Occult Assassin: The Complete Series (Books 1-6) Page 4

  Omicron, like many tech companies that revolutionized the industry and then the world, had come from humble beginnings. Just a few years earlier, the company had consisted of a staff of six. Spurred by rapid growth, Omicron now counted nearly 500 employees on its 15 acre campus. Its tablets and phones had leveled the playing field and given its competitors a run for their money.

  To Zagan’s mind, that was just the beginning. The best was yet to come.

  Zagan spoke into his mic, uttering esoteric words in the ancient Egyptian liturgical language. The giant screen ignited with quick shots of the hooded figures inside Michelle’s apartment. They formed a circle around the helpless woman sprawled on the spray-painted carpet.

  The frightening tableau live-streamed in crisp HD through the auditorium on the coders’ networked laptop screens. They pounded the keyboards harder.

  “I pledge your soul to my master,” Zagan proclaimed and the powerfully built killer at Michelle’s side repeated the CEO’s ominous words. His gleaming blade encompassed the length of the auditorium’s mammoth screen, Michelle’s terrified features reflected in the broad expanse of steel. When his gloved hand drove the knife into the hapless woman’s chest, her scream shredded the silence of the auditorium.

  The faces of the employees registered no emotion. Their eyes did glitter with feverish exhilaration as Michelle’s final moments flickered on their screens. Fingers flew over the keys, coding in syncopated rhythm with the thrusting blades onscreen as the grisly murder fueled their work. It was as if their workflow kept adjusting to match the speed and intensity of the stabbing knives.

  Zagan surveyed his audience with growing satisfaction. He glanced at the big screen, where Michelle’s bloodied features loomed. Her eyes were glazing over. As death claimed her, a smile split Zagan’s face.

  Soon the world would experience the terrible power of Omicron.

  Talon reached Michelle’s neighborhood around 11 p.m and found a parking spot right outside her door. Talon’s good mood changed the moment he approached the townhome. The door was wide open, its surface splintered. A wave of dread sucked the air from his lungs. Unarmed, he knew he should call the cops first, but Talon wasn’t the type to wait around for the cavalry to show up.

  He barged into the apartment with quick strides, heart hammering against his ribcage. He was prepared to fight off an army with his bare hands.

  When he saw Michelle, an icy hand seemed to tighten around his heart. His mind went blank, his world reduced to the horror before him. The woman he loved was lying in a broken, bloody heap.

  Talon had encountered death often enough to know Michelle was gone, but logic took a backseat to emotion. He surged toward the body and cradled her scarlet-streaked head. Blood flowed through his fingers… so much blood… Its coppery tang mixed with her subtle perfume.

  He held Michelle in his trembling arms, brushing a sheaf of crimson-caked hair from her face.

  God, this can’t be happening!

  Talon was beyond words and so was the dead woman in his arms.

  He was still cradling Michelle when sirens cut through the night and cops exploded into the apartment, guns pointing at him.

  “Step away from the body!”

  They were shouting at him, but he didn’t hear their words. “I said, step back!”

  One of the officers grabbed Talon’s arm and something snapped inside of him. Years of training kicked in and he roughly shoved the cop aside. Wrong move. Immediately, three Glocks were leveled at his chest.

  Talon slowly raised his hands, his face turning into a dead mask.

  Chapter Four

  The events following his arrest became a dark blur. Talon remembered the cops slamming him against the wall at gunpoint and slapping cuffs on him. At first he’d refused to back away from Michelle, unwilling to release her body, to let go of her. As long as he clung to her, death wouldn’t become permanent and irreversible. His thinking stood in the face of logic but he now found himself in a place where his darkest emotions held reign.

  As the police officers kept barking orders at him to back away, his 1000-yard stare fixed on the boys in blue. He was daring them to shoot him, part of him wishing they would put him out of his misery. Another thought prevailed and brought him back to his senses. Michelle was gone but her killer or killers were still out there. This realization tore through his mind and became his reason to go on living. Whoever had done this to his girlfriend would pay for their crimes.

  He would make sure of it.

  After the cops cuffed Talon, they led him to a waiting cruiser. The red-blue light of the sirens washed over his expressionless features. The long drive to the precinct felt like an endless journey down a dark tunnel, a fragmented, hallucinatory trip into his personal hell. He fixated on his cuffed hands — they were still caked with Michelle’s blood — and blocked out the world.

  Talon knew he was shutting down. The next thing he remembered was sitting in a bare, gray room facing down two homicide detectives. They were running his prints and soon enough the computer would spit out his service record.

  As the detectives launched into their questions, Talon offered up clipped answers. He’d received a call from an old Army buddy. The timing of the texts on his phone would back up his story and they should contact Erik. Not the best alibi in the world, but his old friend would certainly vouch for him.

  Two hours into his interrogation they received his service record and the tone in the room started to change. Especially once Detective Jessica Serrone, an attractive Hispanic woman in her late twenties, arrived. At least with her, steely professionalism and hostile suspicion gave way to pity and empathy. He saw that he’d gone from potential murderer to grief-stricken victim, but this only drove home his loss.

  The ordeal ended when Detective Serrone told him he was free to go. Before he stepped out of the interrogation room she returned his belongings, including the small box containing Michelle’s engagement ring. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said with heartfelt emotion.

  Talon turned away from the detective, a man of stone. He walked into the bustling police precinct and found Erik waiting for him. His old buddy had cleaned up as best he could and the mints almost managed to mask the alcohol on his breath.

  Seeing him stirred dark feelings of anger inside Talon. If Erik hadn’t been so weak, so needy, none of this would’ve happened. He would have been with Michelle when the intruders broke into her apartment. He would have kept her safe.

  The two soldiers left the precinct without exchanging any words. Erik must’ve known what was going through Talon’s churning mind and remained quiet as they headed for his Mustang.

  Rain swept the forlorn streets, a response to the previous day’s humidity. Heavy drops pelted the windshield and the wipers were furiously battling the downpour. While Erik navigated the dark, wet roads in uncomfortable silence, Talon’s thoughts focused on Michelle. He tried to picture her smiling face but her final, agonizing moments kept intruding on the memory.

  “I’m so sorry.” Erik’s timing on this apology couldn’t have been worse. Talon’s seething rage bubbled to the surface.

  “Stop the car.”

  “Where are you going to go?” Erik asked.

  “None of your goddamn business. Now let me out. I’m not going to ask again.”

  Erik pulled up to the nearest sidewalk. He was tempted to add something but Talon’s glare suggested that he’d better keep his mouth shut.

  Talon kicked the door open and disappeared into the wet night. He walked in the rain until he was soaked. Perhaps he hoped the elements could wash away the darkness inside him and extinguish the fire in his heart.

  He tried to recreate in his mind the scene at Michelle’s apartment, homing in on details he might have missed at first. One image dominated his thinking — the inverted, five-pointed star scrawled on the floor.

  The pentagram.

  Did Michelle become the victim of a satanic cult? The notion seemed fantastic, p
art of a bad B-horror picture from the seventies.

  Around six a.m. the first hint of milky sunlight struggled to break through the dense cloud cover and Michelle suddenly seemed to haunt every corner of the city.

  When he drifted through Chinatown, it made him think of the hole in the wall restaurant they’d stumbled into one drunken night, only to discover the best dumplings on the planet. Passing Ghirardelli Square, he remembered that Michelle’s favorite flavor of chocolate was Dark Cabernet. Who wanted their chocolate to taste like wine? Michelle did.

  As he trudged down California Street, he glanced up at the Intercontinental. They had celebrated their first anniversary as a couple in the Top of the Mark rooftop lounge. Overpriced fare, but the view was amazing and Michelle had loved it.

  So many memories.

  God, he was barely keeping it together.

  His long walk led him to Dolores Park. Less than twelve hours earlier he’d proposed to Michelle right in this spot, all thoughts of death far away. He choked back a scream of rage. His hands shook and balled into fists.

  Rain fell, as if the city was weeping for the loss of a favorite citizen. The downpour washed away the tears that coursed down Talon’s face, but it didn’t calm his heaving frame. He couldn’t believe that she was gone. That everything they had shared could so easily be lost.

  After what seemed like hours, he turned away from the waterfront and continued his silent pilgrimage through San Francisco’s rain-soaked urban canyons.

  Talon’s aimless wanderings drew him back to Michelle’s apartment. The structure loomed like a mausoleum, now transformed in Talon’s mind into a place of horror. Looking up at the townhome he realized he wasn’t ready to set foot in the place again. At least not yet.

  He shuffled away from the building and his gaze landed on Michelle’s car, still parked on the other side of the street. A parking ticket danced in the wind, held in place by the windshield wiper.

  Talon went over to the vehicle and slid behind the wheel. For a brief moment the car offered refuge from the incessant downpour. As soon as he closed the door, he knew he made a mistake. Michelle’s scent still lingered here. For a moment he could imagine her sitting beside him again, flashing that beautiful, playful smile.

  His eyes fell on the small photograph mounted on the dash. Taken in Afghanistan, it showed him and Michelle grinning like school children. Their smiles were genuine, their happiness palpable.

  Looking at the picture pushed him over the edge. Talon knew he needed to numb himself.

  Needed to forget.

  With a renewed sense of purpose, he headed to the nearest bar and started knocking back shots. The place was a rundown dive and deserted at this mid-afternoon hour. The few lost souls leaning into the well-worn counter were all committed alcoholics and Talon intended to join their ranks.

  The whiskey burned as it went down his throat and immediately made him crave another one. Despite his growing buzz, the alcohol wasn’t helping Talon forget or calming him down. On the contrary, the booze was adding fuel to the fire. Each shot only stoked the flames inside him.

  For the next few days Talon spent his waking hours hitting any watering hole that would take his money. At night he slept off the alcohol at the rundown motel where he’d sought refuge. He didn’t shower, didn’t eat, didn’t give a damn. Terrible thoughts swirled through his mind. His fury was coming to a boil, metastasizing into a murderous rage.

  On the third day he ended up in a run-down goth-punk bar. He didn’t share anything in common with its patrons except for a hunger to forget.

  As the night wore on, he began to notice a crew of black-clad Goths. The tall, pale leader of the group — a young, cantankerous asshole — would have scored well in a Marilyn Manson lookalike contest. One of the Goth chicks mistook his attention for interest and flashed him a black-lipstick smile. Her wandering eye didn’t go over well with her beau. He gave Talon the finger before pulling his girl off the barstool and dragging her toward the exit. His friends filed out after him without paying for their drinks. The bartender hailed expletives after them.

  Talon didn’t pay attention to the bartender’s shouts. All he could think about was the tattoo he’d spotted on the Goth’s hand when he flipped him off.

  It was an inverted pentagram.

  Talon followed the brazen gang of Goths for a couple of blocks. A heavy fog shrouded the streets, turning the world into a dreamlike landscape of bleeding shadows.

  Talon kept his distance but stayed close enough, never losing sight of his quarry. It soon became apparent where the punks were headed. They were walking toward the Mission Dolores Church and its adjoining cemetery.

  The Goths paid little heed to the lone figure trailing them. Even if they spotted him, Talon would offer little cause for alarm. They were four, he was one and in his currently abysmal state, he bore a stronger resemblance to a homeless man than a highly trained killer.

  Talon passed through the wrought-iron main gate and began to close the gap once they entered the maze of tombstones.

  The fog grew heavier and erased the black-clad punks from view. Focusing on his other senses, Talon tracked the sound of their voices. Their laughter gave way to the hiss of spray canisters. Like a predator drone that had locked on its target, he homed in on the Goths.

  The mist cleared and the ring of punks stood revealed. Streaks of graffiti slithered down a vandalized tombstone. The Goths were in the process of painting inverted pentagrams on the headstones. They stopped for a beat, admiring their handiwork, and suddenly became aware of Talon’s presence.

  For a silent moment the vandals traded glances. Then their leader glared at Talon. “What the fuck you looking at?”

  The Goth never finished his sentence as Talon’s hand lashed out at him. Now beyond mercy and reason, the Delta Force operator had allowed the alcohol roaring through his system to unleash his killer instinct. His fist connected and sent the raven-haired man crashing into the nearest grave-mound. The crack of bone snapping against the tombstone echoed over the cemetery.

  The other Goths stared with big eyes, feet rooted. No one was smiling any longer. Another Goth challenged Talon, fists up. His foolish bravery was rewarded with a vicious series of combination punches that hurled him into a memorial’s flowerbed. Before the young man could get up, Talon was upon him, applying a chokehold which would snap his neck when…

  The pitiful cry of one of the Goth chicks pierced Talon’s drunken haze of insanity. “Please, don’t hurt him, we’re sorry...”

  Talon stared at the woman as if waking from a terrible nightmare. Mascara ran down her face in dark streaks. The fear in her eyes was all too real.

  Catching his breath, Talon regarded the nearly unconscious man whose neck he’d almost broken. He studied the punk’s pentagram tattoo and realized these weren’t hardened killers but College kids playing dress-up.

  Talon eyed his hands; they were bloodied from the fight. “Get the hell out of here,” he hissed.

  The girl blinked at him, almost as if she couldn’t quite believe this turn of events. As Talon sank to his knees, the Goths wisely fled the cemetery.

  Talon let out a heaving sob and wept. The pouring rain hammered down on his haunted visage, washing away the tears but not the pain.

  Not the rage.

  The flames of anger burning within him could only be extinguished in one way…

  Vengeance.

  Chapter Five

  Early morning sunlight raked Erik’s house. While the incessant downpour had tapered off, Talon’s clothes were still wet and streaked with mud and dried blood. Dark rings circled his sunken eyes.

  A decision had been made. He wouldn’t continue to wallow in self-pity or lash out at the world. Michelle wouldn’t want him torn apart by grief. Direct action was required. Her killers still walked the Earth, but their days were numbered. This certainty calmed Talon and filled him with a new sense of purpose.

  A new mission.

  He knocked o
n the door, not expecting Erik to show. To his surprise his old friend did emerge. For a moment the two soldiers regarded each other in the gray dawn. For Erik uncertainty mixed with shame.

  “I’m sorry about what I said,” Talon said. He meant it. It had been wrong to use Erik as a scapegoat for his own grief and guilt.

  Erik’s face relaxed. “What are you going to do?”

  “What do you think?”

  Erik’s brows furrowed with concern. “This isn’t Afghanistan, Talon. You start going after these fuckers, the cops will hunt you down.”

  “They can try.”

  “Let me help you, at least.”

  “I could use a place to stay, a base of operations.”

  Erik’s eyes flickered at that and the old light edged into them, transforming him into the warrior Talon met on the battlefield all those years ago.

  Erik waved him inside. “Mi casa es su casa, compadre.”

  Before Talon could hunt down Michelle’s murderers, he needed to get a better feel for his newest enemy. The first order of business was checking the Chronicle’s website. Within seconds he found a story on Michelle’s murder. The article stated that she’d been stabbed multiple times and also mentioned the fact that her boyfriend discovered the body.

  The piece felt like a beat-by-beat replay of the reporting that was dominating local TV news. It touched on the pentagram and theorized about an occult angle, but these salient details didn’t seem to elicit much outrage from the public. In a world where terrorists were tweeting decapitation photos of Americans, pentagrams and black candles weren’t all that scary anymore. So the world is a madhouse — what else is new?

  Talon combed the Internet for other occult crimes committed in the Bay Area over the last few months. His search produced a number of hits. Michelle’s murder appeared to be the fifth crime in an escalating series of cases. The one that jumped out the most for Talon was the brutal killing of an Uber driver. Two other murders had occurred at the same time, followed by three suicides. Witness accounts placed some of the suicides near the crime scenes. This prompted speculation about a murder-suicide pact and the possibility that the perpetrators belonged to a cult.