Her singular focus paid off and she reached the other side of the ice wall, only to grow dead still… Three human silhouettes blocked the trail ahead.
A scream wanted to escape from Kristin’s throat, but her lips were frozen shut. The tall, gaunt snowboarders loomed before her, creating a human barrier across the width of the chute. Even if she managed to somehow weave around them, nothing would stop them from chasing after her.
The spooky trio advanced. As they stepped into the moonlight, Kristin realized they all wore fiberglass skull-helmets favored by both hardcore snowboarders and paintballers. They looked more like monstrous, medieval skeleton creatures than masked humans.
Despite the punishing cold and her mounting terror, Kristin exploded into motion. Using her poles, she pushed away from the figures and shot back toward the trees.
She had barely advanced a few feet when a massive silhouette peeled from the shadow-soaked woods, barring her escape. Like the others, he wore a skull-mask that erased all humanity from his visage and a glittering knife extended from his gloved hand.
Kristin’s piercing scream cut through the forest but was quickly drowned out by the unforgiving wind.
Chapter Two
THEY CALLED HIM the vampire.
His real name was Rezok and he was the lead singer of the Norwegian black metal band Ice God. He also happened to be the reason why Mark Talon had come to Bergen, Norway and found himself in a rundown pub surrounded by a mob of screaming, drunk fans. Any minute now Ice God would hit the stage, and the anticipation in the crowd was palpable.
Talon shared their excitement, but for different reasons. This was a recon mission and he hoped to catch a closer look at the enemy.
All eyes in the club remained riveted on the dark stage, lips mouthing the lyrics to their favorite doom-and-gloom songs. The surging throng wore exclusively black - any other color was frowned upon. Interspersed with the hardcore constituents were a few conservative-looking guys seeking to get drunk while listening to some gnarly Norwegian metal. Judging from the disapproving stares these outsiders received, the “real” fans considered them impersonators who lacked the balls to commit. It took more to make you a true member of the scene than loosening that tie and trading a pair of slacks for black jeans, after putting in a long week as a cubicle drone.
Talon’s years as a special operator in Afghanistan and Iraq had taught him the value of blending in and becoming part of the scenery. He’d opted for the black metal uniform of choice: a leather jacket, jeans and steel-tipped combat boots. The T-shirt of an obscure Danish band with an illegible name sold the look. No one questioned the authenticity of his commitment to the movement. Or if they did, his six-foot-one, well-muscled frame and the fire in his eyes made them keep it to themselves.
Talon inhaled the sour stench of wood soaked in beer mixed with human perspiration. He had frequented enough shitty Third World dives in his Delta days to pick up on the undercurrent of violence when it was present. Some of the characters in this crowd were already visibly drunk, chasing vodka shots with beer and letting out shouts of anticipation while fist-pumping the air. Talon took a sip of his Rignes Pils, Norway’s leading brew, and waited.
He didn’t have to wait for long.
The lights soon dimmed and the bar grew silent. Even the hushed whispers ceased. The energy had changed — an air of reverence and wonder now permeated the establishment.
The stage lit up in a blaze of lights that speared through the pub’s smoky darkness. Four tall, gaunt and long-haired figures stood revealed. The silence gave way to ecstatic howls.
The members of Ice God were decked out in leather trench coats and black pants complemented by motorcycle boots. Spiked gauntlets and belts encircled their wrists and waists. Each band member wore a rune around his neck on a string necklace. Corpse paint with black highlights covered their faces. They made Talon think of Goths on steroids, or a twisted version of KISS. But unlike the classic, playful ‘70s rock group, these sinister figures projected a worn, haunted quality and their blackened eyes glittered with contempt and hatred. Lost souls who had declared war against mainstream society.
Only item missing is the church-burning kit, Talon thought.
Talon scanned the stage. Still no sign of Rezok. The feverish anticipation in the pub was nearing its breaking point. Suddenly a raspy, grave voice emanated from the darkness.
“Are you ready for the final winter?”
The question achieved its desired effect - the crowd went nuts. Rezok knew how to work up his flock, and they were eager for it. The power of the black-metal god could not be denied. As the band began to unleash the first volley of their sonic assault, the lights dimmed slightly in anticipation of the night’s main attraction. The guitars rose to a furious crescendo as Rezok stepped onto the stage.
One glance told Talon the reports had been true. Ice God’s lead singer didn’t have to wear corpse paint to create a vampiric countenance; his complete absence of pigment appeared to be natural. Rezok was an albino, his skin and long flowing hair a pure white color. Like all those afflicted with this chromosomal abnormality, he had a heightened sensitivity to light. Defying the myths that had sprung up around albinism, his eyes weren’t pink or red but a faded gray and burned with an intensity that electrified the room.
Talon remembered watching an interview where Rezok claimed that he buried his clothes before a performance so they would soak up the scent of the grave. The outlandish claims had elicited chuckles, but Talon wasn’t laughing right now. Something about experiencing Ice God’s lead singer up close made it impossible to ignore him. Rezok was a force to be reckoned with.
He brought up his mic and switched to Norwegian, barking another guttural greeting at his enraptured fans. Talon didn’t understand the words, but he could gauge their effect on the crowd - Rezok was rallying an army.
Fighting in the war on terror had given Talon a healthy respect for the power of misguided ideology. It didn’t matter whether it was a Jihadist preaching to a flock of extreme Islamists in some Saudi Arabian mosque or a Norwegian black-metal god addressing his followers in a Bergen dive.
The music kicked in. The shrieked vocals, demonic tempos and static-infused production built into a roar of angst, fury and loathing. Despite the noise and unfiltered aggression, Talon couldn’t deny the undeniable power and evil beauty of the band’s ferocious set.
Talon didn’t judge people by the music they listened to. Hell, he’d followed his share of crazy bands over the years. Theatrics came with the gig. The edgier the band, the greater the appeal. But black metal seemed to be all about the edge and the abyss that lurked beyond.
As Ice God powered through the first couple of songs, the throng erupted in a blaze of violent movement. Rezok’s leather-clad followers pumped their arms as if possessed. Elbows shot out wildly. Enthralled by the performance, no one cared who was hit or hurt during these drunken pub aerobics. Most of the fans welcomed the violent onslaught, cherishing each bruise and bloody nose as hard-earned, much-treasured battle scars.
One foolish fan tried to elbow Talon in the ribs.
Bad idea.
Talon anticipated the sly attack, sidestepped the blow and snatched the big man’s right hand. He twisted the limb and the fan let out a pain-filled grunt. They traded glances and Talon’s cold, hard stare made him back off.
You’re not as dumb as you look, Talon thought.
As the concert wore on, somehow the message got around not to mess with the American and the other moshing fans maintained a respectful distance.
Talon continued to study the spectral figures, memorizing their movements. They all shared a lean, lanky quality he’d found among the best operators. The aggressive athleticism of their performance could not be denied. He’d have to factor their speed and stamina into any future encounters with them. If Simon Casca’s intel was to be believed, two of the band members were once in the Marinejegerkommandoen, the Norwegian special forces. They’d been kicked
out of the MJK after being accused of assault and rape. Talon wasn’t going up against some soft, beer-bellied mama’s boys with a penchant for pagan rock. These were elite soldiers gone bad.
All of a sudden, an overeager concertgoer jumped up on stage and whipped out a razorblade. The piece of sharp metal sparkled in the strobing spotlights.
Talon saw no fear in Rezok’s eyes. Instead, his dead-white features lit up with an approving smile.
The fan raised both his hands and bowed as if he had indeed entered the presence of some Nordic god. Without hesitation, he drew the razor over his palm and held up his gushing hand at Rezok in a twisted salute. The abrupt movement sent speckles of blood flying across the stage. A few drops hit Rezok’s face, the crimson in stark contrast with the marble of his skin.
What happened next stunned Talon. With a hungry smile, Rezok licked his lips until the enamel of his teeth turned scarlet with the other man’s blood.
Talon was beginning to understand how Rezok had earned his nickname.
Chapter Three
AFTER AN HOUR of being a willing target for Ice God’s sonic assault, Talon stepped out of the pub. An unforgiving blast of arctic air greeted him and frozen pinpricks raked his lungs. Norway was experiencing its worst winter in decades. Even the locals famous for their fortitude in the face of bitter weather were beginning to complain.
Talon headed for the pub’s deserted parking lot. According to Casca’s file on Rezok, the black-metal singer owned a 1999 Hyundai. Talon immediately spotted the van. Its body was scarred with rust and looked beaten up. The windows were tinted and tattooed with the peeling stickers of various ominous bands. Skulls and pentagrams abounded. The vehicle radiated a sinister energy and lurked like a dangerous beast in the lot.
On a logical level Talon knew the van was used to carry the band’s equipment, but a primitive part of him was convinced it might contain far darker cargo. He swiftly placed a radio transmitter under the group’s ride. From now on he would be tracking every move Ice God made.
Objective achieved, Talon slipped into the night. Despite the cold, he decided to walk back to his hotel instead of cabbing it. He wanted to build up his mental toughness to the climate but also hoped to gain a better situational awareness of the picturesque city. Memorizing a map was a poor substitute for exploring a place on foot.
The icy night air cut deep into his bones as he walked along the water, passing a line of moored, swaying boats. Bergen was founded more than 900 years ago but today it is Norway’s second largest city, with a population of 240,000.
To Talon, Bergen felt both modern and magical, an example of living history. Rows of postcard-perfect homes climbed up the mountainside and overlooked the sea. The irony was not lost on him that a country with one of the lowest crime rates in the world and best social support systems would spawn a musical genre dedicated to Armageddon and chaos.
Talon’s thoughts remained preoccupied with his latest target. Despite the nickname, Rezok wasn’t a supernatural creature of the night. Vampires weren’t real. The enemies Talon faced in this new war were evil men, not fantastical creations. Fools reckless and ruthless enough to tap into occult forces that they could never hope to understand, much less control, these misguided souls were attempting to unlock ancient secrets and harness powers beyond anything the human imagination could conjure. And sometimes in their insane attempts to master the dark arts, monsters could indeed be born.
As Talon passed the fish market, his thoughts turned back to the events of the last 48 hours, and what had set him on Rezok’s trail...
He was staying with an old Army buddy in Astoria, Queens, when he received Simon Casca’s text. The billionaire, according to Forbes one of the 100 richest men in the country, expected to meet him in an hour for lunch. He’d chosen Bar Primi in the Bowery, one the hottest new Italian eateries in Manhattan. Was the billionaire showing off again, or did rich people just gravitate toward trendy places? Talon suspected it was a bit of both. Personally, he’d take a burger and fries over some fancy, overpriced small-plate dinner any day of the week. But as long as Casca was picking up the check, why not indulge him.
Talon caught the next subway headed into the city. Talon sensed that the impending lunch wasn’t a social call. Three weeks had gone by since the horrifying events in Arizona and his instincts told him the brief lull in the fighting was nearing its end. The billionaire would have a new mission for him. A mixture of excitement and dread filled the pit of his stomach. Going into battle was never easy. All too soon, he’d be facing the horrors once more.
Talon found it hard to believe that only four months had passed since he first ran into Casca, back in San Francisco. It felt like the eccentric billionaire had been part of his life for a lot longer. Most of the world regarded Casca as just another rich weirdo, a 21st Century Howard Hughes.
Talon knew better.
Simon Casca had studied the world’s occult traditions for years and had become one of the leading experts on the subject. Similar to the NSA, which monitored the chatter of various terrorist networks, Casca kept his ear to the ground when it came to worldwide occult activity. If a biker gang had been accused of devil worship or an African warlord was rumored to practice Vaudun rituals, it would be on Casca’s radar. If he concluded there was something to the reports, a real possibility that evil men were trying to tap into some ancient darkness, Casca would send Talon after them.
He got off the train at Astor Plaza and walked the remaining blocks. The crisp December air put a bounce in his step. He loved winters in Manhattan. As long as the sky remained clear and the sun burned bright, he didn’t mind the cold.
A few minutes later he walked through the doors of Bar Primi. The establishment exuded an authentic, Old World charm. Despite it not being noon yet, the place was filling up already. The hostess led Talon to what appeared to be the best table in the house. No surprise there – Casca traveled in style.
The man himself was sipping an aperitif and enjoying Italian bread and olive oil. He faced an open Stealth MacBook Pro that, at $6000 dollars, was one of the most expensive laptops in the world. The SofTouch housing left the machine with a no-nonsense matte-black finish even Batman would be envious of. Casca had told Talon Apple produced a limited-edition run of ten units and he owned two of the 256GB SSD machines. Show off!
Talon had barely sat down when the waitress arrived with a perfectly chilled bottle of Peroni. Talon gratefully accepted the Italian beer and his gaze found a smiling Casca.
The two men represented a study in contrasts. Talon was athletic and rugged with an animal magnetism, while the twenty-five-year-old Casca projected wealth and sophistication with a boyish charm. Talon favored jeans and a green Army surplus jacket while Casca wore two-thousand-dollar skintight suits by Prada, befitting a man worth north of a billion dollars.
What connected these two men was shared tragedy. Both their lives had been devastated by the occult.
Casca hadn’t even turned twelve when members of a devil cult invaded his parents’ lush Silicon Valley estate and slaughtered the servants and his sister. Only Casca had been spared and was taken hostage by the cult. They were about to sacrifice Casca when the FBI raided the estate and saved his life.
The horrific experience had shaped him as greatly as the events in San Francisco had impacted Talon. In the years that followed, Casca began to prepare for a war with the occult. Despite his vast knowledge and considerable resources, he lacked the training and lethal skill to carry out his plan. He needed a modern-day warrior and found one when his path crossed with that of the Delta operator.
Talon would be the soldier the billionaire could only aspire to be, the man in the field operating with all the firepower and knowledge Casca’s wealth and expertise could provide.
Talon could be Casca’s assassin.
The billionaire flashed him a welcoming smile. “I took the liberty of ordering your drink – service can be a bit slow around lunchtime.”
“Th
anks.” Talon sipped his Peroni. It felt refreshing and made him recall his stay in the Milan countryside a few months back, when he tracked a satanic cult that was abducting and murdering tourists.
“Have you had a chance to recover somewhat from the events in Arizona?”
“If you’re asking me if I’m ready to get back to work, the answer is yes.” After a beat, he added, “So what’s good here?”
“I hear the Orrechiette with sausage is exquisite. The mussel app is supposed to be pretty amazing too…”
“Why don’t you just order for both of us?” Talon suggested.
Casca nodded and indicated to the server that they were ready. The billionaire used the Italian names of all the dishes. Though Talon spoke four languages, Italian wasn’t one of them. He would just let Casca surprise him. You can’t go wrong with Italian, right?
Once the waiter turned away from the table, Casca removed a small stone engraved with a strange symbol and slid it toward Talon, who eyed it curiously. “Familiar with rune stones?”
Talon inspected the item in question. He’d done his share of reading on the occult in the last year, learning and studying the enemy, but he was a long ways from becoming an expert like Casca.
“Runes were a form of writing used by the ancient northern European tribes,” Talon said, “the Celts, Vikings and Germans, before they adopted the Latin alphabet when they became Christianized. In short, runes are Viking hieroglyphics.”
Occult Assassin: The Complete Series (Books 1-6) Page 29
