Occult Assassin: Damnation Code (Book 1) Read online

  OCCULT ASSASSIN

  DAMNATION CODE

  BOOK 1

  WILLIAM MASSA

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  Copyright © 2015 William Massa

  Critical Mass Publishing

  All character appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  Also by William Massa

  HORROR/DARK FANTASY

  OCCULT ASSASSIN: ICE SHADOWS

  FEAR THE LIGHT

  GARGOYLE KNIGHT

  MATCH: A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER

  SCIENCE FICTION

  SILICON MAN

  CROSSING THE DARKNESS

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  CHAPTER ONE

  THE BLADE PRESSED against Steve Delaney’s neck, drawing a line of blood. He swallowed hard, tasting the salty beads of perspiration trickling down his face. How the hell had he gotten himself into this terrible ordeal?

  His day had started off innocently enough. He enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, climbed behind the wheel of his Toyota Camry and cranked up his favorite radio station. Rock music filled the car as he hit the sloping, bustling streets of San Francisco.

  In his old life as a restaurant manager his schedule was dominated by a soul-deadening seventy-hour workweek. Stress defined his life. Nowadays, as an EasyRides driver, Steve made his own hours and worked only when he wanted to. There were bills to be paid — God, they never seemed to stop — but at least he wasn’t a slave to his job anymore. The successful professionals among his friends all frowned at his latest career move and hoped that it would turn out to be a case of temporary insanity. To hell with them! Steve was enjoying the freedom and peace of mind that came with his new occupation.

  Steve’s dash-mounted iPhone, which was running Google Maps, lit up. A pin flashed onscreen, indicating the location of a nearby rider. Immediately a countdown kicked in. Being the driver closest to the potential fare, Steve had exactly fifteen seconds to accept the ride or it would be assigned to another driver.

  He tapped the ACCEPT button and twisted the wheel, heading east on the next street. A few minutes later, Steve slowed to a cruise and scoped the sidewalk for his pickup. When he reached the address given, he pushed the ARRIVE tab. This would signal to his rider to be on the lookout for his car.

  A woman in her mid-twenties suddenly strode up to his vehicle. She wore jeans, a blazer and geek chic glasses. Steve figured her for an employee of one of the many tech-sector upstarts in the Bay Area. Her look seemed carefully designed to downplay her sensuality. With the right dress and makeup, though, this gal would be a real looker, he thought.

  Steve flashed the lady a big smile as she got in the car. “Evening. How are you tonight?”

  “Good, thank you.”

  “Lean back and enjoy the ride. If you’re thirsty or hungry, help yourself to a bottle of water and an energy bar.”

  Refreshments lined the back of the car. They went a long way in winning those all-important favorable reviews from his customers. Good reviews led to more work and in turn, more dollars in his pocket. Managing a restaurant had taught him a thing or two about the importance of online feedback in the Digital Age.

  The woman closed the door. Steve floored the gas. According to the destination on his app, they were headed to Fisherman’s Wharf. Turning down Lombard Street, Steve continued to study his passenger in the rearview mirror. Like everyone else in this town, she seemed married to her smartphone and oblivious to her surroundings.

  Upon closer inspection his initial impression stood confirmed — under the geek-girl veneer was a real hottie. Unfortunately, she didn’t seem like the chatty type, unless you counted instant messages. Steve searched his mind for a funny icebreaker but lacking inspiration, he decided to concentrate on traffic.

  They soon reached the top of Russian Hill and turned left onto Hyde. Fort Mason, Aquatic Park and Alcatraz Island stretched out before them, offering a panoramic view spanning from the Golden Gate to the Embarcadero.

  Just ahead, a cable car clanged its way down the hill. Steve adjusted his speed and followed the rumbling tram at a safe distance. Tourists dangled camera-phones from their seats in the trolley, marveling at the stunning view while taking pics. Steve didn’t blame them. No matter how many times he took this final plunge down the hilly Hyde Street to the Bay, it never got old. Once again he thanked the lucky stars that had steered him away from his old job.

  His good mood came to an abrupt end when he felt fingers grab his hair and violently pull his head back. Cold metal bit into his throat. A terrified glance in the mirror revealed a hunting knife pressed against his bobbing Adam’s apple.

  Oh my God… this can’t be happening…

  “Keep driving,” the woman hissed. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Fighting back his mounting terror, Steve did as instructed, his hands clammy despite the air conditioner.

  “What are you doing?” he croaked.

  “Shut the fuck up and keep your eyes on the road.”

  She dug the razor-sharp point into his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

  “Lady, I don’t carry any money on me,” he stammered.

  “I said to keep your fucking mouth shut!”

  This time the knife’s edge cut deeper and Steve received the message loud and clear. It took every ounce of self-control to keep his mind on the flow of traffic. What did this psycho bitch want from him?

  “Do exactly as I say and you’ll be okay. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now lean forward and replace the phone on your dash with mine. Make sure the camera is pointing directly at you. Nod if you understand.”

  Steve nodded once more. Like an automaton, he swapped the phones on his dashboard with one hand while the other steered the car. If he lost control of the wheel, he knew his last sensation would be the bite of the blade sawing through the soft meat of his throat.

  Steve’s horrified features flickered onto the screen of the newly mounted iPhone. The camera was on, recording his fear.

  “What are you going to do?” he asked the knife-wielding passenger.

  “Did I give you permission to talk?”

  The blade dug deeper and Steve bit his tongue before letting another sound escape from his lips. The image on the phone split into two smaller screens. The faces of another man and a woman appeared. Their circumstances were identical to his own. Behind them, someone’s hand pressed a knife to each of their jugular veins. Steve saw his terror mirrored in their haunted gazes.

  Who were these people? This stuff happened in movies but not in the real world.

  A fourth person joined the video call. The newcomer wasn’t another victim but appeared to be the mastermind behind the nightmare. He wore a robotic death mask straight out of some apocalyptic sci-fi horror film. A tangled web of transistors, cables and circuits pockmarked the mask’s texture like cybernetic acne. The figure’s bass rumbling, electronically distorted voice boomed through the moving car, reciting words in an ancient, alien tongue.

  For a frozen moment, the victims onscreen exchanged haunted glances. They must be seeing me on their own screens, Steve thought. Then the knives drew their blade-edges across the other drivers’ throats.

  Steve’s eyes widened as pulsating heat washed down his neck. His hands went for his gushing throat in a desperate attempt to quell the bleeding.

  The other vict
ims fought similarly hopeless battles on the phone’s screen. Tortured death rattles resounded through the Camry, underscored by the masked man’s singsong chant. This had turned into a videoconference from hell.

  Steve’s foot grew heavy and mashed the gas. The Camry hurtled forward, out of control now. The car caught up with the trolley and crumpled into its back end with a ferocious shriek of twisted metal and panicked tourists. A couple of hapless cable-car riders lost their grip and were sent flying like ragdolls.

  Smoke and steam plumed from the contorted hood of the Camry. Pitiful screams pierced the air and the stench of burning oil became overpowering. Steve’s head slumped against the steering wheel, his shirt and jeans drenched a dark scarlet. His dying, crimson-spattered face stared back at him from the cellphone mounted on his dash.

  While his life poured out in a stream of red, a hand reached from the back of the car to collect her mobile. There was a metallic snap as the passenger unfastened her seat belt, followed by the screech of a car door being kicked open.

  Steve shifted his dimming gaze, lips bubbling crimson, the people outside his spiderwebbed windshield now reduced to blurry outlines. Like ghosts they hovered in his fading field of vision until the darkness consumed them and the world turned black.

  ***

  Less than an hour later, Steve Delaney’s murderer arrived at the Golden Gate Bridge. Head held high, her gait steady and purposeful, she crossed the majestic red bridge until she reached its center.

  She tilted her head toward the railing, gusts of wind buffeting her hair. Cars whipped by, a pulsing flow of traffic between San Francisco and Oakland.

  Soon two men joined her. They were dressed more casually — jeans, flannel shirts and Converse sneakers — but their blank expressions mirrored her own. One other damning detail linked these three individuals. Each carried a blade caked with a dead person’s blood. They’d made the sacrifice required of them but one final offering remained to prove their devotion.

  Without even trading glances, the three killers scaled the steel railing together, their movements eerily synchronized. Before anyone could stop them, the trio had vanished from view, plunging to their deaths in the Bay below.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE ROAR OF gunfire split the air and echoed across the arid Afghan mountain. Two members of the twelve-man team of special operators went down in a mist of red as Kalashnikovs unleashed a ribbon of lead.

  It’s a trap, Mark Talon thought.

  Instincts overruling fear, the Delta Force operator returned fire. Fueled by a burst of adrenaline, he bolted toward the ridgeline with his MP4 blazing. There was no distinction between himself and the weapon in his gloved hand; they had fused to become one deadly organism programmed to take out the enemy hiding in the steeper hills overlooking the pass. Sweat masked his face and his boots crunched over the rocky terrain. The white noise of incessant popping and hissing accompanied his ascent.

  Like everyone on the team Talon was dressed like an Afghan, sporting the traditional local garb. The Taliban wasn’t fooled. They knew that under the facial hair and headdresses were American soldiers. Someone had tipped them off.

  Talon cursed. He hadn’t quite trusted the guerilla leader-turned-informant when the man told them that Taliban fighters would use this pass to smuggle guns over the Pakistan border. Then again, it was hard to trust anyone in a country torn apart by war. Sometimes you had to take a gamble and hope it worked out. This time the risk had backfired and instead of catching the terrorists in the act, they’d walked into a goddamn ambush.

  Making matters worse, they were babysitting some hotshot reporter who’d been embedded with the unit for the last eight days. Why couldn’t the politicians understand that a “shadow war” meant operating in the shadows? Cameras and journalists weren’t an option. No matter how attractive or charming they might be.

  Michelle Rossi had turned into quite a distraction to everyone, including himself. A dead civilian wouldn’t go over well with the brass but if Talon was to be honest, his concern for the brunette journalist ran a bit deeper. He was embarrassed to admit it, but he was starting to like the reporter. Her safety was the first thing on his mind.

  Three feet from Talon’s position a grenade tore up the ground. The six-foot tall, sinewy operator instinctively dove forward. The impact of hitting the gravel sent a jolt through his entire body, but the armor under his robe absorbed the brunt of it.

  As he tugged down the scarf covering his face, heavy wool scratching his newly grown beard, Talon scoped the dark rocks that loomed ahead. Death was waiting in those outcroppings. How many good soldiers had the enemy already claimed?

  Talon vowed not to be one of them as he scanned the rocks for the human-shaped shadows raining lead on his team. Responding to a flicker of movement, he squeezed the trigger of his weapon and a Taliban fighter collapsed in a string-cut sprawl. Another quick burst cut down the man with the grenade launcher hiding near him.

  Two down.

  Lead ravaged the hillside as Talon’s radio crackled and the voice of Sergeant Erik Garrison, his unit’s commanding officer, filled his ear. “Charlie Four, this is Charlie Six, air support is a no-go…”

  Erik’s voice was drowned out as a mortar ignited ten feet from Talon’s position. Heat singed the air and shrapnel showered down on him.

  He needed to move.

  With that in mind Talon sprang to his feet, his bullets carving a path for him as he sprinted toward the next boulder. He distinctly made out screams. A moment later, the enemy fire stopped.

  Face pressed against the cold rock, he listened. The pass had grown silent and for one illogical second he was convinced he was the only man left standing. Couldn’t be. He stole a look back but there was no sign of the team.

  No sign of Michelle.

  Fear rippled up his spine. Immediately he crushed the emotion before it could infect his brain and paralyze him. There was a perfectly logical reason for the quiet. The others were getting their bearings behind some rock, the same way he was.

  Eyes alert, body coiled, Talon continued his advance up the hillside. He was heading for a string of boulders that lined the mountain like jagged stone teeth. To his surprise, the shelling didn’t resume. Could he have hit them all?

  Staying low to offer his enemies less of a target, Talon circled the boulders and froze. Splayed out before him were the bloodied bodies of the combatants he’d taken out. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  These faces didn’t belong to the enemy. These were Americans.

  His team members.

  What have I done?

  The arm of one of the dead soldiers shot out at him and clawed his leg, mouth gurgling blood.

  A scream exploded from Talon’s lips…

  ***

  Talon’s eyes snapped open and he was hit with a flash of blinding light. Blinking away his confusion, he realized that the passenger sitting next to him had leaned over and raised the shade of the airplane window. Judging from the flashing signs and the airport jumping into view outside the window, the plane had begun its descent to San Francisco International Airport.

  Clearly, the kid didn’t want to miss one second of the spectacle. “Sorry,” he muttered sheepishly.

  “No worries,” Talon said. He was relieved to be awake after the nightmare. Swallowing hard, Talon wiped the beads of perspiration from his face and wished the flight attendants were still serving drinks.

  The image of his lifeless team members still tormented him during the plane’s descent. The ambush they’d walked into two years ago had unfolded a bit differently in real life. There were no casualties from friendly fire, but the encounter had cost three good men their lives.

  Ironically enough, the attack had also brought him and Michelle closer, paving the way for their eventual romance. She was the reason why he’d taken a two-week vacation from his military duties. He was here to pay her a surprise visit in her hometown of San Francisco.

  Heavy landing ge
ars crunched against the runway and their vibrations rattled the plane, jolting Talon from his thoughts.

  As the jet taxied to its terminal, he turned on his phone. Five text messages were waiting for him. Michelle didn’t know about his visit but his old superior officer, Erik Garrison, did.

  Erik lived in Oakland now; he resigned from active duty exactly a month after the ambush. It was Erik who’d made the call to trust the guerilla leader and lead his men into a kill-zone. He blamed himself for the three casualties involved and remained unwilling to forgive himself. There was no way Erik could’ve known what was coming, but it didn’t change the man’s feelings. He began a downward spiral fueled by alcohol and drugs. Since taking early retirement he’d been living on a meager disability pension and thus far had failed to put the broken pieces of his life back together.

  Talon knew his friend was in a dark place and worried about him. It was hard enough to adjust to civilian life without being haunted by guilt. Suicide rates were at an all-time high among veterans, and Erik had indicated on numerous occasions that he was thinking of eating a bullet. Talon planned to drop by Erik’s place in the coming days. Hopefully, seeing a familiar face might help a little.

  With that plan in mind, he snatched his duffle bag from the overhead compartment. Next to him, an elderly lady struggled with her bag. “Let me help you with that,” Talon said.

  His strong hand closed around the handle of the monstrous suitcase. Holy shit, how did Granny manage to drag this beast onto the plane? “Here you go, ma’am.”

  The lady’s eyes lit up with gratitude and she smiled at her rescuer. “Thank you so much, so kind of you.”

  Talon offered to carry the suitcase until they located a cart in the terminal. The airport was abuzz with activity. A number of flights had landed within minutes of each other and tired, frustrated travelers oozed stress as they fought through rings of people to claim their luggage.