In Apocalypse Soldier, Talon’s quest for vengeance will take him to the scorching deserts of Arizona…
Chapter One
Father Robert Cabrera was deep into the Eucharistic prayer when a loud banging noise cut through the quiet of the church, followed by a shrill scream. A shocked murmur spread among the congregants as their eyes found the team of heavily armed black-clad men filing into the church. The commandos moved with military precision, their features obscured by ski masks and their machine guns leveled. Boots echoed menacingly on the stone floor as they worked their way toward the altar, like shadows come to life.
Nothing he’d seen in his last three decades as a man of the cloth had prepared Cabrera for the surreal sight before him. Over the years he’d witnessed some incredible horrors, but the invasion of his church by a paramilitary force wasn’t one of them.
Cabrera put down the chalice and signaled his terrified flock to remain calm. His faith was strong, but he knew God wouldn’t intervene if these men decided to open fire. Who were these masked men? Were they hoping to burglarize the church? Thieves would be smart enough to avoid Sunday Mass and pick a day when fewer witnesses would be present. The timing of the assault had to be deliberate; someone was planning to make a statement.
A thick bead of perspiration rolled down Cabrera’s face. He glanced up at the large cross behind him, as if seeking a divine explanation for this affront against his congregation. The cross stood silhouetted against a skylight that offered a spectacular view of the shimmering desert landscape beyond. Tourists came from far away to attend Mass in the landmark chapel. Experiencing a sunset from inside the church, the huge cross starkly outlined against fiery light, could have a powerful effect on both believers and non-believers alike. Unfortunately, the view provided little comfort during this moment of crisis.
Three armed men circled Father Cabrera, allowing a fourth man to step forward. The deferential treatment he received from the militia suggested that this was the group’s leader. He was bigger than the others, about six-three and 260 pounds of granite muscle. He carried himself with the authority and confidence of a man who was aware of his power.
The imposing masked figure addressed Cabrera in a surprisingly soft-spoken voice. “Take us to the back, where your computer is located, Father.” The addition of his title sounded more mocking than respectful.
For a second Father Cabrera stared at the mountain of a man with a dumbfounded expression. Was this what it was all about? What information contained in the church computer could motivate such a brazen assault? A loud barrage of gunfire, aimed at the ceiling, silenced his thoughts. Another panicked cry emanated from the roomful of worshippers.
The icy eyes peering from the shooter’s ski-mask suggested that it wouldn’t take much for the man to point his automatic weapon at the crowd of parishioners. Without further thought, Cabrera’s body jumped into motion. “Follow me.”
The leader and two other men fell in step and followed Cabrera to the back of the church. They passed through a wooden door and down a narrow corridor that led into the rectory, which was part office and part living area. It literally took Cabrera less than two minutes to get out of bed in the morning and make his way into the church.
As soon as they stepped into the priest’s small office, the leader pointed at the aging PC on its small desk.
“What do you want?” Cabrera inquired in a surprisingly calm voice. He wasn’t afraid for himself; he was only worried about the innocent souls under his protection.
“I’m looking for Nicole Robertson,” the leader replied.
The request hit Cabrera with the force of a punch. He finally understood what these men were after.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Cabrera lied. The leader nodded at one of his associates, who uttered something into his headset mic. Gunfire from inside the church made the walls of the rectory vibrate. A feeling of dread coiled around Cabrera’s throat and he bristled with helpless rage.
The big man confirmed what Cabrera already suspected. “One of my soldiers just shot a member of your flock. Every time you lie to me, another innocent will perish.”
Father Cabrera shook his head in dismay. “Please, don’t…”
“No one else will be hurt if you cooperate. It’s completely up to you.”
Cabrera swallowed hard. Innocent lives were at stake. He had no choice but to give them what they’d come for.
Nicole Robertson.
A name he’d never forget no matter how hard he tried. Eight years earlier, he’d borne witness to true evil. Now it was catching up to him. This pack of wolves somehow knew about his connection to Nicole.
His fingers flew over the keys of his computer as he accessed the database. The slightly faded photograph of a fifteen-year-old girl flashed onscreen. The girl was on the cusp of being a woman, practically still a child — the very picture of teen innocence. She bore little resemblance to the Nicole of Cabrera’s nightmares.
Immediately, one of the intruders stepped up to the terminal and took a screenshot of Nicole’s file with his cell-phone cam. “Thank you, father,” the leader said as he leaned closer, his masked head hovering over Cabrera. Inhuman eyes glared back at him — the pupils and iris were pure obsidian. This gaze lanced him through and through, peering straight into his soul.
The leader nodded at one of his soldiers. The follower produced a sharp hunting knife and brutally yanked the priest’s head back. Instead of seeking out the vulnerable jugular vein, the blade instead drew across the stunned priest’s forehead in two quick strokes. There was no pain, at least not at first. Cabrera experienced the cold sensation of steel raking his skin before warm blood sheeted down his face.
Red drops pearled on the keyboard and computer screen. The knife-wielding soldier roughly pulled Cabrera to his feet and shoved him out of the rectory.
They returned to the church.
Cabrera’s heart sank as his gaze landed on the inverted pentagrams and other demonic symbols now tattooed on the walls of the sanctuary. The paramilitary force was in the process of vandalizing the house of God. Two men finished flipping the large cross behind the altar on its head, transforming a holy image into a symbol of evil.
Dear God, this can’t be happening…
His pulse quickened when he spotted the dead congregant sprawled on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Some churchgoers were crying while others had retreated into a mask-like catatonia.
“I gave you what you came for. Please, I beg of you, spare these poor people.”
The words died on his lips as the gunmen raised their weapons and targeted the innocent believers frozen behind the pews.
Please, God, don’t let them do this…
The leader turned toward the terrified believers and removed his ski-mask. The features previously hidden beneath the mask were as monstrous as the coal black eyes had promised, the skin a burnished red. Part man, part demon.
The crowd gasped with horror and an icy hand clamped around Cabrera’s heart.
He isn’t human, he thought.
The booming voice of Amon, the apocalypse soldier, reverberated through the church. “I pledge all your souls to my master.”
“No!” Cabrera’s lips distorted into a scream and he jerked his head away in terror as the nave erupted in deafening gunfire. The fearsome barrage splintered pews and shattered statues of the saints. The vehement fusillade found man, woman and child, making no distinction between sinner and saint. Blood flowed freely. The Devil himself had come to Father Cabrera’s church, eager to claim every innocent soul inside its hallowed walls.
Chapter Two
The terrified young man stared up at his captors with numb terror. Colton felt the familiar anticipation building in his hammering heart. The man was stripped down to his underwear, his body pockmarked with scars and bruises. A strip of gray duct tape covered his mouth and only weak, muffled sounds escaped from his throat. His hands were bound behind his back and his pro
ne, battered form was sprawled inside a large pentagram painted in chicken blood on the stone floor of Colton’s spacious wine cellar. Animal blood to initiate the sacrifice, human blood to complete it. Black candles stood at the five points of the star, enhancing the medieval atmosphere of this dank underground space. Soon enough the lights would be dimmed, the wicks lit. Only then would the dark ceremony begin.
Five days earlier, the hapless young man — his name was Jeff — had been a bundle of excited energy filled with dreams of Hollywood glory. Just another good-looking kid chasing fame and fortune in the city of broken dreams. Colton spotted him on Hollywood Boulevard one night, stumbling down the Walk of Fame in a buzzed daze. The kid seemed hypnotized, his eyes screwed up as if he was hoping to come across his own name next to all the legends.
Jeff’s lopsided grin was unmistakable. It was the expression of someone thrilled to be in Los Angeles, looking forward to a future full of endless possibilities. They were all so desperate to escape their mundane little lives and boring hometowns, to literally reach for the stars. As if solely buying a bus or plane ticket could ever be enough to bring you closer to your dreams.
Colton had seen it innumerable times. The rush of being in Tinseltown would soon give way to a crushing parade of dead-end jobs that would barely keep Jeff afloat. Maybe he’d get lucky, book a commercial or score some extra work. But he’d be competing with a million other bright-eyed kids all chasing after the same elusive goal. With time, those eyes wouldn’t shine so brightly, the hope would fade, and the dream would evaporate in the rear-view mirror of his fading youth.
In a sense, Colton was sparing young Jeff the inevitable series of disappointments and setbacks and offering a quick exit instead of a slow, soul-crushing decline.
He sidled up to Jeff in his Lamborghini and struck up a conversation. He could see the thoughts swirling behind the aspiring actor’s face. Was Colton a producer who could offer him a shot at stardom, or just some sick Hollywood slimeball looking for sexual favors? Colton told Jeff to look him up on IMDb if he questioned his motives. He said he’d produced a string of successful B horror flicks and knew talent when he saw it. If Jeff’s acting chops matched his looks, the kid would have a bright future in this town. Colton considered himself an astute judge of talent who’d given countless actors their first break, over the years.
He was telling the kid exactly what he wanted to hear and it was sure-as-hell working. Temptation gave way to caution as Colton’s slick wheels and credentials erased all doubt as to his true intentions.
Half an hour later, they pulled into the driveway of Colton’s sleek six-million-dollar Hollywood Hills mansion. He invited Jeff up for an audition and a drink. Perhaps the kid figured Colton might try some funny business, but he was willing to take a chance in the name of art.
As Jeff scanned his sides and took another gulp of gin and tonic, a wave of exhaustion hit him. The alcohol had masked the sedative in his drink. Rubbing his suddenly heavy-lidded eyes, Jeff reclined on a luxurious couch. Seconds later, he was out for the count.
Jeff had passed his audition with flying colors and landed a starring role in Colton’s upcoming performance piece. Being locked up in the mansion’s wine cellar for a week rapidly eroded what was left of the victim’s spirit. Incessant beatings and prolonged torture transformed a cocky actor into a haunted shadow whose blood-caked features projected grim acceptance of his impending fate.
His head hung low now as he faced the ring of visitors gathered this evening at Colton’s mansion. There was a studio executive Colton had known since his first internship at Universal 30 years ago; a TV actor battling addiction and depression; and a couple of out-of-work writers. Once upon a time, they’d all ventured from different parts of the country with hopes of reinventing themselves in La La Land. Unlike poor Jeff, their dreams had come true. But they also had to learn another bitter Hollywood lesson. Stardom could be fleeting. One day a hot commodity, the next a has-been. The town worshipped success and was terrified of failure.
Like his industry friends, Colton would rather die than lose everything he had worked so hard to build. Jeff’s sacrifice would buy them more time at the top of the Hollywood food chain.
Colton extricated a curved blade from his robe and shifted his attention back to the young actor currently slumped in the middle of the black pentagram. The sight of the blade rekindled the primal terror in Jeff’s expression. His muffled sounds grew more desperate and he tried to wiggle out of the sacrificial circle, despite his restraints. It was pure reflex, the body refusing to accept the inevitable. They always fought to the bitter end, not realizing the fight itself fueled the power of the sacrifice.
Colton leaned closer and the knife’s point touched Jeff’s neck. He grew still, the contact of the razor-sharp steel against his skin freezing him. Were those tears rolling down his cheeks? What a performance! Maybe Jeff could have made it big, after all.
Colton tore the tape off Jeff’s mouth and his parched tongue managed a strangled croak. Colton wanted to hear Jeff scream. He’d spent a small fortune soundproofing the cellar, so he figured he might as well get his money’s worth. He drew the serrated edge over Jeff’s pectoral muscle, drawing the first hint of crimson.
Jeff gasped in pain and now his words and tears flowed in earnest. “Please, mister, you don’t have to do this...”
The kid’s pleas were pathetic. Did he really believe he would be spared at this point? Man’s capacity for hope never ceased to amaze Colton.
“It will be over soon.”
The kid choked, reduced to a blubbering mass. Colton’s icy expression spoke volumes. There would be no mercy…
He began to utter words in Latin, initiating the ritual. Blood would run. The old gods would be appeased, at least for a while.
The knife touched Jeff’s throat…
And that’s when the recessed lights in the stone ceiling went out and the cellar was suddenly drenched in darkness. Confused murmurs drowned out Jeff’s pathetic sobs. Was it a power outage? Talk about terrible timing…
A series of muffled pops cut through the dark and screams erupted. It took Colton a beat to realize the death cries didn’t come from Jeff but from the members of his cult.
Fear gripped him. They were under attack?! His bodyguards and security system should have alerted him of any potential intruders. And cops would’ve asked them to surrender first before shooting. No, something else was going on here.
Something beyond his experience.
More cries interrupted his thoughts and gave way to an eerie silence. The sound of his terrified breathing filled the wine cellar. Colton clutched the knife in his hand with sweaty fingers. If only he could see his enemy…
He crouched on his haunches and located one of the candles. Using a lighter, he lit the wick. The flickering flame faintly illuminated the wine cellar, carving a small corner of light from the darkness and exposing the bodies of his slain flock. The dead cultists formed a grotesque circle around the pentagram with the terrified young man at its center. Their blood flowed freely, pooling on the floor and mixing with the chicken blood of the sacrificial circle. There was no sign of any attacker.
A sound made Colton whirl.
The murderous intruder was here with him in the dark cellar. Cloaked in shadow. He’s drawing this out, Colton realized as he brushed salty perspiration from his face.
“Who the fuck are you?” His voice could barely keep his mounting panic at bay. The knife in his hand seemed like a sick joke. And as mortal fear threatened to get the better of him, he was struck by sudden inspiration. This killer was here to save the boy. And that meant Colton might have a potential hostage.
With two quick steps he was upon the sacrifice, nine inches of steel pointed at Jeff’s carotid artery. There was another muffled pop and the sensation of his hand being whipped back by an invisible force, followed by the knife clattering against the floor. Colton’s eyes went wide as he stared at the rapidly hemorrhaging hole in the
palm of his hand.
Clutching his gushing wound, Colton’s eyes locked on the outline of the shooter. The figure stepped into the faint circle of light cast by the black candle. A tall, muscular man garbed in form-fitting combat black stood revealed. A balaclava obscured his features and he was wearing a pair of night-vision goggles that gave him an insect-like, otherworldly appearance. One gloved hand kept the silenced Glock level while the other removed his night-vision goggles. Colton wished he hadn’t. There was a merciless edge to the man’s cold-blooded gaze.
“Killing me won’t defeat the darkness,” Colton stammered, trying to be brave.
“It’s a start.”
And with these words, there was a muffled cough and Colton’s world turned as black as his soul.
***
The bullet hit Colton in the head, exactly where Talon had aimed. Blood, bone and brains showered the floor and the body joined the other dead cultists on the wine cellar floor.
Talon stepped over to Jeff, who eyed his savior with a shell-shocked, terrified expression. The dark-clad assassin cut as disturbing a sight as the dead cult members. Talon scooped up the blade Colton dropped a moment earlier. Jeff pulled away from him, mistaking his intention.
“Don’t worry, kid, I’m here to help.”
His voice managed to calm Colton’s captive for a second. Talon leaned closer and cut the restraints. As Jeff massaged his numb limbs back to life, Talon snatched a cell phone from one of the dead cultists and dialed 911. As soon as the operator picked up, he informed her about the murders and offered up Colton’s home address.
Talon killed the call just as the operator asked him to identify himself. Time to get moving. His work here was done. Jeff was safe and this murderous pack of freaks would never take another life again.
Talon turned away from Jeff. “Thank you…” the young man said in a hollow voice, but Talon was already out the door. He reached the upstairs living room, walked past the lifeless bodyguards who were still clutching their firearms in death and stepped through the home’s rear exit. He couldn’t help but notice the luxuries that filled the opulent home. Priceless sculptures, original artwork, expensive furniture. Wasteful material possessions bought with the blood of others.
Occult Assassin: The Complete Series (Books 1-6) Page 15
