Occult Assassin: The Complete Series (Books 1-6) Read online

  A cult.

  This wasn’t ISIS, Al Qaeda or one of their many offshoots. This was different. Now he faced a homegrown organization with no discernible political agenda.

  What am I up against?

  As Talon internalized the articles, he spotted Michelle’s byline on a number of them. Finally there was something connecting her to the cult murders. Had her stories turned her into a target?

  Talon had seen enough dead reporters to know how dangerous the job could be. Many times he’d wished Michelle did something else for a living. But just as Michelle would never ask him to turn his back on his military career, he couldn’t expect her to stop chasing a good story. They were born risk-takers, defined by their willingness to put it all on the line.

  Rereading the news items provided little in terms of explanation for why Michelle was singled out by the cult. Her reporting was in-depth and sensitive toward the victims, but it didn’t differ substantially from the stories generated by competing news outlets.

  Talon decided to head to the paper’s offices and talk to Michelle’s editor-in-chief, Richard Powell. He might be able to shed some light on the events leading up to her murder.

  This time around, stepping into the newspaper offices gutted Talon. Reminders of Michelle were everywhere. Framed awards and articles that bore her name, photographs of her with friends and colleagues whom she’d pointed out to him. He’d entered Michelle’s world, and these mementos of her impact on it made her absence even more pronounced.

  The receptionist uttered a meek hello and fought back tears. Everyone who saw and recognized him averted their gaze or offered awkward condolences. He appreciated the gesture even though he drew little comfort from their words.

  Unnerved by the attention his presence was drawing from the staff, Talon clenched his jaw and picked up his pace. Heading straight into Richard Powell’s office, he found the Chronicle’s editor-in-chief busy fielding calls.

  When Richard noticed Talon, his eyes flashed with surprise. He got off the phone and rushed over, shaking Talon’s hand. “I’m so sorry about what happened,“ Richard said. “Everyone at the paper is in shock. How are you holding up?”

  Talon opted not to answer that question. Before the silence could become uncomfortable, Richard continued. “I spoke with Detective Serrone earlier this morning. She is spearheading the investigation into the cult killings and doing everything in her power to catch these psychos.”

  For a moment Talon’s mind turned back to the Hispanic detective who had offered her condolences to him. “Does the SFPD have any leads?”

  “Not to my knowledge, but they’re playing it close to the chest on this one, “ Richard said.

  “I know Michelle did some reporting on these cult crimes. Could that be why this happened?”

  “The cops have been asking me the same question, and I’m going to give you the same answer. I don’t know. Michelle could be quite secretive when it came to the stories she was working on.”

  Talon’s mood darkened. This wasn’t what he’d hoped to hear. “Do you mind if I take a look at her files?”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. Michelle kept all her work on her laptop. According to the police, her computer and smartphone are missing. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”

  Talon nodded and got up. He was almost out the door when Powell addressed him again. “Wait — there’s one thing. Michelle believed that the cult had ties to Silicon Valley.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The three suicides were all tech workers: coders and engineers. It’s a competitive industry. Not every upstart turns into the next Facebook or Apple. For every giant success that makes the news, there are hundreds of failures. The Valley can breed addiction, dysfunction and a sense of entitlement. Maybe even a crackpot cult. It was an angle Michelle was looking into — make of that what you will.”

  Talon filed this latest detail away for future analysis. He thanked Powell for his time and left the Chronicle. His next stop was a local occult bookstore he had Googled earlier.

  Talon entered the small shop and shook his head at his macabre surroundings. Esoteric paraphernalia crammed the shelves, ranging from spell kits and ritual supplies to bulk herbs and books on Wicca, Santeria, Norse mythology and every conceivable occult tradition imaginable.

  Talon didn’t put much stock in any of this superstitious mumbo jumbo. In the battle between science and superstition, science had won a long time ago. It amazed him that so many people still clung to these archaic notions about the world. It was proof that while man was pretty clever, he was still ruled by his hopes and fears.

  As he explored the shop, Talon paid little attention to the Tarot cards and Ouija boards. He ignored the vast assortment of crystals and candles. Instead, he bee-lined straight for the section dealing with satanic rituals.

  Talon felt uncomfortable in the otherworldly store which seemed to eschew all forms of natural light. The owners were selling the idea of a transcendent experience. Combined with the New Age soundtrack being piped through the loudspeaker system, the décor achieved the desired effect.

  Talon wasn’t a superstitious man but ten years of war with fanatics in the Middle East had taught him both the power and the danger of misguided faith in the supernatural. It could turn murder into a holy act and justify the most terrible of crimes, crimes committed in the name of God. Even though he didn’t believe in the Devil, Talon did believe in knowing your enemy. If Michelle’s killer worshipped the Prince of Lies, Talon wanted to understand what drove him (or her) to such monstrous acts.

  As Talon eyed the shelves of books classified under Satanism, he groaned inwardly at some of the titles. Massive doorstops like THE HISTORY OF THE DEVIL and SERVING DARKNESS promised something a little different than light beach reading.

  A waif-like store clerk sidled up to him. Her myriad tattoos and alabaster skin conjured the illusion that she was attuned to some other frequency than the rest of humanity.

  She flashed Talon her most mysterious smile. “You look like you may need some help.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Let’s just say you don’t seem like the type who shops here.”

  “And what type is that?”

  The clerk’s lips curled into another one of her knowing smiles, but she didn’t offer an explanation.

  Talon forged ahead. “I need a few general books on the occult. The basics.”

  The young woman nodded and fished out a collection of seminal texts. Talon barely scanned the titles – he was way out of his comfort zone here.

  “It’s difficult to narrow down to the basics in a field as diverse as the supernatural, but these should make for a good start.”

  Inspecting the books, Talon decided that this would do for now. He paid for his purchases, left the store and headed back to Erik’s house.

  There, he opened the front gate and walked past Erik’s home, heading for a small guesthouse separated by a minuscule yard. Erik had been cool enough to let Talon crash in his father’s old office, which had stood empty since the heart attack that led to his passing. The studio contained a small bed, a worn desk and years worth of dust. It would do fine. Talon had stayed in far worse places.

  As he took a seat on the squeaking bed and fired up his laptop, a plan was forming in the back of his mind.

  Learn about the enemy.

  Identify the enemy.

  Exterminate the enemy.

  He had two more weeks before he needed to report back to duty. Two weeks to win this war. He wouldn’t leave San Francisco without completing his mission.

  Talon checked his email. There was a ton of spam and a message from a general who had received word of the tragedy. Most of his Delta buddies hadn’t contacted him, and in a way he was glad. In time the news would get around and the condolences would begin to flood his inbox.

  For now he would rather not become distracted by reminders of his military life. The new mission would demand hi
s complete focus and attention.

  Talon removed the newly acquired books from his backpack and began to familiarize himself with the material. After two hours of reading about cults and satanic rituals, the letters became a blur and he could no longer concentrate on the dense, morbid texts. He wanted to understand what he was up against, but he was foremost a man of action. Talon was itching to be out in the field. Rage swirled inside him and his mind kept wandering back to Michelle. His beautiful Michelle, now gone forever.

  Hands shaking, Talon slammed the book shut and closed his eyes.

  Goddammit, pull yourself together!

  The mental command seemed hollow and lacked conviction. The walls of Erik’s cramped guesthouse felt like they were closing in on him and he couldn’t shake a growing feeling of claustrophobia. He had to get out of here.

  Time to engage in a different form of intelligence gathering. He was going to revisit the scene of the crime. Perhaps there was some telltale sign the cops had missed when they combed Michelle’s apartment. Some clue that could point him in the right direction. Something. Talon knew he was grasping at straws here, but he was a desperate man. Desperate, but also determined.

  His eyes fell on a nearby dresser. Two items rested on its surface – a Glock in a shoulder holster, and a Ka-Bar in a tactical sheath. Presents from Erik. “My gut tells me these might come in handy,” Erik had said with a low chuckle. Talon had a feeling they might.

  He snatched up the pistol and knife, then stepped out of the guesthouse. A beaten-up motorcycle was gathering dust in the driveway. Erik hadn’t ridden his Ducati in over a year but encouraged Talon to use the bike to get around town. Talon extricated the keys.

  The long-dormant engine squelched and gurgled before screaming back to life. He thought he could hear a couple of neighbors slamming their windows shut but Talon welcomed the noise. The ferocious roar drowned out his dark thoughts as he powered down the street. There was only the road, the fierce sound of the Ducati and the fire in his soul. For a brief moment, Talon could pretend that the wailing engine sounds were the screams of Michelle’s murderers.

  Forty-five minutes later he pulled up to Michelle’s townhome and was gripped with dread. Part of him wished he didn’t have to set foot in the apartment where he’d discovered Michelle’s ruined body. The feeling of helplessness he associated with the place returned with a vengeance.

  Talon gave himself an internal push and approached the front door. Police lines served as a grim reminder of Michelle’s murder but now dangled forlornly from one side of the doorframe instead of barricading the entrance.

  Has someone entered the crime scene?

  Talon’s hand closed around the door-handle and froze.

  Muffled footsteps and voices could be heard behind the door. Someone was definitely inside Michelle’s unit.

  Talon’s fingers touched the Glock sitting in his armpit sling. Reassured by the weight of the gun, he turned the knob in a slow, deliberate manner. The lock wouldn’t snap open to announce his arrival. Instead the door parted soundlessly, opening a few inches.

  Three men were busy combing the place. They remained oblivious to his presence, focused on the task at hand. All three of them wore expensive looking suits. Talon thought it doubtful that these guys were Feds or homicide detectives. Call it gut instinct, but they were way too sleek and polished to be law enforcement.

  The two bigger men moved with precision and grace despite their size. Talon pegged them as retired military. The youthful guy carried himself with authority. He had to be the one in charge.

  “What are you people doing here?” Talon demanded. He took a step toward the leader of the group and one of the big men reached for him.

  Big mistake.

  Talon wrenched the guy’s arm and using the big man as a human battering ram, he shoved him into his incoming partner. The two bodyguards hunched over into balls of pain.

  One of the downed guards went for the bulge under his jacket but a hand signal from the boss stopped him.

  Talon regarded the man they were protecting. The leader stood his ground without flinching, eyes betraying no fear. “I know you’re angry and want to lash out at someone, Sergeant Talon, but putting my assistants in the hospital won’t bring Michelle back.”

  How does this guy know my name?

  “I apologize for my men’s overeager dedication to their profession, but we’re not your enemy.”

  “Could’ve fooled me.” Talon took a step closer, eyes blazing. “Who the hell are you?”

  A thin smile played over the leader’s face and his voice became flat and determined. “My name is Simon Casca and I’m the man who’s going to help you hunt down the monsters who murdered your girlfriend and kill every single one of them.”

  Chapter Six

  Talon and Simon Casca now fronted the small balcony of Michelle’s apartment. A ravenous fog had swallowed the city and the moist air prickled Talon’s face. Below, cars zipped down the street, the mist transforming them into ghostly shapes. Muted sounds of traffic drifted through the thick layers of condensation.

  If Casca was to be believed, Talon now shared the balcony with one of the richest men in California, if not the entire U.S. He was the owner of Xtel, a company that manufactured twenty-five percent of all microchips currently in use. Xtel wasn’t a sexy stock on the rise, but the company had been around since the dawn of the Silicon Age.

  Talon studied Casca. The billionaire looked young, boyish almost, and appeared to be in his mid-twenties. Unlike most of his Silicon Valley compatriots, he favored slim, well-turned-out Prada suits. “I’m still waiting for you to tell me what you’re doing here,” Talon said.

  “I’m here for the same reason you are. I’m looking for answers.”

  Talon processed these words. Casca’s security team was visible behind the balcony’s sliding doors. Still massaging their bruised bodies and egos, the two men stole nervous glances at him.

  Casca followed Talon’s gaze. “They’re both former Marines and don’t spook easily. Your reputation is well deserved.”

  “What reputation? You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know exactly everything about you, Sergeant Mark Talon. You’re one of the most decorated soldiers in the entire Armed Forces. Two tours with the 101st Airborne Division, followed by your current assignment with Delta Force.”

  “On paper my unit doesn’t even exist, so how did you get this information?”

  “There are no more secrets once you’re worth north of a billion dollars.”

  “So you’ve been throwing some of that funny money around. Question is, why?”

  “When a friend is murdered I like to know who the players are.”

  This revelation caught Talon off guard. “You knew Michelle?”

  Casca nodded. “Michelle interviewed me a couple years back and we stayed in touch. Three weeks earlier she contacted me, asking for help. She needed to draw on my field of expertise.”

  “And what field would that be?”

  “Fringe religions. Ancient rituals. Demonology. The occult.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “How much do you know about the paranormal, Sergeant?”

  “I’m a little too old to believe in ghosts and goblins.

  “I guess that answers my question.”

  “There’s evil out there, but it wears a human face. Michelle’s killers may think the Devil is real, but they’re just flesh and blood. What sort of cult are we dealing with here?”

  “Michelle asked me the same question. We don’t have much to work with at the moment, but certain details suggest a computer-technology cult of some kind. These types of cults incorporate science fiction and computer concepts into their occult and magical doctrine. You may be familiar with the “Rama” cult, whose members committed mass suicide and believed their spiritual guru to be in communication with aliens. Or Aum Shinrikyo, which carried out a Sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subway in 1995.”

  Talon nodded grimly. �
�Aum Shinrikyo – Supreme Truth – was designated a terrorist organization by the United States. The cult used Christian and Buddhist ideas as well as the writings of Nostradamus to attract a highly educated following. Their leader, Asahara, saw himself as a Christ-like figure destined to save his followers from nuclear Armageddon.”

  “I’m impressed, Sergeant. You know your terrorist groups.”

  “What makes you think we’re dealing with such a group?”

  “Besides the three suicides and their ties to Silicon Valley, there’s a telling detail the cops have been keeping a lid on.”

  Casca indicated for Talon to follow him back into the apartment. As they returned to the crime scene, Talon tried to avoid the discoloration on the floor, knowing all too well its origin.

  Casca respectfully circled the chalk outline of Michelle’s body and for a moment, a second pentagram on the wall framed his head like an unholy halo. He tilted his head at the numbers – a combination of ones and zeroes – scrawled below the inverted star:

  1010011010

  Talon had missed the numbers when he last set foot in Michelle’s place. Seeing a loved one crumpled in a puddle of gore could impact anyone’s situational awareness.

  “It’s a binary number,” Talon said.

  “Correct. As you may know, binary numbers can be converted both into letters and decimal numbers. The number you’re looking at translates to six-six-six.”

  666. The number of the Beast.

  “According to Michelle’s source in the SFPD, the three suicides had the same binary number tattooed on their forearms.”

  Talon took a step closer. The dark color of the numbers suggested that they were etched in blood.

  Michelle’s blood.

  “There’s something else you need to be aware of... I apologize in advance for bringing up such a painful and gruesome subject. The forensic report revealed that Michelle was stabbed eighteen times with three different knives. Six thrusts for each blade. Based on the angle of the wounds, the police think there were at least three killers involved, each wielding a blade.”