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

by William Massa

  Talon lurked in the thick bushes that lined the driveway. Features hidden by a black balaclava, hands covered in leather gloves, silencer mated with his Glock. The moment the cult member turned his back on him, he darted into the open home.

  Outside, the cultist finished his inspection. Reassured that no car thief was hanging around the property, he headed back into the house. As soon as he closed the door, Talon’s gloved hand reached for his throat from the dead corner of the door. He wrenched the man‘s neck back with a bone-snapping crack and caught the lifeless body before it could slump to the ground.

  Without making a sound, Talon lowered the cultist to the floor and edged deeper into the house.

  The other cultists never turned around as Talon stepped into the living room. Their attention was entirely devoted to the upcoming blood sacrifice.

  Talon met Becky’s terrified gaze.

  The two men must have read the change in their victim’s expression, because they finally spun around. Talon never blinked as he fed the first cult member two bullets.

  The robotic mask erupted in a hail of fiberglass, blood and brain matter, the bullet punching out a fist-sized exit wound.

  The cultists hit the tarp and painted it red. Only muffled sounds emanated from beneath the duct tape covering Becky’s mouth.

  The third cultist faced Talon, blade up, aware that he stood no chance against the Glock aimed at him.

  “Drop the knife and you’ll live,” Talon said.

  He was lying.

  They’d forfeited their lives when they murdered Michelle. Talon was merely hoping to interrogate the last man before permitting him to join his two buddies in hell.

  Talon was a soldier, not a vigilante. He’d killed his share of terrorists and enemy combatants but didn’t go around taking out civilians, much less Americans. But he felt zero regret about showing these two bastards the high cost of war.

  The cultist straightened and uttered a few words in a language Talon didn’t comprehend. Whoever was hiding behind that freaky mask was smart enough to know that you didn’t bring a knife to a gunfight. Nevertheless, what he did next caught Talon off guard. Without hesitation, the man drove his own blade through the bottom of his jaw, straight into the base of his brain. He collapsed in a writhing mass of gushing red.

  Talon could’ve put him out of his twitching misery with a bullet to the heart, but the Delta Operator was fresh out of mercy. Talon watched in silence as the man drowned in his own blood.

  Chapter Nine

  Becky faced Talon and her haunted eyes blinked back tears. The woman was in shock, shutting down. Who could blame her? Minutes earlier she’d stared down certain death. Now she sat at the oak dining-room table in the adjoining kitchen, eyes fixed on nothing.

  Talon wished he could offer her some coffee or a drink to settle her nerves, but the risk of leaving circumstantial evidence behind was too high. Better if they got out of here as soon as possible. Talon doubted that the neighbors had heard anything that would make them call the cops, but why press his luck?

  Appraising Becky’s condition, he concluded that she was in no state for a ride on his motorcycle. Talon called Casca and the billionaire picked up on the second ring.

  “How did it go?” he asked.

  “Becky is safe and the cult is three members short.”

  “Didn’t want to spare at least one for questioning?”

  “I tried, but he wouldn’t play ball.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Still at the house. I could use a pickup.”

  “I’m sending a car from my downtown office. Expect them to arrive within minutes.”

  Casca clicked off. Talon’s gaze shifted to the quivering woman. He removed his balaclava. The poor girl needed to see a human face, not another masked assassin. Becky didn’t strike him as the type that would repay her rescuer by picking him out of a police lineup.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  Talon considered how to answer. He could be the one asking the questions and risk Becky retreating into her own bubble. Or he could tell the truth and hopefully earn her cooperation. Talon opted for the second approach.

  “Mark. I’m Michelle’s boyfriend.”

  It took a moment for the words to register. A tear trickled down Becky’s cheek as the pieces clicked together in her mind. “I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. If I hadn’t contacted her…”

  She broke off.

  “Tell me what you know,” Talon said.

  Becky complied. In a halting voice that gained confidence as Becky went deeper into her terrible ordeal, she recounted what she’d witnessed at Omicron. When she reached the part where she contacted Michele, Talon interrupted. “How’d the cult find out you were talking to the press?”

  “I’m not sure. After I told Michelle what I experienced, she asked me to get some tangible evidence. Without proof she wouldn’t dare run my story. I needed to bring her something that we could take to the cops. I never got a chance.”

  She didn’t have to say any more.

  Omicron’s security cams had probably spotted Becky sneaking into the meeting. It wouldn’t take much for them to hack her computer and discover that she’d been in contact with the San Francisco Chronicle.

  “After I spoke with Michelle, I was too scared to go home. I spent the night with my best friend Janice. I only heard about what happened to Michelle the next day. That’s when I knew they were looking for me.”

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “I found a motel. I didn’t want to endanger Janice. For two days I tried to figure out what my next move should be. I was about to take my chances and go to the cops when…” Becky paused, overwhelmed by the memory of her brush with death. Talon guessed that along the way she’d probably made a mistake and left some sort of digital footprint. Or Omicron had hacked her phone records and found out about Janice Goldstein the same way Casca had.

  Talon’s cell chirped and he scanned the incoming message. Becky’s ride had arrived and the driver was circling the block. “Becky, a car is about to take you someplace safe.”

  Panic invaded her face and Talon knew she needed a reassurance stronger than words. He gently touched her arm. Leaning closer, he said, ”You have to trust me, Becky. My friend will make sure nothing happens to you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Becky nodded.

  Talon led her outside of the house. She was traumatized but kept her composure.

  He scoped the neighborhood for any potential witnesses but the sidewalks remained deserted. Headlights speared the night and a black BMW pulled up to the curb.

  A tinted window rolled down, revealing the face of one of Casca’s security men. The big man managed a reassuring smile as Talon assisted Becky into the luxury car.

  “You’ll be safe, Becky.” Talon caught a whiff of fine leather as he closed the car door behind her. The BMW edged into the road.

  Talon strode back into the house and paused before the seeping bodies. The cultist’s high-quality Halloween masks appeared to be from The Terminator, or at least inspired by the iconic film’s design. The living room resembled the grim battlefield in a post-apocalyptic science-fiction flick.

  Talon stripped off the masks. Like his first kill, these two cultists looked like harmless computer geeks. All three men sported the 666 binary tattoos. Talon wondered what initiation rite had earned the cultists their mark of the Devil, and feared the answer.

  Checking their belongings, he came across Omicron worker-identification badges. The evidence was rapidly mounting against the tech company.

  Turning away from the bodies, Talon searched the home. Except for the three dead cultists, the elegant dwelling offered few hints as to the dark predilections of its inhabitants. Talon did spot a few occult books and a set of black candles on a library shelf. A deck of Tarot cards sat near the paranormal paraphernalia. Three cards poked from the deck: The Devil, the Hanged Man and the Death card.

  The spooky, m
edieval images triggered renewed confusion in Talon. Had a creepy hobby metastasized into a twisted philosophy that encouraged human sacrifice? How exactly had occult rituals mated with 21st Century computer technology? Something had turned these computer-geeks into fanatics who were willing to die for their misguided beliefs.

  And kill for them.

  Once Talon completed his search of the house, he scooped up the dead cultists’ cell phones. He also grabbed a laptop that sat on the oak table, its screen splattered with blood.

  He knew Casca would want to study the computer’s data. The billionaire had come through for him twice now. Though he hated to admit it, he was glad to have someone with Casca’s means and level of influence on his side. Talon was used to working within a unit and knew that firepower and skill weren’t always enough. Intel, resources and the proper backup could be crucial in shaping the final outcome of any conflict.

  Talon filled up a black satchel with evidence and wiped off all the surfaces Becky might have come in contact with. Inspiration struck him as he studied the password-protected Omicron cell phone. He keyed in the cult’s trademark binary number and the home-screen popped up, its data at his full disposal. There were text messages and emails to go through, but for now he was more interested in the photos and videos on the phone.

  Becky’s shocking experience in the Omicron auditorium popped into his mind. If she was telling the truth these cultists not only killed and filmed their murders but also streamed them to their unholy flock.

  Had they recorded Michelle’s murder? The thought filled Talon with a mixture of horror and rage. Like a man possessed he went through the cultist’s videos. He located the first recording and pressed play. The footage showed Becky weakly fighting back inside the van.

  Talon continued his search. After three more unrelated videos, he found the one he dreaded to view. His pulse quickened as Michelle’s final moments unspooled before him. The sound of her fear-stricken voice in the eco-home felt like a distant whisper from beyond the grave. As the merciless masked killers closed in on their downed victim, Talon’s fingers whitened around the body of the phone and nearly snapped its case.

  Twenty seconds into it, before the knife had reached her, he stopped the video. He didn’t want to relive the murder. Couldn’t. Inhaling sharply, he turned off the phone. The screen went black and so did Talon’s mind. Rational thought was swept aside by a white-hot rage.

  He was going to bring down the whole damn cult.

  The vibrating cell in his hand pulled him out of his dark thoughts. It was an incoming text message from an unknown number. The ominous text read: We’re ready to begin. A second later, the cultist’s phone chirped and the Skype logo flashed on the screen.

  The perverted monsters on the other end of the line were eager to bear witness to the latest sacrifice. For a moment, Talon hesitated. What should he do? His eyes fell on the dead cultists.

  If they wanted a bloody show, they’d get one.

  A show they wouldn’t soon forget.

  The jumbo-sized screen inside Omicron’s auditorium came alive with a HD view of the eco-house. Zagan wore his trademark suit and robot skull-mask, projecting the image of a high priest from some dark future. Shifting his attention to the incoming image, Zagan immediately recognized that something was wrong. Someone had flipped the script on him.

  Onscreen, a camera panned through the living room and captured a disturbing set of images. Instead of a hapless victim, the lifeless features of Zagan’s followers jumped into view, the bodies neatly lined up side by side. Dead eyes peered back at him and the entire congregation of coders. The atmosphere inside the vast assembly hall changed immediately as the sound of typing fingers gave way to shocked silence.

  The camera zoomed in on one of the dead cultists, revealing the Tarot card positioned right below the man’s face. The card showed a skeletal knight in black armor astride a white horse, one hand holding up a black banner.

  THE DEATH CARD.

  Zagan struggled to make sense of the image.

  Talon’s raspy voice offered an explanation. “Death is coming. For all of you…” With this sinister promise, the screen went black.

  Chapter Ten

  The Ducati roared as Talon pulled onto Highway 101, headed for Silicon Valley. He didn’t quite know what to expect as he closed in on the address Casca had texted him. What qualified as “home” for a billionaire moonlighting as an expert on the weird? Subconsciously he was expecting Wayne Manor, and the gated, sprawling estate didn’t disappoint.

  The electric gates whirred open and Talon entered the meticulously maintained grounds. He shot down the tree-lined, graveled driveway, past a foaming fountain and a stately garden. There was a beauty here but also a forlorn, deserted quality. Thousands of dollars were spent every month to tend to the property’s natural beauty, without a soul around to enjoy it.

  Talon killed his engine near the main entrance and parked beside the BMW. Moving swiftly, he mounted stone steps that snaked toward the mansion. The two members of Casca’s security team he’d sparred with earlier were waiting for him. Their faces remained unreadable but they kept a respectful distance as they escorted him into the lavish home.

  “Sorry about the other day. No hard feelings, I hope,” Talon said. He didn’t want any resentment to fester now that he was working with the billionaire.

  “Just part of the job.” One of the guards winked; apology accepted. They led him down a wood-paneled hallway into a vast library. “Mr. Casca will be right with you.”

  The security guys left but the door remained open at his back. Talon studied the library. Recessed lights conjured moody shadows inside the museum-like chamber. For a moment he felt like he was back in the occult bookstore. The walls were either lined with ancient tomes or covered with an assortment of classical paintings. Talon marveled at a medieval depiction of beaming angels and red-skinned demons locked in an intense, existential battle.

  The eternal conflict between good and evil raged on.

  Talon’s eyes landed on one of many glass display cases on the library floor. Each case contained exotic items capable of inspiring nightmares. There was an eerie voodoo doll. An obsidian skull. Cursed objects that Talon couldn’t quite identify and wasn’t sure he wanted to.

  He stepped up to a case that held a leather-bound tome with strange, hieroglyphic-style writings. Talon scanned the illegible scribbling and became convinced that the dark letters hadn’t been etched in ink, but human blood. His stomach roiled with revulsion as the irrational thought seized his mind. The book seemed alive, pulsing and oozing with raw, unnatural energy.

  What made a man collect such morbid items? Was Casca just a bored rich guy, out to shock his well-heeled friends when they visited?

  No, Talon knew there was a method behind the billionaire’s madness, a reason for his obsession. Scanning the ancient depictions of heaven and hell, he wondered what demons drove his new benefactor.

  “The Grimoire of the warlock Alexander Crowe.” Casca’s sudden appearance in the library startled Talon. Only rarely did someone manage to sneak up on him. This place was getting under his skin, dulling his normally razor-honed instincts.

  “According to the legend, he inscribed his dark secrets in the blood of virgins.”

  “I bet it was a bestseller in its day,” Talon said.

  Casca raised an eyebrow. Talon winked. “You spoke with Becky?”

  Casca nodded.

  ”What do you make of it?” Talon said.

  “Omicron appears to be the cult’s origin point.”

  Talon shook his head. “How is that possible? We’re talking about a giant tech conglomerate here.”

  “How do you explain the mass suicides of the Jonestown massacre? Al Qaeda? ISIS? The dark power of any fringe organization comes from its message, and the conviction of its messenger.”

  “Who is this messenger?”Talon said.

  “That’s for us to find out.”

  “What abou
t the program Becky mentioned? The streaming of the murders?”

  “Perhaps Omicron’s program is the 21st Century answer to the Grimoire.”

  “Come again?” Casca had lost him.

  “The warlock used the lifeforce of his victims to infuse the words on the page with occult power. Omicron might be developing a computer program that requires a similar level of sacrifice. Magic fueled by blood and suffering.”

  Casca’s earnest tone gave Talon pause. He could feel his confusion growing. “I hope you don’t actually buy into all this crazy stuff.”

  “Sergeant, do you know where the word ‘occult’ comes from?”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m about to find out?”

  “It’s Latin. The direct translation is ‘knowledge of the hidden.’ Secrets. There are mysteries in this world. Questions with no answers.” Casca paused a beat before adding, “The dangers of the occult are real.”

  “And you’re the guy who’s going to save the world from the boogeyman?”

  “Perhaps we can save it together.”

  Talon searched Casca’s face and what he saw disturbed him. The man wasn’t joking.

  “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

  The intensity in the billionaire’s eyes answered the question far more eloquently than words ever could. “Come. Let’s see what else Ms. Oakes can tell us about our enemy.”

  With these words Casca walked to the library’s exit.

  Talon followed.

  ***

  The screen shimmered and undulated with streams of complex computer code. Hypnotic waves of data washed over Talon and Casca, painting their faces a bluish tint.

  Seated in Casca’s home office, they watched in expectant silence as Becky did her best to decipher the secrets of the dead cultist’s laptop now resting on Casca’s desk. The billionaire’s office was both elegant and masculine, dominated by brown leather and burnished wood. Two armchairs faced an antique desk that probably cost more than most people’s cars. A fireplace burned away in the corner, flickering flames bleeding crimson shadows across a number of classical sculptures and an illuminated globe. Detailed millwork added history to the timeless workspace.