Page 54 of X Marks the Stalker (The Hemlock Society #1)

Oakley

S even floors and I’m already wheezing like a chain-smoker after a marathon. If I survive this rescue mission, I’m definitely joining a gym. Or at least considering the possibility of walking past one on occasion.

I pause on the landing, pressing my back against the wall, listening to the chaos echoing up from the lobby. Lazlo’s fake epidemic is working better than expected. The screams and panicked shouts blend into a perfect symphony of distraction.

“Someone’s convulsing!”

“Don’t touch him!”

“Call the CDC!”

“What if it’s airborne??”

Darius chuckles in my earpiece. “Lazlo’s really committed to the bit. He just projectile vomited on a security guard’s shoes.”

“Corn syrup and food coloring, right?” I wheeze.

“God, I hope so.”

I force myself up another flight, my thighs burning in protest. “How many more?”

“Eleven flights to go,” Darius replies.

“Empty wrappers!” I mutter, pulling a Snickers bar from my jacket’s hidden inner pocket. Emergency fuel. “You’d think billionaire buildings would have better stair access.”

“They’re designed to discourage people like you from sneaking in.”

“People trying to save lives?”

“People without elevator access codes.”

Fair point.

By the twenty-ish floor, I’m questioning my life choices. “Next time,” I gasp, “I’m killing someone who lives on the ground floor.”

“There’s a concerning level of truth to that statement,” Thorne’s voice cuts in, cool and detached.

Three more flights. My lungs burn. My calves scream with each step. But Xander is running out of oxygen, so I keep moving. Up. Always up.

I reach the penthouse level. I press my ear against the fire door, listening. Nothing.

“Darius, what am I looking at through this door?”

“One officer, standing guard. Young. Probably a rookie. He’s on his phone, not paying attention.”

I crack the door open a fraction. The hallway stretches before me, all marble and minimalist art. At the far end stands a uniformed officer, just as Darius described. He’s leaning against the wall, scrolling on his phone, looking bored out of his mind.

I’ve killed now, but this guy’s just doing his job .

The rookie cop looks barely old enough to drink. If I step out there right now, what then? This feels different. Like crossing a line I’m not ready to cross.

I wipe sweat from my forehead, hesitating with my hand on the door. My other hand clutches the syringe pen Thorne gave me, but could I use it? On a kid just doing his job?

“You’re taking too long,” Darius’ voice hisses in my ear. “Every minute?—”

“I know,” I whisper back. “Xander’s oxygen. I know. I just...”

A sound from the elevator causes me to freeze. The doors slide open with a soft chime. An elderly man shuffles out, stooped and confused. His rumpled suit hangs from his frame like clothes on a scarecrow, with wispy white hair framing a spotted scalp. He looks around, bewildered.

“Sir? Sir!” The young officer straightens, hand moving to his weapon. “This area is restricted. You need to go back downstairs.”

The old man shuffles toward him, looking disoriented. “I’m looking for apartment 4B.” His voice is reedy and thin. “Is this not the fourth floor?”

“Sir, you’re on the penthouse level. You need to get to the lobby. The building is on lockdown.”

The old man takes another step forward, then breaks into a hacking cough that bends him double. The young guard’s eyes widen in alarm, and he takes a quick step back.

“Sir! Stop right there!” The guard’s voice rises in panic. His hand now grips his gun, but he doesn’t draw it. “There’s a contagious situation downstairs. You need to maintain distance! ”

The old man continues coughing, stumbling forward. “I don’t—” Hack. Wheeze. “I don’t feel well.”

“Sir! Step back now!” The guard’s voice cracks with fear.

As if his legs give out, the elderly man pitches forward, collapsing into the young officer. They both go down in a tangle of limbs.

“Get off! Sir!” The guard’s voice is muffled, panicked.

I watch, transfixed, as the old man struggles to his feet, spry for someone who seemed so frail moments ago. He straightens his jacket with a small, quick movement.

The guard doesn’t get up. He lies motionless on the marble floor, his phone skittering away across the polished surface.

The old man turns to me as if he knows I’m peeking through the door. “Are you coming?”

I open the door, blinking at him in confusion. “What? Who are you?”

The old man smiles, his entire demeanor shifting. “It’s Thorne.”

My mouth falls open. The stooped shoulders, the liver spots, even the wispy white hair... “Thorne? How did you do it? You look?—”

“No time now. Need to save Xander, remember?”

I step into the hallway, glancing at the security cameras mounted in the corners. “What about the cameras?”

“Disabled.”

Thorne doesn’t break stride as he steps over the officer’s body.

I follow him down the corridor toward Blackwell’s apartment, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Is he dead? ”

“No. He’ll be out for a few hours and will have a nasty headache.”

I stare at the harmless-looking pen in my palm, processing what Thorne just said.

“So, the pen you gave me? It isn’t poison?”

Thorne doesn’t even slow down as he steps over the unconscious officer. “Sleeping drug.”

“Fuck.” Heat creeps up my neck. “And I didn’t use it because I didn’t want to kill him.”

My grand moral stand was unnecessary. I could have just jabbed the poor guy and moved on, no theatrical death throes required. No existential crisis about whether I could take an innocent life.

Thorne slides a key card from his pocket, waving it over the electronic lock. The door clicks open.

“It’s better this way,” he says, glancing back at the unconscious officer. “You don’t have a costume. If he saw you, we would have had to kill him.”

I swallow hard, looking from the sleeping guard to Thorne’s wrinkled disguise. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. Just factual.” Thorne pushes the door open, gesturing me forward. “Time is running out.”

The panic room door stands open, revealing the small chamber beyond. Yellow evidence markers dot the floor, each numbered and photographed by crime scene techs.

My stomach lurches at the memory of what Xander and I did here just hours ago. The evidence nailed to Blackwell’s chest. The red threads connecting his crimes. The final nail to his heart .

But there’s no time for memories or regrets. I need to save Xander.

“Xander?” I call, my voice echoing in the empty room.

No answer.

I rush past Thorne, ducking under the crime scene tape and heading straight for the gleaming steel vault at the back wall. The door remains shut, its biometric scanner glowing faintly red.

“Xander?” I press my palms against the cool metal. “Can you hear me?”

Nothing but silence greets me. I press my ear to the door, straining to hear any sound from within—breathing, movement, anything.

“He must be in there,” I say, turning to Thorne. “But why didn’t he come out when the police and forensics team left?”

Thorne examines the vault door, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps he couldn’t.”

A cold knot forms in my stomach. “You mean he’s trapped? There should be an emergency release lever inside, right?”

“Theoretically.” Thorne runs his fingertips along the seam of the door.

I step back, surveying the pristine panic room. Evidence markers dot the space where our crime took place.

“We don’t have the eyes,” I say, the absurdity of the sentence not lost on me. “How do we open it?”

“We break in.” Thorne nods once, setting his leather briefcase on the floor beside the vault. He kneels down, unlatching it with practiced movements to reveal an array of tools I can’t even identify .

“Can you break into something like this?” I ask, watching as he selects what appears to be an electronic device with several attachments.

“Blackwell’s money bought impressive security,” Thorne replies, attaching something to the control panel. “But money also breeds arrogance. The wealthy believe their protections are impenetrable, which makes them predictable.”

He connects wires from his device to various points on the panel with the confidence of someone who’s done this many times before.

“How long will this take?” I press my hand against the vault door again, imagining Xander inside, air running low. “He’s been in there for hours.”

“If you continue interrupting me, considerably longer.”

I pace the small space, unable to stand still. “Xander?” I call again, louder this time. “We’re getting you out!”

I hover at Thorne’s shoulder, watching him work on the vault door. His movements are precise, almost surgical. Wire here, small tool there, fingers never hesitating.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, my voice tight with anxiety.

Thorne doesn’t look up. “The officer.”

“What?”

“Secure him. Just in case he wakes up before we’re done here.”

I glance back at the hallway where we left the young officer slumped against the wall.

“Right.” I step away from the vault, reluctant to leave, but knowing Thorne is our best chance at getting this door open. “I’ll handle it. ”

In the hallway, the officer remains as we left him, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of drugged sleep. His face looks younger in unconsciousness, almost boyish. I kneel beside him, gently removing his service weapon and setting it aside.

“Sorry about this,” I mutter as I pull zip ties from my pocket.

I bind his wrists behind his back, trying not to make them too tight. “This is just temporary,” I explain to his unconscious form. “You seem like a nice guy. Probably have a girlfriend. Maybe a cat. I bet you’re a cat person.”

His head lolls to the side as I secure his ankles together.

“You’ll be okay,” I continue, checking the bindings. “This will make a great story someday. The time you almost caught the... What would they call us? The Hemlock Killers? God, that’s terrible branding.”

I pick up his phone, powering it off.