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

by William Massa

  Over the course of the last year, Talon had traveled the globe hunting down one occultist after another. But like any extended conflict, there were lulls in the fighting from time to time. The occult assassin was currently experiencing such a break and had returned to San Francisco, where he sought refuge in Casca’s gated mansion.

  He hadn’t always stayed with the billionaire, preferring to keep a certain professional distance between soldier and general. At the start of their partnership, Talon preferred to crash at hotels or Airbnbs until the next occult mission forced him to hit the road again. But as of late he’d appreciated the privacy and security Casca’s home provided. It boasted some of the best electronic security on the planet, and his partner had warded the property with protective sigils in case a more otherworldly force decided to target them.

  By now the forces of darkness must have sensed that they had a new enemy—an enemy who would mercilessly hunt them down no matter where they plied their evil trade. It wasn’t safe to rent a room in a hotel where innocents might get caught in the crossfire.

  But besides security, there was another reason Casca’s estate had turned into a home base for Talon. In a world of demons and monsters, Simon Casca was the closest thing to a real friend Talon had left. Only Casca knew what they faced daily. The same enemy had scarred them both, and they’d become brothers in arms.

  Casca offered Talon the smaller guest house on his estate, which still felt like a palace to him. Talon was a career soldier who’d spent a good part of his adult life sleeping in tents, in crowded barracks or under the stars. His needs were modest and he had little interest in the trappings of wealth.

  War and personal tragedy had taught Talon the fragility of all things in this world, human life foremost among them. Bombs could bring down the most magnificent castles and bullets the most powerful men. Duty, discipline, courage—those were qualities no one could take away from you. But they were also qualities that needed to be tested consistently on the battlefield if you didn’t want to lose them. Perhaps that’s why this long break in the fighting was wearing on the former Delta Force sergeant.

  In the beginning, Talon had appreciated his respite from the horrors. But as the initial lull in the conflict turned into months of inactivity, the itch to get back out there grew stronger. Stay away from the front too long and you’re liable to lose your nerve. Idleness was a killer for a man of action.

  Talon tried to keep himself busy to the best of his ability while waiting for his next assignment to materialize. Fortunately, his benefactor provided plenty of opportunities to keep his fighting skills in tip-top shape. The top-of-the-line shooting range beneath Casca’s property was one of them.

  That’s where Talon was headed right now. His mood and energy levels had been low all morning, and he hoped some target practice might lift his spirits. It was the anniversary of Michelle’s death, and the memories were coming fast and furious. He’d visited her grave earlier that day and it had stirred up a lot of old demons.

  Determined to get a grip on himself, Talon entered the shooting stall of the 100-yard lane. The range was equipped with an Action Target Programmable AWD retrieval system. The wireless touchscreen keypad made manipulating the targets a breeze and kept accurate track of shooting scores. It came preloaded with more than a dozen different games and drills to keep him from getting bored.

  Talon brought multiple magazines, both for his Glock 19 and Heckler & Koch MP5 machine pistol. He snapped the first mag into his Glock.

  Talon started at twenty-five yards and increased the difficulty level after each magazine. The shadow silhouette targets hung suspended from a rail system and could turn up to 360 degrees. Sometimes the targets would twitch as if they were about to turn but then wouldn’t, and if Talon was too quick on the trigger, it would send a round downrange into empty space.

  Talon started with a basic shoot/don’t shoot drill with the target stopping, turning to face him, and then moving farther away for the next series of shots. A perfect way to warm up.

  After a few more magazines were emptied, Talon switched over to an intermediate skills drill using a target with much smaller, round strike zones. The target’s face times were much shorter and more varied in length. As an additional challenge, this drill included advanced lighting features. Talon could choose from daylight, white light or low-light situations that included simulated muzzle flashes or police-car strobe lights.

  Like a machine he fired round after round, the world reduced to the weapon in his hand and the targets before him. Down here in the basement, all the horrors faded away in a barrage of loud booms, and Talon achieved a Zen-like level of peace.

  At least that’s how it usually played out.

  Today, things were different. The anniversary of his fiancée’s death had rattled him, and Talon missed more targets than usual. As the empty bullet casings piled up on the floor, his mind repeatedly snapped back to his battles in the war against the occult. The flashbacks were nightmarish in the extreme, intercut with memories of Michelle’s beautiful, smiling face.

  The system’s tendency to randomly drive a paper target straight toward Talon at high speed to simulate a charge by a real assailant was making matters worse. As the targets surged toward Talon, the images of generic crooks brandishing weapons morphed into the monsters from his past. Instead of some generic bad guy with a knife, Talon saw Revok, the winter warlock he’d faced in Norway.

  A volley from Talon’s Glock tore the bastard apart, but a parade of other monsters followed.

  There was Zagan, the Silicon Valley tycoon who’d taken his Michelle from him; Amon, the Apocalypse Soldier; the Lightwalker, with his army of the dead; and finally Rakan, aka the Soul Jacker, who’d tapped into the infernal power of the djinn.

  The monsters of Talon’s bloody past mocked him as he fired round after round at this procession of resurrected enemies. The underground shooting range was a sacred place for Talon, but today it felt more like a cursed tomb.

  After an hour of this nightmarish trip down memory lane, Talon emptied his last magazine and called it quits. He had to get out of this stifling, suddenly claustrophobic space reeking of cordite and catch some fresh air.

  Not even a six-mile run around the property and another half hour on the punching bag could calm his frayed nerves.

  This extended period of R&R should have been precisely what the doctor ordered. So why was his pause in the fighting having the opposite effect?

  The answer was simple—he’d been idle for way too long. Lounging around doing nothing wasn’t his style. Talon was a man of action. He needed a new mission—anything to keep his mind off the past. Off what he’d lost.

  His muscles aching all over, Talon returned to the guest house, showered and spent some time in the steam room. As the sultry air wafted around his sore physique, Talon finally relaxed. He looked down at his body and took in the scars collected over a decade of warfare.

  The largest scar was the most recent one. Zagan had carved an inverted five-pointed star into his broad chest. Talon traced the ugly design. It was a constant reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d become.

  The wound on his chest had healed, but the one in his heart hadn’t, and probably never would.

  These thoughts consumed Talon as he showered a second time and got dressed. He found it impossible to silence the incessant chatter in his mind. Perhaps he should bug Casca for some company and share a drink with the occultist to get his mind off the future. Or maybe he could try to distract himself for a few hours in the billionaire’s library. His occult reading list was a million miles long, and he was a slow reader.

  Deep down, Talon knew that none of these activities would solve his current problem. Losing himself in monastic routine wasn’t the solution at this point.

  Fortunately, there was a text from Casca waiting for him when he checked his cell. The brief message was exactly what Talon wanted to see: “The vacation is over.”

  A smile played across T
alon’s angular features.

  It was about fucking time.

  Chapter Four

  Two armed guards escorted Talon to Casca’s office, more to shoot the shit than to keep an eye on him. Talon got along splendidly with the crew of bodyguards employed by the billionaire, and they tried to work out together as much as their schedules allowed.

  Casca’s spacious office was both elegant and masculine, dominated by brown leather and burnished wood. Two armchairs faced an antique desk that cost more than most people’s cars. A fireplace burned away in the corner, the flames bleeding crimson shadows across several classical sculptures and an illuminated globe. There was an old-school cigar club feel to the billionaire’s workspace, a feeling heightened by the small bar stocked with expensive top-shelf liquor, and Talon immediately felt at home.

  Surprisingly enough, there was no occult paraphernalia around. Casca kept the relics and grimoires in the library next door.

  Casca didn’t look up from his 27" iMac Pro as Talon entered. Judging by the heavy bags under Casca’s eyes, he’d been burning the midnight oil.

  The forces of darkness didn’t sleep, so why should Casca?

  Still not looking up, Casca said, “Hello, Talon. I’m almost finished setting up this little presentation. Just pour yourself a drink, take a seat and get comfortable.”

  Talon nodded and did all three. As he sank into the plush armchair, and the bourbon burned down his throat, he studied his friend. When Casca worked on his computer the man’s intensity mirrored Talon’s on the battlefield.

  He remembered one of their first conversations. During those early days, Talon was only beginning to get a sense of the dark forces threatening humanity.

  “Sergeant, do you know where the word ‘occult’ comes from?” Casca had asked him.

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

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

  “And you’re the guy who will save the world from the boogeyman?”

  “I thought perhaps we could save it together.”

  Talon smiled at the memory. It felt like a long time ago.

  Casca looked up from his terminal, having noticed Talon’s smile.

  “What’s going through your mind, Sergeant?”

  “Besides this bourbon? I was just reminiscing.”

  “I see. And how do you feel about the future? Or perhaps I should say, how do you feel about going back out there?”

  I’m chomping at the bit, Talon thought, but held his tongue. Something about the grave tone in the billionaire’s voice made him wary of appearing too eager. If Casca was sending him back into the field, that meant innocent people had already lost their lives.

  Casca tapped his keyboard and the computer monitor started mirroring to the 77-inch OLED TV behind him. A report on a series of recent skydiving accidents in the Los Angeles area filled the screen. Talon vaguely remembered the news alert he’d received about the tragedy a few days back. He’d given the freak accidents little thought since then.

  “How many times did you parachute out of airplanes during your Delta career?”

  “To be honest, I lost track after the first few hundred jumps.”

  Casca shook his head. “Showoff. I’ve done it once, Sergeant. Figured I’d better get it off my bucket list sooner rather than later. I even have a video of the experience. Let’s just say I keep it locked away in a safe place, for a good reason.”

  There was a twinkle in the billionaire’s eyes, and Talon knew Casca was joking. He was no soldier, but he didn’t scare easily.

  “Have you ever wondered how many people die from skydiving accidents in a given year?”

  Talon shrugged. “You know me. Never tell me the odds.”

  “It’s 0.0007%, comparable to the odds of being struck by lightning. You’re twenty-four times more likely to die in a fatal car accident.”

  “Interesting bit of trivia there. I bet you’re a big hit at cocktail parties.”

  “No one messes with the guy who throws the shindigs and pays for the booze.”

  Talon grinned. Casca’s parties were infamous in Silicon Valley. The billionaire certainly was a study in contrasts. Fancy sports cars, beautiful models, insane parties… and the largest occult library in the country.

  “The reason I’m boring you with statistics is this: Keeping these odds in mind, what are the chances of two fatal skydiving accidents occurring within hours of each other in the same geographic vicinity?”

  “Math was never my strong suit, but I’d say the chances are about zero.”

  Casca nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”

  The billionaire hit another key, and a skydiving video taken with a GoPro helmet cam filled the large screen. The clip offered a dizzying view of the Earth and brought Talon’s past jumps back to his mind. No matter how many times he’d dropped out of an aircraft, the thrill—and sheer terror—of plunging through the skies had never gone away.

  At first, there was nothing strange about the footage. The female skydiver’s legs and arms dangled into the camera’s frame, and the roar of the wind muffled all other sounds. That soon changed. The poor jumper’s movements grew more frantic as the chute failed to deploy.

  Talon knew the skydiver was getting dangerously close to the ground. A rookie might miscalculate the timing between the jump and when they had to pull their chute’s ripcord, but the tandem instructor should have known better.

  The skydiver’s movements grew even more erratic, and muffled shouts competed with the powerful winds. Initial elation quickly gave way to panic and fear, which turned into mortal terror. The skydiving student was catching on that something was terribly wrong.

  Talon had witnessed much death in his life, both as a soldier defending his country and as a vigilante fighting fanatics. Still, the skydiver’s growing terror was hard to bear. Mercifully, the videos went black before the struggling skydiver slammed into the ground. The footage was hard enough to stomach without being forced to watch the terrifying last seconds of the poor jumper’s life.

  “According to police reports, there were no problems with the parachutes in both cases. The instructors simply did not deploy them.”

  “Were drugs involved somehow?”

  Casca shook his head. “Forensics found no foreign substances in their bloodstream. These instructors knew what they were doing. We’re talking about highly experienced professionals who jump out of planes on a daily basis. These weren’t accidents but coordinated murder-suicides.”

  Talon let that sink in. “Why do I feel like there’s a part of this story you’re leaving out here?”

  “Because you know me, Sergeant. Patience. I’ll be getting to the next part soon enough. But first let’s take a look at two new murder-suicides committed just the other day.”

  The images on the TV changed again. News footage provided glimpses of another Los Angeles tragedy. A father and mother had drowned themselves and their two teenage daughters in their pool at their beautiful Hollywood Hills mansion.

  Footage of the luxurious house and surroundings flickered across the OLED TV. A fresh batch of crime scene photos flashed onscreen. First there were shots taken from outside the pool that only revealed the bodies as indistinct submerged shapes. The next group of photos fully drove home the horror. Taken by waterproof cameras, they offered a clear view of the dead bodies suspended under the pool’s calm surface.

  The first shot in this series showed a middle-aged man and a younger woman who seemed to be holding hands at the bottom of the pool.

  Not holding hands, Talon corrected himself as the full horror of what he was looking at sank in. They were handcuffed together.

  Talon got out of his chair and moved closer to the screen. The man wore what appeared to be a weighted vest and a pair of ankle weights similar to the one
s Talon used during his grueling workouts. The eyes and mouths of the two drowning victims were open wide, and their hair danced around their heads.

  “You’re looking at John Pogue, a film producer of some renown, and his younger daughter. As you can see, Mr. Pogue is wearing a fifty-pound weight vest and ankle weights. The cuffs made it impossible for him to remove the vest underwater, eliminating the possibility that he’d have second thoughts.”

  Diabolical, Talon thought. The image recalled the more graphic execution videos ISIS had posted online during the height of their reign of terror. One had featured a group of prisoners in orange jumpsuits being lowered into a pool while trapped inside a cage, the caliphate’s cameras capturing every detail of their enemies’ barbaric deaths.

  A picture of the other two drowning victims followed. This new image showed Mrs. Pogue outfitted in a weight vest identical to the one worn by her husband and cuffed to their other daughter.

  Talon clenched his jaw, his heart going out to the poor teenage girls whose lives were brutally cut short at such a young age.

  What made the crime so much more horrific was the parents’ complicity. What sort of fanaticism could override all parental instincts? What made the Pogues destroy their own flesh and blood after raising their offspring nearly to adulthood?

  Talon wondered, as he often did, how Casca got his hands on all this evidence. His intelligence network would have made the NSA turn green with envy. His contacts appeared to be everywhere, willing to share the most confidential material for a payday. How many homicide detectives in the world were on his payroll?

  Best not to dwell on Casca’s wide-ranging influence too much. Talon was just glad that the billionaire was one of the good guys. If a man with his power and means were to ever turn to the dark side… Talon refused to finish the thought.

  “No doubt that these are horrific crimes, Casca,” he finally said, “but I still don’t see the occult connection.”