Occult Assassin: Damnation Code (Book 1)

by William Massa

  Talon shared their excitement, but for different reasons. This was a recon mission and he hoped to catch a closer look at the enemy.

  All eyes in the club remained riveted on the dark stage, lips mouthing the lyrics to their favorite doom-and-gloom songs. The surging throng wore exclusively black - any other color was frowned upon. Interspersed with the hardcore constituents were a few conservative-looking guys seeking to get drunk while listening to some gnarly Norwegian metal. Judging from the disapproving stares these outsiders received, the “real” fans considered them impersonators who lacked the balls to commit. It took more to make you a true member of the scene than loosening that tie and trading a pair of slacks for black jeans, after putting in a long week as a cubicle drone.

  Talon’s years as a special operator in Afghanistan and Iraq had taught him the value of blending in and becoming part of the scenery. He’d opted for the black metal uniform of choice: a leather jacket, jeans and steel-tipped combat boots. The T-shirt of an obscure Danish band with an illegible name sold the look. No one questioned the authenticity of his commitment to the movement. Or if they did, his six-foot-one, well-muscled frame and the fire in his eyes made them keep it to themselves.

  Talon inhaled the sour stench of wood soaked in beer mixed with human perspiration. He had frequented enough shitty Third World dives in his Delta days to pick up on the undercurrent of violence when it was present. Some of the characters in this crowd were already visibly drunk, chasing vodka shots with beer and letting out shouts of anticipation while fist-pumping the air. Talon took a sip of his Rignes Pils, Norway’s leading brew, and waited.

  He didn’t have to wait for long.

  The lights soon dimmed and the bar grew silent. Even the hushed whispers ceased. The energy had changed — an air of reverence and dark wonder now permeated the establishment.

  The stage lit up in a furious blaze of moody lights that speared through the pub’s smoky darkness. Four tall, gaunt and long-haired figures stood revealed. The silence gave way to ecstatic howls.

  The members of Ice God were decked out in leather trench coats and black pants complemented by motorcycle boots. Spiked gauntlets and belts encircled their wrists and waists. Each band member wore a rune around his neck on a string necklace. Corpse paint with black highlights covered their faces. They made Talon think of Goths on steroids, or a twisted version of KISS. But unlike the classic, playful ‘70s rock group, these sinister figures projected a worn, haunted quality and their blackened eyes glittered with contempt and hatred. Lost souls who had declared war against mainstream society.

  Only item missing is the church-burning kit, Talon thought.

  Talon scanned the stage. Still no sign of Rezok. The feverish anticipation in the pub was nearing its breaking point. Suddenly a raspy, grave-dark voice emanated from the darkness.

  “Are you ready for the final winter?”

  The question achieved its desired effect - the crowd went nuts. Rezok knew how to work up his flock, and they were eager for it. The power of the black-metal god could not be denied. As the band began to unleash the first volley of their sonic assault, the lights dimmed slightly in anticipation of the night’s main attraction. The guitars rose to a furious crescendo as Rezok stepped onto the stage.

  One glance told Talon the reports had been true. Ice God’s lead singer didn’t have to wear corpse paint to create a vampiric countenance; his complete absence of pigment appeared to be natural. Rezok was an albino, his skin and long flowing hair a pure white color. Like all those afflicted with this chromosomal abnormality, he had a heightened sensitivity to light. Defying the myths that had sprung up around albinism, his eyes weren’t pink or red but a faded gray and burned with an intensity that electrified the room.

  Talon remembered watching an interview where Rezok claimed that he buried his clothes before a performance so they would soak up the scent of the grave. The outlandish claims had elicited chuckles, but Talon wasn’t laughing right now. Something about experiencing Ice God’s lead singer up close made it impossible to ignore him. Rezok was a force to be reckoned with.

  He brought up his mic and switched to Norwegian, barking another guttural greeting at his enraptured fans. Talon didn’t understand the words, but he could gauge their effect on the crowd - Rezok was rallying an army.

  Fighting in the war on terror had given Talon a healthy respect for the power of misguided ideology. It didn’t matter whether it was a Jihadist preaching to a flock of extreme Islamists in some Saudi Arabian mosque or a Norwegian black-metal god addressing his followers in a Bergen dive.

  The music kicked in. The shrieked vocals, demonic tempos and static-infused production built into a roar of angst, fury and loathing. Despite the noise and unfiltered aggression, Talon couldn’t deny the undeniable power and evil beauty of the band’s ferocious set.

  Talon didn’t judge people by the music they listened to. Hell, he’d followed his share of crazy bands over the years. Theatrics came with the gig. The edgier the band, the greater the appeal. But black metal seemed to be all about the edge and the abyss that lurked beyond.

  As Ice God powered through the first couple of songs, the throng erupted in a blaze of violent movement. Rezok’s leather-clad followers pumped their arms as if possessed. Elbows shot out wildly. Enthralled by the performance, no one cared who was hit or hurt during these drunken pub aerobics. Most of the fans welcomed the violent onslaught, cherishing each bruise and bloody nose as hard-earned, much-treasured battle scars.

  One foolish fan tried to elbow Talon in the ribs.

  Bad idea.

  Talon anticipated the sly attack, sidestepped the blow and snatched the big man’s right hand. He twisted the limb and the fan let out a pain-filled grunt. They traded glances and Talon’s cold, hard stare made him back off.

  You’re not as dumb as you look, Talon thought.

  As the concert wore on, somehow the message got around not to mess with the American and the other moshing fans maintained a respectful distance.

  Talon continued to study the spectral figures, memorizing their movements. They all shared a lean, lanky quality he’d found among the best operators. The aggressive athleticism of their performance could not be denied. He’d have to factor their speed and stamina into any future encounters with them. If Simon Casca’s intel was to be believed, two of the band members were once in the Marinejegerkommandoen, the Norwegian special forces. They’d been kicked out of the MJK after being accused of assault and rape. Talon wasn’t going up against some soft, beer-bellied mama’s boys with a penchant for pagan rock. These were elite soldiers gone bad.

  All of a sudden, an overeager concertgoer jumped up on stage and whipped out a razorblade. The piece of sharp metal sparkled in the strobing spotlights.

  Talon saw no fear in Rezok’s eyes. Instead, his dead-white features lit up with an approving smile.

  The fan raised both his hands and bowed as if he had indeed entered the presence of some Nordic god. Without hesitation, he drew the razor over his palm and held up his gushing hand at Rezok in a twisted salute. The abrupt movement sent speckles of blood flying across the stage. A few drops hit Rezok’s face, the crimson in stark contrast with the marble of his skin.

  What happened next stunned Talon. With a hungry smile, Rezok licked his lips until the enamel of his teeth turned scarlet with the other man’s blood.

  The occult assassin was beginning to understand how Rezok had earned his nickname.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER AN HOUR of being a willing target for Ice God’s sonic assault, Talon stepped out of the pub. An unforgiving blast of arctic air greeted him and frozen pinpricks raked his lungs. Norway was experiencing its worst winter in decades. Even the locals famous for their fortitude in the face of bitter weather were beginning to complain.

  Talon headed for the pub’s deserted parking lot. According to Casca’s file on Rezok, the black-metal singer owned a 1999 Hyundai. Talon immediately spotted the van. Its body wa
s scarred with rust and looked beaten up. The windows were tinted and tattooed with the peeling stickers of various ominous bands. Skulls and pentagrams abounded. The vehicle radiated a sinister energy and lurked like a dangerous beast in the lot.

  On a logical level Talon knew the van was used to carry the band’s equipment, but a primitive part of him was convinced it might contain far darker cargo. He swiftly placed a radio transmitter under the group’s ride. From now on he would be tracking every move Ice God made.

  Objective achieved, Talon slipped into the night. Despite the cold, he decided to walk back to his hotel instead of cabbing it. He wanted to build up his mental toughness to the climate but also hoped to gain a better situational awareness of the picturesque city. Memorizing a map was a poor substitute for exploring a place on foot.

  The icy night air cut deep into his bones as he walked along the water, passing a line of moored, swaying boats. Bergen was founded more than 900 years ago but today it is Norway’s second largest city, with a population of 240,000.

  To Talon, Bergen felt both modern and magical, an example of living history. Rows of postcard-perfect homes climbed up the mountainside and overlooked the sea. The irony was not lost on him that a country with one of the lowest crime rates in the world and best social support systems would spawn a musical genre dedicated to Armageddon and chaos.

  Talon’s thoughts remained preoccupied with his latest target. Despite the nickname, Rezok wasn’t a supernatural creature of the night. Vampires weren’t real. The enemies Talon faced in this new war were evil men, not fantastical creations. Fools reckless and ruthless enough to tap into occult forces that they could never hope to understand, much less control, these misguided souls were attempting to unlock ancient secrets and harness powers beyond anything the human imagination could conjure. And sometimes in their insane attempts to master the dark arts, monsters could indeed be born.

  As Talon passed the fish market, his thoughts turned back to the events of the last 48 hours, and what had set him on Rezok’s trail...

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  A THRILLER WHERE THE MONSTERS ARE THE VICTIMS!

  "All in all this was an easy read that flew by. The pacing was tight and kept the story interesting up until the last page. A satisfying ending made this a worthy read." - Nikki Howard, Ravenous Reads

  "...it is fun to see vampires switch from being predator to prey. The story is essentially ten little Indians" - Taliesin meets the Vampires

  "...If you loved and read Agatha Christie's - And Then There Were None/Ten Little Indians then you will love this novel..." - Gadget Girl Reviews

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  CROSSING THE DARKNESS: A Science Fiction Thriller

  A SHIP OF HORRORS. A JOURNEY INTO DARKNESS.

  Faith Cadena hopes to make a new life for herself on a new world. After doing hard time for a crime committed in her youth, all she wants now is a chance at a fresh start.

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  SILICON MAN

  A global pandemic has cut the human population in half. An android workforce fills the void left by the devastation. But some of the AIs have grown tired of being slaves. Some want freedom.

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