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

by William Massa

  “You will,” his partner promised gravely.

  Police morgue pictures of the skydiving victims filled the screens. Luckily, the most traumatic injuries remained hidden by the shrouds covering the bodies.

  A couple of close-up shots revealed identical tattoos on the skydiving instructors’ arms. The two dead men sported upward-pointing triangles bisected by a horizontal line.

  “Identical tattoos,” Talon said. “What does the symbol stand for?”

  “It’s an alchemical symbol for one of the four elements of nature.”

  Talon eyed Casca, intrigued. “You mean like water and fire…”

  “Earth and air,” Casca finished, placing special emphasis on the last one.

  An image popped up onscreen that showed the symbols for each of the four elements.

  A triangle for fire.

  An inverted triangle for water.

  A triangle bisected by a horizontal line for earth.

  And for air an inverted triangle bisected by a horizontal line.

  “Did the drowning victims have tattoos too?” Talon asked.

  “How did you know?”

  Casca keyed in a command, and two autopsy photos appeared onscreen that showed the water symbol on the arms of the older drowning victims.

  “So these murder-suicides…”

  “Were human sacrifices to the elements of nature.”

  Talon frowned. “But why?”

  “Why indeed? Do you want to know why the skydiving deaths didn’t become a bigger story? A few hours after the tragedy, Los Angeles was hit with the biggest windstorm in its history. Another strange coincidence, wouldn’t you say? Now guess what happened within hours of the ‘water’ murders…”

  “Another violent display of nature?”

  Casca nodded and punched a button on his keyboard. News footage of the record rainfall in the Los Angeles area flooded the office.

  Los Angeles tended to melt down even when it drizzled, so it didn’t come as much of a surprise that the rainstorms had paralyzed and crippled the city. Talon took in the images of the doomsday storms’ destructive power, and then the screen went dark. The main part of the presentation was over.

  He met Casca’s expectant gaze. The billionaire was waiting for his response.

  “What do you make of it all, Sergeant?”

  “These murder-suicides were sacrifices to the elements of air and water, and they triggered cataclysmic winds and rain storms.”

  “My thoughts exactly. Occult ritual fueled by blood sacrifice to affect the physical world.”

  There was a time when Talon would have scoffed at such ideas. Not anymore.

  “So what do you think we’re dealing with here? Some elemental nature cult?”

  Casca spread his hands wide. “It certainly appears that way.”

  “Then we can expect more murders,” Talon said.

  “And more natural disasters,” Casca finished.

  “So what’s next? Earth and fire?”

  “One can imagine what that will lead to.”

  Archival footage of California wildfires and earthquakes flickered onscreen in case Casca’s words hadn’t fully driven the point home.

  “So we’re up against an eco-terrorist group of some kind.”

  “An eco-terrorist group that is tapping into the power of the occult to get its message across.” Casca rose from behind his desk and walked up to his globe. “As usual, we’re dealing with a group of true believers.”

  Casca spun the large wooden globe, almost as if he was some deity contemplating humanity’s future.

  “Many eco-activists affiliate themselves with a brand of anarchism that opposes modernization and its effects on the natural environment. Some call themselves primitivists, or green anarchists, and contend that humans were better off thousands of years ago, before the advent of agriculture. Primitivism views technology and civilization as an unnecessary evil and believes humanity would be much happier and healthier outside the modern industrial world. What do you think of that idea?”

  Talon considered the question for a beat before he replied.

  “Every age has its good sides and its bad sides, but romanticizing the past is a waste of time. You learn from it and do better in the future.”

  “Couldn’t have said it better, Sergeant. It’s far harder to build something than to watch it burn.”

  Talon looked at the alchemical symbol for fire as he spoke, the triangle an ominous promise of greater crimes and horrors to come.

  “What’s the endgame here? What do they hope to accomplish? You kill some people, trigger some natural disasters, and then what?”

  “That’s for you to find out, Sergeant. Rituals of this kind are greater than the sum of their parts. Each sacrifice and disaster might be leading up to a far greater horror we cannot even foresee. We must act quickly and stop this band of fanatics from completing whatever they’ve initiated.”

  Talon nodded his agreement and asked, “When am I leaving for L.A.?”

  “How does early tomorrow morning sound? My Learjet is fueled and ready to take off when you are.”

  Talon drained the last of his bourbon and rose to his feet.

  “I’m ready to go now. You know my bag is always packed.”

  “Good luck out there, Sergeant.”

  Talon smiled. “I just hope this job comes with earthquake insurance.”

  Chapter Five

  It was almost noon when the Learjet touched down at Van Nuys Airport. The irony of taking a private jet to go after an eco-cult didn’t elude Talon. Private jet travel emitted about forty times as much carbon dioxide as commercial flights but, in his defense, Talon wasn’t flying private for the sheer decadent thrill of it. Time was of the essence, and lives were at risk.

  Once the jet landed Talon headed for the black BMW 840d coupe rental waiting for him in the airport parking lot.

  Casca had booked him an apartment in the Studio City area, close enough to John Pogue’s Hollywood Hills home and the apartment where Scott Hilldale, one of the skydiving instructors, had lived.

  Talon was a soldier, not a detective, but he could track down an enemy with a bloodhound’s efficiency. The key was figuring out the connection between the killers. Find that link, and it might lead him to the cult leaders who put them up to this madness.

  There was no doubt in Talon’s mind that there were other killers out there waiting to sacrifice innocent people for their deranged ideology. How could one respect the sanctity of nature but show a complete disregard for human life? Talon knew these fanatics felt they were doing the right thing here—followers always believed in the cause, whether they employed the occult or not. Extreme ideology was the real danger. Black magic was just another weapon.

  Talon suspected that the mastermind behind these murder-suicides wasn’t merely trying to stop global warming and save the planet. In Talon’s experience, weaponized ideology was, more often than not, about power. And occult power always came at a price.

  That raised an interesting question. What sort of infernal force would this ritual unleash once completed?

  Talon pushed the disturbing thought aside, determined to maintain a positive attitude. He was here now, and he would stop these fanatic murderers before they could complete the third and fourth sacrifices.

  It took Talon almost thirty minutes to reach the Airbnb where he was staying. Traffic tested his patience and reminded him why he never liked Los Angeles that much, despite the stunning weather and natural beauty of the place.

  His temporary home was an airy, spacious apartment with plenty of sunlight. Typically, a titanium case filled with kit would wait for him at his newest crash pad, but not this time. Flying on Casca’s private jet removed airport security from the equation and allowed Talon to travel with his weapons and ammunition. He was sporting his Glock in a leather shoulder holster and the Demon Slayer knife Casca had gifted him back in San Francisco, during their first supernatural case.

  Glyphs
and sigils adorned the eight inches of pre-Christian steel. Talon still did not understand what he was up against here in L.A., but the magical knife had proven effective against all agents of darkness he’d faced in the past.

  A quick inspection of the fridge showed that it was well stocked. Talon helped himself to a Stiegl Radler, a blend of beer and lemonade he’d developed a taste for while living in Germany as a teen. As the son of a diplomat, Talon had traveled the world at a young age. It had enriched his perspective on many levels and prepared him for the international scale of this war against the darkness. And once in a while it had led to a habit that stuck.

  The Radler was refreshing and precisely what the doctor ordered. Talon made a mental note to thank Casca later.

  As Talon placed his backpack on the couch, he noted a file folder on a nearby coffee table, another reminder that Casca’s network was doing their job behind the scenes. The folder contained more detailed information on the victims.

  Taking another deep gulp of his beverage, Talon studied the files.

  First up was the producer John Pogue, who’d murdered his family in his pool. The man’s filmography was a mile long. He’d worked himself up from creative exec to exec producer, co-producer and finally mega-producer flying solo. His oeuvre mostly comprised mindless action flicks—“popcorn for the soul,” as one of Talon’s old military buddies used to call them. They used to watch some of these flicks just to spot all the tactical inaccuracies and get a laugh at the stunt choreographer’s expense. Good times.

  Pogue had been an action movie mogul with some of the biggest hits in the genre under his belt. No wonder he could afford to live in a veritable palace in the Hollywood Hills. So how did a guy like that end up a member in a killer eco-cult? Why kill yourself when you had so much to live for?

  During his last visit to Los Angeles, Talon had taken down Rex Colton, a producer who sought career stability with a little help from the forces of darkness. He’d surrounded himself with mid-list industry folks with similar esoteric interests and targeted hopeful rubes right off the bus, eager for Hollywood stardom. Human sacrifice had been a way to ensure his continued financial success and keep the demons fat and happy.

  John Pogue was a very different story. This guy didn’t need to resort to such revolting practices to sustain his high-flying lifestyle. Nor had he targeted anonymous, disposable victims for personal gain. Instead, he had sacrificed his own life and the lives of his family members.

  Talon struggled to wrap his mind around Pogue’s terrible crimes. This guy had been at the top of the Hollywood food chain and had the world at his feet, so why throw it all away?

  Maybe it proved that material wealth couldn’t buy you happiness. The producer and his wife must’ve hungered for something more transformative than smashing box-office records, and his daughters had paid the ultimate price for his hunger for meaning.

  Talon turned his attention to the files of the two skydiving instructors. Nathan Coleman, age 27, had lived about twenty-five miles away in Arcadia, where his skydiving school was based. The second instructor, Scott Hilldale, age 33, had resided at a nearby Studio City apartment. He commuted to a different skydiving center outside the city but maintained a L.A. residence because he did work as a stunt coordinator and consultant for skydiving sequences.

  Scott’s biggest gig had been as an instructor and stunt choreographer on the big-budget actioner Hellseekers. Talon had seen the picture in question back when it first hit theaters and remembered enjoying the film. It had been better—meaning more accurate—than most action movies. He only vaguely remembered the plot, but the breathless skydiving sequences remained fresh in his mind.

  Following a hunch, Talon compared Scott’s filmography with Robert Pogue’s producing credits, hoping to find a project the two fanatics might have collaborated on in the past. Unfortunately, there was no overlap between their resumes. But just because they hadn’t collaborated on a specific film didn’t necessarily mean that their paths hadn’t crossed in the past. Hollywood was an industry town, and the industry was actually pretty small.

  Talon rechecked Scott’s address. The police had searched the skydiver’s home, but they had found nothing else of interest, if this report was any indicator. It was easy to miss important details when you didn’t know what you were looking for. Talon would hit Scott’s apartment and afterward head up to Robert Pogue’s Hollywood Hills home. Maybe he’d get lucky and come across something the authorities had missed.

  A few minutes later, Talon pulled out of the apartment building’s parking structure in his rental car. This time traffic was a little lighter, and within minutes he’d pulled up to the four-story building where Scott had lived. It was a newer, well-maintained complex only a quick walk from Ventura Boulevard, with all its shops and restaurants. Nice place. Maybe too nice for a guy who worked a bunch of side-hustles instead of a steady job.

  In passing Talon flashed a beautiful blonde his most charming smile as he walked up to the building, and she was sweet enough to hold the front door open for him.

  Accessing the building proved much easier than expected. Locating Scott’s unit in the mazelike complex was more challenging. After a few minutes of walking in the wrong direction, he finally located the apartment in question.

  Talon walked up to the door, rang the bell to make sure no one was in the unit, and picked the front lock. Within seconds the door creaked open, and Talon edged into the apartment. The place was in slight disarray, and the cops had clearly moved some furniture and personal knick-knacks around.

  According to the file Talon had studied earlier, the dead cultist had no immediate family in the city. The building manager was waiting for permission from the authorities investigating the murder-suicide to remove their deceased tenant’s belongings. Only a week had passed since Scott’s death, but real estate was the hottest commodity in L.A. and this unit wouldn’t stay empty for long.

  Talon walked through the apartment. He wasn’t looking for anything but just collecting his impressions of the place, hoping something might jump out as his subconscious processed the details. The cops were looking for a more traditional motive—a potential connection to the victim, evidence of depression, or drug abuse. Talon was keeping his eyes peeled for more esoteric signs.

  He was searching for indications that Scott had been a member of a cult, but so far it seemed like Scott had been an ordinary guy.

  After finding little of interest in the living room and kitchen, Talon turned his attention to Scott’s bedroom. Framed photographs showing Scott working on various film productions lined the walls. Of particular interest were the skydiving photos. Despite being covered up in goggles and a scarf, his daredevil attitude shone through in the photographs.

  Talon’s attention perked up when he spotted a pair of bookshelves. He quickly browsed the titles. Most of the books revolved around pollution and climate change, with a few vegan cookbooks thrown in for good measure.

  Ahh, here we go, Talon thought.

  He focused his search for any other evidence of environmental groups. Going through his desk, Talon found brochures and literature dealing with Greenpeace and the Earth Liberation Front, as well as a print-out of a speech by Greta Thunberg.

  Okay, so we have a stunt guy who cares about the environment. Somehow he falls in with the wrong group and becomes radicalized.

  Talon had no doubt that man’s technological progress was having an impact on the planet, but he wasn’t willing to condemn humanity for being clever enough to find ways to survive and improve living conditions in a world that was trying to kill them at every turn. It had required millennia of human suffering to create the modern world. You couldn’t turn the clock back and return to some idealized past that had never existed in the first place.

  What were people supposed to do? Were folks going to stop driving cars and taking planes and trains? Were they going to stop using electricity and heat? Most modern citizens wouldn’t be able to feed themselves wit
hout a microwave.

  Change might be necessary, but it would have to be a matter of degree. And it couldn’t come at the cost of economic collapse and the resulting human suffering. Nor should mankind hang their heads in shame for the progress they’d made. The industrial age was only a blip in the history of the world and like everything else, it was still evolving.

  Talon’s biggest problem was that it was hard for him to distinguish valid environmental claims from those made only to criticize capitalism. The issue, like everything recently, had become heavily politicized.

  You’ve been spending too much time debating with Casca, he thought with a wry grin.

  Talon searched the dresser drawers next, looking for anything else of interest. He was about to turn his attention to the closet when he heard someone unlocking the front door. Shit!

  Talon’s gaze ticked toward the windows, knowing there was no way to avoid the intruder. He pulled his Glock, stepped into the bedroom’s large walk-in closet and closed the door, leaving a one-inch gap to observe whoever had come to visit Scott’s old place.

  Talon was expecting to see a cop or plainclothes detective. Instead, a young woman in her twenties wearing a khaki tank top and cargo pants appeared. She had a flower tattoo on one shoulder and her brown skin, athletic physique and dreadlocked blonde hair all suggested an edgy, free-spirited lifestyle.

  The woman entered the bedroom and looked up at the wall of photographs.

  Talon watched her through the door gap. His body was coiled and ready to respond if she turned his way, but the woman looked like she was fighting back tears, her sadness palpable. Talon’s gut told him he was looking at Scott’s girlfriend.

  The woman confirmed his hunch when she went over to pick up a framed photograph of herself and Scott. They were wearing parachutes in the picture, arms wrapped around each other, lips locked in a passionate kiss. She held the photo to her heart for a moment.

  This is what she’d come for—a memory.

  Something about her grief touched Talon, the woman’s loss echoing his own pain. He knew all too well what it felt like to lose a loved one.