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

by William Massa

  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 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 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.

  Casca seemed determined to help. Still, without fully understanding whatever motivation was driving his newfound benefactor, Talon would keep his guard up. He planned to delve deeper into Casca’s background later but at the moment his first priority was tracking down Becky Oakes.

  Traffic was light during the mid-afternoon hours and it didn’t take long for Talon to arrive at Becky’s apartment complex. He waited in front of the main entrance. As soon as the first person stepped out of the building, he used the opportunity to slip through the open door. If Becky was around, he hoped to catch her off guard and not give her a chance to cook up some cover story.

  Becky lived on the third floor and Talon easily located her apartment. He determined that the door was unlocked – it didn’t bode well. Glock leading the way, he walked into the unit.

  Broken furniture, overturned shelves and piles of computer books lay scattered on the floor. There was no sign of Becky. Did she escape in time, or was she now in the cult’s clutches?

  His cellphone vibrated and Casca’s voice grew audible on his headset. “What’s the situation?”

  “Looks like we’re running a few steps behind. They broke into her place and tore it apart. Girl’s not here.”

  “This cult isn’t big on hiding the bodies. She could be laying low somewhere.”

  “My feelings exactly.”

  Talon studied the apartment, his eyes roaming. Who was Becky Oakes? Who were her friends? What would be her options, given what they knew about her?

  “Any theories as to where she might be holed up?”

  “My assistant is going through Ms. Oakes’ phone records as we speak.”

  Once again Talon didn’t know if he should be impressed or worried about Casca’s ability to attain private information.

  “Besides her boyfriend and parents, the one phone number that keeps coming up belongs to Janice Goldstein. They both interned at Google a few months ago. Judging from her social network activity, they’re best friends. Last call between them was two days ago.”

  The day Michelle was murdered, Talon thought. If there had been any doubt about Becky’s involvement, this seemed to erase it. It was all beginning to make sense in his mind. In the wake of Michelle’s murder Becky had gone off the grid, ditching her phone and avoiding all social networks. That was wise — the people after her were computer wizards and could track her digital footprints.

  Janice Goldstein was Talon’s best lead. With any luck she could lead him to Becky.

  An hour later, he was staking out Janice’s workplace, some new app developer called Snapshut with offices on Freemont Street. Like Becky, Janice had recently graduated from intern to assistant. Most likely, she’d be working crazy hours. Talon knew he’d better brace himself for a long night.

  He found a coffee shop facing the Snapshut offices and sipped on a cup of bitter black brew that set him back four bucks. The price made him cringe – what was happening to this country?

  Keeping track of the steady flow of people on the sidewalks had a soothing, almost hypnotic eff
ect on Talon. His new detail couldn’t have been more different from the arid monotony of Afghanistan.

  As he kept watch, a Google bus pulled up to the curb and dropped off a boatload of Silicon Valley workers. They carried themselves in a casual and carefree manner, dressed like eternal teenagers with fat allowances. Distressed jeans, expensive sneakers and grungy t-shirts that all came with designer labels easily spotted by the knowing eye. Every one of them sported backpacks containing tablets or laptops.

  Talon figured they’d been putting in some quality time in front of their computers during their air-conditioned commute. He’d read about the private shuttles that scooped up workers from their San Francisco neighborhoods and brought them to their Silicon Valley tech enclaves. Late at night the buses would return and so would the workers.

  The tech elite had become shadows who barely participated in their local communities. The big companies provided food, haircuts, dental appointments, gym equipment, laundry, dry cleaning – there was no need to shop or interact locally. In many ways, companies like Omicron were like cults. They indoctrinated their disciples with an ideology that separates them both physically and psychologically from the rest of the world. Technology was their God and material success their salvation.

  Janice suddenly emerged from her workplace. She headed straight for the coffee shop – just another part of her daily routine. A quick pick-me-up at the end of a long day. Phone cradled under her ear, she approached the barista.

  Talon stealthily pointed his cell at her. He pulled up an app Casca had told him to download earlier and scanned the shop for Bluetooth signals. He selected Janice’s phone from the list and pressed “Force-Pair.” Once that was done, he pushed a button labeled “Install.Exe.” A bar filled the screen as his phone hacked into Janice’s.

  By the time Janice grabbed her drink and left the café, the installation of the hacking program was complete. Talon followed while he listened in on Janice’s conversation. Her voice sounded concerned. Talon felt like a creep for spying on the woman’s private exchange.

  When Janice addressed the other party on the line as Becky, however, Talon’s eyes widened with triumph. Judging from the phone number on his spy app, Becky wasn’t using her old cell. She had probably purchased a disposable phone with a prepaid SIM card. Smart girl. It sounded like she wanted to meet up with Janice at nearby Yerba Buena Garden.

  Talon rushed toward his motorcycle. He would beat Janice to the rendezvous point.

  Darkness encroached Yerba Buena Garden as his bike sidled up to the curb. The park covered two blocks with well-tended gardens and provided a much-needed escape from the hustle and bustle of San Francisco.

  Talon combed the park and within minutes located Becky near the Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial Fountain. Spotlights inside the waterfall cast Becky in stark silhouette. Water gurgled as she paced up and down the shining slabs of glass inscribed with excerpts from Dr. King’s speeches.

  Becky’s paranoid gaze swept the surrounding area and lingered on Talon. He sped up his approach and Becky turned on her heel, heading off in the opposite direction.

  Shit! She’d made him.

  As Becky surged up a nearby flight of stairs that led away from the fountain, Talon cranked up his pace. Had his over-eagerness betrayed him? Or was he not used to stalking targets within an American city?

  Talon reached the top of the stairs and spotted Becky as she shot down a walkway.

  She was crossing the next street when a black van zoomed toward her. Tires screeched as the van ground to a halt and the door was flung open. Two men decked out in black hoodies jumped out of the vehicle and snatched a shocked Becky. She immediately went limp in the kidnappers’ arms and Talon realized that they must’ve Tasered her. Bastards! The hooded abductors whisked Becky’s convulsing form into the van.

  Talon considered his options. He could pull his gun and prevent them from getting away, but his rescue attempt was liable to backfire. There were too many witnesses, not to mention the possibility of the cops showing up before he could question Becky’s attackers.

  Talon opted to follow the van instead. He’d deal with them in a more private setting. Nevertheless, he experienced a twinge of anxiety as the doors slammed shut and the vehicle burned rubber. If he lost them and something happened to Becky, her death would be on his conscience.

  Talon rushed back to his motorcycle, eyes trailing the black van as it rounded the park. Seconds later, he eased into traffic and picked up the chase. He kept a safe distance but never lost sight of the vehicle in front of him. Talon prayed that Becky’s captors wouldn’t harm her in transit.

  Hopefully he’d made the right call. A vision of dead Michelle popped into his mind, and this only sharpened his focus. He wouldn’t let these freaks get away with murder a second time.

  He trailed the van for half an hour until it finally pulled up to a sleek, expensive-looking house. It was one of the growing numbers of eco-homes that were in vogue in the Bay Area: oblong windows, high-quality wood, solar panels and plants on the roof. The low-impact materials were designed to reduce the home’s carbon footprint.

  Whoever lived here wasn’t hurting financially, that was for sure.

  The van rolled up the driveway and into the garage. Talon slowed down. His lips twisted into a merciless smile and his soul turned to ice. He was looking forward to getting better acquainted with Becky’s abductors.

  Chapter Eight

  Becky Oakes eyed her kidnappers inside the moving van and knew she was staring at her future murderers. Her body ached and throbbed and she could barely move, muscles useless in the wake of the vicious Taser attack. When her abductors first snatched her, Becky had recognized one of them. His name was Jeff and he was a star engineer at Omicron. She suspected that the other men were her fellow co-workers, too. What had happened to these programmers to make them turn into cold-blooded killers?

  She’d been asking herself that question since the moment she first walked into Omicron’s assembly hall and witnessed a murder unspooling on the HD jumbo screen. Her boyfriend George was one of the coders in the auditorium, busily programming away as Zagan dominated the horror show onstage. Seeing her beau as an indifferent witness to the slaughter shattered her world and wounded her to the core.

  To be fair, their relationship had been falling apart for some time now. George had become cold and they stopped making love. At first she assumed he might be dating someone else and the distancing was his passive-aggressive way of working up to an official break-up. But it soon became clear that something far more disturbing was unfolding here.

  One clue was the strange binary tattoo on George’s forearm; a tattoo she noticed on a growing number of tech workers at Omicron. Becky confronted George about the tattoo, but this only pushed him away. He stopped calling her and soon she only saw him at work, when it couldn’t be avoided.

  Their relationship was over. So what possessed her to follow her ex into the main auditorium that fateful night, when she was working late? The presence of guards near the doors of the assembly hall made her frown. Fortunately, she knew of a back way that led to the auditorium’s balcony.

  Giving in to curiosity, she made a go for the less-guarded second entrance.

  This turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life.

  After witnessing that monstrous scene inside the auditorium, she found herself at a loss. What should she do? Who could she reach out to for help? She feared that if she went to the cops they would laugh at her and word would soon get back to Omicron. Who knew what might happen if her colleagues realized she had witnessed their crime. Nothing good, that was for certain.

  A day later George committed suicide and obviously this news rattled her further. The man she’d started dating three months ago was full of life and hope for the future. Like many of the young computer talents in start-up land, George was driven and empowered by a sense of manifest destiny. He was going to play his role in shaping the technologies of the world to
come. The George she knew was a far cry from the man who took a dive off the Golden Gate Bridge.

  Becky’s first sign of hope came when Michelle rang her and wanted to talk about George’s suicide. It didn’t take much convincing for her to break down and spill her story. But somehow the cult found out about the meeting. And now they’d found her.

  The van stopped and the door was opened. Rough hands reached for her and she felt herself being dragged out of the parked van and into a garage. She fought back weakly but her muscles were still recovering from being zapped by the Taser. Once inside the living area, one of the kidnappers switched on the recessed lights, revealing a tastefully decorated home. Incongruously, a plastic tarp had been laid out over the hardwood floor in anticipation of Becky’s arrival.

  The three hooded men hefted Becky’s limp body onto the plastic and her eyes grew wet with terror. She held no illusions about what was going to happen next. The news stories about Michelle’s grisly murder popped into her mind. All she could do now was pray that the end would be swift and relatively painless.

  The ring of urban monks slipped on their robotic skull-masks and whipped out their knives.

  “Please you don’t have to do this-”

  One of the cultists taped her mouth shut with duct tape, silencing her.

  Oh God, let it be over soon…

  The blades drew closer. Becky closed her eyes.

  And that’s when the van’s alarm shattered the silence of the sleepy nighttime neighborhood outside.

  The glass-paneled front door swung open and one of the hooded kidnappers emerged from the eco-house. Without the intimidating robot mask, his harmless countenance stood in sharp contrast to the brutal act he’d been ready to commit moments earlier. He stalked up to the SUV and killed the alarm.