As much as Giallo appreciated creativity, he frowned upon novelty coffins like the ones popular in Ghana, where people opted to be laid to rest in wooden lobsters or coffins designed to resemble boats or cars. His collection had no place for such vulgar displays of bad taste. Who in their right mind would want to be buried in a giant Coke bottle or next to a Karaoke machine? He considered himself a staunch traditionalist, and no KISS coffin would ever grace his treasured warehouse.
Considering how much Giallo loved coffins, it was ironic that he’d once feared them as a boy. His dad would bring him to his factories in Brescia, north of Florence, where carpenters and craftsmen built the caskets that would soon welcome the recently deceased. His father was a cold, austere man with a sadistic streak. If he felt his son had disrespected him—and almost any behavior could trigger this perception; one day he might be too loud, another too quiet—the punishment was swift and horrific. He’d seal Giallo in a coffin and threaten to bury him alive.
The first few times, Giallo had been overcome with terror. Gradually, in the darkness—each successive breath becoming thinner, not knowing if this would be the last time he’d disappoint the old man—he changed. He began to look forward to his confinement, finding an inner tranquility in the dark that he couldn’t duplicate in the bright world outside the coffin. Locked inside the box, he imagined being below the ground, the responsibilities and challenges of the living giving way to the peace of the dead. Punishment had become reward, a secret he never shared with his father lest his disciplinary tactics might change. As he grew to adulthood, his initial fascination with his family business turned into a bona fide obsession. It wasn’t enough to make and sell coffins; he started collecting them, too. He’d track down the most unique caskets and coffins from around the world so he could lay in them, thereby recreating the feeling of peace he’d come to appreciate in his youth.
Eventually, lying inside of them failed to achieve a sense of blissful transcendence. A more powerful outlet was needed, and that’s when he turned to murder. The act came easy to Giallo—not surprising, considering that death had been part of his life since the beginning. His victims were selected at random and buried alive. Experiencing their fear allowed him to relive his own delicious terror of being locked inside a coffin. As his collection expanded, so did the number of his victims. Their haunting faces remained burned in his memory: some terrified and pleading, others furious and defiant, but all of them full of life. By the time he dug them up, their expressions would be quite different. Even though their features might be distorted and grotesque, their eyes wide and the skin discolored, there would also be a sense of peace in their lifeless stares.
Giallo had lost count of how many lives he’d taken in this manner over the years. He’d allowed himself to indulge his darker impulses when he told his men to place the American in one of his coffins. He had derived a sick rush from seeing his men hunt the boy through the mazelike collection, his terror providing Giallo with a visceral physical thrill better than any drug. But the time for fun and games was over. A different fate awaited the American. He wasn’t just another victim to be added to the collection; he represented the key to Giallo’s own future, a stepping-stone to his impending transformation.
He checked the time on his gold watch. Only five minutes had gone by since the burial of the American student, and he was already giddy with anticipation…
A sharp whistling sound distracted Giallo. Ten feet away, his bodyguard DeLuca’s head snapped back in a spray of red, and the giant man crumpled next to the burial site.
Instinctively, Giallo lurched behind a steel casket as more bullets chopped his coffins. Who would have the insolence to desecrate his collection in such a manner? His remaining men returned fire, and he saw two wooden caskets shatter.
“Stop shooting, you idiots!” Didn’t they realize the irreparable damage their careless action was causing his treasures?
More shots stitched the wall behind him. Giallo couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. No one knew about the warehouse and his collection. It made no sense.
The gunfire ceased. Silence descended.
Giallo cursed inwardly. How could he be experiencing such a setback when all the answers were within his grasp? They had to stop this shooter, whoever he might be.
CHAPTER THREE
A FURIOUS BARRAGE of bullets ripped the mahogany coffin apart that Talon was using as cover. When the onslaught eased for a second, he popped up and returned fire, the bullets of his Glock lashing Giallo’s unholy coffin collection. The stench of cordite hung in the air as more bullets erupted next to him. Giallo’s men were trained professionals and clearly didn’t plan to make this easy on him.
Talon dipped below the coffin and crawled along the floor, now covered in wooden splinters, swiftly navigating the maze of caskets. He’d checked two of the coffins when he first broke into the warehouse and was well aware of their grisly contents. How many people had Giallo murdered and preserved during his ninety years on this planet?
Too many too count.
The man was as much of a monster as some of the nightmare creatures Talon had faced over the last six months. He’d seen some sick shit in his time as a Delta Operator, but Giallo’s warehouse of horror might just qualify for a spot at the top of the list.
Now that the shooting had stopped, Talon was able to focus his still ringing ears on other sounds. He detected a faint hint of incoming footsteps. Giallo’s two assassins were closing in on him. His lips curled into a cruel smile as he eyed a titanium casket in front of him, his mind having formulated the beginning of a plan.
Five minutes later, one of Giallo’s guards appeared inside the alley of caskets. He immediately made out the figure slumped in between the row of coffins. Three bullets holes were visible in the downed man’s back.
He approached the body cautiously, never taking his eyes from his target. He didn’t see the casket behind him pop open. He crouched before the corpse, and his cold eyes widened as he saw the mummified visage of a long-dead man. When blood splattered the creepy mummy’s face, he recoiled, too shocked to realize the red spray had come from his own perforated chest. An instant later, Giallo’s guard collapsed next to the mummy.
Talon slipped out of the casket from which he’d removed the decoy corpse. His eyes roamed the dark warehouse, his Glock leading the way.
One guard remained.
And then Giallo.
Even though the sick mastermind behind this insanity was old enough to be his grand-father, he could still pose a threat. Even an old man could get lucky, and a bullet was lethal no matter what level of training the shooter might possess. One moment of inattention could change the tide of the battle. He had to keep his guard up.
Eying the blood-flecked mummified corpse, Talon wondered what sick demons drove Giallo. The question made Talon’s mind return to three days earlier, when Simon Casca had first told him about the cursed coffin …
CHAPTER FOUR
“HAVE YOU EVER heard of the German stage magician Bruno Zamora, better known as Der Hexer?” Casca asked and took a sip of his Cabernet. “That’s German for ‘the sorcerer,’ by the way. Ring any bells?”
Talon finished the last bite of his surf and turf and took a long pull from his Pilsner. Casca had invited him for lunch at a Silicon Valley seafood restaurant and the food had lived up to its reputation. Judging from the serious tone in Casca’s voice, it was time for business now. Talon scanned his memory and said, “Didn’t Zamora give Harry Houdini a run for his money at one point?”
“You’re quite right, Zamora and Houdini were bitter competitors, each of them trying to outdo the other. Certain sources claim Zamora took their rivalry one step further and sold his soul to the devil in exchange for the ability to practice real magic during his stage shows. Some of the tricks he preformed still baffle magicians to this day. And according to the stories, he saved his best trick for last.”
Casca slid his smart phone over to T
alon. It showed a photograph of an ancient-looking coffin. The design was simple, almost austere. Just a crude wooden casket.
Talon zoomed in on the image, and more disturbing details became visible. Strange glyphs and sigils adorned the coffin’s surface. Occult symbols Casca might know how to interpret but were beyond Talon’s knowledge, at least at this point in the game. There was something sickening about the cumulative effect of the cryptic patterns.
“What am I looking at?” Talon asked.
“This is the casket that Bruno Zamora was buried in. Zamora vanished in 1905, suffering from ill health. Some believed he’d committed suicide and drowned in the North Sea near his hometown of Kampen. In reality, Zamora’s assistants had buried him on his property instead, the coffin remaining undiscovered until a recent construction project unearthed them.”
Talon chewed this over and said, “Alright, so why is this of interest to us? Don’t tell me this was Dracula’s coffin, or I’ll walk right out of here.”
Casca arched an eyebrow and said, “The coffin was stolen a few weeks after its discovery. The German Kriminalpolizei even has a suspect. This man.”
Casca swiped his phone and revealed the ancient features of Giallo. The picture perfectly captured the cold fire smoldering behind the man’s eyes.
“Marco Giallo, heir to the Giallo Cofani dynasty, a fourth generation coffin maker and rumored to be an obsessive collector of coffins.”
“I guess everybody needs a hobby.”
This time a grin stole over Casca’s face.
“So you have contacts in the German police force?”
Casca’s eyes narrowed. “I have contacts wherever underpaid government employees need to make ends meet.”
“Point taken. So Giallo might have the coffin. And you want me to head to Florence to find out if he does?”
Casca nodded.
Talon frowned as he inspected the image of the coffin again. “What makes the coffin so special?”
“Are you familiar with the concept of soul transference?”
In the old days Talon would’ve rolled his eyes at a question like this. Much had changed. “The occult practice of transferring one’s soul into another body,” he answered without hesitation.
Casca sipped his wine and said, “Zamora believed he could cheat death and be reborn in another, younger body. Tapping into Babylonian occult concepts of rebirth and reincarnation, he constructed a coffin capable of trapping his soul upon the moment of his death. It would prevent his spirit from passing into the next world.”
For a second, Talon was reminded of the Reaper and fought back an involuntary shudder. He hoped Casa didn’t expect him to go after another ghost so soon after the events in Ohio. He’d be better off calling the Spirit Breakers.
“Zamora’s plan was simple,” Casca continued. “He let his assistants bury his ailing body while still alive.”
“Thereby allowing his soul to remain in the coffin,” Talon said.
“Precisely.”
Talon furrowed his brows. “So this was preferable to the afterlife? Being trapped inside a moldy box at the bottom of an unmarked grave?”
“Not quite. This was only the first phase of the plan.”
He swiped his phone again. A faded black-and-white photograph taken at the turn of the 20th century picture showed an older Zamora with a young man in his twenties. “Maximillian Geiger, a young protégée of Zamora and the man he’d handpicked to be the vessel of his rebirth. Once Zamora was dead, his assistants were supposed to dig up his body and place Geiger in the coffin with Zamora’s remains. This second burial would allow Zamora’s spirit to transfer from the coffin into the younger man.”
Talon’s jaw tightened with revulsion. Was there no limitation to human madness? “How do you know all this?” he asked.
“Magic has always been a passion of mine. I was able to piece together much from Zamora’s journal.”
Talon studied Casca, and once again he mused that the man’s dark interests clashed with his pretty-boy good looks and stylish attire. “So what went wrong?” he asked.
“They got cold feet. Never dug up their master, fearing they would hang for two murders.”
Talon chewed it over. “So we have this Giallo freak who’s obsessed with coffins. He hears about the discovery of Zamora’s casket and uses his money and pull to steal it. So what do you think he wants with the box? Bring Zamora back?”
Casca mulled it over for a beat before he spoke. “Good question. Having studied the man, I think he is trying to see if the stories are true. We’re talking about a man in the twilight of his life. He may not be ready to meet his maker.”
“You think Giallo wants to use the coffin on himself?”
“It’s the best theory I can come up with.”
“What happens with the soul of the replacement body?”
The grim expression on Casca’s face spoke louder than words. “Murder is a small price for the chance at another lifetime. In theory, Zamora’s coffin possesses the power to extend one’s lifespan indefinitely. It’s powered by black magic, however, so anyone who returns from the dead this way will become an agent of the darkness here on Earth. Giallo must be stopped before he gets a chance to use the coffin. I need you to go to Italy immediately.”
Talon nodded grimly and flashed the billionaire a grin. “I always wanted to visit the country of my ancestors.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TALON ARRIVED IN Florence thirty-six hours after his dinner with Casca. He checked in at his hotel, found his case of kit waiting for him, and began to do some surveillance on Giallo. The coffin collector was known for frequenting certain restaurants and bars in the area, so establishing the millionaire’s routine became easy. Studying his new enemy proved informative. The men guarding the old coffin tycoon were seasoned pros. Not ex-military; most likely former mafia enforcers whose skills had been honed in the Italian underworld.
After shadowing Giallo for over a week, he got a lucky break when his quarry visited one of his regular hangouts. Talon was nursing a glass of tonic water at the bar when a fellow American took a tumble after one drink too many. The young girl he’d been chatting up wrapped her arm around him and, displaying more strength than one would expect from her tiny frame, dragged him to the back of the bar. The beauty, which Talon now recognized as one of Giallo’s employees, must’ve slipped something in his drink.
Talon followed both of them through the rear exit into an alley. He pressed himself against the wall, merging with the shadows as he witnessed the woman pulling the unconscious American into the trunk of Giallo’s Maserati with the assistance of the coffin collector’s security team.
As much as Talon wanted to stop the kidnapping in progress and rescue the hapless American, he had to find out what Giallo wanted with the boy. He tailed the black Maserati as it fought its way through the city’s narrow stone streets and a fleet of crazy taxi drivers. They left the city behind them and made their way through densely-wooded outskirts.
The Maserati turned onto a narrow trail and Talon passed them, staying on the main road. Once the Maserati was out of sight, he performed a sharp U-turn and pulled onto the side of the road to wait. He wasn’t worried. On these deserted forest streets, Giallo’s security team would know they were being tailed. Fortunately he’d planted a transmitter on the Maserati earlier in the week and would able to resume his pursuit on foot within a few minutes.
A half an hour later, he caught his first glimpses of Giallo’s secluded warehouse. The fence barely slowed Talon down. After he cut his way through the chain-link mesh, he sprinted toward the Maserati parked next to the open main entrance.
He slipped a black balaclava mask over his head and entered the warehouse, Glock in hand. Even though Talon tried to steel himself for whatever might be waiting within the walls of the structure, nothing could have prepared him for Giallo’s coffin collection. The disturbing, surreal sight took Talon’s breath away.
There was a hushed, alm
ost reverent silence to the place that made him feel like he’d set foot inside a vast cathedral. The dead commanded respect.
It reminded him in a weird way of the time when he’d traveled aboard a C-130 Hercules military aircraft filled with the flag-draped caskets of soldiers who’d fallen in the Iraq war. He remembered thinking how clean all the flags looked in that country of dust. There were no flags inside Giallo’s warehouse, but each coffin gleamed in the sunlight, pristine and meticulously maintained. The freak certainly loved his collection.
Talon steeled his nerves and carefully opened the nearest casket. Inside, the pale, mummified corpse of a young woman lay on the pristine satin. A quick survey of half a dozen more caskets confirmed Talon’s suspicions. Giallo was not only a madman but a mass murderer.
He made a silent vow to himself: Soon, he’d add one more body to the collection—Marco Giallo. Maybe he’d even let the old man choose his own coffin.
CHAPTER SIX
GIALLO STOLE NERVOUS glances at his prized collection. Normally, gazing upon his coffins had a calming effect. Now, he felt only dread. He was so close to finding out if the stories surrounding Zamora’s famed coffin were true. This stranger shooting up the warehouse was liable to ruin everything.
He cracked his knuckles, mentally reassuring himself that his men were some of the best killers money could buy. They would take care of this problem. A minor setback only, and then…
Gunfire echoed once more, and there was a distinct thump of a body tumbling against one of his coffins. It broke his heart to see his collection being damaged like this and rage welled up, overpowering even his fear. He would make this intruder pay.
All thoughts of retribution left his mind as the cold, hard barrel of a pistol dug into the back of his skull.
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