Talon steeled himself for the torture ahead. To meet death in battle was different than being captured by the enemy and becoming their helpless plaything. Any man could be broken, and Talon held no illusions that he would prove the exception to that rule. Nevertheless, he met Zagan’s gaze without flinching.
“Years ago, I worked on a first-person shooter called Hell World,” Zagan said. “It featured soldiers battling demons. Pretty cutting-edge for its day. In the game, the military always defeated the hordes of hell. Too bad we’re not playing a game, huh?”
Zagan took a step closer. Talon strained against his ropes. They didn’t budge. “I know you’re working with someone. Behind every good soldier is a great general pulling the strings. Someone has been helping you.” He paused for a moment before asking, “Who is Simon Casca?”
“I’d be careful with that knife. You might poke your eye out.”
“Sill cracking jokes in the face of defeat?”
“I have a hard time taking anyone seriously who wears a Halloween mask.”
Zagan stopped his advance for a beat. His smile was now replaced with a flicker of anger. Good. Perhaps if he played his cards right and provoked Zagan enough, the Omicron CEO would kill him and skip the torture.
“I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work. You’ve seen firsthand what my program can do. Soon I’ll be able to manipulate reality like no one has ever done before.”
“Maybe try to fix male-pattern baldness, for a start. Might do wonders for your look.”
Zagan’s hand shot out at Talon‘s throat, fingers digging into his windpipe. Up close, Talon caught a full view of where his bullets had struck the man. Or was Zagan still a man at all? Steel shimmered inside the wounded tissue. What was the Omicron CEO turning into?
“I’m changing,” Zagan explained, almost as if he could read Talon’s thoughts. “Growing stronger with each sacrifice.”
Talon gasped for air.
“Each kill.”
Zagan released him and Talon struggled for air. He was still sucking in gulps of precious oxygen when Zagan dug the point of the knife into his bare chest. Talon’s muscles tensed against the assault and his lungs bellowed with agony.
“The best way to defeat someone is to make them serve you.”
Talon screamed more with rage than pain as Zagan drew the slicing edge over his chest. Another cultist filmed his ordeal and streamed it to the assembly hall’s viewing screen. These bastards were coding away to the accompaniment of his personal agony.
I’m going to kill every one of you fucking assholes, Talon thought as he gnashed his teeth with fury. The meaty stench of blood impregnated the air. He felt its warmth streaming down his exposed torso.
Zagan proceeded with his grisly work, inflicting one cut after another. Talon’s bare skin had become the canvas for Zagan’s madness. Blood dripped down Talon’s mutilated torso, staining his pants. Zagan kept slicing away with precision and a focused intent.
A minute later Zagan took a step back to inspect his handiwork. Talon peered up at his own battered image. His torso hemorrhaged an inverted pentagram. The bastard had branded him!
“I’ll kill you.”
“Oh, you’re wrong about that, Talon. You’ll serve me. You’ll serve the darkness. Sooner than you think.”
The cultist with the cam zoomed in until the inverted star on Talon’s chest completely filled the giant screen. A beat later, the image was replaced with roiling streams of code. The occult algorithm.
Talon averted his gaze but the waves of code seemed to pursue him like the floating images in a 3-D movie. Rising tides in a digital ocean. Once again, reality had ceased to obey the laws of physics.
Help me!
Memories fused with the supernova of data streaming through his brain. Sanity buckling despite his best efforts, Talon struggled to cling to something tangible, something real that would ground him.
War had taught him not to waste precious energy obsessing over details that were beyond his control. It was a lesson he’d learned during an Alpine mountain climbing exercise. He foolishly hazarded a glance upward and literally realized his whole life dangled on a six-inch metal spike. Panic gripped him. Fortunately one of his climbing instructors pulled him aside and told to him to narrow his reality to a three-foot radius. The message was clear; he should live his life trying to affect what was within three feet of him and nothing else. Focus on that which you can control and ignore the rest.
Easier said than done.
Applying the philosophy, Talon concentrated on his breathing. He inhaled through his nose for a count of four… Held his breath for four seconds… The point was to breathe deeply and methodically, completely filling and emptying his lungs during each cycle. The technique worked somewhat, but the data floating around him remained. With each inhalation, he breathed in the program. Line after line of code. His frame convulsed.
Someone make it stop. Please, make it stop!
All thoughts ceased. His reality was reduced to the shining vision of an inverted pentagram, which now hovered on the giant screen before him. A beacon showing him a new way. A path toward redemption. Toward the darkness.
Talon never felt Zagan’s men cut his zip-ties, never experienced his body rising and straightening as he slipped his jacket over his bloody chest.
Never saw Zagan lean into him.
All he remembered were the words his new master whispered into his ear. “Kill your general.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IMAGES OF THE Apple Store massacre flickered over Simon Casca’s 90-inch plasma-TV screen. His stomach churned as he sat in his office and absorbed the horrific story. Casualty numbers kept being adjusted, but at least eleven people were dead and an equal number were in critical condition. Video of the attack dominated all the major news networks. This was a global case now and speculation ran rampant as to the identity and agenda of the killers. Terrorism was on everyone’s lips, but Casca knew better. Zagan’s cult had struck again.
Footage of a masked rescuer suggested that Mark Talon had crashed Omicron’s party. God, how Casca wished the Delta operator would return his calls. The bloodbath at the Apple Store confirmed his worst fears. The actions of this killer cult were escalating.
Casca turned off the news and shifted his attention back to his desk. The cultists’ laptop was running the program segment and eerie streams of code slithered over the screen. Becky had assisted him all day long, but she was now asleep in one of the estate’s many spare bedrooms. Analyzing the incomplete code had offered invaluable insights into the challenge they faced. It was far worse than expected. The world was in terrible danger.
For years Casca had anticipated a devastating occult attack. Reports of global occult activity were popping up on a daily basis. Warlords indulging in voodoo, biker gangs and drug cartels practicing satanic rituals, South American cartels tapping into Santeria… The list went on. Small, isolated incidents that when added up could produce a disturbing cumulative effect. It didn’t bode well for the future.
And now this computer cult had arrived seemingly out of nowhere. In Casca’s mind, it represented the greatest threat he’d faced so far.
The billionaire stifled a yawn and downed his fourth Americano of the night. His body and mind protested, craving sleep, but there was no time for rest.
Casca decided to stretch his legs and go for a quick walk through the vast occult library adjacent to his office. His muscles ached and the physical activity might ease his anxiety. There was something terrifying about being here late at night, but Casca drew a strange comfort from the creepy surroundings. Ghosts haunted this space. Not in a literal sense — the ghosts here were only in his mind. His sister had drawn her last pain-filled breath within these walls, twelve years earlier.
In those days the books lining the shelves had been quite different, but the space was still a library. It was here where he first saw the entity that had set him on his current path. He’d received a glimp
se of the abyss that day but instead of retreating, he chose to venture deeper.
A psychologist would’ve said Casca was trying to conquer his fears and atone for his inability to save his sister. A form of survivor’s guilt, perhaps. By facing the darkness he might find a way to master it.
That’s why he’d never moved and tried to put any distance between himself and his memories. The library served as a constant reminder of what lurked in the shadows. It had become his personal Ground Zero, focusing his obsession and giving shape to the mission ahead.
For twelve years Casca had studied every occult tradition known to man, delving into mysteries that should remain out of the reach of mere mortals. His wealth put him in a unique position, allowing him to indulge this obsession to a degree impossible for the average person.
But somewhere along the line Casca had reached an impasse. Studying the occult had ceased to be enough for him. What good was knowing the enemy if one never engaged him in battle? The years of silent contemplation were over. The time had arrived for direct action. A war was coming. Not a war where armies would clash on the battlefield. This would be a shadow war unfolding beneath the surface of normal society.
Casca was ready for the battle ahead. He had the will and the resources, but he was no soldier. At one point he’d contemplated using mercenaries. Financing a private army to battle this dark foe sounded good in theory, but less so in practice. Mercenaries would throw his money back at him once they knew what terrors they were up against. This wasn’t a conflict that could be won by hired guns. He required someone who shared his dedication. Someone who understood that dark forces were gathering and needed to be stopped at all costs. Someone like Talon.
Casca had recognized the man’s potential from the moment he first laid eyes on him. Talon was the knight he’d been searching for. The warrior who could take the fight to the enemy. They were both victims of the occult; they both brought their own specialized skills to the table. Together, they would be able to turn the tide in this conflict. Or so he hoped.
Now it appeared that he was losing the man. He blamed himself for pushing Talon away. He’d moved too fast. No one in their right minds would accept the dark truth without experiencing it firsthand.
Casca’s eagerness had betrayed him and put the whole plan at risk. He prayed that the situation was reversible. Unfortunately, Talon’s unwillingness to answer his calls didn’t bode well. Either he had permanently turned his back or, worse, he was now in the hands of the enemy.
The latter possibility filled Casca with even greater dread. He needed the soldier to crush this cult.
Casca was yanked from his thoughts by his chirping cell. It was Jackson, one of his security men. “Mr. Casca, Talon has returned.”
Casca’s face flooded with relief. The incident at the Apple Store must have brought Talon back to his senses. Maybe he finally recognized that together, they stood a far better chance of defeating Zagan.
“Send him in.”
The phone went dead.
Casca navigated the maze of shelves and occult objects until he reached the library’s main chamber. Jackson and Talon grew visible in the near distance.
“Talon, it’s good to see you…” The words trailed off as the Delta operator’s hand came up in one smooth motion, Glock leveled. A stunned Jackson went for his gun but Talon viciously pistol-whipped him. The guard lost his balance and slammed into one of the occult display cases in an explosion of glass.
Talon sighted down on Casca and unleashed a fusillade of lead. Bullets strafed the air and perforated a row of books. The mysterious tomes erupted in clouds of paper and shredded binding. Talon emptied the magazine as Casca retreated into the aisles of the library.
Zagan must’ve somehow gotten to Talon. Casca had speculated that the cultists were under some form of supernatural control. Talon’s conversion suggested that this was indeed the case.
What could he do? Casca didn’t stand a chance against a super-soldier like Talon. He kept a gun in his desk drawer, but he doubted that he’d get the opportunity to draw it without being struck down first.
He had to find a way to reach Talon. To break the spell he was under. If he could make it back to his office, there might be a way. This mad gamble was his best shot at saving both Talon and himself.
More bullets lashed the air. Two more display cases exploded.
Casca scrambled into his office, heart pounding as Talon gained behind him. He surged toward his laptop, the screen still flickering with occult code. He reached the computer just as Talon stepped into the office, gun up.
Casca regarded the Delta operator. Some force had drained all the humanity from Talon’s eyes and filled the void with lethal intent.
“Talon, this isn’t who you are! Zagan murdered Michelle! You must fight this…”
For a moment, the gun wavered in Talon’s hand, but the hesitation didn’t extinguish the fearsome darkness in his slitted gaze.
Talon brought up his gun.
Casca punched the laptop’s play button, streaming the terrible footage he’d discovered on its hard drive earlier that day to the 90-inch plasma TV-screen in his office.
As the big-screen TV ignited to life with the laptop’s video images, Talon pulled the trigger.
***
Talon’s world had become a place of darkness. A world where all his thoughts were drowned out by the occult program. For a split second, though, Casca’s words almost seemed to make sense. What was his target talking about? Who was Michelle? In the far recesses of his mind, a memory stirred but was quickly suppressed. He served Zagan. He served the darkness. The billionaire’s words were meant to confuse him. Distract him from his true purpose. They were nothing but a pack of lies. Weak attempts at throwing him off.
He raised the Glock. His fingers whitened on the trigger. And that’s when a familiar face splashed on the monitor.
Why did he recognize this woman? There was something familiar about her. Hooded attackers wearing silver robot masks surrounded her. A quiver ran up his arm as he fired. His aim was off and the bullet missed Casca, shattering the illuminated globe instead. The bullet punched a giant hole into the Atlantic and the globe’s light extinguished.
The images on the plasma screen were affecting him somehow. Doubt coiled up inside him. This time it took root and began to spread.
Talon stared at the scene playing out on the display. His breath hitched as the first knife plunged into the hapless female. The shakes traveled up his arm until his whole body was trembling. Was that a tear forming in his eye? It couldn’t be.
His mind reeled and recoiled. Confusion and darkness gave way to dawning understanding. He remembered how he knew this woman… her voice was so familiar…
Michelle.
The name wormed its way through his consciousness, an echo of another life.
My Michelle…
She was in danger. The men onscreen were hurting her. Killing her.
They killed her!
Understanding shattered the darkness inside him and clarity returned with each successive thrust of the knife. As Michelle’s life ran out onscreen, Talon dropped the gun. The Glock hit the carpet with a thump that reverberated all the way into his soul. Casca’s voice sliced into his awareness.
“Talon, these monsters killed your Michelle.”
No!
“They’re using you.”
This can’t be.
“Are you going to let them get away with murder?”
NOOOOOOO!
A pitiful scream of unbridled anguish welled up and broke free from the depths of his darkest pain. Seeing Michelle die again shattered his defenses, stripped him of his emotional armor, tore through skin, muscle, sinew and bone straight to the core of his being.
Talon collapsed to the ground, sobbing. The video ended. Silence descended over Casca’s office.
The man who lowered his head had been Zagan’s servant. The man who stared up at Casca was the occult assassin. ”Help me
kill these bastards.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WAVES OF AGONY rippled through Talon’s scarred chest. The inverted pentagram throbbed, the anguish like a physical manifestation of his pulsing rage. Zagan had taken away everything that mattered. His friend. His lover. His soul. Thanks to Casca, the Omicron CEO had ultimately failed on the last count.
Talon stole a glance at the billionaire’s security guy, Jackson. The man was massaging his bruised jaw. Talon had no memory of clocking him but was grateful he hadn’t resorted to lethal force. Perhaps on a subconscious level he’d been exerting control during his own possession, reigning in the violence in some way. Nevertheless, if it hadn’t been for Casca’s quick thinking he would’ve succumbed to the power of the occult algorithm.
He would have taken life in the name of Zagan’s cult.
The billionaire pointed at the laptop on his oak desk. It was running the code segment. Talon’s instinct was to recoil from the shimmering data, but Casca had reassured him it was safe. This was a small part of the program that couldn’t exert any supernatural influence over him.
“So run this by me again,” Talon said. “How is this software allowing Zagan to control reality?”
“The program is tapping into occult energy. It might help to think of it as a 21st Century version of a spell. The incantations embedded in the computer code are written in demotic, an ancient Egyptian language used in rituals to raise demons from the netherworld.”
“The netherworld? You mean like hell?”
“In a manner of speaking. Mind you, we’re not talking about Satan or the Judeo-Christian hell here.”
“So what are we talking about?” Talon was doing his best to reign in his impatience. He wasn’t used to not being in control.
“The darkness.”
Talon cocked an eyebrow.
Occult Assassin: Damnation Code (Book 1) Page 11
