He hadn’t meant to flippant about it. People had died on that plane. But humor, at times, was the only sane response when faced with a crazy, brutal world.
And, man, things had gotten loopy since San Francisco…
“How is the girl?” Casca asked.
Talon quickly brought Casca up to speed. He told him about his plan to take Nicole to the desert monastery. The monks would try to help the girl while he would hold off Amon and his followers best he could.
“If there is anything you could send my way…”
“I will mobilize my security team, but it will take a few hours to get them out th—”
The line crackled and hissed. Casca’s voice phased out, and the phone went dead.
Shit.
“Who was that?” Nicole asked.
“The owner of the Learjet. He’s working with me and Cabrera.”
Talon tried to call Casca again but got a busy signal. He would have to try again or wait to see if Casca could get through to him.
The phone chirped with an incoming text. The message came from an unlisted number, and apprehension coiled up his throat. Only Casca had access to this number. It served as their direct line of contact while he was out on his missions. So who could this be? He scanned the text and realized they’d sent him a video file.
Nicole picked up his sudden change in mood. “What’s wrong?”
“No one but my friend has this number. So who the hell is sending me a text?’”
Still wary he played back the message…and within seconds wished he hadn’t. His pulse pounded in the back of his head and the tendons in his hands stood out in ribbons as he clutched the steering wheel. For a moment the convoy closing in and the woman at his side ceased to exist, his world narrowed to the terrible flickering images on his cell phone. Every night when he closed his eyes, that same video unspooled before his mind’s eye. No matter how many sleeping pills he popped or how much booze he knocked back, there was no escape.
It was the video of Michelle’s murder.
Onscreen, members of Zagan’s cult surrounded his fiancée, features obscured by their cyborg masks as they savagely stabbed. Blades flashed, blood spurted, life ebbed away. He was ready to break the phone in two, his features tight, heart hammering as he relived the moment that had set him on his current path. With Michelle’s murder, the forces of darkness had declared war, and Talon had responded in kind.
The video ended as the largest of the masked techno-cultists approached. This figure towered over the others, the baggy hoodie unable to conceal the muscles beneath. As Michelle gasped for air, her teeth shiny with blood, the cultist plunged eight inches of steel into her rib cage. As the last vestiges of life left Michelle’s eyes, the video ended and the screen went dark.
Silence stretched. The scorched wasteland zipping by outside mirrored the fire burning in Talon’s soul. His rage had become a raw, exposed nerve.
“The woman in the video…that’s why you’re here?Why you want to save me?” Nicole asked. “You loved this woman and they took her from you.”
Talon didn’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not with her.
The cell rang again. It was the same unlisted number.
“Who the fuck are you?” he hissed even though he knew the answer. The caller had to be Amon, the leader of this soldier cult.
“Stop the car and hand over the girl or your bones will be scattered across this desert by nightfall.”
Click! The line went dead.
How did Amon know about Michelle? Then again, this was the freak who disarmed C-4 charges with his bare hands. And he was sitting next to a woman who can practically read minds. Who knew what other dark powers these cultists might have?
Talon clenched his jaw. Could the demons be communicating with the army chasing after them? Even so, that still didn’t explain how Amon got hold of the video or his unlisted phone number.
Talon shook his head. You’re way in over your head, buddy. He’d felt the same way in San Francisco but still managed to defeat Zagan. Amon was waging a form of psychological warfare. He needed to keep focused and not succumb to these terror tactics.
A buzzing sound emanated overhead and forced him back to the reality. He glanced upward and spotted a fast approaching police helicopter.
Great.
The chopper maintained a safe distance, the officers erring on the side of caution in case Talon should open fire on them. He shifted his gaze from the helicopter to the road ahead. Pinpoints of blue and red flashing lights grew visible in the distance. The haze of the sun diminished visibility, but Talon had a pretty damn good idea what was waiting for them. The police had set up a roadblock. Officers bearing shotguns would be positioned behind a barricade while the helicopter circled above.
Apparently if you decapitate young girls, blow up a Learjet, and engage in high-speed freeway chases, the law is bound to show up. Talk about bad timing!
Talon glanced at his rear-view mirror to check on his pursuers, and all the blood drained from his face. The convoy, so close only moments earlier, had vanished into thin air. No sign of their pursuers remained. The shimmering heat haze seemed to have erased them from existence. Instead, there were now two police cruisers, the lights on their roofs blazing while sirens shrieked.
After San Francisco, he should’ve gotten used the power of the occult, but the supernatural still rendered him speechless. Somehow Amon and his army had managed to pull off a disappearing act as soon as the law showed up. Why had Amon backed off? The cult leader had no reason to fear the authorities, not if he could disarm bombs with his bare touch and turn vehicles invisible. Police cars and choppers wouldn’t faze them after taking out a Learjet, which meant they were biding their time.
Setting the perfect trap.
“What are we going to do?” Nicole asked, her voice tight with fear.
Talon’s answer was to brake the jeep. He took a deep breath and waited. The electronically amplified voices of the cops cut through the air, demanding they step out of the vehicle with their hands in the air.
The cops wouldn’t be able to keep Nicole safe. At this point, Talon doubted anybody could.
Fighting back dark thoughts, he nodded at Nicole and they climbed out of the jeep, hands up as ordered, their long shadows bleeding over the desert road.
Somewhere, Amon’s army of darkness lurked, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
***
The line went dead. Casca immediately tried to ring Talon back, but each attempt went straight to voicemail.
The billionaire frowned, fearing the worst. There might be a simple explanation for their communication problems—after all, Talon and Nicole were in a desert—but his gut told him otherwise. What if the demons had already won?
Either way, there was nothing he could do about it. For the first time, Casca wished he was in the field himself and not hundreds of miles away, safe in his luxury estate in Silicon Valley. But what would he have to offer Talon if he indeed joined a mission one of these days. Casca was not a man of action, more comfortable with computers than combat. He lacked the necessary training to be in the frontline of this war. Talon had enough to worry about without having to keep an eye on some adventure-hungry civilian. The Delta operator worked alone. Talon was the sword and Casca provided the intel; that was the deal.
Still, Casca wished there was something he could do to help. Talon’s decision to head for the desert monastery made sense given his dire circumstances. At the same time, there was an air of desperation to the move, like he was preparing to make a last stand. Casca had waited for years to find a man like Talon, an expert warrior willing to face the nightmares lurking in the shadows of the modern world. Losing him only a few months into this new war was unacceptable.
He was struck with sudden inspiration and rang a man who was closer to the trenches. Father Cabrera picked up on the first ring. To Casca’s surprise, the priest was already on his way to the monastery, but he too sounded like he was
gearing up for a battle he didn’t expect to win.
Casca liked to win.
And he had an idea. They were up against seven demons. One lone exorcist couldn’t overcome such a hellish legion no matter how noble their intentions. But what about seven exorcists?
There was only one problem: How could he assemble a team of exorcists in the middle of the Arizona desert in less than three hours?
Casca cracked his knuckles. He had always enjoyed a challenge.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SPECIAL AGENT FRANK Doyle was eleven years old when his father had returned home early from work one day and told his family to pack up their bare essentials because they were going on a field trip. His voice had been calm and peaceful as he spoke, but there had been something in his eyes, an emotion Doyle recognized as joy. He’d never seen his dad so happy before.
Allowing himself to be caught up in the excitement of the moment, young Doyle had grabbed a couple of T-shirts, a pair of jeans, and his toothbrush. He had joined his mom and fourteen-year old sister in the driveway. His sister had been pouting, irritated that she was forced to interrupt one of her endless phone call with her best friend. The expression on his mom’s face had confused him, though. He had seen anxiety in her face, even fear—emotions he would soon learn were justified given what awaited him and his family.
They had loaded up their bags in the trunk of their dad’s Ford and then they were on their way, destination unknown. Three hours later, they had pulled into the Mount Navista Center, a ranch located eight miles from Waco, which was about to become his new home.
He found out later that his father had joined an apocalyptic sect known as the Order of the Now. He had been ready to turn his back on his old life and embrace the values of the fringe religion—and he had decided to take his family with him.
What had started as a field trip had transformed into a nightmare as they realized they wouldn’t be returning to their old lives. Strange rituals, strict rules, and relentless mind control tactics would come to define their lives as all their ties to the outside world would be systematically severed. For three long years, Doyle and his family suffered the injustices of cult life until the day the FBI raided the compound and liberated them.
That day, Doyle had vowed he’d join the FBI once he was old enough, inspired by the men who saved him and his family. Nineteen years later, here he was, a special agent and expert on the twisted forces that shaped fanatic cults and extreme ideologies. He knew all too well the evil such organizations were capable of and had devoted his life to stopping fringe groups from proliferating.
For nearly a decade, he’d worked some crazy cases but the current one was in a league of it own. The massacre in the church, the decapitated woman whose head had been replaced with a cow skull, the reports coming in from the horse farm and nearby airfield—all these crimes pushed the envelope further than anything he’d previously encountered. They were up against a heavily armed cult that had declared war on modern society.
Doyle rode shotgun in one of the four cruisers streaking down the endless band of freeway, with his car bringing up the rear of the four-vehicle convoy. They were on their way back to Sierra Nogal, where he planned to question both suspects and get to the bottom of what was happening here. He kept eying the reflection of the man he’d first encountered walking out of Father Cabrera’s hospital room. The man now sat handcuffed behind the plexiglass partition, his rugged features unreadable. He hadn’t given his name, nor was he carrying any identification on him. The woman was riding in the lead police cruiser. At least they’d gotten a name out of her—Nicole Stivers—even though it had proved to be a fake one. She, too, claimed to have no real idea of what was going on.
Doyle furiously chewed gum as he reviewed the case, struggling to make sense of it all. Nicole Stivers was in fact Nicole Robertson, a supposed victim of demonic possession and apparently the target of this satanic cult. That part almost made sense. The one piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit was the man sitting behind him. Who was this stranger? How did he relate to the bigger picture? And why was he protecting Nicole? She claimed he was trying to save her from the cult, but what was in it for him? Doyle didn’t believe in knights in shining armor. Based on the small arsenal found in his jeep, the guy had come prepared to do battle with these cultists. If the body count at the airfield and farm were any indicators, he sure knew how to inflict some serious damage.
Doyle was looking forward to going head-to-head with the stranger even though his gut told him the man wouldn’t talk. At least not at first. Once they ran his prints, he might change his tune. There was no way a guy like that didn’t have a couple of priors.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened back at the airport?”
The question was met with silence on the other side of the plexiglass partition.
“I know you’re not part of the cult that’s hunting Nicole. So who the hell are you? Where did you come from? Why do you care about what happens to her—and don’t tell me you’re just a concerned citizen.”
The suspect cracked his knuckles.
“You should stop doing that, you know? It makes it easier for your joints to get damaged. Bad habit.”
“Beats chewing gum. Sugar will kill ya.”
Doyle shook his head and stifled a smile. Despite everything, he sort of liked this guy.
“We’re getting reports about the destruction back at the farm and the airport. I assume those dead cult members are your handiwork. Which tells me you’ve done this sort of thing before. Ex-CIA? Military? My money’s on special ops. Bottom line, you’re professional. So why does a pro give a damn about a girl and a couple of nutbags who think she was possessed by a demon?”
“Those nutbags are trained killers.”
“Like yourself?”
Talon shrugged. “All I’m saying is you shouldn’t underestimate them.”
Doyle pressed on, hoping to crack the tough customer in the back seat. But he needed something to throw the man off his game. “How could I underestimate killers that can disappear into thin air?”
Doyle studied the stranger for a reaction, but his poker face never wavered.
“Nicole described a convoy of trucks, vans and motorcycles. Sounds like something out of Mad Max. So where did they go? We have our helicopter combing the area. So far, zip. It’s not like the desert swallowed them.”
“I don’t know where they went. But they’ll be back. And when they do return, you better be ready”
The guy actually seemed to believe what he was saying, and that made Doyle uneasy. “I know you must’ve killed for a living before. My guess is you were a soldier yourself. But this isn’t a war zone. This vigilante routine will get you locked up for a real long time. You might want to consider being more cooperative. Give me something useful before we reach town and I might consider helping you out.”
“We won’t make it to Sierra Nogal.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“Take a look in your rear view mirror.”
Doyle did as instructed and his blood turned to ice. Closing in behind the police cruiser were a pick-up truck, a van, two bikes, and a jet-black Hummer with tinted windows. The black, beaten-up vehicles shimmered in the heat like mirages.
Talon’s dark gaze locked on his in the mirror. “I hope you’re wearing your seatbelt.”
A moment later, a masked soldier popped from the van’s roof hatch and leveled what looked like a 40mm grenade launcher at them.
“Punch the gas. Now!” Doyle screamed.
The order came a second before the cultist depressed the trigger on the grenade launcher. The cruiser shot forward, but it was too late. The grenade clipped the cop car, and then the world turned on its head. Airborne, Doyle’s final thought was that he should have taken the stranger’s advice and strapped himself in.
***
The explosion sent the cruiser flying.
Propelled by the concussive force of the blast, the car flipped
and rolled before landing on its roof. Sparks flashed as metal scraped the asphalt, the surrounding desert streaking past them in a dizzying blur.
Their rollercoaster ride came to an end with a teeth-chattering crunch of steel as they hit the cruiser ahead of them. The air thick and grimy with the stench of gasoline and fire. Sounds of vehicular mayhem drifted toward them: squealing tires, rending metal and the retort of gunfire combined into a symphony of destruction.
Talon hung upside down in his seat, bruised and banged up but still in one piece. Moving swiftly, he began to work himself out of his cuffs. Doyle might’ve believed that he had been cracking his knuckles earlier, but he had in fact yanked the thumb of his left hand out of its socket. The digit now hung unnaturally from his hand, but the exercise in pain allowed him to pull the metal cuff from his wrist. Moments later, his hands were free, the skin chafed raw from the Houdini act.
Talon had been doing a lot of thinking during the ride, and he had developed a strong hunch as to how the cult had been able to pull off their disappearing act. They must already be harnessing into the power of the seven demons nestled inside Nicole, tapping into their evil magic like some remote power source. Considering the damage they had caused, he didn’t want to find out what they’d do if they gained full control over the seven. He needed to reach Nicole and fight his way out of this ambush.
The first step was climbing out of the overturned vehicle and locating a weapon. He unstrapped the seatbelt, cuffs still hanging from one wrist. Up in the front of the cruiser, the driver’s head hung at an unnatural angle, the wide-eyed gaze bereft of all life. Agent Doyle had been a little luckier. He was moaning, face lined with cuts and hair matted red, but alive. Talon had nothing against the man; the FBI agent was doing his job. In another reality they might’ve even been allies. He’d worked with plenty of good men in the CIA and FBI over the course of his Delta career.
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