“Maybe you don’t, but I do. The CEO of Omicron is running his own killer cult. It’s time someone stopped him before more innocent people end up dead.”
“What’s your plan? Walk into one of the biggest corporations in America and execute its leader?”
“If that’s what it takes. We don’t have the luxury of waiting around. They know we’re closing in.”
“What are you talking about?” Casca said.
Talon told the billionaire about the message he’d sent the cultists.
Casca shook his head. “You gave away our one advantage.”
“Maybe I wanted to give these assholes a dose of their own medicine. Teach them what it means to be afraid.”
“These fanatics don’t fear you.”
“They will.”
“This isn’t a game. You don’t know what you’re up against.”
“I guess I’ll find out.”
“Talon, I know how much Michelle meant to you, and I know all too well what you’re going through…”
Casca’s familiar tone rubbed Talon the wrong way and anger coiled in the pit of his stomach. “You have no clue how I’m feeling.”
“Actually, I do.” Casca’s voice was cool and measured as he spoke. “Thirteen years ago, a cult of Satanists broke into this estate while my parents were celebrating their anniversary abroad. They killed the servants and took my sister and me hostage. Fortunately the FBI was nice enough to show up and shoot the bastards before I could become another statistic. My sister, unfortunately, wasn’t so lucky.”
Talon studied Casca more carefully. The boyish smile he usually wore didn’t hint at this tragic past. The billionaire had found a way to hide the scars behind the easygoing facade he presented to the world. “So that explains all this?”
“My sister’s death opened up my eyes to the dangers of the occult.”
Casca stepped up to one of the large windows, moonlight casting him in an eerie light. “I know it’s hard to wrap your head around all this, but if you hope to defeat Michelle’s murderers you’ll have to embrace a different reality. A reality most people would rather ignore. The supernatural and its agents of darkness are real.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Hell is exactly what I’m talking about.” Casca’s voice was trembling now, all pretense of cool gone. “You want to know my most horrible memory? Seeing a Satanist drive a knife into my sister’s heart. Witnessing all life leaving her eyes. I could hear gunshots, the S.W.A.T. team fighting their way through the mansion… The Satanist turned toward me, my sister’s blood still dripping from his blade. And that’s when I saw it.”
“Saw what?”
“Something that shouldn’t exist. It was only for a split second but I knew it was real. Some entity that wasn’t human had stepped into the sacrificial circle. It stood behind my sister’s killer like a shadow — a creature not of this world. By the time help arrived and killed the Satanist, the entity had vanished. But I never forgot what I witnessed that day…”
Casca stared into the fire. “My nightmares won’t let me.”
Talon nodded. He understood a thing or two about nightmares. He’d seen too many good soldiers succumb to them. His friend Erik foremost among them.
Casca had endured a horrific trauma at an impressionable age. Talon didn’t know what exactly the billionaire had experienced, but he was well aware of the mind’s ability to conjure demons. Most people ran away from their nightmares. Talon liked to face them head on.
He’d identified the enemy.
It was time to go to war.
“I’m going to stop Zagan. You can help me, or you can get out of my way. It’s your call.”
Without saying another word, Talon walked out.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE GIANT VIEWING screen in the Omicron auditorium went dark. Zagan regarded his congregation of coders from behind the robotic skull-mask that had become as much a symbol of the cult as the binary number tattooed on each member’s forearm.
For a moment, the crowd seemed frozen in tableau. Silently the programmers rose from their seats and left the auditorium. Tonight there wouldn’t be a sacrifice. They instinctively sensed, like worker bees in a hive, that their task was complete.
Ten minutes later, only Zagan and four members of his security team remained in the empty assembly hall. He removed the robot mask and unceremoniously tossed it aside. His hands shook with rage, belying his otherwise calm exterior. Zagan drew comfort from the knowledge that the affront he’d witnessed would soon be repaid tenfold.
He turned to his head of security. Fisher was a former Marine with a face seemingly poured from concrete. “I want you to look into this. Find out who and what we’re up against.”
Fisher nodded before he and his men filed out. The head of security was reliable, a true believer.
Unlike Fisher, who was a staunch Satanist, Zagan didn’t picture his master as a horned, biblical evil. He knew better.
Zagan’s obsession with the occult had begun ten years before. Fresh out of college, he was a coder working for EI-Entertainment in Los Angeles. His initial excitement at landing a job at the company that had produced some of his most beloved videogames was soon crushed by the day-to-day reality of his new profession. Grueling twelve-hour days spent in a dark basement office/dungeon, slaving away at a computer, using his skill and talent to enrich men who didn’t know he even existed.
A young Zagan had soon realized that he was just a blip in the Matrix, another geek with questionable social skills working in an office full of them.
But Zagan had dreams. Dreams of power. Dreams of revenge.
His new boss at EI, a bitter man named Peter Rice, seemed to be in some unspoken competition with every bully who’d ever pushed Zagan around. The man was petty, venal, exacting and loved to torment the programmers unlucky enough to wind up under his thumb. Zagan quickly became his favorite target. Rice would find fault where there was none, using any opportunity to criticize, humiliate and ridicule.
It took one day for Zagan to hate the man and one week before he wanted him dead.
Rice’s systematic abuse was in a class of its own. He ruled the basement of EI-Electronics as if it was his personal fiefdom. Many times Zagan was tempted to quit, but a part of him refused to let the bully win.
A desire to turn his fate around burned bright inside of him. At night, Zagan would retreat into violent action movies and dark metal to numb himself. One of his favorites was The Terminator, especially the scene where Arnold cut a bloody swath through a bustling police precinct. The scene had ingrained itself into his imagination. How he wished he would have the guts to enter the basement at EI and unleash a volley of steel into his enemies, starting with Rice and his brown-nosing lackeys.
Zagan craved the strength of the fearsome killer cyborg. He yearned for a chance to realize his full potential.
A week later, fate would steer him toward his higher destiny. Zagan and the basement crew at EI were working on a game called Hell World, a Doom rip-off hoping to tap into the burgeoning military horror market. The design team had ordered stacks of research material, including a number of books on the occult and demonology.
The designers did all the creative heavy lifting; Zagan was just a coder who ironed out the kinks in the gameplay. There was no need for him to read any of these books, but something about the dark covers and cryptic titles spoke to him. During a bored lunch-break, Zagan skimmed one of the volumes.
What began with Zagan trying to stave off boredom turned into a marathon reading session. He stayed up all night and finished the first occult book. The next day he grabbed another volume and kept diving deeper into the mysteries contained within its pages. Most of the actual game creators barely glanced at the research materials, choosing to make stuff up instead of putting in the necessary research. Zagan, on the other hand, was hooked.
The books spoke of dark powers that man had learned to master, over the centuries
. Devil. Satan. Abaddon. Shaitan. All names for the same evil energies that pulsed through the universe. Dark forces one could learn to channel, if the rituals outlined in the old texts were carefully followed.
As Zagan intensified his studies, a revolutionary idea occurred to him. What if by combining code and ancient ritual he could hack reality like a computer program? Voodoo was about to get a 21st Century upgrade.
The following night Zagan worked feverishly to write his occult program. It was a simple code modeled after an old racing game, but with a chilling twist. It incorporated magical ritual and information about Rice’s brand-new Lexus. The program was designed to trigger a car accident in the real world.
When Zagan arrived at the office the next morning, Rice was already waiting for him. His vehicle was unharmed. Somewhere along the way, Zagan must’ve made a mistake.
Further research revealed the problem. For the code to exert its dark magic, it would require the lifeforce of a living creature. As this program’s goals were modest, the sacrifice didn’t have to be human. Nevertheless, blood would have to be spilled.
It didn’t take Zagan long to find his victim. There was a stray cat that hung out around his shitty apartment complex. Using a bowl of milk, he lured the hungry feline into his unit. As soon as the poor animal lapped up the milk, Zagan threw a bag over its head. Without hesitation, he whipped out a kitchen knife and went to work on the hissing creature.
A minute later, his hands coated crimson, he started coding away. His bloody fingertips left dark imprints on the keyboard. His face covered in the dead animal’s gore, he pounded the keys, a man possessed as he poured all his hatred, fear and rage into the program.
The following day his efforts would finally bear fruit. Rice’s Lexus experienced a catastrophic failure when its four tires blew out at 80 mph on the freeway. Rice lost control of his Lexus and hit a median in a fiery explosion of metal, steel and flesh.
With the stroke of a few keys and one dead cat, Zagan’s most ardent enemy had been erased from reality. It was his first taste of real power.
Over the next twelve months, Zagan created new programs. Some worked, some backfired. Each failure became a lesson, each success a hard-earned victory on the path to mastering the dark arts.
When he launched his first app a year later, he embedded occult code designed to persuade potential buyers to download it. The apps incredible success secured the financial foundation on which Omicron could be built.
With Zagan’s rise to power, the programs grew more elaborate and complex. The years of experimentation had all led up to his latest brainchild — an occult reality-hacking program so grand and visionary it would put all his past efforts to shame. This latest code would assure Omicron’s continued rise in the marketplace and allow him to crush his enemies.
Only a couple more sacrifices would be needed before his masterpiece was complete. Soon he would gain the ability to manipulate the physical world in ways his earlier self wouldn’t dare to imagine.
But first this new problem would have to be dealt with. He’d worked too hard to let one tiny setback faze him. Whoever had killed his men would soon be experiencing the full power of Omicron’s occult algorithm. The next stage of the plan was only hours away. Why not use the opportunity to draw out the enemy? As he sent out a series of texts to his followers, he made sure to include the cultists killed by the masked man.
Zagan was about to leave the auditorium when he experienced a sudden, sharp itch on his forearm. The binary tattoo had been strangely irritated for days now. He scratched the inked flesh and this time his nails came up red with blood. But it wasn’t the sight of red that made his eyes light up. Under the bloody skin, rods of gray steel had replaced bone and muscle tissue.
Initial horror turned to dark wonder. He’d instructed the program to make him physically stronger, and the program was finding a way. Hacking reality. Changing him. Reshaping him into a creature as powerful as the cyborg from the future that had fired his imagination all those years earlier.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DETECTIVE JESSICA SERRONE blinked and shielded her eyes against the blinding sunlight as she walked up to the eco-house. Two uniformed officers stood guard at the front entrance. They exchanged quick greetings and stepped aside, granting her access. She didn’t have to flash her badge, as the men recognized her.
Serrone wasn’t someone you easily forgot. A German-Mexican heritage had given her both height and striking, exotic looks. Well-defined Aztec features projected a regal quality. Some of the less politically correct officers had started calling her Pocahontas behind her back. Serrone didn’t mind. There were worse things than being nicknamed after a hot Disney princess.
Once inside the house, she approached the first body and tried not to disturb the forensics team hard at work. Serrone spotted a knife next to the corpse. The dead man must’ve dropped it a second after his neck was snapped.
Another detective sidled up to her. With his ruddy features, Detective Nathan Grell formed a sharp contrast to Serrone’s caramel complexion. “Girlfriend of one of the stiffs called it in. Says he’d been acting a bit weird as of late. When she didn’t hear from him last night, she got scared and let herself in. Two more guys upstairs. Hope you didn’t have your breakfast yet. It gets gory once you reach the living room.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
Detective Serrone kneeled before the body. Longish hair and a goatee hid most of the dead man’s acne scars. His wide-eyed stare seemed to follow her as she examined the body. She caught a glimpse of black ink on the victim’s forearm – a series of ones and zeroes. She pulled back the sleeve and inspected the full sequence. By now she was familiar with the binary number. It had become the signature for these occult attacks. The only time she’d seen it outside of a crime scene was when they fished the three suicides out of the Bay.
The popular theory going around suggested that the tech workers had engaged in a murder-suicide pact. But now there were three more bodies. She somehow doubted this cult member had broken his own neck.
Serrone shifted her gaze to the latex robot mask. Talk about the perfect accessory for a murderous sci-fi cult. She made a quick mental note to track down suppliers that sold the masks in question.
“I guess Halloween came early this year. Think they got the three-for-one special?” Grell said.
Serrone didn’t smile. This case was becoming more out there with each passing day. The cult theory had been initially met with skepticism. Serial killers were part of the mainstream nowadays, but cult killings veered into the weird and carried the whiff of homegrown terrorism. As the bodies kept piling up and the crimes grew more elaborate, her superiors couldn’t ignore the mounting evidence.
The notion of a dark cyberpunk cult might sound fantastical, but it also made sense in a weird way to Serrone. San Francisco was a Mecca for anyone who wanted to make computers their career and possessed the technical talent to back up that ambition. A computer-science aesthetic would be a powerful hook for the designated target audience. Satanism, with its traditional occult trappings, was so last century. Binary numbers that spelled out 666 might be the kind of crazy twist on an old formula that would appeal to San Francisco’s tech elite.
Serrone rose and followed Grell into the adjoining living room. A different scene awaited her in here. Blood speckled the plastic tarp spread out on the floor. The donors still wore their robot masks, one sporting a cyclopean eye where the round had entered. “Looks like these two were caught off guard. One was taken out by a headshot, the other fella appears to have offed himself. Nasty piece of business.”
Serrone eyed the tarp. “They were interrupted. What I want to know is where’s the victim and who’s our vigilante with the itchy trigger finger?”
As she posed the question, a theory was already forming in her mind. The kills were clean, clinical. The work of a professional.
Perhaps the work of a Special Forces soldier out for payback?
H
er thoughts turned back to the shellshocked military man she’d faced in the interrogation room a few days earlier. When she first laid eyes upon Talon, she had experienced a disturbing sense of déjà vu. Her gut immediately pegged the shell of a man before her as a soldier. His hair was longish and his leather jacket and jeans were a far cry from military fatigues, but she couldn’t shake the feeling. Maybe it was the way he carried himself or the intensity of his gaze, but on a subconscious level he reminded her of her Marine husband.
Bobby had been killed by an IED in Afghanistan, two years ago, leaving her a single mom with a young daughter that she was raising on her own. Even stranger was the simultaneous sensation that she was staring at herself. For months the same empty expression had gazed back at her from the mirror.
Losing Bobby hadn’t merely signaled the loss of a lover and best friend but also the end of all her hopes for the future. She knew she might be projecting her own feelings onto the situation, but the memory of the grieving soldier had haunted her ever since.
His file was redacted, which suggested special ops. Possibly a Seal or Ranger. A professional warrior who’d returned from battle to spend time with someone he loved, only to realize death had followed him home.
Had Mark Talon chosen to take that pain and redirect it at the men who’d murdered his girlfriend? It seemed like a far-fetched notion but the bodies sprawled on the floor told their own blood-soaked story. She made a mental note to pay Talon a visit. She was doubtful that anything would directly link the soldier to these murders, but maybe a part of her wanted to peer into those enigmatic eyes again. Did she secretly hope the ghost of her old lover might glance back at her once more?
Grell sidled up to her and pulled her back to reality. ”Check this out.”
Occult Assassin: Damnation Code (Book 1) Page 8
