Occult Assassin: The Complete Series (Books 1-6) Page 11

  Erik ran through his options.

  His first instinct was to go for his Glock. Unfortunately, Talon had his gun. Calling the cops would be the next logical move, but his cell was downstairs in the living room. Probably buried on his couch somewhere. Shit.

  He could wait for these guys to break into his house, or he could make a run for the phone. He might even have enough time to snatch a knife from the kitchen cupboard.

  Storming down the stairs, he realized he wasn’t afraid and his thirst was gone. A different Erik was in the driver’s seat now. This Erik had fought off six armed Iraqis with only a bare knife. He had commanded the respect of his unit. This Erik had been a man Talon was proud to call his friend.

  Welcome back, brother.

  He had barely reached the foot of the stairs when the front door swung open and two men stormed into his home. In his mind, Erik felt like a soldier again, but his body sagged under the last few years of self-abuse. He couldn’t generate the same speed and power when he threw the first punch and missed his target by a wide margin.

  Unfortunately his opponents were trained professionals. It all happened so fast. Before he knew it Erik was sprawled on his dusty, stained carpet.

  A boot kicked him in the mouth, followed by the coppery flavor of his blood. More kicks came in quick succession, landing against a belly turned to mush. He hunched over, gasping for air. But he didn’t scream. There was still no fear. He’d been waiting to meet his maker for quite some time now.

  Erik had lost count of how many times he’d considered eating a bullet. The sole reason he’d never gone through with it was his mom. He wouldn’t want the world to think Mrs. Garrison had raised a quitter.

  Erik had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next. He was ready.

  Bring it on, you bastards!

  The big man in the group of home invaders — Erik instantly pegged him as military — nodded to his men. The youngest member of the group, a punk who couldn’t be older than twenty or so, approached Erik. Knife out.

  Let’s see if the kid has it in him, Erik wondered.

  Steel flashed and descended in a hypnotic arc. Sharpened metal sliced through two years of junk food and booze.

  The little fucker actually has the cojones to stick a man — look at this shit!

  The area where the blade had entered felt cold, but Erik experienced no pain. At least not yet. Wasn’t adrenaline wonderful? The wound felt almost like being stung by a bee. The kid registered no emotion as he hovered above him. His bland indifference gave Erik the necessary kick to respond and probably explained what he did next.

  Erik’s fingers closed around the knife in his belly and pulled it out of his flesh. He saw shock in the young man’s face, which deepened when the same knife sliced open his thigh in a stream of red.

  The cultist stumbled aside with a cry of pain.

  Erik grinned and in that moment he was back in Iraq, nineteen years old. Young, dumb and full of cum. Ready to face any enemy and endure any hardship. The moment was shattered seconds later as more blades went to work on him, but it allowed Erik to flash a bloody grin at the cameras recording his remaining moments.

  “I hope Talon sends every one of you bastards to hell,“ he hissed before all strength left his bleeding body and blackness claimed him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Talon drifted through the void. An impenetrable blackness, defined by a perfect silence that was finally broken by a familiar voice. “The dangers of the occult are real.”

  The billionaire’s words pierced the silence. It drove home a truth that was growing more pervasive in his mind. Zagan wasn’t like any opponent he’d faced before.

  You’re in way over your head, kid.

  His refusal to pay heed to Casca’s wisdom would now cost him dearly. Ignoring intelligence on the battlefield carried with it dire consequences.

  Without warning, the darkness lifted. Waves of phosphorescent green light engulfed him. Talon was back in Omicron’s assembly chamber. He was bare-chested and tied to a chair facing the stage. Zip-ties cut into his wrists.

  The vast screen was unspooling Erik’s final moments once more, a terrible, sickening loop. As Erik’s screams reverberated throughout the cavernous auditorium, Talon jerked against his restraints, shaking with rage. “You fucking cowards, I’ll kill you all!”

  Talon craned his neck and spotted a small army of computer programmers seated in the rows behind him. Fingers drilled the keys of their laptops, blank eyes in the thrall of some ungodly spell. How could so many people remain indifferent to the violence onscreen?

  “I see you’re awake, Sergeant. Good.”

  Talon spun toward the direction of the voice. Zagan lurked in the shadows, a silhouette outlined against the flickering screen. He stepped into the light, his ascetic features coming into view. The knife in Zagan’s hand promised Talon a painful, drawn-out end.

  Talon steeled himself for the torture ahead. To meet death in battle was different than being captured by the enemy and becoming their helpless plaything. Any man could be broken, and Talon held no illusions that he would prove the exception to that rule. Nevertheless, he met Zagan’s gaze without flinching.

  “Years ago, I worked on a first-person shooter called Hell World,” Zagan said. “It featured soldiers battling demons. Pretty cutting-edge for its day. In the game, the military always defeated the hordes of hell. Too bad we’re not playing a game, huh?”

  Zagan took a step closer. Talon strained against his ropes. They didn’t budge. “I know you’re working with someone. Behind every good soldier is a great general pulling the strings. Someone has been helping you.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Who is Simon Casca?”

  “I’d be careful with that knife. You might poke your eye out.”

  “Still cracking jokes in the face of defeat?”

  “I have a hard time taking anyone seriously who wears a Halloween mask.”

  Zagan stopped his advance for a beat. His smile was now replaced with a flicker of anger. Good. Perhaps if he played his cards right and provoked Zagan enough, the Omicron CEO would kill him and skip the torture.

  “I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. You’ve seen firsthand what my program can do. Soon I’ll be able to manipulate reality like no one has ever done before.”

  “Maybe try to fix male-pattern baldness, for a start. Might do wonders for your look.”

  Zagan’s hand shot out at Talon‘s throat, fingers digging into his windpipe. Up close, Talon caught a full view of where his bullets had struck the man. Or was Zagan still a man at all? Steel shimmered inside the wounded tissue. What was the Omicron CEO turning into?

  “I’m changing,” Zagan explained, almost as if he could read Talon’s thoughts. “Growing stronger with each sacrifice.”

  Talon gasped for air.

  “Each kill.”

  Zagan released him and Talon struggled for air. He was still sucking in gulps of precious oxygen when Zagan dug the point of the knife into his bare chest. Talon’s muscles tensed against the assault and his lungs bellowed with agony.

  “The best way to defeat someone is to make them serve you.”

  Talon screamed more with rage than pain as Zagan drew the slicing edge over his chest. Another cultist filmed his ordeal and streamed it to the assembly hall’s viewing screen. These bastards were coding away to the accompaniment of his personal agony.

  I’m going to kill every one of you fucking assholes, Talon thought as he gnashed his teeth with fury. The meaty stench of blood impregnated the air. He felt its warmth streaming down his exposed torso.

  Zagan proceeded with his grisly work, inflicting one cut after another. Talon’s bare skin had become the canvas for Zagan’s madness. Blood dripped down Talon’s mutilated torso, staining his pants. Zagan kept slicing away with precision and a focused intent.

  A minute later Zagan took a step back to inspect his handiwork. Talon peered up at his own battered image. His tors
o hemorrhaged an inverted pentagram. The bastard had branded him!

  “I’ll kill you.”

  “Oh, you’re wrong about that, Talon. You’ll serve me. You’ll serve the darkness. Sooner than you think.”

  The cultist with the cam zoomed in until the inverted star on Talon’s chest completely filled the giant screen. A beat later, the image was replaced with roiling streams of code. The occult algorithm.

  Talon averted his gaze but the waves of code seemed to pursue him like the floating images in a 3-D movie. Rising tides in a digital ocean. Once again, reality had ceased to obey the laws of physics.

  Help me!

  Memories fused with the supernova of data streaming through his brain. Sanity buckling despite his best efforts, Talon struggled to cling to something tangible, something real that would ground him.

  War had taught him not to waste precious energy obsessing over details that were beyond his control. It was a lesson he’d learned during an Alpine mountain climbing exercise. He foolishly hazarded a glance upward and literally realized his whole life dangled on a six-inch metal spike. Panic gripped him. Fortunately one of his climbing instructors pulled him aside and told him to narrow his reality to a three-foot radius. The message was clear; he should live his life trying to affect what was within three feet of him and nothing else. Focus on that which you can control and ignore the rest.

  Easier said than done.

  Applying the philosophy, Talon concentrated on his breathing. He inhaled through his nose for a count of four… Held his breath for four seconds… The point was to breathe deeply and methodically, completely filling and emptying his lungs during each cycle. The technique worked somewhat, but the data floating around him remained. With each inhalation, he breathed in the program. Line after line of code. His frame convulsed.

  Someone make it stop. Please, make it stop!

  All thoughts ceased. His reality was reduced to the shining vision of an inverted pentagram, which now hovered on the giant screen before him. A beacon showing him a new way. A path toward redemption. Toward the darkness.

  Talon never felt Zagan’s men cut his zip-ties, never experienced his body rising and straightening as he slipped his jacket over his bloody chest.

  Never saw Zagan lean into him.

  All he remembered were the words his new master whispered into his ear. “Kill your general.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Images of the Apple Store massacre flickered over Simon Casca’s 90-inch plasma-TV screen. His stomach churned as he sat in his office and absorbed the horrific story. Casualty numbers kept being adjusted, but at least eleven people were dead and an equal number were in critical condition. Video of the attack dominated all the major news networks. This was a global case now and speculation ran rampant as to the identity and agenda of the killers. Terrorism was on everyone’s lips, but Casca knew better. Zagan’s cult had struck again.

  Footage of a masked rescuer suggested that Mark Talon had crashed Omicron’s party. God, how Casca wished the Delta operator would return his calls. The bloodbath at the Apple Store confirmed his worst fears. The actions of this killer cult were escalating.

  Casca turned off the news and shifted his attention back to his desk. The cultists’ laptop was running the program segment and eerie streams of code slithered over the screen. Becky had assisted him all day long, but she was now asleep in one of the estate’s many spare bedrooms. Analyzing the incomplete code had offered invaluable insights into the challenge they faced. It was far worse than expected. The world was in terrible danger.

  For years Casca had anticipated a devastating occult attack. Reports of global occult activity were popping up on a daily basis. Warlords indulging in voodoo, biker gangs and drug cartels practicing satanic rituals, South American cartels tapping into Santeria… The list went on. Small, isolated incidents that when added up could produce a disturbing cumulative effect. It didn’t bode well for the future.

  And now this computer cult had arrived seemingly out of nowhere. In Casca’s mind, it represented the greatest threat he’d faced so far.

  The billionaire stifled a yawn and downed his fourth Americano of the night. His body and mind protested, craving sleep, but there was no time for rest.

  Casca decided to stretch his legs in the vast occult library adjacent to his office. His muscles ached and the physical activity might ease his anxiety. There was something terrifying about being here late at night, but Casca drew a strange comfort from the creepy surroundings. Ghosts haunted this space. Not in a literal sense — the ghosts here were only in his mind. His sister had drawn her last pain-filled breath within these walls, twelve years earlier.

  In those days the books lining the shelves had been quite different, but the space was still a library. It was here where he first saw the entity that had set him on his current path. He’d received a glimpse of the abyss that day but instead of retreating, he chose to venture deeper.

  A psychologist would’ve said Casca was trying to conquer his fears and atone for his inability to save his sister. A form of survivor’s guilt, perhaps. By facing the darkness he might find a way to master it.

  That’s why he’d never moved and tried to put any distance between himself and his memories. The library served as a constant reminder of what lurked in the shadows. It had become his personal Ground Zero, focusing his obsession and giving shape to the mission ahead.

  For twelve years Casca had studied every occult tradition known to man, delving into mysteries that should remain out of the reach of mere mortals. His wealth put him in a unique position, allowing him to indulge this obsession to a degree impossible for the average person.

  But somewhere along the line Casca had reached an impasse. Studying the occult had ceased to be enough for him. What good was knowing the enemy if one never engaged him in battle? The years of silent contemplation were over. The time had arrived for direct action. A war was coming. Not a war where armies would clash on the battlefield. This would be a shadow war unfolding beneath the surface of normal society.

  Casca was ready for the battle ahead. He had the will and the resources, but he was no soldier. At one point he’d contemplated using mercenaries. Financing a private army to battle this dark foe sounded good in theory, but less so in practice. Mercenaries would throw his money back at him once they knew what terrors they were up against. This wasn’t a conflict that could be won by hired guns. He required someone who shared his dedication. Someone who understood that dark forces were gathering and needed to be stopped at all costs. Someone like Talon.

  Casca had recognized the man’s potential from the moment he first laid eyes on him. Talon was the knight he’d been searching for. The warrior who could take the fight to the enemy. They were both victims of the occult; they both brought their own specialized skills to the table. Together, they would be able to turn the tide in this conflict. Or so he hoped.

  Now it appeared that he was losing the man. He blamed himself for pushing Talon away. He’d moved too fast. No one in their right minds would accept the dark truth without experiencing it firsthand.

  Casca’s eagerness had betrayed him and put the whole plan at risk. He prayed that the situation was reversible. Unfortunately, Talon’s unwillingness to answer his calls didn’t bode well. Either he had permanently turned his back or, worse, he was now in the hands of the enemy.

  The latter possibility filled Casca with even greater dread. He needed the soldier to crush this cult.

  Casca was yanked from his thoughts by his chirping cell. It was Jackson, one of his security men. “Mr. Casca, Talon has returned.”

  Casca’s face flooded with relief. The incident at the Apple Store must have brought Talon back to his senses. Maybe he finally recognized that together, they stood a far better chance of defeating Zagan.

  “Send him in.”

  The phone went dead.

  Casca navigated the maze of shelves and occult objects until he reached the library’s main chamber. J
ackson and Talon grew visible in the near distance.

  “Talon, it’s good to see you…” The words trailed off as the Delta operator’s hand came up in one smooth motion, Glock leveled. A stunned Jackson went for his gun but Talon viciously pistol-whipped him. The guard lost his balance and slammed into one of the occult display cases in an explosion of glass.

  Talon sighted down on Casca and unleashed a fusillade of lead. Bullets strafed the air and perforated a row of books. The mysterious tomes erupted in clouds of paper and shredded binding. Talon emptied the magazine as Casca retreated into the aisles of the library.

  Zagan must’ve somehow gotten to Talon. Casca had speculated that the cultists were under some form of supernatural control. Talon’s conversion suggested that this was indeed the case.

  What could he do? Casca didn’t stand a chance against a super-soldier like Talon. He kept a gun in his desk drawer, but he doubted that he’d get the opportunity to draw it without being struck down first.

  He had to find a way to reach Talon. To break the spell he was under. If he could make it back to his office, there might be a way. This mad gamble was his best shot at saving both Talon and himself.

  More bullets lashed the air. Two more display cases exploded.

  Casca scrambled into his office, heart pounding as Talon gained behind him. He surged toward his laptop, the screen still flickering with occult code. He reached the computer just as Talon stepped into the office, gun up.

  Casca regarded the Delta operator. Some force had drained all the humanity from Talon’s eyes and filled the void with lethal intent.

  “Talon, this isn’t who you are! Zagan murdered Michelle! You must fight this…”

  For a moment, the gun wavered in Talon’s hand, but the hesitation didn’t extinguish the fearsome darkness in his slitted gaze.

  Talon brought up his gun.

  Casca punched the laptop’s play button, streaming the terrible footage he’d discovered on its hard drive earlier that day to the 90-inch plasma TV-screen in his office.