Occult Assassin 4: Soul Jacker

by Massa, William

  His eyes scoped his surroundings. Chipped apartment doors with flaking paint lined the dank passageway. A shout from the staircase made him curse inwardly.

  “They are on the sixth floor,” a voice said in monotone French.

  Damn it! Now it would be only a matter of seconds before the enemy would arrive and try to box them in.

  As the helplessness of their situation dawned on Talon, the detective’s eyes lit up. He followed her gaze. Someone had opened the door of a nearby unit. A shadowy figure was waving at them, urging them to come inside. Could it be a trap?

  The sounds of machetes and axes hitting steel railings and guns being fired swept the last vestiges of hesitation aside. Better to take their chances with the unknown than face the killer army in the mist.

  Talon pulled the detective into the dark apartment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  CAPTAIN ALAN DUMONT squinted, his eyes struggling to penetrate the thickening fog around him and his team. He’d never witnessed anything quite like it before. The mist had appeared out of nowhere, engulfing the seventh floor passageway with almost supernatural speed. Thick tendrils wrapped around the men behind him and he could barely make out the team members. Judging from the squawks bursting from his earpiece, his men were beginning to panic. Who could blame them? Neither training nor experience had prepared them for an enemy that could turn the very elements against them.

  Alan scolded himself for the irrational thought. The mere notion was ludicrous. France was cold, rainy, and foggy around this time of year. The punks who called this godforsaken slum their home had nothing to do with the freaky mist. They’d just caught a lucky break. Nevertheless his attempt to rationalize the situation failed to completely silence the voice of doubt inside him. There was just something about the fog…almost as if it was spreading with a chilling purpose.

  Sudden gunfire interrupted his thoughts and instincts took over. He might not be able see the enemy in this blinding mess, but there were other senses he could tap into. He pressed himself against the wall and listened to all approaching sounds. A renewed burst of panicky chatter boomed over his mic, but he turned it off. The people shooting at them lurked in the same fog, and he would let their gunshots guide the rifle. The bullets were coming from his right, suggesting the gunmen were on the other side of the hollowed-out building. He depressed the trigger and was rewarded with angry shouts of pain for his efforts.

  Gotcha, cretins…

  His moment of triumph turned out to be short-lived. He suppressed a cry of his own as a bullet impacted with his helmet and catapulted him backward.

  Waves of darkness washed over him, and the world threatened to go pitch black.

  Blood roared in his ears, and he inhaled the wet, almost sour condensation. His fragmented thoughts surged with adrenaline and turned to wife Nadege and Francois, his eight-year-old boy. Was this the end? No, it couldn’t be. He wouldn’t allow it. He was alive. Wounded, but a long way from being defeated. He brushed all sentimental thoughts aside and instead concentrated on the problem at hand. First order of business was determining how badly hurt he was. Blood covered his face, but it was from a gash and not a bullet hole. The helmet had saved his life. Lucky bastard, he thought.

  The radio chatter had died down. Where were his men? Did the extremists take out the whole team? As the thought crossed his mind, the fog lifted, revealing a corridor littered with the broken bodies of the RAID team. Jean-Paul, one of his closest friends and one of the most talented officers he’d ever had the honor of serving alongside, gazed back at him with blank eyes. Anger quickened Alan’s pulse, and he stifled a cry of rage. These dead men were his comrades and brothers; they’d been to hell and back over the years. Goddammit, how had a bunch of hoods managed to massacre one of the best teams on the force and turn the mission into a meat grinder?

  From his tilted angle on the ground he could make out a group of gangbangers armed with a mix of machetes, knives, AK-47s, and pistols. He searched for his own rifle but he realized he must’ve dropped it during the fall. There was still his service revolver, but experience told him he might be able to take out one or two of the incoming hoods before their return fire would put a swift end to him. His best option, as frustrating as it might seem, was to play dead for now and wait for the right opportunity to strike. He closed his eyes, hand draped lightly on his pistol, ready to jump into action.

  The gangbangers brushed past him and scanned the dead team members. Alan’s face was slick with gore from the deep gash on his forehead, and the punks saw him as just another one of the dead. One by one, they snatched the officers by their combats boots—Alan included—and dragged them into the open elevator waiting at the end of the hallway. It took all of Alan’s self-control to keep up the charade as they unceremoniously tossed him on top of the pile of dead bodies. He let the anger simmer, drawing strength from it. He’d make it out of this mess alive and get payback for the men who’d perished here today.

  The elevator doors slammed shut, and three gangbangers remained behind in the ascending lift with Alan and the five other dead RAID officers. A quick glance at the elevator’s control panel suggested they were headed for the top floor. Did their boss want to see the bloody spoils of the battle first hand? There was a sick logic to it, Alan thought. If it turned out to be true, he planned to shoot the mastermind behind this horror show as soon as he laid eyes on him.

  Less than a minute later, the elevator stopped and the gangbangers pulled the bodies into an otherwise deserted hallway. Once done with their grisly work, they rushed back into the elevator, seeming all too eager to leave the desolate floor. Alone, Alan dared to move. The dimly lit corridor stretched before him. There was no sign of a living soul. The dead surrounded him, and once again he stifled his boiling rage. Unlike the other floors in the building, this one wasn’t lined with a balcony. Instead walls on both sides prevented him from looking down into the atrium below. It almost felt like he was in a different building all together.

  He took a step down the hallway, grateful to still be armed. The graffiti-covered walls and ugly, smoke-stained carpet heightened the apocalyptic feel of this godforsaken place. Gingerly, he passed the closed apartment doors on his left. The hallway was as silent as a tomb. Nevertheless, he was beginning to sense he wasn’t alone. Did the air stir at the far end of the hallway? And what was that faint yet revolting odor? Almost like rotting fruit…

  Hairs standing on end, Alan advanced down the dark corridor. He brushed past three more apartments before he spotted one where the door was partially open. He breathed in deeply and registered the subtle yet distinct putrid aroma. This wasn’t his imagination running wild.

  Giving himself an internal push, he walked through the open door.

  The apartment was bathed in darkness, the air stale and oppressive. There was a weight to each breath he took, almost as if he was an astronaut in some science fiction movie who was running out of oxygen. He entered the living room and encountered a quaint, low-income dwelling. Except for its being abandoned, there was nothing remarkable about the place. He was about to return to the hallway when the chilling scene in the adjoining kitchen set the hairs on back of his neck prickling. A collection of human bones covered the floor, the skull staring back at him leaving no doubt as to its human origin.

  Alan struggled to keep his cool. He’d stared down death on numerous occasions and wasn’t easily spooked. But he he’d never seen anything like this before. Had the gangbangers left another victim up here to rot? Impossible. It would take months for a body to dissolve to this point, and the dwelling would reek of decay. Acid could have dissolved the body, but the bones would have been destroyed too. Something else had happened here.

  Something far worse.

  He turned on his heels and fled the unit. His steady gait turned into a sprint as he surged toward the lift. He didn’t plan on using the elevator, but the entrance to the emergency staircase was located right next to it. He would make his way down the stai
rs and blast away any fool who dared to get in his way.

  Terror coursed through his bones as he tore toward the lift, which seemed to be receding into the distance. His imagination was playing tricks with him. He bit his lips and reigned in the irrational thoughts cycling through his mind.

  Ten feet separated him from the elevator doors when the rotten stench hit him with all its might. And this time it was accompanied by movement.

  A shape burst from the darkness around the corner near the elevator, a mere blur in the shadowy passage.

  Alan stopped dead in his tracks. His brain attempted to process the living nightmare slithering toward him. Glistening wet flesh, a segmented body framed by whirling tentacles. Despite the monster’s size, it shot out at him, extending like a giant snake. As wet tentacles closed around him and a gaping maw of razor-sharp teeth found his warm flesh, he caught a glimpse of his dead teammates in the corridor and realized they’d been the lucky ones.

  CHAPTER TEN

  SAMIA AND HER savior surged into the dimly lit apartment. She did not know what might await them in the dark unit, but it couldn’t be worse than facing down more of the crazed killers in the fog. As the door fell shut behind them, she barely dared to breathe. Blood thrummed in her veins and her heart hammered frantically, her thoughts in turmoil.

  A sound broke through her panic. Muffled footsteps tore down the adjoining hallway, but the mad horde rushed past the unit without pausing.

  Samia exhaled.

  They’d found a momentary refuge.

  She turned away from the door and searched the shadow-soaked apartment. The décor made Samia think of weekend visits to her grandparents. Under different circumstances, the old-fashioned furniture and flowered curtains might seem quaint and stuffy, but right now it was a welcome retreat from the nightmare raging beyond the unit’s walls.

  A shiver danced up her spine as the full horror of her situation sank in. Nothing made sense any longer. The raid on the building had gone horribly wrong, and Samia had no idea whether the rest of the officers were already dead or still being slaughtered. The thought filled her with helpless rage. She would’ve been just another casualty, too, if it hadn’t been for the swift actions of her mysterious savior.

  She studied the man in question. His dark skin, facial hair, and clothing suggested he was just another local—but the hooded features and the way he’d handled himself told a different story. He’d taken out the attackers with laserlike focus, his movements calm and precise, like a deadly force of nature.

  She meant to thank him for saving her life, but instead she asked, “Who are you?”

  Before the stranger could respond, a noise drew her attention to the shadowy figure who’d offered them sanctuary in his home. In the low light she recognized the frail form of an old man. A white beard stood out against the dark brown skin, and his eyes glimmered with a rebellious streak despite his weakened physical state. Questions burned in her mind, but the answers would have to wait a little longer. First order of business was calling for back-up. She palmed her mic, attempting to reach headquarters, but was greeted by the hiss and crackle of dead air. She was cut off from the outside world.

  Dammit!

  She switched channels and tried to contact the other RAID officers, but her efforts were rewarded with the same disappointing results.

  “What’s happening here?” she asked.

  It was the old man who answered. He replied in a guarded, sober voice. “An ancient evil has returned.”

  The words hung in the air for a beat before he continued. “Ask your friend. He knows.”

  Samia turned toward the stranger, more confused than ever. “What is he talking about?” Panic crept into her voice, her composure wavering. The seams were showing, and she hated herself for it.

  The old man responded by pointing his gnarled finger at the stranger. Draped around her mysterious savior’s neck was an amulet of some kind. A five-pointed star set inside an iron ring.

  “He wears the sign of Solomon.”

  For a moment the stranger regarded her in silence, dark eyes boring into her. Then his features relaxed, revealing a capacity for warmth—the face of a killer becoming that of a man. As he spoke his first words of accented French, she quickly concluded that he was an American.

  “I’m here to stop the men who attacked your fellow officers.”

  “Alright, time out. Nothing is making sense here anymore.” Her voice shook with growing panic, but Samia figured she was allowed to freak out after witnessing some psycho cleave her partner’s head in two.

  The stranger reached out, and her first instinct was to pull away. But her body wouldn’t obey her commands. His hand closed around her shoulder, and she sensed the strength in those fingers even though he was being gentle with her. On some level, she welcomed the human contact. Needed it after what she’d witnessed.

  “My name isn’t important, Detective, but you can call me Mark. We’re on the same team. If we want to get out of this alive, we’ll need to work together.”

  To her surprise, she did trust him. How could she not? He had risked his life to save hers. His precise motives were of little consequence, at least for the time being.

  Mark turned toward the old man. “Tell us what you know. What’s happening here?”

  The old man leaned against the wall, his lips quivering. Below the surface calm, there was fear. “After Rakan returned from Syria, everything started to change,” he said.

  Rakan is part of this madness.

  Some small part of Samia had hoped she was wrong about her former lover’s involvement, but the old man’s words erased any lingering doubts.

  “I feared the worst when he arrived, but even I couldn’t imagine the monstrous evil he’d unleash upon our home.”

  Mark held up one of Rakan’s drug vials. “He brought the drug to this neighborhood.” It wasn’t a question.

  The old man nodded. “It turns men into martyrs for an unholy cause. Rakan can control them like puppets. First he took the young men, then the women. The elderly began to vanish, one by one. I’m one of the few who remain.”

  He bowed his head and stifled a sob. “I watched helplessly as old friends were dragged from their homes. I did nothing to help.”

  He cast down his gaze with shame. “All this time I’ve hid, praying the nightmare would pass me by. Knowing in my heart it wasn’t going to.”

  “You risked your life to save us,” Mark said. “There was nothing you could’ve done for your friends.”

  Samia tried to understand, but the pieces wouldn’t quite come together. What sort of drug turned its users into blind followers? Granted, people changed while under the influence. As a cop, she’d seen her share of meth users lose their minds and commit horrific acts, but this drug was different. The building’s residents hadn’t attacked like a disorganized mob of crazed maniacs. There was planning and thought to the violence, a level of organization and strategy to their attack.

  “Why does Rakan need the elderly?” Mark asked.

  “I don’t know.” The old man’s body shook with a mixture of rage and fear, the horror clearly fresh in his mind.

  She eyed Mark. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

  He shook his head. “The drug is the key. The lab must be somewhere in this building, and I’m going to find it.”

  For a second Samia thought she misheard. Judging from the stunned expression on the old man’s face, he must’ve felt the same way. She studied Mark more closely. This man wasn’t reckless, nor did he harbor a secret death wish. He looked as disturbed by the unfolding events as they all did. But below his fear there was something else. Some elusive quality she couldn’t quite point her finger at. She’d witnessed it in the eyes of firefighters who stormed into burning buildings. Call it a sense of duty or mission. Samia sensed this man was here for one single reason: to put an end to what was happening in the banlieues. He might not even know exactly what he was up against, but he wouldn’t leave u
ntil the job was done—and pity the men foolish enough to get in his way.

  “Where can I find Rakan?” the American inquired.

  Almost as if the building had decided to answer his question directly, a terrified cry pierced the night. Samia immediately realized two things. The scream had emanated from the building’s top floor—and the voice belonged to Alan Bertand, Captain of the RAID team.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE DEATH CRY of the RAID team captain cut through the night. Rakan smiled. The sound reminded him of his own screams during those long years spent in a French penitentiary. He was surprised by his sudden nostalgic turn. Nowadays the past held little meaning to him. His former self had ceased to be of any consequence.

  It had to be Samia’s fault. There was a time when he would have done anything for his pretty little treasure, but he now served another master, devoted to a different cause. Romantic feelings didn’t factor into his thinking. Samia had turned her back on him years earlier and sided with the enemy. Nevertheless some part of him, maybe the remaining vestiges of his humanity, wanted to see her one last time. Call it curiosity. Maybe he wanted to understand how she justified being a cop when the police rejoiced in harassing their people. The Samia he’d known had been a rebel, not a lapdog of the establishment. Perhaps now she might be convinced to see the error of her ways.

  Ideology and prison had cut short their love affair. A string of petty crimes had led to his arrest, and a racist judge had thrown the book at him. He had been banished to a maximum security facility, where he’d become the plaything of a group of white supremacists. The beatings and abuse eroded whatever had been left of his innocence, chipping away all the soft parts until only stone remained.