear most of the police from the scene.”

Thorne studies the building schematics on one monitor. “Calloway, Lazlo, if you’re in, you’ll need to position yourselves in the lobby first. Once Oakley and I are inside, trigger your...performance. Create enough panic to force evacuation downward and out, leaving the penthouse clear.”

“I have an entire portfolio of biological threats I’ve been dying to try out,” Lazlo says, digging through his medical bag with enthusiasm.

“Count me in.” Calloway’s eyes light up. “A biohazard scenario is the perfect canvas for my performance art skills. I’ve been conceptualizing a piece on the intersection of disease and modern society.”

“You had me at pustules,” Lazlo grins, pulling out a makeup palette with colors no human skin should ever naturally display.

“I’m thinking of hemorrhagic fever with some artistic liberties.

Do we want traditional blood-from-the-eyes, or something more avant-garde?

I’ve been experimenting with a technique where the lesions appear to pulse. ”

“Glorious,” Calloway claps his hands together. “We’ll create a masterpiece of medical horror. I’m thinking something modernist. Rothko-inspired lesions, perhaps?”

“You’re both enjoying this way too much,” I mutter, watching Lazlo organize his vials of fake bodily fluids with the precision of a sommelier arranging wine bottles. But beneath my disgust, relief floods through me. They’re going to help.

“Ambrose,” Thorne says, “we’ll need someone coordinating communications. Are you in?”

Ambrose straightens, nodding. “I’ll establish a secure tactical command position and maintain operational oversight.” He pauses when we all stare at him. “What? I served in Delta Force Team Six Rangers. ”

My heart hammers against my ribs. This is happening. We’re going to rescue Xander.

“Operation Rescue Stalker Boy is a go,” Lazlo declares, pulling out vials of theatrical blood. “Now, who wants to be patient zero? The mortality rate is spectacular.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re huddled in a van parked two blocks from Blackwell’s building. Darius orchestrates chaos across the city from his laptop while Lazlo transforms Calloway into a walking biohazard.

“Bomb threat reported at South Station,” Darius says, monitoring police channels. “Another at City Hall. They’re scrambling units from across the district.”

“Still too many officers at the scene,” Thorne notes, studying the surveillance feeds.

“That’s where we come in,” Lazlo says, applying gray-green makeup to Calloway’s face with surprising skill. “The key to a convincing biological threat is the right shade of pallor and convincing mucous membrane discoloration.”

I watch in morbid fascination as Lazlo creates realistic-looking lesions along Calloway’s jawline. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“Community theater.” Lazlo dabs theatrical blood around Calloway’s nose.

My fingers find the silver locket around my neck. I picture Xander trapped in that vault, oxygen depleting with every breath.

“How much air does he have left?” I ask .

“High-security vaults are virtually airtight,” Thorne says, his voice measured. “Six to ten hours of breathable air, assuming standard dimensions.”

I check my watch. “It’s been almost five hours. We need to hurry.”

“Stand by for tactical oversight deployment,” Ambrose announces through our earpieces from his position back at headquarters. “I’m initiating Operation Eagle Talon Wolfpack.”

“Is he always like this?” I whisper to Thorne.

“Unfortunately,” Thorne mutters.

Calloway practices his stagger, then collapses dramatically onto the floor of the van. Lazlo critiques his performance, suggesting more labored breathing and perhaps some convincing vomit.

“I brought theatrical blood that smells like actual blood,” Lazlo says, pulling out a small vial. “It contains trace amounts of iron oxide for authenticity. Had a small sample analyzed at the hospital lab. They think I’m writing a medical thriller.”

“Will that be enough to get them rushing down?”

“One victim isn’t convincing enough,” he says, tilting a compact mirror toward his face. “But two… Nothing sells contagion like multiple victims.”

I watch as he transforms himself, creating realistic symptoms of some terrible disease.

“The plan is simple,” Thorne explains, handing me an earpiece. “Lazlo and Calloway create the biohazard distraction in the lobby. Building security initiates evacuation protocols. They’ll all rush downstairs. Ambrose monitors police channels and security cameras, guiding us through the building.”

I nod, trying to focus on his words instead of the fear clawing at my throat. “And once we reach the penthouse?”

“We’ll have to act fast before somebody realizes something’s wrong,” Thorne says. “We need enough time to access the vault and extract Xander.”

“Assuming he’s still?—”

“He’s alive,” I snap, cutting Ambrose off. “He has to be.”

Thorne hands me a syringe. “Use this if necessary.”

I turn the glass tube in my hand, eyeing the clear liquid inside. “What is it?”

“Something that will help if the situation deteriorates,” he says, his expression unreadable. “Best you don’t know more than that.”

I tuck the syringe into my jacket pocket. “Where will you be?”

“I’m coming with you,” Thorne says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’ll approach from different entry points, just in case one of us gets caught. But I’ll be there for the extraction.”

I understand the logic. If we both go down, Xander dies. If one of us makes it through, he has a chance.

“Okay,” I say, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. “I’m ready.”

As Lazlo applies the final touches to his “disease,” I close my eyes and picture Xander. Not as I last saw him—tense and focused on killing Blackwell—but how he looked the night before. His face softened in the dim light of my apartment, his fingers tracing patterns on my skin.

“I love you, Oakley. ”

His words echo in my head, a promise and a goodbye all at once.

“Not a goodbye,” I whisper to myself. “Not yet.”

“What was that?” Thorne asks.

I open my eyes, resolve hardening within me. “Nothing. Let’s go get him.”