Occult Assassin: Damnation Code (Book 1)

by William Massa

  Richard swiped his security card and the door swung open. The moment they stepped inside, Talon rammed the butt of his Glock against the back of Richard’s head. The cultist slumped to the ground, down for the count.

  For a second, Talon considered his next move. His stomach churned with uncertainty. It almost felt too easy but he’d come too far to turn back. He shot a final glance at Richard’s unconscious form and moved deeper into the darkness.

  Body coiled and gun up, he advanced toward the edge of the balcony overlooking the cavernous amphitheater below. About 80 of the 300 seats were occupied with coders. They faced the screen and its images of violence with hushed, religious awe. Cameras streaming images from the store, the programmers kept tapping their keyboards while cops and emergency workers rushed back and forth on the giant screen. The scene reminded Talon of the aftermath of a battle. He rapidly scanned the streaming images for Serrone but saw no sign of the detective. Talon’s eyes shifted from the screen to the man who commanded this unholy gathering.

  Zagan.

  Their leader fronted his audience, a magnetic presence in his robot skull mask. Talon sighted the man with his Glock. He was about to squeeze the trigger when Zagan fixed his gaze on the balcony. Almost as if he could detect Talon in the dark…

  As if to confirm this suspicion the jumbo screen went black and filled with a new, even more shocking image. Talon’s blood turned to ice as he took in the new feed. A familiar face stared up at him, blood staining broken teeth, hair matted crimson. It was his friend Erik, cultists hovering at the edges of the frame, knives out.

  Zagan’s voice rang out. “Welcome, Sergeant Talon. So nice of you to join us.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  TALON’S FINGERS TIGHTENED around the grip of his Glock. He’d walked into a trap! The cultist playing along, the relative ease in getting past the guards – it was all part of a well-orchestrated charade. His thirst for revenge had blinded him to the reality that should’ve been obvious. He’d underestimated the enemy, and now both he and Erik were about to pay a steep price for his carelessness.

  How did Zagan know his name? How had he connected him to Erik?

  He pushed these questions aside and allowed his body to jump into action. The gun came up as the first knife closed in on Erik.

  Oh God, not again…

  Talon’s helpless rage detonated. Driven by pure reflex, he sighted down on Zagan and emptied a full magazine into the man. The hail of bullets caught the Omicron CEO in the throat and forehead, whipping his head back in a cloud of blood. The cult leader went down hard.

  Talon slammed a new magazine into his Glock and left the balcony with quick strides. He tore past an unconscious Richard, fighting back the temptation to finish off the fanatic. He’d need every bullet he had if he was going to fight his way out of the Omicron complex.

  Talon burst through the exit and sprinted down the long passageway, eyes scanning his fishbowl surroundings. Armed security people approached from the other side of the atrium, guns ready.

  He had to get out of here and contact Casca. Maybe Erik might still have a chance if help arrived on time. Bypassing the elevators, he headed for a nearby exit that led to the stairs. Moving, moving. He pushed through the door and found himself…

  Back in the auditorium.

  For a moment the world tilted and shifted and unhooked from reality. He’d covered about two hundred feet, so how could the door at the far end of the hallway lead him right back to where he started?

  Erik’s terrified features filled the mammoth screen. Shifting his gaze away from the scene, it landed on Zagan who had risen to his feet again. The cult leader was still alive?!

  Impossible.

  For a second Talon’s training failed him and terror seized hold of his mind. There had to be a rational explanation for what he was experiencing. They must have drugged him somehow. Maybe slow-acting toxin, most likely airborne, had filtered into the balcony through the ventilation system.

  Who was he kidding? The theory didn’t sound convincing. Casca’s voice drowned out his halfhearted attempt at rationalizing the impossible.

  The supernatural and its agents of darkness are real.

  A meltdown wasn’t going to help him get out of this predicament. He fought the fear and replaced it with anger directed at Michelle’s murderers who’d now gone after his friend too. Not knowing what else to do, Talon stormed out of the auditorium, rushing down the passage once again. Instead of heading for the staircase this time, he kept on going. He made a sharp left turn and… stared down a corridor stretching into infinity.

  Reality whiplashed.

  Talon pivoted and was confronted with another endless hallway with no end in sight. The hallways extended endlessly before him, the entire building transformed into a surreal maze that would make M. C. Escher jealous.

  Desperately trying to blink away the madness, Talon staggered toward the nearest elevator. In the distance, he spotted a phalanx of fast-approaching figures. Omicron’s security team. He leveled his Glock and froze…

  Another impossible sight raked his sanity and strangled all thoughts. He knew these guards, had served with them, fought with them. He’d seen them die.

  Zagan’s security team was made up of his fallen comrades in arms. On his right was Sgt. McComery. Killed by a sniper bullet in Fallujah. To his left, Robert J. Walker. Torn apart by a roadside bomb on the dusty roads of Kabul. At the center of the undead trio was one of his closest friends, Michael Dugan, who’d taken a bullet meant for Talon and succumbed to his wounds in the stark mountains of Afghanistan. Was he going insane?

  His fallen brothers-in-arms raised their firearms and locked in on him.

  Talon hesitated. It’s a trick, an illusion…

  Bullets punched the air and Talon automatically returned fire. Lead ripped into the guards wearing his dead friends’ faces. Talon stifled a scream as he felt the impact of each bullet on his own body. He looked down at his chest and saw blood oozing from ragged holes in his torso.

  Talon spit blood and turned away from the dead guards, the once-again lifeless eyes of his old friends haunting him. Under his feet, the shiny floor shifted and undulated, distorting and changing texture. It was turning syrupy as physical reality turned against him. With each successive step, he sank deeper into the swamp-like floor.

  Talon’s gaze became wild, ticking back and forth in a frenzied attempt to make sense of his warping reality.

  Another figure appeared. The master of this nightmare. Zagan.

  The Omicron CEO loomed before Talon, now an impossibly tall, otherworldly presence, strangely distorted as if Talon was viewing him through a funhouse mirror. The man tore off his robot mask to reveal the gaping holes where Talon’s bullets struck him earlier. Under the gory skin, Talon saw glimpses of silver gray that hinted at a metallic death skull lurking behind the flesh-and-blood façade.

  The man had become the mask; the mask was becoming the man.

  A second later, the swirling floor engulfed Talon, erasing the world in darkness.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THEY CALLED HIM the devil soldier.

  Zagan’s head-of-security, Fisher, had earned the nickname in Fallujah when his Marine division came under heavy fire. With the casualties in his unit mounting, Fisher started praying. First to God, but the Almighty refused to answer his calls for help. All around him, bullets kept felling good men. The dust of the desert city turned red with their blood.

  Desperate, his fury growing, Fisher kept whispering new prayers. Prayers directed at the Prince of Lies.

  Thirty minutes later, reinforcements arrived in the besieged city and the tide of war turned. As superior firepower tore the Iraqis apart, Fisher switched his allegiance to a new master.

  Stumbling through the battlefield, bleeding from various wounds, his skin baking in the desert heat, he sought out his enemy. He found one bullet-ridden Iraqi, head held high despite his sorry state. His defiance dissolved into an expression of
agony as Fisher sunk his Ka-Bar into the man’s throat.

  As the Iraqi soldier perished in the blood-soaked dust, Fisher pledged the fallen enemy’s soul to his dark savior. Later that evening, he stripped off his armor and fatigues and, using his Ka-Bar, he carved a pentagram into his chest.

  It was a token of his newfound devotion to the forces of darkness.

  Within a year he received a dishonorable discharge for his actions. Fisher worked odd jobs when he returned to San Francisco, mostly as a bouncer in seedier nightclubs. His chance for redemption came when Zagan hired him as his head-of-security.

  Almost immediately he felt a kinship with his new employer. They both served the same dark master, in their own ways. Consequently, Omicron’s new enemy was his enemy. Fisher promised to make the masked man who’d slaughtered three true believers pay dearly for his insolence.

  The brazen attack, as well as the willingness to take lives and resort to guerilla tactics, indicated the work of a fellow professional. The ferocity of the Tarot warning suggested a personal vendetta.

  This assassin must be connected to one of the victims, Fisher thought.

  His next step was to review the cult’s recent victims. Michelle’s soldier boyfriend jumped out at him from the start. The photographs of Mark Talon that accompanied the reports of Michelle’s murder gave him a bad feeling. The man’s hollow gaze spelled trouble to Fisher’s battle-hardened mind. This was a foe to be reckoned with. He needed to learn more about the man and his relationship with Michelle.

  Fortunately, they still had the reporter bitch’s laptop.

  A few hours after Talon sent his declaration of war, Fisher was going through Michelle’s email accounts. He quickly located her correspondence with Talon. It painted a pretty clear picture of their intense relationship and also provided clues as to what sort of man Omicron was up against.

  Fisher’s eyes lit up at the mention of Delta. This wasn’t some cowboy with a death wish but one of the best-trained military men in the world. A true challenge.

  Fisher loved a challenge.

  Perusing the emails, another name kept popping up. Erik. A friend of Talon’s who lived in Oakland. Was Talon holing up with his old war buddy? Only one way to know for sure… Fisher palmed his phone and alerted the security team. There was work to be done.

  The next day, he pulled up to Erik’s rundown Oakland home. He told the three members of his crew to stay in the car while he scoped out the property. Erik’s freshly washed car was still drying in the early afternoon sun as he snuck into the yard. Unbeknownst to him, he’d missed Talon by just thirty minutes.

  He scanned the weed-infested backyard and spotted a shadowy shape flitting past the window. Someone appeared to be home. Good. He hugged the side of the house. Advancing with caution, he located the guesthouse in the back.

  An instant later Fisher was picking the guesthouse door’s lock. It opened with a rasp and he breached Talon’s makeshift command center. One glance at the occult literature splayed out on the wooden desk convinced him that he’d come to the right place.

  Curiosity piqued, he checked the laptop and scanned its history. Articles on Omicron abounded. There were also a few stories about a Silicon Valley billionaire by the name of Simon Casca. Interesting. He would have to review this information more carefully and let Zagan know about Casca. First though they would deal with the man in the house.

  He drew his cell and contacted the team. “We’re going in.”

  ***

  The bottle was calling him.

  Erik’s promise of sobriety was crumbling. Everywhere he turned, reminders of his addiction screamed out at him. Crushed beer cans. Empty whiskey bottles. He had wisely poured out all the booze in the house… Except for the flask he kept stashed in his parents’ bedroom. He had spared it for a moment like this.

  A moment when the overpowering thirst would come.

  As he climbed the stairs, Erik’s tongue flicked over his lips in growing anticipation. He could already taste the liquid’s warming sting.

  One drink.

  One drink wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  He thought that helping Talon would defeat his demons. But Talon wasn’t involving him in his new mission in any substantial way. Talon might claim he was being protective, but Erik knew the truth. Talon didn’t trust him. The soldier he once was now buried under too much booze and bad food.

  I’m useless. Dead weight. And Talon knows it.

  The thought brought back all the old feelings of guilt and self-hatred. His somber mood weighed on him. But it was nothing a stiff drink (or two) couldn’t cure. It would clear out the bad wiring. Get him back on track.

  Erik was about to climb the stairs and give in to his addiction when he heard a noise from outside. It sounded like someone was at his back entrance. Was someone attempting to burglarize his place?

  He stole a quick glance through the bedroom window and spotted two men picking the lock outside. In their suits and shades, the two would-be intruders reminded him more of Feds than any of the local neighborhood punks.

  A dark realization edged into his awareness. Talon’s new enemies had found them.

  Erik ran through his options.

  His first instinct was to go for his Glock. Unfortunately, Talon had his gun. Calling the cops would be the next logical move, but his cell was downstairs in the living room. Probably buried on his couch somewhere. Shit.

  He could wait for these guys to break into his house, or he could make a run for the phone. He might even have enough time to snatch a knife from the kitchen cupboard.

  Storming down the stairs, he realized he wasn’t afraid and his thirst was gone. A different Erik was in the driver’s seat now. This Erik had fought off six armed Iraqis with only a bare knife. He had commanded the respect of his unit. This Erik had been a man Talon was proud to call his friend.

  Welcome back, brother.

  He had barely reached the foot of the stairs when the front door swung open and two men stormed into his home. In his mind, Erik felt like a soldier again, but his body sagged under the last few years of self-abuse. He couldn’t generate the same speed and power when he threw the first punch and missed his target by a wide margin.

  Unfortunately his opponents were trained professionals. It all happened so fast. Before he knew it Erik was sprawled on his dusty, stained carpet.

  A boot kicked him in the mouth, followed by the coppery flavor of his blood. More kicks came in quick succession, landing against a belly turned to mush. He hunched over, gasping for air. But he didn’t scream. There was still no fear. He’d been waiting to meet his maker for quite some time now.

  Erik had lost count of how many times he’d considered eating a bullet. The sole reason he’d never gone through with it was his mom. He wouldn’t want the world to think Mrs. Garrison had raised a quitter.

  Erik had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next. He was ready.

  Bring it on, you bastards!

  The big man in the group of home invaders — Erik instantly pegged him as military — nodded to his men. The youngest member of the group, a punk who couldn’t be older than twenty or so, approached Erik. Knife out.

  Let’s see if the kid has it in him, Erik wondered.

  Steel flashed and descended in a hypnotic arc. Sharpened metal sliced through two years of junk food and booze.

  The little fucker actually has the cojones to stick a man — look at this shit!

  The area where the blade had entered felt cold, but Erik experienced no pain. At least not yet. Wasn’t adrenaline wonderful? The wound felt almost like being stung by a bee. The kid registered no emotion as he hovered above him. His bland indifference gave Erik the necessary kick to respond and probably explained what he did next.

  Erik’s fingers closed around the knife in his belly and pulled it out of his flesh. He saw shock in the young man’s face, which deepened when the same knife sliced open his thigh in a stream of red.

  The cultist stumbled
aside with a cry of pain.

  Erik grinned and in that moment he was back in Iraq, nineteen years old. Young, dumb and full of cum. Ready to face any enemy and endure any hardship. The moment was shattered seconds later as more blades went to work on him, but it allowed Erik to flash a bloody grin at the cameras recording his remaining moments.

  “I hope Talon sends every one of you bastards to hell,“ he hissed before all strength left his bleeding body and blackness claimed him.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TALON DRIFTED THROUGH the void. An impenetrable blackness, defined by a perfect silence that was finally broken by a familiar voice. “The dangers of the occult are real.”

  The billionaire’s words pierced the silence. It drove home a truth that was growing more pervasive in his mind. Zagan wasn’t like any opponent he’d faced before.

  You’re in way over your head, kid.

  His refusal to pay heed to Casca’s wisdom would now cost him dearly. Ignoring intelligence on the battlefield carried with it dire consequences.

  Without warning, the darkness lifted. Waves of phosphorescent green light engulfed him. Talon was back in Omicron’s assembly chamber. He was bare-chested and tied to a chair facing the stage. Zip-ties cut into his wrists.

  The vast screen was unspooling Erik’s final moments once more, a terrible, sickening loop. As Erik’s screams reverberated throughout the cavernous auditorium, Talon jerked against his restraints, shaking with rage. “You fucking cowards, I’ll kill you all!”

  Talon craned his neck and spotted a small army of computer programmers seated in the rows behind him. Fingers drilled the keys of their laptops, blank eyes in the thrall of some ungodly spell. How could so many people remain indifferent to the violence onscreen?

  “I see you’re awake, Sergeant. Good.”

  Talon spun toward the direction of the voice. Zagan lurked in the shadows, a silhouette outlined against the flickering screen. He stepped into the light, his ascetic features coming into view. The knife in Zagan’s hand promised Talon a painful, drawn-out end.