Hunting Julianna (Stalkers in the Woods #4)

1. Prologue

Prologue

Creed

T he doorman at The Lillicent does not look up from his book as I enter, which tells me everything I need to know about the building’s internal security.

The digital badge on my shirt, subtle, monochrome, backlit with soft blue, bypasses his memory entirely.

I am already a shadow moving up the elevator, both visible and not.

The briefcase in my right hand is precision-milled aluminum, custom, lined with closed-cell foam.

The toolbox in my left is the off-the-shelf Klein, battered and honest, its handle worn to velvet. But it’s dependable. Valued.

The elevator opens onto the thirty-fourth floor.

The carpet is slate gray, plush enough to absorb the strike of my dress shoes.

The hallway windows are tinted to a science-fiction hue, ultraviolet cutting the sharp edge of morning from the city skyline.

I inventory the details as I pass: an abstract sculpture at the corridor’s end, a naked woman with ample tits, security cameras shaped like insect eyes every eight feet, recessed lighting with triple redundancy.

The building is owned by the kind of people who despise risk but adore the appearance of it.

I stop at Unit 34-A. There is no doorbell, only a sensor in the center of the brushed steel door. I knock loudly. She answers, the door swinging open as she steps back.

Julianna Whitmore is waiting, fiddling with her fingers as she regards me.

She is exactly as described in her client profile, five foot eight, slender, black hair straight, just past her shoulders, bangs falling into her eyes.

Eyes that are an impossible blue against the pale geometry of her face.

She is dressed in navy silk, hugging her curves, and her feet are bare on the polished concrete.

She regards me with a smile just this side of polite.

“Creed Montgomery,” I say, shifting my toolbox and offering her my hand. She does not hesitate. Her handshake is dry, firm, exact in its pressure, then gone. She gestures inward.

“Thank you for coming so early.” Her voice is lower than expected, soft laced with command. “I hope the building wasn’t too much of a labyrinth.”

“It is difficult to lose one’s way in a building designed by numbers,” I reply, stepping into her space. “Every floor is a carbon copy of the one below, with only minor variances to mark the territory.”

A hint of approval in her eyes. “I like it that way.”

I step past her, my eyes adjusting to the light.

The interior is immaculate. Minimalist, but not cold, expensive materials and rare art positioned in the only logical places, nothing redundant, nothing sentimental.

White walls and glass everywhere, broken only by matte-black steel beams and the shock of a painting over the fireplace: a Picasso.

She notes me noticing. The air smells faintly of bergamot and stone.

“This way,” she says, and leads me past the kitchen. My eyes fall to her ass, the way it curves, sways side to side with each step.

My mouth is dry, and suddenly I feel like I’m in a pressure cooker. She’s stunning. Not my usual type. Much more polished. More reserved. But something tells me that somewhere hidden underneath her expensive, aloof personality lives a hellcat.

She stops at the security panel, a smooth slab set into the wall beside her bedroom. “This is where I want it,” she says, finger poised over the screen but not touching. “You said the upgrade would be seamless.”

“Seamless is relative,” I reply, setting down both cases on the glass-top table.

I open the Klein first: screwdrivers, voltage meter, linesman’s pliers, insulated gloves.

The line up of tools is sacred to me. I open the aluminum briefcase last, exposing the interior.

The main unit is the size of a pack of cigarettes, heat sink gleaming, paired with a nest of nano-cables and two thumb-sized sensor modules, all matte black and surface-textured to resist prints. I arrange the pieces on the table.

She watches without speaking, arms folded. When I glance up, she is not watching the equipment, but me. I recognize the gaze, not curiosity, not even skepticism, but the kind of analytical detachment that strips away the unnecessary.

“The installation will take about forty minutes,” I say. “I will need access to your window frames and the electrical panel in the closet. The sensors are wireless, but the redundancy line is hardwired for obvious reasons.”

“Of course.” She pivots, strides to the nearest window.

Her steps are measured, almost soundless on the concrete.

She stops, turns, leans against the glass with her arms crossed behind her back.

“Can you walk me through the main features again? It’s just…

I don’t trust the building security anymore. ”

I can. I begin at the top: surface vibration sensors built into the frames, able to detect forced entry by sound alone.

Glass breakage sensors with calibrated decibel cutoffs.

Motion sensors rated for pet immunity, ceiling mounts for infrared and thermal imaging.

The control unit with an air-gapped microcontroller, unhackable except by direct physical access.

Every word is measured, never more or less than necessary.

She listens, blue eyes fixed and unblinking.

As I detail the system’s remote access protocols, she runs her fingers through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. The gesture is habitual, practiced, but I commit it to memory as if it were a vulnerability.

“Will it pick up movement at the balcony?” she asks.

“It will. The cameras are angled for minimal coverage gaps, but there are blind spots at the far perimeters for privacy. Those can be adjusted.”

“I do not require privacy,” she says, voice perfectly flat.

“Noted.” That peaks my interest. I set the sensors aside and snap on the gloves. “May I?”

She steps away from the window, arms uncrossing. “Go ahead.”

The window frames are cold to the touch, triple-reinforced. I install the vibration sensors, aligning the adhesive strips with surgical precision. I test each placement with the calibration wand from the case, confirming the signal on my tablet as I go. I don’t hurry; time is a tool like any other.

Julianna hovers nearby, saying nothing, eyes flicking between my hands and the device readouts. Her phone vibrates once, twice, ignored. Her presence is both intrusive and not, she observes without commentary, breathing so shallowly I would not know she was there if I were anyone else.

I finish the window array and move to the electrical closet. It is spotless, wires cable-tied in color order. I thread the redundancy line through the conduit, tap into the breaker panel. The main unit clicks to life, its LED a single, unwavering blue dot.

When I return to the living room, she is seated on the edge of the sofa, posture perfect, legs crossed at the ankle. She holds a legal pad, lined and empty except for the word CREED at the top. Underlined twice.

“Is that my first name or my function?” I ask.

She tilts her head, considers. “It’s always best to know the difference, isn’t it?”

I do not smile. I finish the final calibration, then turn the tablet to face her.

“Would you like to test it?”

She rises and walks to the balcony door. Opens it, steps outside, closes it behind her. A heartbeat later, the alert appears on my screen: perimeter breach, east window, thirty-fourth floor. She re-enters, wipes an invisible fleck of dust from her sleeve, nods once.

“Efficient,” she says.

I disassemble the tools, wipe them with a microfiber cloth, stow each piece in its place. She watches the ritual, lips pressed into a thin line.

“What if someone disables the main power?” she asks.

“The battery backup provides forty-eight hours of autonomous operation. If the cellular and Wi-Fi signals are both interrupted, the system stores all video and sensor data locally in a shielded drive.” I indicate the thumb-sized module.

“There are no open ports. Nothing can be accessed without physical destruction of the device.” And me.

But I don’t say that part. I already know I’ve found my newest obsession.

The way she acts so… so… surgical about everything has me wanting to choke the life out of her just to see if it sparks a fight.

She looks at me for a long moment, then back to the array on the table.

“And you monitor the feed personally?” She says it as a statement, not a question.

The lie is so small it barely exists. “My company does.” She doesn’t need to know my company is just myself.

She regards me, silent. A muscle in her jaw ticks, once, and I catalog it beside the hair gesture and the preference for concrete floors.

“I appreciate your thoroughness, Creed.” She offers her hand, palm up, a deliberate inversion of the earlier handshake. I take it; her skin is cool, her nails blunt, cut short, and perfect.

As I leave, she stands in the center of the room, outlined by the panoramic view. My tablet buzzes: new camera feed, living room, center frame. Julianna, still as sculpture, eyes on the city but not seeing it. The system is live, and so is she, perfectly positioned in the field of my vision.

I am satisfied. The first layer is always the hardest, but she wears it beautifully.

I’m almost to my car when she calls.

“Mr. Montgomery?”

“Yes.”

“I… I was wondering if this is the full coverage package.” She mumbles into the phone.

“No. You ordered the partial. One step below full.”

She huffs. “What does the full package get me?”

“An extra layer of security in the form of emergency services callouts, remote access and the app that allows you to monitor your suite through our closed-circuit system.”

“Fine. Yes. I want that one.” She pauses, “Can you come install it now?”

I could. But I don’t want to. I want to watch her. Study her.

“Nah, I have another call. Tomorrow morning.”