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 series 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 main 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 his 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 41 Gen4 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 quick 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.” Talon took a step closer. “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 series of 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.”
Talon balled his fists, his nails digging into the palms of his hands. How could Casca have access to secret police information? The answer was simple. Money. Information came at a price and Casca possessed deep pockets. And that begged another question. Why was he willing to part with his cash and get involved in an occult murder case? What was his angle?
“How does the head of a billion-dollar tech company end up becoming an expert on the weird?” Talon said.
“Even billionaires need hobbies.” Casca managed a thin smile before his features grew serious again. “I inherited Xtel. The company’s achievements are the result of my father’s hard work and vision. I’m the CEO in name only. Meaning that I attend a few board meetings but leave the day-to-day operations to folks far more qualified than myself. My calling lies in a different area.”
There was a part of Casca’s story that didn’t quite add up in Talon’s mind. Rich guys didn’t spend their free time chasing shadows and studying apocalyptic cults. “Do you believe the cult targeted Michelle?”
“I don’t believe in coincidence.”
“That makes two of us. But why her? Every major news outlet has been running stories about these occult crimes.”
“I don’t think Michelle was killed because of an article she wrote. She was killed because of an article she was going to write.”
“What do you mean?”
“Michelle had a source connected to the cult. They must’ve found out she was talking with someone on the inside, and they retaliated.”
Casca’s latest revelation confirmed Talon’s worst suspicion. He trembled with emotion.
My girl died because of a story she was working on.
Michelle’s high-risk job had cost her her life. But death didn’t catch up with her in some far-flung, war-ravaged or disease-ridden Third World country. It found her here in San Francisco, in her own home.
Casca leaned closer, his voice growing determined. “We find Michelle’s source, we find her killers.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“WE FIND MICHELLE’S source, we find her killers.”
Good plan but where to start? As Talon mentally ran through his options, he remembered the Skype conversation he’d interrupted when he first arrived at the Chronicle. What had Michelle said again?
“Just one of my sources.”
Could that woman be the source Casca was talking about? Talon recalled her nervous expression. At the time, he’d dismissed it as just run-of-the-mill camera shyness – not everyone felt comfortable in front of a webcam – but now he wasn’t so sure. It was a long shot, but worth looking into.
He rang the Chronicle and asked Powell to run a quick check of Michelle’s Skype calls. She’d used her desktop during the Skype call, so it should be easy to track her conversations. A few minutes later, Powell offered up a name – Becky Oakes – and a phone number.
Talon considered his next move. Calling Becky might spook her. If indeed Becky turned out
to be the leak, he’d have to tread with caution. In all likelihood the cult had gone after her too. There hadn’t been any reports of other murders, though. Maybe she’d gotten lucky and escaped.
Casca had urged Talon to contact him if he needed anything. Talon wasn’t keen on further involving the billionaire, but he did have the pull to gain access to classified information.
Talon texted Becky’s info to Casca. Less than an hour later, Talon received an email containing the results of a detailed background check.
Twenty-three years old, Becky was an attractive brunette with big, intelligent eyes and perfect skin. Computer-science major. She’d been an assistant at Omicron, one of Silicon Valley’s biggest tech companies, for the last eight months.
Talon skimmed the rest of the detailed report. There were credit card histories, outstanding student loans and even notes regarding Becky’s recent emails and phone calls.
For a surreal moment, Talon could almost pretend he was conducting some military operation instead of embarking on a vigilante mission of vengeance.
Analyzing the report further, Talon learned that Becky lived in the Mission District. As an assistant, she wouldn’t be raking in the big bucks. So how was she able to afford the $3000-a-month rent of a one-bedroom apartment in that area?
The next paragraph of the report provided an explanation. Becky had been dating George Soldes, a computer engineer at Omicron and one of the suspected cult members who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. Had the suicide motivated Becky to seek out the press, dooming Michelle in the process?
Only Becky could answer that question.
Talon mounted Erik’s motorcycle and tore off toward the Mission District. Zipping through the hilly streets, his thoughts turned to the enigmatic new figure who had entered the picture. Who was Simon Casca? Talon still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the youthful billionaire. He was intense yet projected sincerity and a nearly fanatical passion about his esoteric field of expertise.
Occult Assassin: Damnation Code (Book 1) Page 5
