Author: William Massa
Date: 2015-05-02 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Science Fiction; Urban Fantasy; Action; Fantasy; Thriller
Description: The war against the darkness continues... At age 13, Nicole Stone was possessed by a demonic entity. She survived this ordeal, thanks to a successful exorcism. Now, 15 years later, Nicole is still haunted by the experience. But the nightmare isn’t over. She is about to become the target of an apocalyptic cult led by a former elite soldier with a chilling plan for her future. Only one man can save Nicole from a fate worse than death. Only one man stands between her and the apocalypse. His name is Mark Talon. And he is about to go up against his most dangerous enemy yet.
Publisher: Critical Mass Publishing

OCCULT ASSASSIN

APOCALYPSE SOLDIER

BOOK 2

By WILLIAM MASSA

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Copyright © 2015 William Massa

Published by Critical Mass Publishing

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Also by William Massa

THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

Occult Assassin #1: Damnation Code - Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #2.5: Ice Shadows (A Novella) - Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #3: Spirit Breaker - Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #3.5: Coffin Collector (A Short Story) Amazon US Amazon UK

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HORROR/DARK FANTASY

FEAR THE LIGHT

GARGOYLE KNIGHT

MATCH: A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER

SCIENCE FICTION

CROSSING THE DARKNESS

THE SILICON SERIES

SILICON DAWN

SILICON MAN

THE STORY SO FAR

After a decade spent fighting the enemy abroad and keeping his country safe, Delta Force Operator Mark Talon is ready to settle down with the love of his life. But Talon’s world crumbles when his fiancée becomes the victim of a murderous cult.

In the wake of his terrible loss, Talon dedicates himself to a new mission – hunting down twisted occultists around the globe and stopping them before they can unleash the forces of darkness upon an unsuspecting world...

In Apocalypse Soldier, his quest for vengeance will take him to the scorching deserts of Arizona…

CHAPTER ONE

FATHER ROBERT CABRERA was deep into the Eucharistic prayer when a loud banging noise cut through the quiet of the church, followed by a shrill scream. A shocked murmur spread among the congregants as their eyes found the team of heavily armed black-clad men filing into the church. The commandos moved with military precision, their features obscured by ski masks and their machine guns leveled. Boots echoed menacingly on the stone floor as they worked their way toward the altar, like shadows come to life.

Nothing he’d seen in his last three decades as a man of the cloth had prepared Cabrera for the surreal sight before him. Over the years he’d witnessed some incredible horrors, but the invasion of his church by a paramilitary force wasn’t one of them.

Cabrera put down the chalice and signaled his terrified flock to remain calm. His faith was strong, but he knew God wouldn’t intervene if these men decided to open fire. Who were these masked men? Were they hoping to burglarize the church? Thieves would be smart enough to avoid Sunday Mass and pick a day when fewer witnesses would be present. The timing of the assault had to be deliberate; someone was planning to make a statement.

A thick bead of perspiration rolled down Cabrera’s face. He glanced up at the large cross behind him, as if seeking a divine explanation for this affront against his congregation. The cross stood silhouetted against a skylight that offered a spectacular view of the shimmering desert landscape beyond. Tourists came from far away to attend Mass in the landmark chapel. Experiencing a sunset from inside the church, the huge cross starkly outlined against fiery light, could have a powerful effect on both believers and non-believers alike. Unfortunately, the view provided little comfort during this moment of crisis.

Three armed men circled Father Cabrera, allowing a fourth man to step forward. The deferential treatment he received from the militia suggested that this was the group’s leader. He was bigger than the others, about six-three and 260 pounds of granite muscle. He carried himself with the authority and confidence of a man who was aware of his power.

The imposing masked figure addressed Cabrera in a surprisingly soft-spoken voice. “Take us to the back, where your computer is located, Father.” The addition of his title sounded more mocking than respectful.

For a second Father Cabrera stared at the mountain of a man with a dumbfounded expression. Was this what it was all about? What information contained in the church computer could motivate such a brazen assault? A loud barrage of gunfire, aimed at the ceiling, silenced his thoughts. Another panicked cry emanated from the roomful of worshippers.

The icy eyes peering from the shooter’s ski-mask suggested that it wouldn’t take much for the man to point his automatic weapon at the crowd of parishioners. Without further thought, Cabrera’s body jumped into motion. “Follow me.”

The leader and two other men fell in step and followed Cabrera to the back of the church. They passed through a wooden door and down a narrow corridor that led into the rectory, which was part office and part living area. It literally took Cabrera less than two minutes to get out of bed in the morning and make his way into the church.

As soon as they stepped into the priest’s small office, the leader pointed at the aging PC on its small desk.

“What do you want?” Cabrera inquired in a surprisingly calm voice. He wasn’t afraid for himself; he was only worried about the innocent souls under his protection.

“I’m looking for Nicole Robertson,” the leader replied.

The request hit Cabrera with the force of a punch. He finally understood what these men were after.

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Cabrera lied. The leader nodded at one of his associates, who uttered something into his headset mic. Gunfire from inside the church made the walls of the rectory vibrate. A feeling of dread coiled around Cabrera’s throat and he bristled with helpless rage.

The big man confirmed what Cabrera already suspected. “One of my soldiers just shot a member of your flock. Every time you lie to me, another innocent will perish.”

Father Cabrera shook his head in dismay. “Please, don’t…”

“No one else will be hurt if you cooperate. It’s completely up to you.”

Cabrera swallowed hard. Innocent lives were at stake. He had no choice but to give them what they’d come for.

Nicole Robertson.

A name he’d never forget no matter how hard he tried. Eight years earlier, he’d borne witness to true evil. Now it was catching up to him. This pack of wolves somehow knew about his connection to Nicole.

His fingers flew over the keys of his computer as he accessed the database. The slightly faded photograph of a fifteen-year-old girl flashed onscreen. The girl was on the cusp of being a woman, practically still a child — the very picture of teen innocence. She bore little resemblance to the Nicole of Cabrera’s nightmares.

Immediately, one of the intruders stepped up to the terminal and took a screenshot of Nicole’s file with his cell-phone cam. “Thank you, father,” the leader said as he leaned closer, his masked head hovering over Cabrera. Inhuman eyes glared back at him — the pupils and iris were pure obsidian. This gaze lanced him through and through, peering straight into his soul.

The leader nodded at one of his soldiers. The follower produced a sharp hunting knife and brutally yanked the priest’s head back. Instead of seeking out the vulnerable jugular vein, the blade instead drew across the stunned priest’s forehead in two quick strokes. There was no pain, at least not at first. Cabrera experienced the cold sensation of steel raking his skin before warm blood sheeted down his face.

Red drops pearled on the keyboard and computer screen. The knife-wielding soldier roughly pulled Cabrera to his feet and shoved him out of the rectory.

They returned to the church.

Cabrera’s heart sank as his gaze landed on the inverted pentagrams and other demonic symbols now tattooed on the walls of the sanctuary. The paramilitary force was in the process of vandalizing the house of God. Two men finished flipping the large cross behind the altar on its head, transforming a holy image into a symbol of evil.

Dear God, this can’t be happening…

His pulse quickened when he spotted the dead congregant sprawled on the floor in a widening pool of blood. Some churchgoers were crying while others had retreated into a mask-like catatonia.

“I gave you what you came for. Please, I beg of you, spare these poor people.”

The words died on his lips as the gunmen raised their weapons and targeted the innocent believers frozen behind the pews.

Please, God, don’t let them do this…

The leader turned toward the terrified believers and removed his ski-mask. The features previously hidden beneath the mask were as monstrous as the coal black eyes had promised, the skin a burnished red. Part man, part demon.

The crowd gasped with horror and an icy hand clamped around Cabrera’s heart.

He isn’t human, he thought.

The booming voice of Amon, the apocalypse soldier, reverberated through the church. “I pledge all your souls to my master.”

“No!” Cabrera’s lips distorted into a scream and he jerked his head away in terror as the nave erupted in deafening gunfire. The fearsome barrage splintered pews and shattered statues of the saints. The vehement fusillade found man, woman and child, making no distinction between sinner and saint. Blood flowed freely. The Devil himself had come to Father Cabrera’s church, eager to claim every innocent soul inside its hallowed walls.

CHAPTER TWO

THE TERRIFIED YOUNG man stared up at his captors with numb terror. Colton felt the familiar anticipation building in his hammering heart. The man was stripped down to his underwear, his body pockmarked with scars and bruises. A strip of gray duct tape covered his mouth and only weak, muffled sounds escaped from his throat. His hands were bound behind his back and his prone, battered form was sprawled inside a large pentagram painted in chicken blood on the stone floor of Colton’s spacious wine cellar. Animal blood to initiate the sacrifice, human blood to complete it. Black candles stood at the five points of the star, enhancing the medieval atmosphere of this dank underground space. Soon enough the lights would be dimmed, the wicks lit. Only then would the dark ceremony begin.

Five days earlier, the hapless young man — his name was Jeff — had been a bundle of excited energy filled with dreams of Hollywood glory. Just another good-looking kid chasing fame and fortune in the city of broken dreams. Colton spotted him on Hollywood Boulevard one night, stumbling down the Walk of Fame in a buzzed daze. The kid seemed hypnotized, his eyes screwed up as if he was hoping to come across his own name next to all the legends.

Jeff’s lopsided grin was unmistakable. It was the expression of someone thrilled to be in Los Angeles, looking forward to a future full of endless possibilities. They were all so desperate to escape their mundane little lives and boring hometowns, to literally reach for the stars. As if solely buying a bus or plane ticket could ever be enough to bring you closer to your dreams.

Colton had seen it innumerable times. The rush of being in Tinseltown would soon give way to a crushing parade of dead-end jobs that would barely keep Jeff afloat. Maybe he’d get lucky, book a commercial or score some extra work. But he’d be competing with a million other bright-eyed kids all chasing after the same elusive goal. With time, those eyes wouldn’t shine so brightly, the hope would fade, and the dream would evaporate in the rear-view mirror of his fading youth.

In a sense, Colton was sparing young Jeff the inevitable series of disappointments and setbacks and offering a quick exit instead of a slow, soul-crushing decline.

He sidled up to Jeff in his Lamborghini and struck up a conversation. He could see the thoughts swirling behind the aspiring actor’s face. Was Colton a producer who could offer him a shot at stardom, or just some sick Hollywood slimeball looking for sexual favors? Colton told Jeff to look him up on IMDb if he questioned his motives. He said he’d produced a string of successful B horror flicks and knew talent when he saw it. If Jeff’s acting chops matched his looks, the kid would have a bright future in this town. Colton considered himself an astute judge of talent who’d given countless actors their first break, over the years.

He was telling the kid exactly what he wanted to hear and it was sure-as-hell working. Temptation gave way to caution as Colton’s slick wheels and credentials erased all doubt as to his true intentions.

Half an hour later, they pulled into the driveway of Colton’s sleek six-million-dollar Hollywood Hills mansion. He invited Jeff up for an audition and a drink. Perhaps the kid figured Colton might try some funny business, but he was willing to take a chance in the name of art.

As Jeff scanned his sides and took another gulp of gin and tonic, a wave of exhaustion hit him. The alcohol had masked the sedative in his drink. Rubbing his suddenly heavy-lidded eyes, Jeff reclined on a luxurious couch. Seconds later, he was out for the count.

Jeff had passed his audition with flying colors and landed a starring role in Colton’s upcoming performance piece. Being locked up in the mansion’s wine cellar for a week rapidly eroded what was left of the victim’s spirit. Incessant beatings and prolonged torture transformed a cocky actor into a haunted shadow whose blood-caked features projected grim acceptance of his impending fate.

His head hung low now as he faced the ring of visitors gathered this evening at Colton’s mansion. There was a studio executive Colton had known since his first internship at Universal 30 years ago; a TV actor battling addiction and depression; and a couple of out-of-work writers. Once upon a time, they’d all ventured from different parts of the country with hopes of reinventing themselves in La La Land. Unlike poor Jeff, their dreams had come true. But they also had to learn another bitter Hollywood lesson. Stardom could be fleeting. One day a hot commodity, the next a has-been. The town worshipped success and was terrified of failure.

Like his industry friends, Colton would rather die than lose everything he had worked so hard to build. Jeff’s sacrifice would buy them more time at the top of the Hollywood food chain.

Colton extricated a curved blade from his robe and shifted his attention back to the young actor currently slumped in the middle of the black pentagram. The sight of the blade rekindled the primal terror in Jeff’s expression. His muffled sounds grew more desperate and he tried to wiggle out of the sacrificial circle, despite his restraints. It was pure reflex, the body refusing to accept the inevitable. They always fought to the bitter end, not realizing the fight itself fueled the power of the sacrifice.

Colton leaned closer and the knife’s point touched Jeff’s neck. He grew still, the contact of the razor-sharp steel against his skin freezing him. Were those tears rolling down his cheeks? What a performance! Maybe Jeff could have made it big, after all.

Colton tore the tape off Jeff’s mouth and his parched tongue managed a strangled croak. Colton wanted to hear Jeff scream. He’d spent a small fortune soundproofing the cellar, so he figured he might as well get his money’s worth. He drew the serrated edge over Jeff’s pectoral muscle, drawing the first hint of crimson.

Jeff gasped in pain and now his words and tears flowed in earnest. “Please, mister, you don’t have to do this...”

The kid’s pleas were pathetic. Did he really believe he would be spared at this point? Man’s capacity for hope never ceased to amaze Colton.

“It will be over soon.”

The kid choked, reduced to a blubbering mass. Colton’s icy expression spoke volumes. There would be no mercy…

He began to utter words in Latin, initiating the ritual. Blood would run. The old gods would be appeased, at least for a while.

The knife touched Jeff’s throat…

And that’s when the recessed lights in the stone ceiling went out and the cellar was suddenly drenched in darkness. Confused murmurs drowned out Jeff’s pathetic sobs. Was it a power outage? Talk about terrible timing…

A series of muffled pops cut through the dark and screams erupted. It took Colton a beat to realize the death cries didn’t come from Jeff but from the members of his cult.

Fear gripped him. They were under attack?! His bodyguards and security system should have alerted him of any potential intruders. And cops would’ve asked them to surrender first before shooting. No, something else was going on here.

Something beyond his experience.

More cries interrupted his thoughts and gave way to an eerie silence. The sound of his terrified breathing filled the wine cellar. Colton clutched the knife in his hand with sweaty fingers. If only he could see his enemy…

He crouched on his haunches and located one of the candles. Using a lighter, he lit the wick. The flickering flame faintly illuminated the wine cellar, carving a small corner of light from the darkness and exposing the bodies of his slain flock. The dead cultists formed a grotesque circle around the pentagram with the terrified young man at its center. Their blood flowed freely, pooling on the floor and mixing with the chicken blood of the sacrificial circle. There was no sign of any attacker.

A sound made Colton whirl.

The murderous intruder was here with him in the dark cellar. Cloaked in shadow. He’s drawing this out, Colton realized as he brushed salty perspiration from his face.

“Who the fuck are you?” His voice could barely keep his mounting panic at bay. The knife in his hand seemed like a sick joke. And as mortal fear threatened to get the better of him, he was struck by sudden inspiration. This killer was here to save the boy. And that meant Colton might have a potential hostage.

With two quick steps he was upon the sacrifice, nine inches of steel pointed at Jeff’s carotid artery. There was another muffled pop and the sensation of his hand being whipped back by an invisible force, followed by the knife clattering against the floor. Colton’s eyes went wide as he stared at the rapidly hemorrhaging hole in the palm of his hand.

Clutching his gushing wound, Colton’s eyes locked on the outline of the shooter. The figure stepped into the faint circle of light cast by the black candle. A tall, muscular man garbed in form-fitting combat black stood revealed. A balaclava obscured his features and he was wearing a pair of night-vision goggles that gave him an insect-like, otherworldly appearance. One gloved hand kept the silenced Glock level while the other removed his night-vision goggles. Colton wished he hadn’t. There was a merciless edge to the man’s cold-blooded gaze.

“Killing me won’t defeat the darkness,” Colton stammered, trying to be brave.

“It’s a start.”

And with these words, there was a muffled cough and Colton’s world turned as black as his soul.

***

The bullet hit Colton in the head, exactly where Talon had aimed. Blood, bone and brains showered the floor and the body joined the other dead cultists on the wine cellar floor.

Talon stepped over to Jeff, who eyed his savior with a shell-shocked, terrified expression. The dark-clad assassin cut as disturbing a sight as the dead cult members. Talon scooped up the blade Colton dropped a moment earlier. Jeff pulled away from him, mistaking his intention.

“Don’t worry, kid, I’m here to help.”

His voice managed to calm Colton’s captive for a second. Talon leaned closer and cut the restraints. As Jeff massaged his numb limbs back to life, Talon snatched a cell phone from one of the dead cultists and dialed 911. As soon as the operator picked up, he informed her about the murders and offered up Colton’s home address.

Talon killed the call just as the operator asked him to identify himself. Time to get moving. His work here was done. Jeff was safe and this murderous pack of freaks would never take another life again.

Talon turned away from Jeff. “Thank you…” the young man said in a hollow voice, but Talon was already out the door. He reached the upstairs living room, walked past the lifeless bodyguards who were still clutching their firearms in death and stepped through the home’s rear exit. He couldn’t help but notice the luxuries that filled the opulent home. Priceless sculptures, original artwork, expensive furniture. Wasteful material possessions bought with the blood of others.

Talon passed the swimming pool in the back, where moonlight shimmered on the water’s calm surface. How many dreams had been shattered to maintain the sick movie producer’s lavish lifestyle? Talon could feel anger rising inside of him, and he forced himself not to dwell on it. Justice had caught up with the producer and soon the world would know the terrible truth. Colton got what was coming to him.

Talon merged with the night as he made his way down the wooded hillside, using the trees and scrub as cover. With his black clothing he was as good as invisible to the naked eye. He arrived at the bottom of the incline, where a rental car registered under a fake name was waiting for him. Moments later, Talon was navigating the steep mountain roads on his way back to the glittering lights of Hollywood.

As he shot down the hill, Talon’s thoughts turned to the young man’s life he just saved. He should feel a degree of satisfaction, shouldn’t he? An innocent was spared a terrible fate, but the operation had failed to calm the churning rage at the center of Talon’s being. Nothing seemed to appease his anger nowadays. Was he approaching burnout?

Following the events in San Francisco, Talon had been hunting cultists non-stop, while internalizing every occult book Casca sent his way. He now knew more about Satanic rituals than he did about American politics or which team was favored to win the Super Bowl. Talon had sacrificed any semblance of a personal life for this new mission. He wondered if the growing sense of isolation was wearing him down. Perhaps he missed the unit, the brotherhood of his military service and the sense of camaraderie created when one spent every waking hour with the same group of people.

By now most of his friends knew what had happened to Michelle. Not a day went by where he didn’t receive an email or a text from one of his military buddies. The heartfelt emotion of their messages was appreciated, but it didn’t extinguish the dark fire burning inside him. Talon sensed that he should try to reach out to his brothers but every time he picked up the phone, he found a good reason to talk himself out of it. What was there to chat about? “Oh, life is good, I’m moving on, killed a bunch of civilian demon worshippers today — how are things back at Fort Bragg?” A great divide separated the man he once was from the man he’d become.

Talon’s cell chirped and he scanned the incoming text message. It was from none other than Simon Casca. The billionaire was in Los Angeles and wanted to meet him the next day for breakfast. Casca’s presence could mean only one thing — the services of the occult assassin would soon be needed once again.

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS NINE o’clock on a Monday morning and while most Angelinos were still fighting traffic on their way to work, Casca was welcoming the new day with a Mimosa at the intimate Chateau Marmont restaurant. Designed to evoke a French chateau, the legendary Sunset Blvd hotel was located a 5-minute walk from the Laugh Factory and about three miles from the high-end shops on Rodeo Drive. Sitting next to him at the bar were two women who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar. He’d run into Autumn, the tall, tanned blonde, while hitting the Hollywood clubs the night before. It hadn’t taken too much effort to persuade her to spend the night at his luxury suite. Being a good-looking billionaire who could crank up the charm did wonders for one’s social life. The mention of Talon had motivated her to invite her best friend Lynn, a fellow out-of-work actress/model, to join them at the hotel bar for a quick breakfast cocktail.

Normally Casca reserved his drinking for later in the day but these two alluring party girls were on a different social schedule.

Simon Casca represented a study in contrasts, a fact that was not lost on him. He was part reckless playboy and part intellectual bookworm who spent his days deciphering ancient tomes on the occult. His wealth allowed him to indulge in a hedonistic lifestyle that he knew his late father would disapprove of. Women, alcohol and fast cars provided a brief distraction from the trauma of his past and the terrors he knew lurked in the shadows all around them. A temporary escape from the demons that haunted him. It didn’t matter how many beauties he bedded, drinks he knocked back or expensive sports cars he added to his growing fleet; the nightmares always returned.

During those moments late at night when sleep wouldn’t come, his mind would turn to that fateful day 12 years ago when the darkness first entered his life. Casca would see the bald, heavily tattooed cultist who’d shattered the perfect, idyllic existence of his privileged youth. He would see the man drive the blade into his terrified sister’s chest while uttering guttural words in an ancient and terrible tongue. And as the life ran out of his sister’s heaving form in a river of red, the dark apparition watched from afar — an entity not of this world or time, but eternally haunting the borderlands of his awareness.

No amount of booze or sexual escapades could ever fully erase the horror of the memory.

Lately, though, Casca was growing increasingly impatient with his own decadent lifestyle. He still appreciated the momentary reprieve that earthly pleasures could provide, but he found himself devoting more and more of his spare time to his esoteric interests. Demonology, ancient religions, FBI reports on recent cult activity and occult crime; delving into these fields dominated his waking hours. Maybe if he could come to know the unknowable and master the forbidden knowledge beyond the grasp of most men, then his nightmares might stop.

So far, it had worked at lot better than his mad pursuit of earthly pleasures. The more he learned about the dark forces, the less sway they held over him.

Casca smiled at the two beauties even though his mind was still somewhere else. They were talking up a storm, trying valiantly to hold his full interest, but spicy Hollywood gossip couldn’t compete with the mysteries of the paranormal. Seducing Autumn the other night had been more of a reflex action than real desire. It was becoming increasingly clear that the last few months had irrevocably changed him. The mask of the playboy was crumbling.

Ever since joining forces with Talon in San Francisco, Casca had been reading a lot about soldiers and getting to know many veterans in his quest to get a better feel for the Delta operator. Talking to these warriors made him wonder why so many of them were willing to repeatedly put themselves in harm’s way. The answer he kept hearing was that they missed the sense of mission and purpose their service provided. After the drama of war, returning to civilian life seemed meaningless and empty, dominated by mundane goals and distractions that paled in comparison to the life-and-death decisions that defined the battlefield.

Casca was beginning to understand how veterans must feel. Declaring war against the forces of darkness had given him new purpose and direction. The last three months were the most thrilling and terrifying of his life. After defeating Zagan, Casca had turned to other reports of occult crimes. So far, none of the cases had involved real black magic and the cultists were easily dispatched. The perverted Hollywood cult was just the latest in a long string of similar cases. Innocent lives were saved and monsters in human disguise would never harm another innocent soul again. But the real danger of the darkness remained. It was only a matter of time before one of these sick practitioners of the dark arts would succeed where the other dabblers had failed and tap into a vast power that bullets alone wouldn’t be able to stop.

Both Autumn and her friend Lynn reacted to something, eyes widening. Looks like the guest of honor is here, Casca thought as he scanned his Apple watch. Two o’clock, on the dot. Talon wasn’t the tardy type.

“He’s standing right behind me, isn’t he?” Casca asked his female companions with a sly grin. The girls giggled. Casca turned and flashed his new partner a broad smile. He’d hoped that Talon might show some interest in Autumn’s friend, but the military man’s face remained indifferent as he shot the two intrigued beauties a blank look. Casca didn’t expect Talon to fall in love; his wounds were still too fresh, but he was still a man and a man had needs. The momentary comfort found within the arms of a beautiful woman was the least he could offer this dedicated warrior.

Casca worried about Talon’s mental well-being. He’d become a man possessed, embarking on one mission after another with no time for a break or chance to reconnect with his own humanity. He’d talked to enough veterans who suffered from PTSD to recognize the symptoms. Talon had managed to remain unscathed by ten years of conventional warfare, but this new conflict had marked him. And who could blame him? Losing his fiancée, discovering that dark forces operated in the shadows of the world, surviving a possession; the cumulative effect of these horrors inevitably took their toll.

Casca couldn’t have chosen a better soldier in his war against the darkness. The man was a born warrior, but Casca worried that Talon’s obsession might destroy him if he wasn’t careful.

Without even blinking Casca handed the women a wad of cash. “You ladies have a good time now.” The promise of an unexpected shopping spree lifted the head-turners’ spirits and they sashayed off, drawing admiring glances from every male they passed.

“I see you’ve been enjoying L.A.,” said Talon.

“So have you.” Casca pointed at the TV news reports about the dead producer that seemed to fill every screen behind the bar.

Talon’s expression darkened as he took a seat at the bar. “This isn’t a game. Sometimes I’m not sure you’re aware of that.”

“I’m not trying to make light of what you do. I thought you might appreciate a break from the grind, that’s all. Last time I checked, even soldiers took R&R days.”

The muscles in Talon’s jaw worked furiously before relaxing. “Sorry. You could be right.”

“Can I order you a beer, at least?”

“Sure. I’ll take a Heineken.”

Casca smiled and nodded at the bartender. Less than a minute later, Talon was taking a swig from his beer.

“I know how much this war means to you. Just remember this isn’t a sprint, but a marathon, Sergeant.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“How have you been sleeping?”

Talon took a deeper swig of his drink and said, “What do you want me to tell you? That every time I close my eyes I don’t see her dead face? That I don’t wake up in the middle of the night and expect to find her next to me?”

“I’m sorry…”

“Get one thing straight, Mr. Casca. I don’t need a therapist to hold my hand and talk about the shit that keeps me up at night, and I don’t need a cheap lay…”

“How about a friend?”

Talon held Casca’s gaze for a beat before he said, his voice pitched low, “All I need is for you to tell me where these sick fucks are and provide me with the firepower to wipe them from the face of the Earth.”

Talon’s voice trembled with a dark edge; he was a man consumed by demons. Time hadn’t healed his wounds but instead seemed only to have deepened them. Casca wanted to help the soldier, but Talon would have to want to help himself first.

In a tone that was all business, Talon asked, “So what you got for me?”

“In the last week, three priests were murdered across the country. One in Miami, another in New York City. The latest assault happened during Sunday Mass at a church near Tucson and resulted in the indiscriminate slaughter of an entire congregation. Twenty-seven dead, machine-gunned by their attackers.”

Casca paused, the enormity of the massacre sinking in. The dark flicker in Talon’s eyes indicated that he shared his outrage. “The FBI is investigating as we speak and my source in the Bureau informed me that certain details of the crimes suggest an occult connection.”

“What sort of details?”

“The killers left what appear to be demonic sigils at the crime scene.”

“Just remember, I’m kinda new to all this stuff. What’s a demonic sigil again?”

“The term sigil comes from the Latin sigillum, meaning seal. They are symbols representing both angels and demons. They’re used in occult rituals designed to conjure forth such entities.”

“So this cult is trying to summon a demon with these crimes?”

Casca picked up the skepticism in Talon’s voice. Despite his experiences with Zagan, the soldier was still adjusting to this new world he’d stumbled into. Talon was a realist and bristled at the more outlandish, metaphysical parts of this new conflict.

“Possibly. Identifying the sigils will give us a better idea what we’re up against here.”

Another thought occurred to Talon. “Isn’t such a public attack out of character for a cult? I thought they preferred to do their killing in secret.”

“You’re right. They’re operating more like a terrorist group than a traditional Satanic cult. And they don’t seem to care that they have the Feds breathing down their necks.”

“Sounds like they’re looking for some sort of showdown with the authorities,” Talon said. “Any theories as to why these priests were targeted?”

“Good that you ask. It took some time and digging, but I found a link. These priests all received specialized training in Rome at a conference held at the Pontifical Regina Apostolorum University.”

A smile touched Casca’s lips. He was pretty satisfied with his own bit of detective work on this one.

“What type of training?” Talon asked.

“Training in how to perform exorcisms.”

Talon digested this for beat, rolled his eyes, and said, “Let me get this straight – the cult is targeting exorcists?”

Casca nodded. He’d wondered what the cult could gain from such a strategy, and he had yet to come up with an answer. Learning more about the sigils left behind in the Arizona church would hopefully shed light on the matter. “The last priest, a Father Cabrera, was spared,” Casca said. “He’s in stable condition at a local hospital.”

“Sounds like someone has a guardian angel watching over them.”

“I want you to head out to Arizona, take a look at the church and maybe have a little chat with Cabrera, see if he has anything to say. Your flight leaves in three hours from LAX and I have a car waiting for you outside. My assistant will email you all the other details. Everything you need will be in Tucson once you arrive.”

In other words, he had already booked a room at the Holiday Inn near Tucson International Airport where a suitcase filled with a small arsenal and kit would be waiting for Talon.

Talon drained his beer and rose from his chair. “I guess it’s good that I pack light. I’ll call you when I get there.”

“One more thing…”

Talon paused.

“If you ever need to talk — I mean, not just about a mission...”

“I know how to reach you,” Talon finished. The Delta operator winked and his hard expression softened, offering Casca a glimpse of the man he’d been before the horrific events in San Francisco. “I’ll let you know once I get to Arizona.” With these words, Talon walked out of the lobby.

Staring after him, Casca wondered what sort of evil awaited Talon in Arizona. He clenched and unclenched his hands, unable to shake a rising sense of foreboding.

CHAPTER FOUR

TALON ARRIVED IN Arizona at 2.45pm and he pulled up to the scene of the massacre about an hour later in the Jeep Wrangler Casca had reserved for him. The cross atop the church’s bell tower shimmered in the unforgiving desert heat as he strode toward the structure. The house of God was located five miles south of Tuscon and faced the endless stretch of barren, arid terrain, the back of the building framed by craggy, scrub-covered mountains. Beads of perspiration pearled on his face and his boots trailed dust. He could almost taste the baking heat as it singed his lungs with each successive breath he drew. The temperatures were approaching 100 degrees and for a surreal moment, Talon felt like he was back in the Middle East. The training, the war, his old mission; it all seemed a lifetime away. Where once he dealt with Taliban fighters, insurgents and dangerous hostage situations, his days were now filled with Satanists and occultists. His world had changed and there was no turning back now.

He’d devoted most of his adult life to protecting civilization from the forces of chaos. But sometimes the greatest dangers came from within. Civilized men could become their own worst enemy by underestimating barbarians and forgetting the hard-earned battles and wars that had made modern society possible.

Sometimes the same held true for soldiers. Had he become his own worst enemy, oblivious to how this new conflict was affecting his mental state? Casca seemed to believe so, and he was probably right. Talon’s buddy Erik was only one of the many brave men who’d succumbed to battle fatigue and the stress of combat. Most people seemed to think that PTSD was triggered by one single traumatic event, a horrific memory that had to be dealt with. But Talon had seen way too many military personnel suffer from the affliction who had never engaged in direct combat. PTSD was far more insidious and could sneak up on you, the cumulative result of a series of events that could irrevocably shift a person’s worldview.

Americans in general believed in a civilized, rational universe, a world where good triumphed over evil and people lived meaningful lives and pursued their dreams. War could reveal a different truth. By living in a dark world of constant death and brutality, a new worldview could take over — one where nothing made sense, random violence shaped reality and good people perished while monsters flourished. It was the recognition of this new reality, a loss of meaning and the possibility of an uncaring, indifferent universe that sucked so many cops, soldiers and even medical professionals into its dark vortex. Feelings of helplessness were only compounded by a realization that the world was a far scarier place than they ever imagined.

Talon had never succumbed to such a shift in perception. Being the son of a diplomat, he’d spent his formative years traveling all over the planet. Witnessing the injustices of the world at a young age opened his eyes. Government policy and ideology shaped reality. Some policies made life better for its citizens; some made it unbearable. Freedom was a precious flame that could easily be extinguished and become a victim of the universal laws of entropy and barbarity. Warriors were the frontline against such forces. Savage violence had to be met with better violence in order to maintain order from the chaos. He never questioned his military mission because he always knew what he was fighting for.

Or so he thought…

The last few months had been an eye-opener, forcing him to shift his perceptions and beliefs in a fundamental way. San Francisco and the Omicron cult had exposed him to a different kind of evil, and this new insight coupled with losing Michelle was eating away at him. He’d always known the world could be a dark place, but now that darkness had sprung claws. Instinctively he knew that he couldn’t maintain his current pace. As Casca put it, even soldiers received R&R days, and Talon was overdue.

As the church drew closer, Talon took note of the police ticker tape that barricaded the entrance. The reporters and news-vans were long gone. The horror of the massacre had already given way to new tragedies. Talon checked the main entrance and found it locked, a wise precaution to keep morbid thrill-seekers from entering the crime scene. He circled the structure and approached a small door on the north side. He was trained in the art of breaking down locks and the back door should prove less challenging to breach than the front entrance. To Talon’s surprise, he found the small door unlocked.

What did they call the rear entrance of a church again? The Devil’s Door? The thought made him grin. He’d been reading too many of Casca’s books. According to medieval legend, the north face of a church belonged to the Devil. Medieval people believed that baptisms drove out the demons residing inside children and the demonic forces would need a back door to escape the church.

A few months earlier Talon would’ve shaken his head at a bit of superstition like that, but he wasn’t laughing any longer. Devils were real. Casca called it the darkness, an evil force coursing through the universe in direct opposition with the light.

Legend and culture determined how this darkness manifested itself. Zagan had called up a cybernetic monster back in San Francisco, but a devout Catholic might conjure Lucifer or one of his minions. Each culture tried to grasp the darkness as best they could, but this was a mystery not one single religion or mythology could fully define. This trippy New Age conceit almost made sense if one could accept the possibility that evil forces do exist.

Talon pushed the door open. Rank air greeted him as he entered the building. A narrow corridor extended into the darkness and he switched on his cellphone’s flashlight. Light lanced the dusty blackness. Talon navigated the corridor, which led him straight into the sanctuary. The wasteland of shredded pews and broken saints offered a grim testimony of the atrocities committed here. Dark stains scarred the floor. The blood of innocents had flowed freely.

Inhaling sharply, he noticed a stale, cloying heaviness to the air that made breathing difficult. It was almost as if the souls of the murdered congregants still lingered in the air, weighing it down with their tormented presence. On a logical level, Talon knew that the atmospheric conditions were a consequence of the doors being sealed while desert heat beat down on the building. But that didn’t stop his mind from playing tricks on him.

Enough sunlight shafted through the stained-glass windows for him to navigate the church, and he turned off his light. It had been years since he set foot in a place of worship and he felt like an intruder. In the last decade, he’d said his fair share of prayers over the graves of fallen comrades. But with each year of combat, the words of those prayers only seemed emptier. War had shaken his trust in an all-loving God. After the events in San Francisco, he didn’t know what to believe.

Talon walked away from the windows and approached the altar. The inverted cross loomed like the flagpole of some conquering army; the cult had claimed this holy ground for their own unholy purposes. He approached the demonic sigils spray-painted on the walls. Inspecting the area, he counted seven different symbols.

Talon had brushed up on the subject on the flight over here, so he knew that each sigil represented a different demon. Nevertheless, his knowledge was pretty limited – this was Casca’s area of expertise. Talon took pictures of the sigils with his phone and sent the images to Casca. Hopefully the billionaire could make sense of it all.

Talon was about to leave the church when the sound of sobbing suddenly gave him pause. He peered into the dim surroundings, dust motes dancing in the gloomy light. It didn’t take him long to identify the source of the sound. A lone figure sat in one of the perforated pews, hands steepled in silent prayer. The figure was masked by shadows, but a muffled sob gave away the woman’s presence. As he approached, she stared at Talon with big eyes.

“Who are you?” she asked.

When Talon didn’t respond, she said, “My husband was here when it happened. I was feeling sick that morning and decided to sleep in…”

She broke off. Talon understood. The woman must’ve entered the church the same way he did, seeking some form of communion with her deceased husband. Talon knew ghosts were real because they existed in the hearts and minds of those who’ve lost someone. What he did next surprised him. He knelt next to the grieving woman and, blocking out the panorama of destruction around them, joined the woman in prayer. He hadn’t prayed in months, yet the words flowed easily from his lips.

Talon prayed for the dead.

Prayed for Michelle.

Once done, he made a silent promise to himself. He’d make the monsters responsible for this slaughter regret the day they ever set foot inside the church.

CHAPTER FIVE

FATHER CABRERA STEELED himself for the worst as he followed the two strong-looking male orderlies through the stark psychiatric wing of the Oasis Behavioral Health Treatment Center. Sunlight shafted through a lone window at the far end of the sterile corridor, painting shadows over the oppressive walls. The teen patients remained hidden from view behind the doors that lined the hallway. The overpowering scent of Lysol permeated the ward, almost as if the cleaning staff believed their efforts could both scrub out stains and cleanse the ward’s troubled inmates of their demons.

And that’s why Cabrera was here today, decked out in his full vestments and carrying an exorcism kit.

Demons.

Her name was Nicole Robertson, age fifteen. A month earlier, she’d made a terrifying splash on the Internet when she slit her dog’s throat and painted demonic symbols on her body. She filmed the horror with her brand new iPhone 1 and uploaded the video on an increasingly popular new website called YouTube. Within hours of the footage hitting the Web, the police arrived at her house and she was committed to the Center.

Nicole wasn’t responding to medication, and her madness had only deepened since arriving at her new home. Nicole’s desperate parents contacted the Church for help. They believed that sinister forces were at work within their daughter.

Cabrera’s first instinct in such cases was to look for a psychological explanation of the problem. Abuse, a stressful living situation, bullying at school; any of these factors could push an impressionable teen to the edge. But after talking with Nicole’s parents, he concluded he was dealing with good, loving people at wit’s end. Nicole was a popular, well-adjusted, attractive young lady whose behavior had transformed overnight.

Her parents’ despair, coupled with the savage, occult undertones of the YouTube video, convinced Cabrera to check in on the girl. After visiting her three times over the last week, he’d concluded that a demonic entity was indeed responsible for her shocking behavior.

The orderlies stopped in front of Nicole’s room. One unlocked the door, his keys rattling in the silent hallway. The lock turned with a rasp and the door swung open. The cell beckoned. As Cabrera stepped into the padded room, a wave of cold air hit him. There had to be at least a ten-degree difference between Nicole’s room and the rest of the ward. Eyes still adjusting in the dim light, he heard Nicole’s voice before he saw her.

“Father Cabrera, please forgive me, for I have sinned.” The words were followed by a guttural, amused cackle.

The straitjacket-wearing young woman crouched in the far corner and snarled mockingly at Cabrera. Unwashed hair caked her forehead, slitted eyes hinting at a malevolent cunning. He knew from reports that terrible scars defiled Nicole’s body but her white sweats and restraints hid the marks of the beast.

The occult symbols weren’t restricted to the canvas of her body, but extended to every available surface of the padded room. Etched in blood and excrement, the blasphemous messages made Cabrera shudder. At first the orderlies had hosed down the walls, but the unholy graffiti kept returning and they’d finally given up. Even putting Nicole in a straitjacket hadn’t put an end to the phenomenon. A terrible supernatural force was at work here.

“My sins are many, where should we begin…?”

Cabrera didn’t verbally engage the entity. The time for words was over. Tonight he would be going to war with the demon. He opened his leather satchel and nodded at the two orderlies to close the door. They would remain at his side in case something should go wrong. Their eyes flitted nervously around the dark, foul-smelling cell, perspiration beading their faces.

This is definitely their first exorcism, Cabrera thought. Not that anyone could ever get used to what lay ahead.

He removed a Bible, vials of holy water and a golden cross, which contained bone fragments from nine different saints. These were essential weapons in the arsenal he’d bring against the vile creature residing within Nicole.

“I see you came prepared today, Father. Finally convinced yourself you aren’t dealing with some head-case with daddy issues?”

“There is no sanctuary for you here.”

Cabrera flipped open his Bible and began to read. Nicole squirmed and writhed on the padded floor.

As Cabrera’s voice picked up in speed and volume, he splashed Nicole with holy water. A monstrous howl exploded from her throat and the orderlies backed away, their terror growing.

“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit…”

Nicole’s seizures gained in intensity. “The child belongs to me,” the inhuman voice proclaimed.

“…Deliver us from the evil one.”

Cabrera held up the cross and Nicole reared back. Her hissing ceased and gave way to a nerve-shredding bellowing sound, more animal than human.

Words of prayer flowing from his lips, Cabrera approached the writhing young woman on the floor. This was the most dangerous part of the ritual. It necessitated direct contact. Timing and focus would be crucial. One single misstep, and the exorcism would falter.

He raised the cross, which was his most powerful weapon against the inflicted, and pinned it to Nicole’s forehead. There was no sizzling flesh, as the movies would have the public believe, but the contact triggered a violent reaction in the possessed. Nicole began to snarl and spit, nostrils flaring. Her eyes rolled back, revealing black sclera.

“The power of the Almighty commands you!”

Nicole’s head reared back, accompanied by the cracking of bones. Her mouth widened and something dark and inhuman slithered from between her bloody lips.

Cabrera fought back revulsion as he watched a black scorpion crawl from Nicole’s open mouth and slither up the wall of the padded cell. A shrill scream exploded from Nicole’s throat and she slumped forward, completely spent.

Cabrera’s heart hammered as the fast-moving scorpion scurried away from Nicole. He couldn’t let the demon escape. Even though he was in his mid-forties, Cabrera kept himself in peak physical condition. Running and boxing were part of his daily regimen. He depressed a switch on the cross and a blade snapped out at the bottom. Moving with the speed of a man half his age, he drove the blessed blade into the escaping scorpion. The entity squirmed but couldn’t resist the crossblade’s holy power for long. Stinger flailing helplessly, it dissolved into thin air.

It was over. Once again he’d racked up a victory against the forces of darkness…

Sudden movement behind him made him wheel toward the two orderlies. They glared back at him, their faces now transformed into snarling, demonic masks.

A powerful pair of hands sprouting claws snapped out at him and closed around his collar, squeezing. A choked garble escaped from his lips as this vise-like grip cut off his oxygen supply. The world grew dark around the edges, reduced to the two red-skinned devils with obsidian eyes.

Like the soldier in the church…

Cabrera screamed.

***

His eyes snapped open and he awoke inside a hospital bedroom that only vaguely recalled the padded cell from his nightmare. A narrow beam of sunlight trickled through a curtained window to his right. A clock informed him that it was around five thirty and he spent most of the day asleep. His throat felt parched and he reached for the water bottle resting on the nightstand.

“Father Cabrera, we have to talk.” The male voice startled the priest and he almost dropped the water bottle. Cabrera turned toward the stranger, who cut a dark silhouette in the dimly illuminated hospital room. Though he wore scrubs, the steel in the stranger’s eyes didn’t promise a good bedside manner. Cabrera’s instincts told him this man was no healer.

Weirdly enough, he didn’t feel afraid. After witnessing the massacre in his church the other day, his capacity for fear had changed. Like a captain insisting to go down with his ship, he’d wanted to join his congregants in death. But the demonic soldier had let him live. One lone survivor to spread the dark tale of what had happened that day, forced to carry the guilt of having been spared when others perished.

Cabrera hadn’t talked with anyone yet about what had happened back at the church. He’d been in and out of consciousness ever since they brought him to the hospital. The last time he woke, an FBI agent had dropped by to check in on him but he’d still been too groggy to talk. The agent – what was his name again, Doyle? - had promised to return later but the man standing in his room wasn’t him.

“Who are you?” Cabrera asked.

The stranger took a step toward the bed. The sneakers of nurses would squeak on the rubber floor but the stranger made no sound as he closed in, displaying an almost preternatural economy of movement. He eased from the shadows and rough-hewn features complemented by a lean, wiry build came into focus. The gray eyes were those of a killer, even though Cabrera sensed that the man hadn’t come for that purpose. If the stranger wished him ill, he never would have awoken from his slumber.

Cabrera wondered for a second if the man might be another FBI agent who worked with Doyle, but a special agent wouldn’t wear scrubs. Only one reason explained his attire. The stranger was trying to blend in and avoid undue attention from the hospital staff. Requesting a formal visit would have meant answering questions, and this man looked like he cherished his privacy.

“I’m sorry about what happened at the church.”

“Thank you, but you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

The man’s gaze lingered on the scar that the demonic soldier had etched into Cabrera’s forehead — an inverted cross. Branding him with the mark of their cause and ensuring that he could never again offer comfort or forgiveness as a priest. He had only been allowed to live as a reminder of their ungodly power.

“All you need to know is that I’m trying to stop the men that attacked your church. What did they want from you?”

Cold determination shone in his eyes. There was a grim certainty in the stranger’s voice, and bleak commitment. That’s when it hit Cabrera. The man had to be military. It seemed so clear now. His ramrod-straight posture, his no-nonsense bearing, the way he’d positioned himself where a stray nurse wouldn’t spot him if she should pop in unexpectedly. Watchful, alert, one with his surroundings. And this insight brought another question to Cabrera’s mind. What kind of war was this soldier fighting?

Cabrera sensed that this man would never share his secrets, but he also knew the soldier was telling the truth. For whatever reason, he wanted to avenge the dead congregants.

Cabrera took a deep breath and spoke. “I believe these killers were soldiers.”

The man grew pensive as he processed this information and arched an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

This was the first time Cabrera had discussed the massacre and waves of anxiety washed over him. He thought of the woman the demon soldier was looking for. She was in terrible danger. Someone had to warn her…

“There were about fifteen of them, all following the orders of one man,” he said. ”The way they moved, the way they killed… I’ve done missionary work in Somalia and I’ve confronted my fair share of armed militia. These men were professionals.”

The stranger considered this for a moment before he said, “I know about the training you received in Rome. Two other priests with the same training were murdered within the last week. Why are you alive?”

I was spared because the devil knew death would be a mercy, Cabrera thought, but instead he said, “I gave them what they were looking for.”

“Go on.”

The words flowed easily. Cabrera told the stranger about the demon that had invaded the sanctuary of his church and turned it into a killing field. He also told him about the young woman whose soul he’d saved eight years earlier. Whose soul might once again be in need of saving.

Nicole Robertson.

CHAPTER SIX

AROUND THE SAME time that Talon entered Cabrera’s hospital room, Nicole Robertson received a text from her roommate and best friend, Ashley. “Hitting Hal’s for happy hour drinks. You down?”

Nicole yawned, downed her eighth or ninth cup of coffee for the day and responded, “Count me in.” A drink or two would put the challenges of her new job in perspective. Her first year as a hospital RN was making her miss college. At the end of the day she felt drained and before starting a shift, she’d wake up in the middle of the night full of anxiety, wondering about facts and procedures she needed to remember. The demands were overwhelming and she was beginning to understand the high turnover rate among new nurses.

School hadn’t quite been able to prepare her for what the actual job entailed. There were so many different types of patients that required her attention, and each day brought new lessons. But she was hanging in there. As one of her teachers used to say, “Nursing is an art, a science, a way of life and a privilege.” Nicole saw it as a calling. She wanted to help people and despite the long hours and lack of sleep, she could feel her confidence growing. The work was tough, but rewarding.

She wrapped up her charting, slipped out of her scrubs and clocked out. She was looking forward to some downtime with her roommate. Even though they shared the same living space, they barely saw each other nowadays. Ashley worked nights at a restaurant while Nicole disappeared for twelve-hour shifts during the day. An evening out to have some fun and catch up was long overdue.

She wished her co-workers goodnight and strode through the wing of the children’s ward. Before leaving, though, she couldn’t help but check in on her newest patient one last time. Manuel Rodriguez was seven years old, but the serious expression on his cute little face gave him the gravity of an adult. He was scheduled to have his tonsils removed the next day and when she entered his room, his contemplative, concerned gaze met hers.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

Manuel looked up from the Batman comic book in his hands and a hint of a smile lit up his face. They’d become best buds rather quickly. Manuel’s mother worked two jobs; Mrs. Rodriguez was a nanny during the week and cleaned houses on the weekends. Manuel knew his mom worried about the cost of his hospital bills and didn’t feel good about leaving her little boy on his own for his first surgery. Ironically enough, Manuel worried more about his mom worrying about him than he did the surgery itself. Seeing him trying to be tough and brave touched Nicole’s heart and all she wanted to do was give the kid a warm hug and reassure him that everything would be okay.

“Tomorrow is a big day. You should get some rest.”

“I’m not feeling sleepy.”

Nicole could relate to his insomnia. She’d spent countless sleepless nights over the years, her mind drawn back to a past she’d rather put behind her for good.

“Want me to read you something?”

For a moment the boy’s eyes brightened, and he nodded enthusiastically. Nicole grabbed the comic and dived into the story. She hated to keep Ashley waiting, but she’d feel worse knowing that little Manuel spent the night before his surgery wide awake. Fortunately, her roommate knew how to entertain herself – the girl wasn’t exactly shy.

By the time Nicole had finished reading the comic, Manuel was fast asleep. Smiling, Nicole dimmed the lights and snuck out.

She scanned her phone as she rode the elevator down to the parking structure. The text from Ashley read: Making new friends – hurry. The message was accompanied by a selfie in which she posed with two attractive young men. As expected, Ashley wasn’t wasting any time. She’d found some boys. Cute boys, too.

Damn, she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d gone out on a date, her social life was pretty much non-existent nowadays. Suddenly nervous she got into her Nissan Sentra and studied herself in the rear-view mirror. She looked like crap. Doing her best to ignore the bags under her eyes, she straightened her hair while she re-did her make-up. She was wearing jeans and a stylish blouse. Not her hottest outfit by a long shot but she didn’t want to waste time heading back to the house she and Ashley rented twenty minutes outside of downtown Sierra Nogales. The town was located right near the US-Mexican border and counted a population of 9000. She’d moved here right after she wrapped her nursing degree at the University of Arizona. The place was a sleepy, close-knit community, a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles where she’d grown up.

She had found something in Sierra Nogal that had eluded her back home. Peace. Maybe even the possibility of future happiness.

She started the Nissan and drove to Hal’s, a local dive bar located only twenty minutes from the hospital. Aerosmith blared from the jukebox as she set foot in the crowded bar. Ashley was in the back, busy playing pool with the two guys from her selfie, completely at ease with all the male attention. Sometimes Nicole wished she shared her confidence when it came to boys.

Here we go, she thought.

She ordered a Budweiser, took a deep sip and headed over to the pool table. Her roommate enthusiastically waved her over. “There she is. Save any lives today?”

“No, but I did clean out a couple of bedpans… And spent fifteen minutes trying to find a vein.”

“Okay, gross, too much information. By the way, this is Paul, and this is Rob. Fellas, meet my roommate Nicole.” The two men were tall, fit and handsome. Nicole drained the rest of her beer, made eye contact with the bartender to indicate she would need another drink, and joined the game. Part of her would rather just sit down and chill out, but the odds were good she might nod off, despite the blaring jukebox and raging pheromones. The adrenaline of the game combined with the masculine energy around her kept Nicole on her toes. By the time the last ball clacked into the pocket, she had enjoyed her second beer and was starting to feel pretty good.

God, I needed a night like this. Nevertheless, she experienced a pang of anxiety when Ashley suggested that their two new friends join them at their place, for a round of drinks. A buzzed Ashley winked at her conspiratorially and whispered, “Live a little, girl.”

Nicole grinned. Tonight she’d follow Ashley’s advice. Lately her life had been reduced to work, work, work. Time for her to come up for air and have some honest-to-God fun.

They stumbled into their two-bedroom rental home, laughing. Ashley offered everyone shots while Nicole plopped down on the couch. On second thought, bad idea. She was hit with a wave of drowsiness. Rob sat down next to her. Within seconds, his strong arm was wrapped around her shoulders and she was wide-awake again. Ashley squealed playfully as Paul disappeared with her into her bedroom.

Nicole wasn’t big on casual hook-ups. As a nurse she was a little too aware of the various diseases floating around out there. But between the alcohol and her long period of celibacy, she decided she might make an exception tonight. Rob smelled great and she could feel the play of hard muscles under his tight shirt. He kissed her face, his tongue tracing her neck while his hand unbuttoned her blouse… Whoa, this was happening fast. But she was enjoying herself and decided to go with the flow.

Rob opened her shirt, his hand slipping inside, brushing over her skin…

And paused.

His fingers traced the webbed flesh of her scar.

Nicole swallowed hard. She’d hoped the beers and the living room’s low lighting might not make him pay attention to the scar that ran from her belly button all the way to her pubic area. She always dreaded these first encounters, the questions that would come up and the lies she’d have to counter them with.

“What happened?” was the standard opening salvo. Eight years ago, a demon claimed my soul and used my body as a scratching post. That’s what she wanted to shout in situations like this, but instead she would lie and say, “Car crash, banged me up pretty good.”

Rob reacted differently than the others. His eyes gleamed with a strange sense of awe as he lovingly caressed her scar tissue. There was something almost reverential about the act that both turned her on and unnerved her.

“I have a scar too,” he said.

“From the war?”

Rob told her earlier that he’d served in Afghanistan. With a warm smile, he shook his head.

“Let me show you.”

He unbuttoned his shirt. “I received this mark as a symbol of my devotion…”

As he spoke, Nicole heard a muffled thump from inside Ashley’s bedroom and a strangled scream that turned into a pitiful whimper.

The warm smile on Paul’s face had vanished, his expression now etched with fanatical glee. “We’ve been looking for you, Nicole Roberts.”

The use of her real last name — the name she lived with for seventeen years before legally changing it to Nicole Stivers — chilled her to the bone. After the incident eight years ago, she’d become a target of every wacko ghost hunter or religious zealot out there. Changing her name was her way of starting over and regaining ownership of her life. But the past had a way of catching up with you.

Rob finished unbuttoning his shirt. A scar in the form of an inverted cross ran from his collarbone all the way down to his belly button. Before Nicole could respond, Rob’s fist snaked out at her. The punch knocked her back into the couch. For a stunned beat, the room spun. The coppery flavor of blood filled her mouth and it propelled Nicole into action. Before Rob could strike her again, she rolled off the sofa, hit the living room carpet and feathered back to her feet.

As Rob lurched toward her, Nicole’s mind grew calm.

Eight years earlier a demon had violated her body and invaded her thoughts, nearly claiming her soul in the process. Her inability to defend herself had been the worst part of the ordeal. She swore to never be so helpless again, at least not against a flesh-and-blood opponent. She started taking self-defense classes and learned how to handle guns. Knowing Krav Maga was empowering, but a skilled male fighter wouldn’t just sit still and let her gouge out his eyes or kick him in the balls. A gun, on the other hand, was the ultimate equalizer in any fight, putting a 100-pound woman on equal footing with a 250-pound assailant. Her preferred firearm was the Glock 19, a compact version of the 9mm Glock 17, the favored sidearm of law enforcement. It was designed to reduce the amount of recoil experienced by the shooter, and the grip was fully adjustable. An excellent gun for a female and it could easily be concealed.

She kept her Glock in the bedroom. Odds were good that Rob would catch up with her before she made it into the room and she’d fail to reach the weapon in time. How to slow him down? Struck with sudden inspiration, she snatched the vase from the end table and swung it at Rob with all her strength. The vase whipped across his face and snapped his head back. No sound escaped from his lips as he flew backward and slammed into the hardwood floor.

Ashley’s screams intensified.

Nicole had to help her friend. But first she needed her gun. Still a bit buzzed from the beers, Nicole stumbled into her room. Hands shaking from the fight, she reached the dresser, pulled out the bottom drawer and grabbed the Glock. She rushed toward Ashley’s room.

In the living room, Rob remained sprawled on the carpet, still groggy from the blow to the head. Ashley’s screams were still building in intensity. Oh God, what is that psycho doing to her?

She dreaded the answer but still managed to kick open the door to Ashley’s bedroom. The door swung back and she stepped inside, gun up and… froze. Ashley stared back at her with big wet eyes, lips quivering. A deep gash ran across her throat and spurted red onto her pink comforter.

No…

The light in her scared eyes was already fading. With one hand Paul finger-painted occult symbols on the wall in Ashley’s blood, while the other clutched a bloody knife. Paul turned. He was shirtless and sported an inverted cross on his chest, a twin to Rob’s scar.

Knife up, he barreled toward her.

Nicole trained with her Glock at least once a month and what happened next was automatic, more reflex than conscious action. She fired and the bullet tore through Paul’s inverted-cross scar almost dead center. The knife clattered on the floor as he went down.

She’d expected her hands to tremble, but her grip on the Glock was rock steady. Gun out, she moved deeper into Ashley’s bedroom. She didn’t have to be a nurse to know the glazed expression on Ashley’s face meant that she was dead. Poor Ashley… She couldn’t be gone.

Hot tears welled up and now her initial calm began to waver as the reality of what had happened came crashing down on her. Who the hell were these freaks? For years she’d worked hard to establish a sense of normalcy in her life, and just when she was beginning to feel hopeful about the future…

All thoughts stopped when she recognized the image on the wall. Her parents had paid a small fortune in reconstructive surgery, but some of the scars of her possession ran too deep to be erased by a scalpel or a laser. The bloody symbol dripping onto the bedpost was identical to the occult sigil etched into her stomach.

The mark of the demon.

Oh my God, it’s starting again.

For years psychologists had tried to convince Nicole that her feeling of being possessed could simply be explained away in psychological terms. To their way of thinking, she’d been going through a difficult phase. Nicole knew goddamn well that her experience hadn’t been some phase. She’d stared into the abyss and an unfathomable evil had risen from it to nearly consume her. It had taught her a vital lesson.

Evil was real.

The darkness was real.

And now it was beginning all over again.

She heard footsteps behind her and whirled, but the man sneaking up on her was faster. The butt of an AK-47 slammed into her head. Seeing the sigil of the demon oozing down Ashley’s bedroom wall had distracted her long enough to give the assailant the upper hand.

She dropped to the floor, reality becoming blurry. She caught a brief glimpse of a man dressed in combat black, eyes peering from a ski mask like he was auditioning for the part of a burglar on some crime show.

And then the world turned dark.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SPECIAL AGENT FRANK Doyle was on his way to question Father Cabrera when he spotted the male nurse emerging from the priest’s hospital room. The growing escalation of these crimes and their religious angle had necessitated the involvement of the FBI. As their resident expert on cult crimes and ritualistic Satanic abuse, Doyle had been tasked with the job.

He’d met all the nurses and doctors responsible for Cabrera’s well-being earlier in the day, yet this man leaving Cabrera’s room was a stranger to him. There could be a perfectly innocent explanation for this newcomer’s presence, however, and at this point Doyle was still more curious than suspicious.

The male nurse pivoted and walked down the corridor in the opposite direction. His gait was relaxed, deliberate. But Doyle’ alarm bells were going off. There was a coiled intensity in the man’s features, a lean, almost wolfish quality. He looked dangerous.

Doyle decided to have a few words with the new face. “Hey, wait up… I want to talk to you about the patient…”

The male nurse never looked back and never slowed down.

Doyle followed. “Hey, I said hold on…”

The man in scrubs disappeared around the next corner. Doyle loped after him. He came around the bend and saw the man vanish through a door that led to the staircase. At 33, Doyle ran every day and considered himself in better shape than when he first joined the Bureau. Picking up his pace, he sprinted and reached the staircase seconds later. His quarry was already a flight down, taking two steps at a time.

Doyle pounded down the stairs. The male nurse disappeared through another doorway, and Doyle tore after him. Arriving in a deserted corridor, he spotted the stranger farther ahead, now striding briskly toward a set of double-doors.

Doyle followed. He still hadn’t called for backup, partially because he was baffled by the situation. He drew his pistol, barged through the doors and entered the hospital morgue. Freezers lined the walls. Harsh, fluorescent light spilled down on the shroud-covered bodies resting on their shiny steel slabs.

The dead triggered a flashback to the terrible scene he’d encountered in Cabrera’s church only 48 hours earlier. Walking into that defiled setting and taking in the bloody remains of the men, women and children sprawled among the pews like broken dolls had torn him up inside. He’d sworn right then and there to bring to justice the monsters responsible for these heinous crimes.

Doyle took a few hesitant steps, moving deeper into the morgue. He passed the row of corpses, choking back the chalky taste in his mouth. A sudden noise made him whirl and he spotted one of the dead bodies rising from a table behind him. The revenant cast off its shroud, revealing the male nurse.

Doyle leveled his pistol just as the man shoved a nearby gurney toward him. Wheels screeched over the stone floor as the gurney slammed into his stomach and the shot went wild. He gasped and desperately tried to regain his bearings but before he could, the stranger loomed above him. His attacker snatched Doyle’s arm and twisted until he released his pistol. It clattered to the floor.

Before he knew it, Doyle was looking up at the muzzle of his own gun. The man’s penetrating gaze bore into him.

“Who the hell are you?” Doyle asked.

The stranger’s answer was to back away toward the exit and turn off the lights, plunging the morgue into blackness.

Doyle followed the sound of the swinging doors, trying not to think about all the dead bodies that shared the darkness with him.

By the time he stumbled his way out of the morgue, the stranger was long gone.

CHAPTER EIGHT

CASCA ARRIVED IN Silicon Valley right on time to attend Xtel’s monthly board meeting. His father had built a technological empire in the early seventies and Xtel chips could be found in twenty-five percent of all computers on the market. It represented the source of Casca’s wealth and power, but he’d never fully embraced his legacy as CEO of a billion-dollar-plus conglomerate. Consequently, he wasn’t exactly enamored with corporate rituals and saw these meetings as a necessary evil, at best.

Once in a while, though, the boss had to check in with the men and women who took care of the day-to-day operations of the company.

Today was one of those days.

Casca struggled to keep his mind on business matters, his thoughts repeatedly shifting back to the church massacre. On the return flight to the Valley, he’d speculated about the objectives of this cult. What would drive these fanatics to hunt down three exorcists?

By the time he arrived at Xtel for the big meeting, there were seven new images on his phone. While his chief operating officer rattled off the latest sales figures, Casca stole quick glances at the pictures. The murderous cult had branded the Arizona church with seven sigils, each one representing a Judeo-Christian demon associated with the seven deadly sins: Lucifer for pride, Mammon for greed, Asmodeus for lust, Leviathan for envy, Beelzebub for gluttony, Satan for wrath and Belphegor for sloth. The sigils provided a better sense of the cult’s belief system, but still shed scant light on their goals.

Perhaps Casca was giving these murderers too much credit by assuming they had an endgame of some kind. Maybe they just liked to sign their grisly handiwork with the signatures of demonic heavy-hitters. Casca knew Talon was planning to talk with the priest who survived the massacre. Hopefully Father Cabrera could answer some of their questions.

The one-hour meeting felt like it was never going to end and Casca stifled a yawn on more than one occasion. He was eager to get back to his true calling. As the CEO wrapped up his projections for the coming quarter, his cell buzzed again. A text told him that Talon had talked to Cabrera and gotten a name.

Nicole Roberts.

Reading this gave Casca a jolt of adrenaline and all traces of weariness vanished. His breath hitched and he pursed his lips, his whole being surging with excitement. “The Exorcism of Nicole Roberts” was one of the most famous cases of demon possession in recent history. They’d written a book and even made a film about the incident. To the public it was just another exorcism tale supposedly based on a true story, but people schooled in demonology regarded it as one of the few genuine cases of possession reported in the 21st Century.

Armed with this new piece of information, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The cult wasn’t hunting exorcists. Father Cabrera and the other priests had been a means to an end – the cult was after Nicole Roberts, a young woman who had been saved from the darkness. A shiver spiked up his back and a feeling of dread settled in. It all made sense now.

Casca knew what these soldier cultists were planning to do…

And it was far worse than anything he’d previously imagined.

CHAPTER NINE

TALON CURSED UNDER his breath as he dashed out of the hospital and jumped into the Jeep Wrangler. Running into the FBI agent was an unfortunate development. He’d hoped to stay under the radar, but now the authorities would know that a new player had entered the picture. He’d have to move fast.

Arid expanses of desert stretched all the way to the pale horizon as he guided his rental past Tucson’s city limits. The wheels of his vehicle whipped over the heat-cracked highway while the white-hot sun bounced off the rocks and hills in shimmering phantom waves.

Wiping sweat from his brow, Talon sent Casca a quick text and updated him on the situation. At least they now understood the agenda driving the cult. These cultists were looking for Nicole Roberts, who had legally changed her last name to Stivers. The attacks were beginning to make sense. The cult had targeted priests with a background in exorcisms, hoping to find the one who’d performed the ritual on Nicole. That information had never been disclosed publicly.

They’d started in New York, worked their way south to Miami until they found Cabrera in Arizona. According to the priest, Nicole had recently graduated from nursing school and moved to the small Mexican border town of Sierra Nogal, population 9,000, located about two-hundred miles southwest of Tucson. Cabrera was privy to all this information because he’d continued to check in on Nicole over the years. He even believed that Nicole had gone to school in Tucson to be close to him. A precaution on her end, in case the demon should return one day.

Unfortunately, her decision to share her plans for the future had backfired.

Talon wondered how Nicole coped with the knowledge that evil could consume her life at a moment’s notice. A giant darkness hung over her, casting a deep shadow over her future. Despite these challenges, she was working hard to build a better life for herself. She struck Talon as a born fighter.

Even though he didn’t know Nicole personally, he related to her on some level. A dark entity had invaded his mind in Silicon Valley, providing a mere taste of what the poor girl had gone through. His bodily possession had lasted less than a day, but the experience still haunted him. For a short period of time another intelligence had seized hold of his mind, poisoning his thoughts, turning him into a monster… Only the memory of his beloved Michelle had managed to break the spell.

He couldn’t imagine what it was like for Nicole to share her body with such an entity for a prolonged period of time. He didn’t want to imagine it. Talon suddenly experienced an emotion he never had much time for in the past – anxiety. Hoping to distract himself, he checked the radio stations. A right-wing talk-show host went on about the evils of illegal immigration and Talon quickly turned off the diatribe. He was neither in the mood for music nor politics.

Instead, he rang Casca. He might as well spend the duration of the ride talking to the billionaire and learning more about the woman this cult was hunting. After the third ring, Casca’s educated, refined voice filled the bouncing vehicle. There was a dark urgency in his voice. He skipped any small talk and got right to the meat of the conversation.

“How well do you know the Bible?” he asked.

“Talon comes from the Italian name Talone. That makes me Catholic and a former altar boy.”

“Next you’re going to tell me that you wanted to become a priest?”

“Hey, watch it now. I’m the one who cracks the jokes around here.”

“Whatever you say, Mr. Talone.”

Talon grinned despite himself. For a moment he could pretend they were just two buddies joking around. It once again drove home the sense of camaraderie missing from his new life, away from his Special Forces unit.

The billionaire turned serious as he asked, “Familiar with Matthew 12:45?”

“Despite my Italian heritage I haven’t attended Sunday school in quite some time.”

“Verses 43 and 44 are the important ones. Matthew and Catholic demonology claim that when a demon returns to the same host, he will bring with him six other spirits, returning seven times as powerful as before.”

That explains the seven sigils at the Church, Talon thought.

“Have you ever wondered why most victims of demonic possession are teens?” Casca inquired.

“I figured they’re the only ones willing to pay cash to see a horror movie in the theater.”

Ignoring his crack, Casca continued. “You’d think a demon, an agent of darkness, would target political leaders, warriors like yourself, individuals capable of horrible destruction and harm. Yet they pick young people at the cusp of puberty, the poor and the desperate.”

Talon mulled it over for a moment and said, “They make easier targets?”

“That’s right. To break from the demons’ world into ours requires immense effort and the vulnerable soul of a child provides a beachhead from which a greater spiritual attack can be launched. It’s a first step for these parasites. The impressionable, ever-changing mind of a teenager becomes a gateway to our reality. Demons operate on the principle of preying on the weak so they can use them to take over the strong.”

“Thanks for clearing that up. I’ll never look at The Exorcist in quite the same way again. But how does any of this apply here?”

“The mass murder in the church and the slaying of the priest are all part of a larger ritual designed to draw this entity back to Nicole.”

A chill rippled up Talon’s spine despite the searing desert heat.

“This time around, the demon will return sevenfold. Making it pretty much unstoppable. If the cult succeeds, these seven entities will be able to find new hosts and begin to manipulate our world to their advantage.”

Talon had barely managed to defeat one demon in Silicon Valley. Battling seven of these monsters seemed like an impossible challenge.

“You must stop this repossession from happening, at all costs,” Casca urged.

Talon frowned as a new thought entered his mind. “If repossessing a former host allows the power of a demon to grow, why doesn’t it happen more often?”

“Driving out the demon strengthens the host to fight off future spiritual attacks. Think of it as surviving your first tour of duty. The experience hardens the victim. Most demons seek easier targets… But if someone could weaken the defenses of the once-possessed, through sacrifice, ritual and psychological warfare…”

“The demon could gain access again.”

“And once inside, it will have a far stronger hold on its victim, allowing other entities to pass through. At least that’s what all the books say on the subject.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out if the books are telling the truth.”

One last thing was bothering Talon.

“So these demons aren’t truly Judeo-Christian?”

“Their names vary from one culture another. Lucifer. Djinn. Orisha. Shedim. Vetalas. Different terminology for the same phenomenon. These entities are manifestations of the darkness, given shape and form by the occultists who are channeling the power.”

“Okay, I get it, but why would a cross or holy water harm such an entity?”

“How was the demon-slayer blade able to defeat Zagan? I don’t know exactly how it works, but if San Francisco has proven anything, we know it worked there. The spiritualists and occultists who created these weapons and designed these rituals found a way to access the light, similar to the way the cultists channel the darkness. A cross is just two pieces of wood, a vial of holy water just tap water blessed by a priest, and no matter how religious you might be, those items by themselves are useless against one of these creatures. But the same way the darkness can infect people and objects, so can the light. The exorcism ritual as practiced by the Church taps into that power.”

“In other words, it works.”

“Against one entity it does. Against seven, let’s say I’d rather not find out, despite my intellectual curiosity about the matter.”

“I guess I’d better get to Nicole before the cult does,” Talon said.

“No pressure, now.”

“Cabrera believes that the demon already walks among us. He thinks a devil leads these men. He calls himself Amon. Isn’t that the name of a demon?”

There was silence on the phone as Casca chewed it over.

“There are many Amons in mythology. You have the Egyptian deity Amun, Amon of Judah, the 7th-century BC king and the demon Amon, the grand marquis of hell and commander the forty infernal legions.”

“Charming…”

“Amon has a the appearance of a wolf with a serpent’s tail according to demonology. I doubt Father Cabrera faced such a creature and lived to tell the tale.”

“Okay, so what’s going on here?”

“I don’t know what Cabrera saw but if it was a demon, it would wear a face of a man, not a monster. These creatures want to infiltrate our world, blend in. This cult leader sounds like he is hoping to be perceived as a devil even though he’s still a man.”

Talon considered this. What Casca described was a common practice in war. Warriors went into battle wearing masks designed to transform them into something greater than themselves. Something more frightening.

“You think we’re dealing with some crazy soldier who’s playing dress-up?”

“That’s for you to find out.”

“You do realize this cult has a head start… We might already be too late.”

“Let’s keep a positive attitude for now.”

“If I do get lucky and somehow manage to get to Nicole first, where do we go from there?”

“Convince her to leave Arizona with you. She’ll be safe with me here in Silicon Valley. My security team will protect her from the militia. I also intend to contact Cabrera so he can begin the process of fortifying her mind against any renewed spiritual attack by the entity.”

“Sounds like we have a plan. I’ll check in once I have a better idea what’s going on.”

“Good luck,” Casca said and ended the call.

Even though time was of the essence, Talon maintained the speed limit. Considering the small arsenal in the trunk of his car, he didn’t want to risk being pulled. The cache of pistols, ammo, grenades and a submachine gun wouldn’t endear him to the local authorities. Even in Arizona.

The sun had already set as he entered Sierra Nogal’s city limits. The jeweled lights of the city shimmered like flames in the evening. The town seemed like a place forgotten by time. A McDonald’s and Walmart, both built in the seventies, were the newest businesses. The streets he drove through were deserted and bathed in the orange hues of sodium-vapor of streetlights. Why had Nicole chosen Sierra Nogal to start her new life?

She is still running, Talon thought. Instinctively trying to keep a low profile. And despite all her efforts, her past had still managed to catch up with her.

He checked the time. It was around nine o’clock. Nicole would most likely be home by now. Her roommate, according to Casca’s information, worked nights. Talon decided to pay Nicole a visit and go from there.

Following the directions on his GPS, it took him only fifteen minutes to find Nicole’s house. It was located near the main freeways but felt isolated. Palm and shade trees fronted a covered patio. He pulled up to the curb and parked the jeep. Most of his weapons stayed in the trunk except for the Glock in his shoulder holster and a Ka-bar strapped around his waist.

Talon walked up to the apartment and rang the buzzer. No one answered. He stood near the door and listened intently. No sounds drifted from inside the house. His gut told him that no one was home and he began to quickly pick the front lock. The lock was cheap and barely slowed him down. If people knew how vulnerable their dwellings were to a determined intruder, they’d probably invest in a better security system. Ignorance was bliss in this case.

The door snapped open and Talon entered the silent, stuffy dwelling. One glance informed him he was too late. The living room was in complete disarray. An overturned coffee table and broken vase suggested a recent altercation. The cult had gotten to Nicole first. He spotted framed photographs of a tall, fair-skinned brunette. Attractive but with a vulnerable, haunted quality to her smile. There was a sadness and seriousness there that seemed at odds with her beauty. In some of the pictures she was hanging out with a shorter, olive-skinned female whom he assumed to be Nicole’s roommate.

Talon drew his Glock and advanced carefully toward the open bedroom door. Death pervaded the air. The first thing he noticed as he stepped into the next room was a cow skull facing him from the head of the bed, bone flecked with crimson, long horns sheathed in red. The skull rested on a blood-drenched, headless female body. Demonic sigils marked the wall.

Facing the mutilated woman before him made Talon think of Michelle, and his heart sank. Another casualty in this dark war. Anger rose within him and it took a concentrated effort to regain control over his emotions.

Focus on the victim. On the mission.

Was the dead woman Nicole? He studied the body more closely. The shorter build and skin tone seemed to rule out Nicole. Besides, this cult wouldn’t go through all the trouble of tracking Nicole down to just to take her head. They had something far more spectacular in store for her.

Nicole was still alive. For how much longer was anyone’s guess.

Wary, Talon edged deeper into the room and spotted a dead man previously hidden by the bed. He was sprawled on the carpeted floor, sporting a red hole in his chest framed by the scar of an inverted cross. His wide-open eyes pointed emptily at the ceiling.

Talon dropped to his haunches and inspected the body. How had the man died? Had he been shot in self-defense? More importantly, why had the cult left behind one of their own? Maybe it was a form of punishment for getting himself killed.

He touched the man’s body. Judging from the warmth of the corpse, the man must’ve died within the hour. Dammit, he just missed them! If he’d been just a little faster…

Had anyone heard the gun being fired? The lack of cops seemed to suggest otherwise. Or if they had, they’d failed to report it. One bullet going off in the Arizona desert could easily be ignored.

Talon proceeded to analyze the man’s bare torso. He took note of the frog tattoo with the Roman numeral six hidden in the design. He recalled Cabrera’s words: “I believe these killers were soldiers.”

The Navy Seal tattoo seemed to confirm the priest’s suspicion. Classic ink for the unit was a trident, but nowadays most operators avoided unit-identifying tattoos. If a mission went wrong and an operator ended up captured in a foreign jail, Special Forces tats would be brought to the attention of the intelligence service. Selling a cover story of being a student visiting a Third World country was tricky with a trident on your shoulder. Smart soldiers hoping to avoid waterboarding and electrical shocks steered clear of classic designs.

If Cabrera was right about the cult, its members were all former elite soldiers. What would drive these men to unite under such a dark ideology? The question baffled Talon and was real cause for concern. He was up against professionals like himself. Men trained in the art of war who now served the darkness.

As Talon took a closer look at the corpse, he caught a faint whiff of an earthy, sour odor. Investigating further, a thin crust of dried droppings clung to the soles of the dead SEAL’s shoes. He’d become intimately acquainted with the smell while riding horses in the mountains of Afghanistan during the war with the Taliban.

This brought up an interesting question: Where would the cultists come in contact with horses?

CHAPTER TEN

AS THE SUN set, the purple light took on a hint of orange, the desert cooling off quickly. The twenty-acre horse ranch squatted forlornly in the expanse of sage, pine, and cacti. At the center of the property, an old Victorian home with sandblasted exteriors and grime-covered windows sagged in the dust. A rattlesnake slithered through the sand, cutting a hasty retreat as two battered pick-up trucks pulled up to the ranch. Doors snapped open and four strongly built men emerged from the vehicles.

The army of the apocalypse soldier.

More men greeted them at the house with machine guns slung over their shoulders. Two wiry, compact soldiers carried Nicole’s unconscious form to the house. Their boots kicked up dust as they navigated the dirt road to a wooden barn, past the wreck of a rust-covered Chevy wasting away like a wounded beast. A few horses grazed inside a nearby corral.

They entered the large stable where more black-clad cult members sporting AK-47s waited. Starlight bled through the rafters and played across the old oak beams and bales of hay. A pentagram drawn in animal blood covered most of the floor. The two cultists bound Nicole’s hands and feet with zip ties and lowered her in the red circle.

She lay there for a beat before one of the soldiers splashed water from a canteen over her upturned face. Nicole woke in a flash. Her eyes flickered open as she wiped her face and coughed up water.

Where am I?

The smell of compost straw, wood, and human perspiration greeted her return to the waking world, and it almost made her gag. She soaked in her surreal surroundings, desperately trying to make sense of the nightmare she’d stumbled into. Masked men with machine guns encircled her, too many to count. Assault rifles were slung over their shoulders, and they all wore black ski masks.

Who are these people?

For years she’d suffered from PTSD. Nightmares, tremors, anxiety attacks—a whole slew of emotional problems had tormented her long after she’d walked away from her hard-earned battle with the demon. Time had healed some of the wounds, but the events back at her apartment viciously reopened them. The memory of Ashley bleeding out over her comforter cut through her mind, and tears started to flow.

This couldn’t be happening…

The door of the barn creaked open and the soldiers deferentially turned toward the new arrival. This man was larger than the others, taller and with a bulkier physique. Corded muscles and a massive chest bulged under a black shirt, but Nicole barely paid any attention to the man’s stature, transfixed by his face.

The face of a monster.

The features were brutally malformed and distorted with high, inhuman cheekbones and protruding Neanderthal brows. The skin stretched over the misshapen bones was the color of blood. The worst thing were the eyes, twin pools of black with no distinction between pupil and iris. As the figure drew closer, she made out the long incisors filed to sharp points and rows of metal horns poking from the bald skull.

A demon made flesh.

At first Nicole thought the man was wearing a Halloween mask. But there was fire in those black eyes. Most people would have cowered in fear in the face of such a monster. She was afraid—possibly terrified—but Nicole wasn’t like most people. She’d experienced true evil in her short life. She’d come face to face with real monsters, creatures no Hollywood special effects wizard could do justice to. Nightmares beyond imagination. This man was an impostor, a pretender to the title.

Now that he stood at the edge of the pentagram looking down at her bound form, she realized the demonic visage hadn’t crawled out of the pits of hell but was carved into reality by the hands of a skilled plastic surgeon. Silicon to distort the skull and make it seem inhuman, dyes to change the hues of the skin and eyes, metal implants for the horns and teeth. Body modifications with a demonic twist.

What sort of individual would subject himself to this type of radical transformation? Nicole didn’t doubt that this man who dreamt of being monster was someone to fear. But she’d faced far worse.

The leader nodded at his soldiers. Three of them peeled from the group and began to light the black candles that surrounded the pentagram.

“What do you plan to do to me?” Nicole asked in a tightly controlled voice.

The apocalypse soldier extricated a Ka-Bar as he stepped into the circle. He bent closer, and Nicole could see the subtle network of scars from his radical transformation.

“You’ve shed blood and taken life, opening yourself to the darkness that once took root inside of you.” The voice was intelligent, almost refined, forming a sharp contrast to the bestial appearance.

“Who are you?” she asked. She was surprised at how strong her voice sounded, her fear tightly kept in check.

“I’m Amon, and these soldiers are my infernal legion.”

The cult leader switched to a foreign language, guttural and timeless, and the itching sensation on her belly turned to outright pain. Her hand touched her scar and her fingers came up gloved in red. The old wound oozed the way it had on the day the beast’s talons had rent her vulnerable flesh. Drops of crimson hit the markings on the floor and became one with the pentagram.

“You’re about to be reunited with an old friend,” Amon said, and the dark promise in his voice sent a chill down her spine.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE STARS PAINTED the white sands of the desert an iridescent blue. Laying flat on his chest behind a small ridge overlooking the horse farm, Talon scoured the terrain with a pair of night vision goggles. His keen hearing strained, growing attuned to the heartbeat of the night. The darkness throbbed and pulsed with movement and sounds. A sidewinder lisped in the blackness, and further off a pack of coyotes argued.

Predators hunting for prey. Talon had joined their ranks.

He was decked out in blacksuit and camouflage paint armed with his silenced Glock and Ka-bar. Extra magazines and grenades circled his waist while his Ka-Bar remained securely strapped around his leg.

Ahead, a series of corrugated metal and sandblasted wood structures stood outlined in spectral green. Barbed wire enclosed the property. Vigilant guards patrolled the buildings, with the highest concentration of firepower near the horse stables.

This is where the party is going down, Talon thought.

He was about to go up against a team of professionals. Odds were high that the dead man in Nicole’s apartment wasn’t the sole operator who’d joined this cult.

After leaving Nicole’s place, he’d used Google maps to locate farms around the outskirts of Sierra Nogal. It wasn’t like a crew of heavily armed men could all check in at a local Holiday Inn. A farm was isolated and could shelter a militia without drawing too much attention. It would make for a perfect forward operating base.

His online search had produced quick results, identifying five farms in the area. One he’d ruled out immediately because of its size. Taking over a big farm would be too risky. Bigger operations tended to come with a large work staff and a fair amount of interaction with the outside world, which this group was most likely trying to avoid. They would’ve chosen a smaller, more remote ranch owned by people that wouldn’t be missed.

The other three properties met these criteria, and Talon had checked them out one by one. The first place had turned out to be a bust. As he’d pulled up to the property, the middle-aged owners were just returning from the nearby riding trails. The second farm turned out to be a disappointment too. Even though it was way past midnight, he kept going. He didn’t know how long Nicole would have. According to Casca, killing one of the cultists had made Nicole more vulnerable to repossession. Time was of the essence. They’d have to get to her before the cult completed the ritual that would allow the seven demons to take hold of her.

Fortunately, his luck had finally improved with the next destination. He spotted the fleet of pick-up trucks, motorcycles, and Hummers from a distance, guided his Jeep off the road and parked it in a gulley hidden by thick patches of shrubs and trees. He’d slipped out of the vehicle and advanced toward the horse farm, his dark clothing allowing him to blend in with the nocturnal desert landscape.

And that’s how he found himself on this ridge studying his new enemy. The more he learned about the capabilities of this soldier cult, the more questions rushed through his mind. He now understood what they were after—but where had this band of soldiers turned Satanists come from? Did the men all belong to the same unit? And who was their leader, this monstrous figure Cabrera had described?

The answers would have to wait for now as his thoughts shifted to the task ahead. He’d been watching the place for close to an hour now, doing recon and figuring out a plan of attack. Talon knew he was outnumbered. The element of surprise might be on his side, but their superior numbers would turn the tide of the battle in their favor. Marching in like Rambo would not work. He was up against a team of armed, most likely well-trained professionals.

The idea was to strike fast, to slip into the barn and extract Nicole before they knew they were under attack. Stealth and misdirection would be required. The cult could be dealt with later when the odds were slightly more in his favor. Even though it was almost 5am, the farm was alive with lights and movements. Soldiers kept coming and going in the barn. It was obvious that the cult was building up to something big. Talon knew he’d have to make his move before the sun came up, use the cover of night to his advantage.

The plan he’d cooked up with Casca was simple. Once the asset was secured, he’d make a go for a nearby private airport where one of Casca’s private planes would be waiting for them, fueled up and ready for extraction. The soldiers would undoubtedly attempt to hunt them down, but with any luck they’d already be in the air before then. At least that was the idea.

Talon left the concealment of the ridge and moved toward the farm in a half-crouch, swiftly navigating the patches of sagebrush and rocky terrain. For a moment, he was back in Afghanistan, his muscle memory and training taking over. In Silicon Valley, he’d been out of his element, exposed and vulnerable in the urban landscape. But out here in the desert, he became just another hunter blending in with the darkness. He reached the fence that enclosed the farm and removed a pair of wire cutters from his belt. Minutes of working the barbed wire produced an entrance through the barricade. Luckily the fence wasn’t electrified.

Once inside the property, Talon made a go for the stables. There was focus and purpose to his rapid movements and it took him less than a minute to reach the wall of the first building. He pressed himself against it and breathed deeply. Easing the silenced Glock from his holster, he edged forward, the barrel of the pistol nosing ahead, his senses locking on the enemies standing guard in the night. His muscles tensed in anticipation of the upcoming combat. He hadn’t been able to prevent Nicole from falling into the clutches of this cult, but he hoped he wasn’t too late to save her.

Talon eyed the quiet, darkened windows of the nearby structures. Nothing moved. The guards circling the stables were no doubt keeping their eyes out for cops or federal agents who would announce their arrival with flashing red-blue lights and screaming sirens. They weren’t expected one lone soldier garbed in black to be sneaking up on them.

One of the guards sensed his approach but reacted too slowly. Talon’s gloved hand closed around the guard’s masked face as the knife went in right below the base of the skull, severing the brainstem. He let go of the cultist, and a lifeless sack of meat and bone hit the ground. A second man responded and caught a flash of silver as Talon’s Ka-Bar shot toward him. A moment later he was choking on his own blood, his fingers helplessly clutching the hilt of the blade buried deep in his throat.

Talon regarded the dead men, feeling nothing. They were enemy combatants in a war as savage as any being fought on the planet, one with even higher stakes. Silicon Valley had been his crucible. The man who had entered the Omicron offices had been a soldier; the man who had left that same building after defeating Zagan was the occult assassin.

His gaze ticked toward the pick-up trucks parked near the stables and a dark smile split Talon’s face. He was looking forward to raining down some hellfire on these Satanists.

CHAPTER TWELVE

NICOLE’S OLD NIGHTMARE had become her new reality. Her stomach burned with pain, her shirt drenched in red. Black candles flickered around the pentagram.

The apocalypse soldier regarded her dispassionately while his army of black-clad soldier cultists ringed the unholy circle, mouthing words in a long dead language. The ceremony was going on for hours. The deep baritone of the man’s voice grew, building into a hymn of doom—a grave warrior chant calling forth an ancient evil. Her pain intensified with each successive word.

That first year after her exorcism, Nicole had dreaded the return of the demon. Like a cancer patient who’d gone through a successful bout of chemo, she still doubted her recovery. One way she’d rebuilt her courage and self-esteem was through physical exercise designed to toughen her body. She’d started training mentally too, learning as much as she could about the occult. As a result, she was completely, horribly aware of what was happening to her.

She understood all too well the significance of the inverted pentagram and the grim markings on the ground—these men were about to summon a demon. Not just any dark spirit, but the fearsome entity that had tried to destroy her eight years ago. If her feet weren’t tied, she would’ve stormed out of the circle despite the machine guns pointing at her, preferring to succumb to a hail of bullets than allow the darkness to infect her again. A quick end was far better than the hell in store for her if the entity broke through the veil.

God, this couldn’t be happening. Not again.

Her panic was growing and she fought back her terror best she could. The incessant chanting built in intensity. Nicole was tempted to close her eyes, but the guttural words would just continue to haunt her until something else joined her in that darkness. Something not of this world.

No, hiding wasn’t an option.

She had to face the demon head on.

A fight awaited her. The biggest fight of her life. She needed to stay calm, to steel herself for battle if she was to successfully ward off his demonic force once it began to materialize.

And materialize it would.

She focused on the crowd, tried to keep her mind blank, and that’s when she saw…it.

A dark silhouette peeled from the shadows.

She blinked, thinking at first she was looking at one of the soldiers. But this outline appeared slightly elongated, lacking in detail, a shadow come to life. The cultists remained oblivious, unable to see the entity that had joined their circle. The demon revealing itself only to its intended target. She couldn’t avert her gaze, transfixed by the approaching horror.

And as the shadow closed in on the pentagram, drawn to it like a beacon in the night, she saw the others. Six more dark silhouettes broke away from the walls, almost as if the shadows of the soldiers had come to unnatural life.

All together she counted seven of them.

Seven demons.

Ice crept up her throat and her heart pounded against her ribcage. Something far worse than death was approaching, and there was no escape. How could she prevail against such superior numbers? She had failed to defeat one demon and now she was up against seven of them. Her lips quivered as she mouthed a weak prayer that was quickly drowned out by the rising voices of the cult. Dark triumph gleamed in the apocalypse soldier’s eyes. He’d recognized her mounting fear and understood its origin.

The demon was among them, ready to claim its prize.

A devastating sound like a sonic assault overwhelmed the chanting voices. It felt almost as if the outside noise had given voice to the terror and torment raging within her. What was happening?

She felt heat wafting through the air and realized it was coming from outside the barn. The cult members’ joint ecstasy gave way to alarm and Amon’s chanting faltered. Even the advancing horde of living shadows seemed to pause.

As Amon and his flock turned toward the barn’s exit, staccato bursts of machine gun fire sounded, followed by a second loud boom.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE DETONATOR INSIDE the plastic explosive fired and the pick-up truck went supernova, erupting in a volcano of steel and heat. A column of sooty flame geysered skyward before the gasses rushed back toward the center of the explosion, triggering a second, inward wave of energy.

The conflagration lit up the night, singeing Talon’s eyebrows and driving the air from his lungs. As the last pieces of flaming debris slammed into the sandy terrain with devastating force, Talon slipped on one of the dead guard’s ski masks and snatched his AK-47. Flames painted his masked face crimson, transforming him into just another cult member

His plan was simple. First, lure the enemy out of the barn with the explosion and slip inside during the confusion. Next, locate Nicole, extract her, and head to the airfield. He’d planted a total of five charges, hoping to take out the cult’s wheels. The only pursuit vehicles left would be the motorcycles.

The first explosion definitely got their attention. Already, shouts sounded from within the stables as the cultists responded to the unexpected attack.

He counted down the seconds to the next detonation. A few beats later, another charge went off, releasing nitrogen, carbon oxides, and other gasses at an explosive velocity of 8.092 meters per second. This time the C-4 vaporized a van and transformed the vehicle into a fearsome vortex of steel. Nearby, the fenced-in horses reared and whinnied in panic. He felt sorry for causing such distress to the animals, but he was certain they would be safe in their grazing area.

Soldiers emerged from the stables, machine guns ready. Talon mirrored them, blending in with the crowd—just another soldier in the army of darkness responding to the surprise attack. More shouts cut through the night as they stumbled upon the dead guards. Two more explosions were timed to go off in one-minute intervals, so he would have to move fast.

As the soldiers surged toward the blazing vehicles, Talon caught a glimpse of the towering figure in charge of this nightmare brigade. Even though he’d been forewarned by Cabrera’s description, the sight of the man-beast affected him on an atavistic level. Maybe it was his Catholic upbringing, but seeing the red-skinned, horned soldier quickened his pulse and turned his blood to ice.

It required a concentrated effort to shake off the paralyzing wave of superstitious fear and focus on the inhuman figure. The first impression was that of a medieval demon made flesh. The roaring fires brightening the night only added to that impression. According to Cabrera, the cult leader believed himself to be Amon, a demon in command of an infernal legion. Talon wondered if this soldier of the apocalypse was channeling the darkness in the same way Zagan had in Silicon Valley. Was this black magic distorting malleable flesh? Or was it a form of extreme body modification, the work of someone trying to live up to some misguided ideal? The quickest way to test Amon’s powers would be to put a bullet into his head. It would be all too easy during the confusion. Unfortunately such a short-lived victory would most likely come at the cost of his own life. Despite having a clean shot, he resisted the temptation to pull the trigger.

Talon averted his gaze to avoid catching Amon’s attention. From the corner of his eye, he watched as the cult leader with the devil face closed in on the nearest pick-up. This new charge was timed to go off any second now, and the blast would erase the monster from this reality. As the countdown ticked down, Amon advanced toward the truck and spotted the C-4. Instead of cutting a hasty retreat, he continued his approach.

Amon kneeled before the charge, his massive hand with its elongated nails closing around the C-4 as it was about to go off. Talon waited for a boom that never came.

He couldn’t believe it. How had Amon disarmed the explosive? And he was now turning his focus to the next bomb.

He knows, Talon realized. Somehow he knows about the timing of the charges.

Talon had no idea what terrible power fueled Amon’s abilities. He could theorize about what he’d seen ad naueseam with Casca once the girl was safe. For now, he needed to concentrate on his original objective.

He pulled himself away from Amon’s magnetic presence and darted into the stables, moving with singular purpose. The supernatural events were irrelevant. All his energies were now fixed on the rescue mission.

He passed the empty pens and brushed past a few troopers headed the other way. A sudden scream pierced the stables, and he realized he might be too late. The cry had come from the writhing figure at the center of the barn. Three soldiers surrounded Nicole, who was splayed out in a red circle, hands and feet zip-tied. She screamed again and shifted away from the edge of the circle as if she were facing down invisible assailants. Perhaps she was? Were demons drawing closer, visible only to the victim facing possession?

The pentagram amulet around his neck heated up, singing the skin under his black shirt and making his chest hair stand up. Casca had given him the Sumerian pendant back in Silicon Valley, a relic that protected him from the influence of the supernatural while allowing him to sense the darkness. Without a doubt, black magic was at work here.

The demons are here… I’m too late…

The three guards barely paid him any mind, their wide eyes riveted on the squirming woman battling her phantom attackers. Their expression of dark wonder never even wavered, not even when Talon shot the first soldier twice in the chest. Two more muffled pops followed, and the other masked cultists collapsed onto the straw-covered floor. The woman in the pentagram barely registered the action, consumed with her own battle. As their eyes met, Talon recognized the terror and helplessness in them.

A second later, Nicole’s gaze turned black and her lips distorted into a scream as she tore her zip-ties apart with inhuman strength. She took three steps out of the circle and collapsed, heaving and choking. The moment passed and her breathing normalized, her dark eyes clearing. No trace of the supernatural presence remained. She was simply a young, frightened woman who thought she was staring up at one of her hellish captors.

There was no doubt in Talon’s mind that some evil force had briefly touched her. Had she repelled the supernatural invader? Or was her return to normalcy merely a brief interlude before the full-blown effects of possession took hold of her? These were questions that only Casca and Cabrera could answer with any degree of certainty. His job was to get her out of this place.

Talon sensed she desperately needed to see a human face and pulled off the ski mask while offering her a gloved hand. She stared at him with blank incomprehension, face coated with perspiration, shirt stiff with dried blood.

“I’m not one of them. I’m going to get you out of here. How badly are you injured? Can you move?”

She didn’t respond. He had to tell her something to make her trust him and ensure her cooperation.

“Father Cabrera sent me.”

He eyes lit up at the mention of the priest’s name, his words finally reaching her.

Right on time, too, as the yells were becoming louder outside the stables. The soldiers were returning.

“Come with me.”

Nicole took Talon’s outstretched hand, the shredded zip-ties still dangling from her wrist, and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Seconds later, they were running to the rear exit, sounds of the fast approaching soldiers growing louder behind them.

***

One by one, her captors turned away from her, distracted by the attack. Nicole had no idea who or what was starting World War III outside the stables—and truth be told, she had bigger, more pressing concerns on her mind. The phantom shadows circling her showed no interest in the events transpiring beyond the walls of the stables. Their full attention was fixed on her as they continued their inexorable approach, drawing closer and closer. Amon shot her one final, knowing glance before following his men outside. He knows, she thought. He may not be able to see the demons but he senses their presence. Recognizes my fear.

Only three soldiers remained as the others rushed out of the barn, the armed trio utterly oblivious to the advancing horror.

Did the explosions mean that help was on the way? Had the cops, through some miracle, managed to track down her whereabouts? Yeah, right. Last time she checked, the police didn’t announce their arrival by blowing stuff up. Besides, even if the authorities were coming, they’d be too late to spare her from the gruesome horde closing in on the red circle.

Nothing could save her.

Nevertheless, she wouldn’t just roll over and do nothing. She strained against her zip-ties with all her might, surprised by her own will to survive. The entities approached in jerky, staccato jump cuts. They flanked the men guarding her for one second before popping up right in front of her.

No…

All rational thoughts gave way to explosive terror as the first of the spectral shadows lunged into the pentagram. The darkness was upon her. A final, desperate scream burst from her lungs as the shadow creature pounced. It felt like hundreds of knives tearing into her skin, setting every nerve ending on fire. The world turned gray and cold and dead, bleached of all color, a shimmering photo negative of reality.

This is how these demons see our world, Nicole realized with a mixture of horror and morbid awe. The physical-spiritual contact with the demon erased the last eight years and she was fifteen again, her arms restrained by a straightjacket, her world reduced to the padded walls of her hospital room.

The guards were pulsating bags of meat and bone, grotesque and half-formed to her changed perception. Sounds seemed amplified as the men’s hearts pounded away in their frail, mortal shells. So weak… so vulnerable. She felt sudden disgust at their base humanity, forgetting that she too belonged to this pathetic, stinking species of talking apes.

Though Nicole fought against it, a cold, alien intelligence of pure evil was rearing its head and gaining control…taking over not only her body but her thoughts and feelings.

Worst of all, the other shadows were closing in, readying themselves to follow their leader. She had barely survived with one of these demons inside of her. They would destroy her, tear her apart. They didn’t care if she survived the terrors that lay ahead. She was just a means to an end, a stepping stone toward possessing stronger vessels. The incessant demonic voices continued to rise in volume, drowning out her own, infecting her soul.

Transforming her.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye. The man was garbed like the other soldiers but there was something different about this newcomer. He was made from the same weak material as all the others, but there was also a power there, a darkness that immediately captured the interest of the evil forces inside her.

The newcomer paused briefly, and they looked at each other. Fragments of thoughts danced at the edge of Nicole’s awareness.

…The darkness has touched him…

And then the man drew a pistol and shot the three guards.

The soldiers were dead by the time they hit the ground. The voices of the demons surged at the man’s lethal efficiency.

…He is worthy…

Stop it!

…He will be perfect…

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

…We will make him our own…

LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE!

Nicole heaved and writhed, muscles and bones twisting and contorting as if they were about to tear her ligaments apart, bending her near the breaking point. The zip-ties tore as a scream burst from her lips. And then…everything returned to normal. The strange whispers grew silent, her body once again her own.

She was back in control—for the moment.

***

Talon and Nicole ran toward his jeep. There hadn’t been any more explosions, and Amon and his followers by now probably knew that their prize was gone. With three of the trucks remaining untouched by the C-4 he’d planted, it would become a race to the airfield. One man versus the demon’s army.

And speaking of the devils…

Two of Amon’s soldiers peeled from the darkness. Talon’s Glock spit fire and delivered the devil worshippers to hell. Talon switched out the pistol for the AK-47 he’d appropriated from one of the guards. Now that he had Nicole, there was no further need for discretion. Increased firepower would be called for. The chase was on.

Men ran from the stables, weapons ready. Talon spun around and swept the area with the AK-47, mowing down the first group to be foolish enough to come after him. The soldiers were thrown backward, tattooing the wooden walls red. The life in their surprised gazes dimmed while the burning wrecks flared nearby, painting the night the color of spilled blood.

Talon pulled on Nicole’s arm, urging her to hurry. He tried not to dwell too much on what he’d seen in her eyes when he first stepped up to the ritual circle. They had barely traded a glance much less spoken a word since then. There would be time for chitchat later. Nicole still seemed to be in control of her faculties, and as long as there was hope, he would try his hardest to keep her safe.

They dashed away from the horse farm as Amon’s powerful voice barked sharp orders and headlights speared the night. They reached the barbed wire where Talon had entered the property and darted into the sagebrush beyond. They were only a few minutes away from the jeep. His mind raced ahead. According to the map he’d studied earlier, the private airport was thirty miles away. It would be a literal race with the devil to see who reached the airfield first.

Just another day in the field…

The fence erupted as hell came down around them, and Talon flung Nicole to the ground. For a moment they didn’t move as bullets buzzed overhead. As soon as there was a lull in the shooting, Talon returned fire. He aimed low, hitting the legs of the incoming enemy. The men crumpled, their yells and curses music to Talon’s ears.

Knowing that reinforcements were on the way, he sprung to his feet and pulled Nicole along. Without looking back, they sprinted through the darkness, the stench of cordite and burning gasoline following them. Behind them, trucks and motorcycles revved to life, and they picked up their pace.

When they arrived at the jeep, Talon ripped the door open and Nicole wordlessly got in. As soon as the door snapped shut behind her, Talon got in on the driver side. Turning the ignition key, he scanned his rear view mirror. Headlights were approaching as the pursuit vehicles caught up with them. So much for having a head start. He pulled the screaming jeep from the gulley and headed for the freeway—an army led by a human monster hot on their tail.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE FIRST GREY fingers of dawn backlit the mountains, the desert still cool.

Talon mashed the gas pedal, driving way above the speed limit. The fanatics following him weren’t playing by any rules of the road, and being pulled over for a speeding ticket had become the least of his worries. He saw a procession of vehicles breaking over the horizon, rapidly gaining on them, their taillights streaked along the desert road. Talon counted five bikes, two pick-up trucks, one van and one Hummer.

His cell phone chirped, and he scanned the incoming text from Casca. Talon had sent a message a few minutes earlier informing him that Nicole was safe and they were headed to the airfield. Casca’s response confirmed that the Learjet would be ready. Reassuring news. The big question was whether they’d reach the airfield before the cult caught up with them.

Talon turned to his passenger. There was raw terror in Nicole’s eyes. Dried blood and mud caked her drawn and haunted features. What had happened in the barn? Based on what he’d witnessed in the stables he feared the worst. Were the seven demons already inside her?

“Who are you?” she asked, speaking for the first time since he’d pulled her from the barn.

“The guy who is going to keep you safe from these fanatics.”

She kept studying him, her intense scrutiny making him uncomfortable. For the last few months, he’d operated in the shadows, hunting his enemies without being seen or heard until it was too late. Striking like a phantom, delivering death. His ability to blend in and become invisible had been honed during his military career, but now he’d turned into a ghost in real life. Except for Casca, he’d avoided people since Michelle’s death. Having to face another human being and explain who he was and what he did made him realize how crazy and disconnected his life had become.

“You said Father Cabrera sent you. How did he know?”

Good question. Talon hated to lie, but he needed to tell her something that would make sense given the situation. A billionaire monitoring the world for occult threats and a soldier devoted to battling them might’ve stretched credulity.

His eyes never left the road as he spoke. “Two days earlier, these soldiers attacked Cabrera’s church because they were looking for you. That’s how they were able to find you.”

“But why?”

Talon recapped what Casca had told him about the entities. With each word, her face grew paler.

“I saw seven shadows back in the stables…”

She broke off, unable or unwilling to describe the experience.

He held her gaze for a beat before he said, “Father Cabrera will know what to do.”

“He won’t. It’s too late. These demons…they’re inside me now. I can feel them.”

There was a grim conviction in Nicole’s voice as she continued. “There’s only one way now. You can push me out of this moving car…or put a bullet in my head.”

Talon’s face tightened as he roughly grabbed her shoulder, repelled by her suggestion. “Don’t even say it.”

“It’s the only way. I’d do it myself, but they won’t let me. Their power over me is already growing. I can feel it.”

“We’ll find another way,” Talon said tightly, shaken by the idea of another innocent being forced to pay the ultimate price to appease the forces of darkness.

Almost as if Nicole could read his thoughts, she said, “There are far worse things than dying. Believe me. Do it now while there’s still time.”

Disturbed by Nicole’s fatalistic words, Talon turned his focus from the road to the rear-view mirror. The cultists were gaining fast.

“You’re a killer,” Nicole said. “I saw what you did back at the farm.”

“Now you listen. Between Cabrera and my partner, we’re going to beat this thing.”

She shook her head, and a lock of hair fell across her face. “Cabrera was up against one entity and it nearly killed us both.”

She grimaced, seeming to wage a silent war with herself. “You failed to save your woman. Don’t let history repeat itself.”

Talon recoiled from the words. Long seconds elapsed before he broke the silence between them. “How did…?’

“I know nothing. I know everything. I know there’s only way to stop this at this point. Please.”

Talon clutched the wheel tighter, disturbed by what Nicole was demanding from him. The road unfurled before him at nearly a hundred miles per hour. The pursuit vehicles had grown larger behind them. Amon and his army were closing the gap even though he was driving as a fast as he could. He almost wished these murderers would catch up with the jeep. He’d rather confront these cultists in a gunfight than contemplate Nicole’s chilling request for a second longer. Talon had spilled much blood over the years—but never from an innocent victim.

“The evil inside me,” she said, “I’ve only caught a glimpse of it but I know this much: it plans on destroying this world. You must send it back to where it came from. Before it’s too late.”

“We’ll find another way. You can’t give up hope…”

Without warning, Nicole’s hand shot out and grabbed the Glock. She held the pistol at her own head for a terrifying beat before putting it back. She slumped forward, shaking.

Talon took the gun from her limp hand, cursing himself for leaving it within reach.

“They won’t let me do it. I belong to them.” She lowered her head in defeat and added in a voice that wasn’t completely her own.

“We have returned sevenfold.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

PEERING OUT HER window, Nicole saw the sun rising, haze already eating up the mountains to the east. Like the arrival of the new day, the change was speeding up with each passing second.

Her thoughts and emotions were being analyzed and dissected by the seven entities that had infested her soul. They were tearing her apart from the inside. Invisible, clammy fingers probed her memories and dreams, testing her limits, her strengths. She’d worked hard to make herself stronger in case she should ever face the demonic entity again. But all her preparations were geared toward the spiritual assault by one demon.

We have returned sevenfold, the voices kept whispering. Voices practiced at deception were now speaking the truth.

How could she fight seven of these creatures?

She belonged to them now, a plaything they could do with as they pleased.

Struggling to remain in control, she regarded her savior more closely. He projected both sinewy, physical power and a practical intelligence, a capacity for violence tempered with a hint of sadness.

He’s been touched by the darkness, the voices had whispered. Touched in what way? Was he like her? A victim of a demonic possession? Is that how he knew Cabrera? The possibility of meeting someone who’d gone through the same horrific ordeal held a strange appeal.

Who was this man?

As soon as she asked the question, a name popped into her head, the seething forces inside of her plucking the information right out of the man’s thoughts.

Mark Talon.

The hard features couldn’t completely hide the empathy simmering in his gaze. The way he looked at her, they way his fingers had closed around hers as he dragged her out of the stables. This was a battle-scarred warrior with a heart, capable of taking life but never drawing pleasure from the darker aspects of his work. He wouldn’t kill her as long as he believed he could still save her.

He’s a fool! one of the voices hissed. Unwilling to embrace his potential.

In her mind, she saw the face of a woman, beautiful, full of life. Then Nicole saw her blood-soaked body covered by too many stab wounds to count…

Michelle.

The demons’ preternatural powers of perception, their ability to sense weakness and pain, was growing within her, paving a way for the entities to seize full control over her. This man had lost someone who he loved dearly. Her murder was a terrible weight that threatened to crush him. But it also fueled everything he did. The demons wanted her to use the loss against him, to twist him to their dark purpose.

Goddamn it, get out of my head! Leave me alone!

She experienced a near physical sensation of the voices backing away from her own thoughts.

They’d return all too soon, louder and more insistent than ever. The process of possession was advancing with the speed of an aggressive cancer, metastasizing.

And there was absolutely nothing she could do.

Grabbing her rescuer’s gun had quickly turned into a lesson of who was in charge here. No matter how hard she tried, she was incapable of pointing the pistol at herself and pulling the trigger.

Nicole balled her hands into fists and pressed her lips into a tight line. She did her best to focus on outside stimuli, anything to escape from the wild thoughts and images surging through her head. Concentrate on the soothing warmth of the sun against your skin, the endless stretch of road, the majestic mountains shimmering in the heat.

The convoy of vehicles was closing in on them at breakneck speed.

Any second now, a masked figure would pop out of the incoming pick-up truck’s tinted widow and spray the road with hot lead. Almost as if Talon could read her fatalistic thoughts, he punched the gas, the jeep’s engine screaming as the speedometer shot past 100 miles per hour.

Up ahead, across an expanse of desert, a cluster of lights marked the location of the airfield. It promised a chance of escape.

“Listen carefully,” Talon said. “We’re going to pull up as close as possible to my friend’s plane, get out, and make a run for it. Odds are good our new friends will start opening fire. We’re not going to look back and we’re not going to stop running. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

There was a growing suspicion in Talon’s eyes and she didn’t blame him. Smart soldier. He’d be keeping an eye on her to make sure she didn’t turn on him.

The jeep pulled off the freeway and blasted down a dirt road, the vehicle’s powerful tires raising up clouds of dust as it zipped through the entrance of the airport. They shot past parked aircraft and dilapidated hangars baking in the desert temperatures. At this time of day, the airfield was deserted except for the sleek Learjet taxiing down the runway toward them, the early morning sun gleaming off its brilliantly white surface.

For a second, hope spike inside of her again. If they made it on the plane and managed to successfully take off, maybe they would reach Talon’s friend in time. But who was this mysterious friend? Judging from the twenty-one million dollar aircraft, he definitely wasn’t a priest or an exorcist. She looked up at Talon again, but this time the demons didn’t provide any more information. All she saw was a man steering a jeep with expert skill, seemingly hellbent on breaking the sound barrier. The visions had died down—for now—and she welcomed the brief interlude of normalcy. She knew it wouldn’t last.

Behind them, their pursuers exploded through the flimsy fence that surrounded the small airport. Through the swirling sand, she spotted one of the soldiers poking up from a roof hatch. A rocket launcher rested on the masked man’s shoulder, but he wasn’t aiming at them. With horror Nicole realized the warhead was pointed at the incoming jet. Talon spotted the rocket launcher at the same moment as she did, the grim expression on his face mirroring her own.

The RPG lit up and a streak of hot flame blasted toward the Learjet.

In her mind’s eye, Nicole pictured the pilot’s reaction of terror in the face of onrushing death. An instant later, the world began to burn, and her slim hope of rescue would burn with it.

***

Talon saw the blast in his mind’s eye seconds before reality caught up with his imagination. He had witnessed a fair share of explosions during his ten years as a professional soldier, but fire and shrapnel never lost the power to strike fear in the hearts of men. As the warhead zipped by overhead, his training kicked in. He swung the wheel around hard and hit the accelerator, the vehicle’s body shaking as the tires seized the runway and carved black treads.

A heartbeat later, the missile found its target. A loud boom overtook the scene as the plane and every living thing inside disintegrated in an immense fireball. Burning pieces whistled through the air with ferocious force and slammed into the hangars and parked planes, warping metal and spreading fiery devastation.

Man, Casca will be pissed, Talon thought.

The jeep skidded away, weaving around a mad obstacle course of sizzling wreckage. A glimpse into his rear-view mirror revealed a field of destruction, the airport resembling a scorched warzone. As the flames hungrily licked across the skeletal remains of the Learjet, Talon heard the roaring engines of the pursuing convoy.

The enemy was closing in.

Talon quickly checked on Nicole and a cold shiver of dread jolted up his spine. A smile played across those beautiful features, now bathed in the halo of the fires. She inhaled deeply, almost as if death and destruction were a sweet fragrance. She caught his expression of horror and said in a mocking tone, “So what’s your next move, Sergeant?”

The question hung there as flames roared outside and acrid smoke devoured the air. Nicole’s face suddenly fell as she regained control, her perverse delight giving way to disgust. “I saw the people inside the plane…could smell them burning… and I enjoyed it. Oh my God, please make it stop!”

It’s destroying her from the inside, he thought.

Talon stared at Nicole, in equal measure drawn and repelled by her. Her vulnerability touched him, but he couldn’t forget the mask of evil he’d glimpsed moments earlier. The darkness was inside of her, twisting her beautiful features into something grotesque.

Struck with a sudden idea, he touched the Sumerian amulet Casca had given him back in Silicon Valley. The pendant was capable of channeling the light in the same way evil occult relics could tap into the darkness. Perhaps its power would protect Nicole and maybe even slow down the influence of the terrible beings raging inside of her.

Talon slammed the brakes and stopped the jeep. For a moment his pursuers were forgotten; Nicole’s soul was more important than outrunning a few thugs. He couldn’t risk just handing the amulet to Nicole. In her current Jekyll and Hyde state, she might toss the pentacle out the window if the demons deemed it a threat.

He didn’t give her warning or a chance to protest. He removed the pentagram pendant from his neck, leaned forward, and draped it over her head.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I think it might help. The pentagram is an ancient protective symbol, and—”

A screaming Ducati pulled abreast of them, bringing an end to the exchange. Their pursuers had fought their way through the scorched tangle of smoldering debris and were moving in for the kill. The fiery inferno played across the visor of the soldier’s motorcycle helmet.

Talon spotted the gloved hand targeting him with a submachine gun and the world froze. He jerked out his Glock, and reality narrowed to the pistol in his hand and the killer in his sights. He opened fire while his opponent was still trying to get a lock on him. The bullet punched through the visor, and the helmet’s fiberglass shell and high-tech EPS foam did nothing to protect him. The impact hurled the rider off his moving bike. The now riderless motorcycle kept going for a second or two before crashing to the ground in a shower of sparks.

Another motorcycle roared toward them from the passenger side. Before the attacker could target the vehicle with his submachine pistol, Talon jockeyed ahead and hammered the jeep into the incoming biker. There was a thump and a scream, which was drowned out by the sound of grinding metal as the bike slammed into a section of the burning Learjet.

Talon had no time to enjoy the victory as a van burst from the black smoke, a cultist leaning out of the passenger window, AK-47 leveled.

Right hand on the wheel, left hand returning fire with his Glock, Talon roared through the debris field while unleashing his own version of hell on earth. Bullets sliced the air around him, the windows shattering and spider-webbing under the onslaught, while Talon’s shots turned the pick-up truck into Swiss cheese.

The shooter in the truck took a slug to the mouth and he disappeared in the vehicle, frothing red. A heartbeat later, the truck was right in front of them. Talon braked hard and twisted the wheel, going into a power-slide. With a sickening crunch, he rammed the front of the jeep into the incoming pick-up truck and sent it careening in the other direction. The truck barreled into the row of parked airplanes, clipping wings and spraying metal. He flashed a wolf grin at Nicole.

They’d been lucky so far, but there was still the Hummer, the van, and one more pick-up truck to contend with, plus a few stray cultists on motorcycles.

Talon didn’t like their odds. They had to get out of the airport and back to the freeway.

Tires squealed as Talon guided the jeep off the runway and onto the sandy desert floor, leaving a billowing cloud of dust in its wake. Next up, the airport’s fence jumped into view with alarming speed. Talon never took his foot off the gas and braced himself for the impact, shouting for Nicole to hang on as the jeep tore through the fence and powered over more sand. Rocks slammed against the undercarriage like rifle shots. Talon and Nicole bounced in their seats, their bodies rocking, until the jeep hit a road leading away from the airfield and the ride grew smoother. Two minutes later, they were back on the freeway and shooting through the scorched desert landscape.

Tires devoured the two-lane strip of asphalt, the sunrise in the east a riot of pinks and purple lighting up cirrus clouds on the horizon. He risked a glance behind them. The convoy had lost a few vehicles but they wouldn’t abandon the chase. Talon wasn’t a fool and didn’t believe for a moment the apocalypse soldier was backing off. These fanatics wouldn’t give up that easily. He’d have to contact Casca and see what the next move should be.

He turned toward Nicole. The pendant still dangled from her neck, and she still seemed in charge of her faculties.

“Is it doing anything?”

She looked down at the metal disc inscribed with arcane symbols. “Whatever is inside me doesn’t like it too much.”

“Good. I guess that means it’s working.”

Nicole managed a fatalistic smile. “The amulet is slowing down the infection…but only by a little. These demons are patient, and they keep getting stronger.”

Talon nodded grimly. He hadn’t expected the Sumerian pendant to be a long-term solution, but at least it was buying them some time.

“Thanks for trying,” Nicole added. There were tears in her eyes.

Seeing Nicole like this, so fragile and yet still fighting with all her strength, reminded him of the woman he lost in San Francisco. Michelle too had been a fighter with a big heart. Nicole was an innocent victim, and he couldn’t lose sight of this vital distinction. The darkness inside of her was the true enemy here, not the beautiful girl in the passenger seat.

She looked up at him with shadowed eyes. “What are we going to do?”

Good question. They were back to square one. The hunters were still gaining behind them as they shot down the lone stretch of desert freeway. They could keep on driving until their pursuers finally caught up with them or until they ran out of gas, whichever of the two happened first.

As he considered his options, he recalled something Cabrera had shared with him back at the hospital. Several miles southeast, right at the US-Mexico border, was a monastery that could offer sanctuary. The exorcist had urged him to seek help from the brotherhood of monks who ran the place. At the time, Casca’s plan had sounded a lot better than seeking safe harbor in some supposedly holy place in the middle of nowhere. Cabrera had felt certain that the monks at the monastery could protect Nicole, but Talon remained unconvinced. The men pursuing had proven that they showed little respect for either God or country. Isolated from civilization as the order was, the desert monastery could easily turn into a death trap if the cult caught up with them there.

Nevertheless, what other options did they have? Maybe within the walls of the sanctuary, Talon could somehow hold off the enemy until Casca sent reinforcements. It was a plan. Not the best plan in the world, but the best he could come up with a bunch of cultists breathing down his neck.

He had to let Casca know about his next move. Eyes never losing sight of his pursuers in the rear-view mirror, he dialed the billionaire’s number. Casca picked up on the first ring. He’d clearly been waiting for an update.

“What’s happening?” he asked.

“Let’s just say you might need to start shopping for a new Learjet.” There was a moment of silence on the other end, and Talon added, “I’m sorry.”

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.

The nauseating smoke and gas fumes suggested they better get out of the car before the tank ruptured and turned the wreck into burning death trap. Talon tried to open the door to his right but it wouldn’t budge, the crash having warped the frame. A more extreme procedure would be in order. He twisted his body and cocked back his legs. Exhaling sharply, both limbs pistoned out full force out and smashed open the door. Ignoring the pain as glass fragments cut him, he climbed through the door.

As expected, a battle scene right out of Iraq greeted him outside. The burning wreck of one cruiser painted the desert red while the other two crashed cars were pockmarked with bullet holes and scattered along the road. A phalanx of apocalypse soldiers were advancing toward the head of the convoy. Another cultist astride a black Ducati was headed for the overturned cruiser. The fiend machine-gunned any officer that stirred, felling the cops as they groggily struggled out of their cars.

Rage coiled up Talon’s throat and galvanized him into action.

Let’s see how this bastard would do in a fair fight.

Moving fast, Talon leaned through the shattered passenger window and reached for Doyle’s shoulder holster. Never letting the approaching cultist out of his sight, his hand’s reached under the agent’s black suit jacket. His fingers were about snatch the pistol when Doyle stopped him, suddenly alert.

Before Doyle could say something, Talon clamped his other hand over the agent’s mouth and jerked his head at the incoming cultist. “One of the bad guys is approaching, and he’s not taking any prisoners,” he whispered. “You want to live, let go of the gun.”

The cultist was picking up his pace, clearly having spotted Talon.

Doyle nodded slightly and released his hand, finally cooperating. About time.

The cultist sighted down on Talon just as he liberated the Glock from its holster. He pulled away from the cruiser’s passenger side, the bullet meant for him sparking against the vehicle instead. In one fluid motion, the Glock came up and blasted lead at the soldier who was taking shots at him. The bullet struck the man in the forehead and snapped his head back. The soldier and the bike went down in a tangle of flesh and steel.

Talon surged toward the dead enemy and added the soldier’s AK-47 to his arsenal.

Up ahead, a van pulled alongside the lead cruiser. More soldiers emerged from the vehicle as Nicole darted from the car. She tried to make a run for it, but the soldiers intercepted her and she was whisked into the waiting van. At the same time, Talon realized that it was only a matter of seconds before the flames spreading across the overturned cruiser would ignite the gas tank and obliterate Doyle.

He had to choose between leaving the man to die and letting Nicole get away.

Mind made up, he began to pull Doyle out of the wreck. He was calm as he used both arms to liberate the FBI agent trapped inside. His muscles strained, the veins thickly outlined against his burnished skin. Sweat rolled down his face as he heaved.

Stay focused, he ordered himself. Fear was a great motivator—as long as you didn’t let it paralyze you. If the car blew, he wouldn’t even know what hit him. If a cultist fired a lucky shot, he’d be dead and unable to complete his mission. End of story. Giving it any further thought was a waste of energy. Better to concentrate on saving Doyle.

It took less than twenty seconds to rescue him, but time elongated while Talon struggled with the man’s weight. Fortunately the FBI agent was awake and cooperative, making the job somewhat easier.

Once the man was clear of the smoking cruiser, Talon helped the still groggy FBI agent back to his feet. He was about to pull him away from the car when Doyle stopped him.

“Wait! What about the driver?”

Talon shook his head. “He’s gone.”

There was a familiar dark flicker in Doyle’s eyes, one that had passed over Talon’s face all too often. It was never easy to lose a good man.

Together they jumped into motion, Doyle’s gait growing more surefooted with each step until they were both running, trying to put distance between themselves and the cruiser. Not a moment too soon as the hungry flames licked over the gas tank and the vehicle erupted in a devastating fireball. The heat from the explosion singed their faces, and the shockwave sent them sprawling. Doyle moaned and cursed as he staggered.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked.

I’m the guy who is going to stop these fuckers, Talon thought. Out loud, he said, “I’m one of the good guys.”

With these words, he turned back to the battlefield. The black van with Nicole inside was receding into the distance. He’d have to move fast if he hoped to catch up. He eyed the dead cultist’s black Ducati and a plan snapped into focus.

Before Doyle could protest, he rushed toward bike. He righted the downed Ducati, freeing it from its lifeless rider. He fired up the engine, and a beat later he was roaring through the gauntlet of smoking police cruisers and murdered cops, homing in on the black van ahead like a laser-guided missile.

The desert flashed past him, and he experienced a surreal sense of disconnection almost as if he’d stepped out of his body, reduced to a spectator and not an active participant in unfolding events. He was chasing after a group of devil worshipping soldiers to save a girl who was possessed by seven demons. This is what his life had turned into.

A crazy nightmare.

But were his years of fighting terrorists so different? Someone had to ward off the monsters so that rest of civilization could go on with their safe, normal lives. He’d never wanted this type of existence for himself. But the universe, God, the eternal cosmic chaos that sprang from the collision of light and darkness—call it what you will—had chosen it for him. He was a soldier; this was his war and he instinctively knew he’d be fighting it until the day he drew his final breath.

The sound of the fast-approaching van ahead forced him back to the present. Not a moment too soon as the roof hatch popped open once again. Talon had anticipated the maneuver. His gun was already sighted on the shooter seconds before the man appeared. Talon’s slug took half the cultist’s face off, but unfortunately this guy was armed with a grenade—which he dropped inside the moving van.

Talon’s pulse hitched and dread washed over him as the van erupted in a vortex of steel and flame. He braked hard, tires leaving skid marks in their wake. A twisted pile of burning metal now filled the road ahead. His stomach sank as the full horror hit him: his actions had resulted in the death of the woman he was supposed to protect.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THE SEARED EXPANSE of desert flashed past Nicole’s window, marred by patches of cacti and pine. Somehow they managed to thrive despite the blistering conditions. Out here, it was survival of the fittest. The thought gave rise to a question: Was she strong enough to overcome the dark challenges that lay ahead? Would she bloom or wilt?

Would she defeat the demons or be torn apart by them?

She sat in the back of the lead cruiser as she pondered these questions, wondering how long she’d be able to hold on before the darkness fully consumed her. She sensed that the pendant’s protective magic was waning as the demonic power grew. The voices were becoming stronger.

Her hand closed around the amulet.

Take it off! the voices whispered. Release us.

She wanted to obey the voices. Do their bidding. Give in to the darkness…

But something stopped her. Nicole knew it was a force stronger than her own will. The magic of the pendant, she realized. It was helping her resist the darkness. In the same way the demons had stopped her from turning a gun on herself, the magic of the pendant was preventing her from removing the pentacle from her neck.

She silently thanked Talon for the protective amulet. Without it…

She stopped herself from finishing the thought. Experiencing her dread might make the demons even more brazen and insistent in their urgings.

The police officer in the front passenger seat craned his neck toward her, triggering another wave of horror. Blood oozed from every orifice of the officer’s face, sheathing his quivering features. Words boomed from his rotting lips. “Aaaaare… Youuu… Aaalright?”

That was how the entities inside her saw the world, and now they were making her view it that way too. Bleeding, festering flesh… sinew and bone barely holding together…

Meat.

Please, God, make it stop…

A cry of horror worked its way up from inside of her, and she had to force it back from her lips. Her life had irrevocably changed within the last twenty-four hours, and there was no way she could go back. Her first possession had transformed her life, but the second one had shattered it. Everything she’d worked so hard to build… gone overnight She fought back the gloom of oncoming depression, recalling Cabrera’s warning that the demons fed on negative emotions…

The sound of an explosion snapped her back to reality. Outside her window, the cruiser bringing up the rear—the one with Talon inside—flipped and crashed, signaling that the horror show was back on. As the smoke cleared, the convoy of doom jumped into view. Machinegun fire cut through the air and bullets punched into the cruisers. However, the cultists targeted only the tires of the lead vehicle.

They want me alive, Nicole thought.

Bullets rocked the vehicle and she held on to her seatbelt, bracing herself both physically and mentally for the inevitable impact. The engine wailed as the vehicle swerved and skittered before braking to a sharp halt. The cops sitting behind the plexiglass drew their firearms and rushed out only to be mown down in mid-stride. One man was whipped around by the hail of lead like a ragdoll and smashed face-first into her window, his bloody features leaving a dark smudge before disappearing from view.

Is this nightmare ever going to end?

…It will… an inhuman voice answered.

…Give in to the darkness and turn your back on all this pain and madness…

She wanted to get out of the car, but her limbs wouldn’t obey her command. Her hands were shaking and she clutched the pendant, hoping to draw strength from it, but the metal burned her skin.

It’s already reacting to the darkness inside of me, she realized.

A black van shot toward the cruiser, staccato bursts of fire announcing its arrival. The sight of the incoming vehicle jolted Nicole into action. She got out of the cruiser, legs once again moving under her own volition. Her only thought was to run as far as she could, as fast as she could, to put distance between herself and the cult.

She didn’t get far.

The van screeched to a tire-scorching stop and the door opened. Armed men emerged and before she knew it, rough hands had grabbed her and pulled her into the vehicle. She tried to fight them off, but the whispering voices of the seven demons welcomed the soldiers. These men weren’t her kidnappers but a future army to command.

Once inside the van, the door slammed shut. The soldiers stayed close to her as the van began to move. For a moment she sat there, shivering, ringed by the masked soldiers. The men exchanged no words and barely stirred, as if frozen. They barely seemed human anymore. The sound of fighting and dying faded away as the van sped from the scene. Then Nicole heard something new: the roar of a motorcycle engine.

Could it be Talon?

Impossible, she’d seen the cruiser flip over. He was dead, or as good as.

But who else would be trying to save her?

Fool! hissed the voices in her head.

The promise of renewed combat sparked the cultists to life. One man grabbed a grenade from his belt and flung open the roof hatch. As he stuck his head out, a gunshot echoed, and a beat later, the man dropped into the belly of the van, his face cratered. The grenade flew from his hand, the pin already pulled. The remaining soldiers alternately tried to grab it or kick it away, but there was no escape. Reality slowed as the grenade detonated. An instant later, Nicole found herself at the center of the maelstrom of disintegrating steel and roaring fire.

***

Flames painted Talon’s face crimson as he approached the smoking wreck of the van that had become Nicole’s funeral pyre. The last remaining pick-up truck and the Hummer had stopped about a half a mile down the road. How many soldiers remained in Amon’s army at this point? He wasn’t keeping track of the body count, but with the destruction of the van, there couldn’t be more than a dozen men.

Almost an even fight, Talon thought bleakly.

But what was there left to fight for? The apocalypse soldier’s prize had gone up in flames.

His gun had killed the soldier, which in turn led to the grenade going off. A quick reflex with catastrophic consequences, a series of chain events that couldn’t be undone. His boots crunched in the sand as he stepped off the asphalt and zeroed in on the skeletal wreck. No way Nicole could’ve survived.

Talon had failed to save her. Another innocent, lost.

He froze, breath hitching in his throat. He spotted movement from the ruined vehicle. How…?

A shape emerged from the burning wreck of the van. A figure was approaching him in the desert like a mirage, closing in with preternatural grace. Nicole was walking straight toward him, unscathed by the explosion. Her jeans and T-shirt didn’t show even a smudge of soot, and her face was without a scratch.

Impossible.

He remembered what she’d told him earlier: Kill me now before it’s too late.

He regarded her with a mixture of relief and terror. He was elated to see her alive but knew this wasn’t result of some miracle. The demons had protected her, using their dark magic to preserve the vessel that housed them.

“Nicole?” he said. “I don’t believe it.”

“That’s why you won’t win this fight,” Nicole said coolly as she brushed past him.

“Who am I talking to now?” Talon asked as his fingers tightened around the AK-47. Even though he doubted a bullet could harm Nicole at this point, he was reassured by the machine gun’s weight.

“I’m still in charge. Thanks to this.” She pointed at the Sumerian pentagram amulet draped around her slender neck. She inclined her head toward the approaching vehicles. “Time is running out. They’ll be here soon. We better get going.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AS SOON AS the soldier stepped out of his hospital room, Father Cabrera began to pray for Nicole. He didn’t know exactly what the cultists planned to do with her, but he sensed it would make the massacre at his church pale in comparison.

When he woke up the following morning, news reports of the murder of Ashley Rose greeted him. Cabrera’s stomach knotted and his mouth went dry. The twenty-two-year-old waitress had been found decapitated in her home, and her roommate Nicole Stivers missing. All the evidence at the scene suggested an occult connection to the terrible crime. There was no doubt in Cabrera’s mind that the cult was behind these atrocities.

The next hours were filled with worry. Four years ago, Nicole had shown up at the steps of his church. There had been a haunted quality to her beauty, an edge borne out of the unholy trauma of her possession. But he’d immediately recognized strength in those sad features too, as well as a desire to move on. She’d decided that she wouldn’t live her life waiting for the past to catch up with her. That meant she needed to be prepared in case the beast returned and wanted to learn how to fight back. Cabrera had told her to return in a week and he’d teach her what he knew. And so he had. Over the course of their sessions, he had shared meditative techniques that would allow her to control her possession. Channel it. Possibly even defeat it.

Would these ancient teachings work in a time of crisis? He didn’t know for sure. But their weekly meetings had empowered Nicole and rebuilt her confidence. Seeing her flourish had filled him with joy. She’d become like a daughter to him.

The possibility that Nicole was now a prisoner of this cult pained him deeply. As long as there was hope that she might be with the soldier, he couldn’t give in to despair. He’d urged the man to take Nicole to the Monastery of the Holy Trinity in the desert. She’d be safe there. The brotherhood would protect her. Had the soldier followed his advice? There was only one way to find out.

Father Cabrera would have to travel to the monastery himself to make sure Nicole was safe. Over the protests of the nurses, he checked himself out of the hospital. Less than an hour later, he was on his way to the American-Mexican border.

The unforgiving desert landscape flashed past the car windows. Dry winds blew tumbleweeds over the highway, while the clouds traveling above the horizon swirled and boiled. Father Cabrera muttered prayers under his breath as he steered his white Buick Le Sabre down the heat-cracked concrete.

The prayers served a twofold purpose. They calmed his frayed nerves, relaxing him, while also preparing him mentally and spiritually for the fight ahead.

The weight of the golden crossblade, which contained the bone fragments of the 9 saints, felt reassuring beneath his palm. The relic had been instrumental in defeating the demon eight years earlier and rested on the passenger seat within easy reach. He prayed its power wouldn’t fail him this time around.

On the road for thirty minutes, his cell phone suddenly chirped. The call came from an unlisted number. A youthful, educated voice greeted him on the other end. The man didn’t offer a name but told him that he worked with the soldier, and he quickly brought Cabrera up to speed. Nicole’s soul was once more in danger, the demons having returned sevenfold. The soldier and Nicole were on their way to the monastery with the cult hot on their tail.

Cabrera’s expression darkened at the news. He’d shown Nicole ways to stand up to one demon, not seven. How could they hope to defeat an entire legion of these entities? The mysterious caller had a plan, but it would require both Cabrera and the brotherhood. Facing seven demons at once was an impossible challenge, a hopeless endeavor doomed to failure. But someone had to try to stop these monsters.

Someone had to save Nicole.

Mountains rose to the east, confirming that he was closing in on his destination. He guided the Buick off the freeway and pulled onto a dirt road, the only way to access the isolated monastery.

Thirteen miles later, he drove into the canyon. A wailing wind greeted him as the monastery jumped into view. The chapel’s tower grew from the barren earth, a larger and more majestic version of his own humble church. It overlooked the dusty road like a watchful guardian. A series of structures clustered around the chapel, consisting of the monks’ cells, the cloisters, and a gift shop stocked with books and religious items. A stone wall ringed the buildings.

The monastery struck Cabrera like a natural extension of the desert, perfectly blending in with its surroundings. Sand dotted with scrubs and cacti was everywhere, and the broken finger of a craggy mountain loomed above the holy structure like a second spire. The sun played off the jagged rocks and the chapel’s skylights, filling the arid land with shimmering illusions.

Cabrera slid to a stop and parked the car. As he closed the remaining distance between himself and the order on foot, the alkali odor of heat drifted up from the desert, almost as if hell was already reaching out for him from below.

He pushed the disturbing thought aside and gripped his holy relic. The monastery was as quiet as a ghost town in a Western. The place seemed to be waiting for a showdown, except this time instead of Old West gunslingers, the very forces of good and evil would clash.

Near the main entrance, the monks waited for him. Their grey robes formed a sharp contrast to his black smock. They welcomed him and then quickly got down to business, updating Father Cabrera on their preparations for the exorcism. Neither the soldier and Nicole nor the cult had arrived yet, which was a small blessing.

The brothers led him into the welcoming shade of the cloisters. About twenty monks called the monastery their permanent home. The friars came from all over the world, but English was still the official language. Cabrera had always marveled at these men and how they communed with God out here, removed from human society. There was too much of the fighter inside of him, the tough kid who grew up in Washington Heights, to retreat from civilization like this. He thrived on getting his hands dirty out in the trenches, but he respected the monks of this holy order. In their own way, they were all serving God as best they could.

Cabrera followed the monks down a winding passageway that led into the chapel. Sunlight streamed through the three large skylights, brilliantly illuminating the empty church. The pews had been removed, and one of the friars was using a nail gun to bolt down a simple bedframe in the center of the house of worship. These precautions were necessary, considering the powers of the possessed: super-strength, telekinesis, and levitation. Any item not attached to the ground could become a potential weapon in the battle with an exorcist. The plan was to restrain Nicole to the bed to prevent her from rising into the air during the exorcism. The chamber for the ritual was almost ready, and this lifted some of the burden weighing down on Cabrera’s shoulders.

He turned toward a series of laptops surrounding the bed. Though isolated, the monks maintained a link to society through the internet. It also helped them sell their craft beers since few tourists ever found them at this remote desert location. The computers were also an essential part of the plan that the soldier’s mysterious friend had proposed to him. It sounded crazy, but Father Cabrera was desperate and willing to give it a shot.

As the day wore on and the soldier and Nicole failed to show up, Cabrera’s anxiety grew. Where were they? He fought back terrible visions of Nicole in the clutches of the demon soldier.

Two hours after his arrival, relief washed over him as he spotted a swirling dust cloud winding its way up to the monastery. Cabrera peered through a pair of binoculars and caught sight of a fast approaching motorcycle, the soldier and Nicole clearly visible astride the bike. They made it! Then he saw a second set of dust clouds. Hot on their tail, a Hummer and pick-up truck.

Here we go, he thought.

The bike rumbled and sputtered to a stop. The soldier and Nicole dismounted - they both looked like they’d been to war, which wasn’t that far off the mark. Hair pasted to their heads, clothes covered in black soot and desert dust, faces bruised. Despite her ordeal, Nicole brightened when she spotted Father Cabrera. But as he hurried down the path, her initial smile gave way to cold, haughty expression. He’d meant to hug her but froze instead, his hands at his sides. Reptilian eyes regarded him with the recognition of an old foe.

“It’s been a while, Father Cabrera. I’m looking forward to a rematch,” the demon said with an icy smirk.

“Get out of her,” he said, knowing that mere words would do no good against such an ancient evil.

After a moment, the inhuman expression softened as Nicole reasserted herself, and she nodded apologetically at him. “I’m sorry, Father. The forces inside of me are growing stronger.” She clutched a strange pentagram amulet and shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m not sure how much longer I’m going to be able to hold on.”

“Remember what I taught you.” The words felt hollow, but he could think of nothing better. He turned toward the soldier. The man was decked out in combat black. Father Cabrera glanced down at his own black robes and realized that they both wore a uniform of sorts for their chosen calling. A man of God and a man of war. Cabrera saved souls, the soldier sent them to hell. He recognized that each profession served its purpose in this cosmic drama called life.

“What are we up against?” he asked Nicole’s guardian. He had a hundred other questions—foremost among them was why this soldier was helping Nicole and who his mysterious friend might be—but they would have to wait for later. If there was a later.

“I wish I knew,” the soldier replied. “Amon only has about ten men left at this point, but he’s been tapping into the demon’s magic.” After a beat, he added, “You and the brothers take care of Nicole and let me worry about Amon.”

Brave words, but Cabrera detected a hint of doubt in the soldier’s voice. Not even this seasoned warrior could predict the outcome of the battle ahead.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE WHITE-HOT desert blazed as Talon and Nicole tore down the freeway, Amon and his soldiers once again hot on their tail. Sharing a ride with a possessed woman—correction, a woman possessed by seven different demons—wasn’t Talon’s idea of a good time. What if the demons asserted themselves and decided to make them crash? If Nicole could survive a grenade, being splattered along the freeway wouldn’t be a big concern for her.

He clenched his jaw and forced his mind to not even go there. Hopefully, between Nicole resisting the dark entity and the amulet around her neck offering some protection, they’d be able to make it to the monastery. He eyed the fuel gauge and hoped they wouldn’t run out of gas before they reached their destination. He had no cash on him and he doubted Amon would just sit back and watch while they hit up the nearest service station.

Thirty minutes later, he saw the canyon that marked their journey’s end. As Talon drew closer, he spotted Father Cabrera on the steps. Nicole tightened her grip around his waist. Was it an expression of relief at encountering a familiar face after the last twenty-four hours of horror? Or had the demons inside her recognized an old nemesis?

Talon pulled up to Cabrera’s parked car. As they both got off the bike, he kept a hand around Nicole’s wrist in case the unholy entities compelled her to make a run for it. He searched her gaze and only saw Nicole. Even though the demons still surfaced for brief intervals, the Sumerian pendant’s magic seemed to be powerful enough to prevent them from asserting full control over her.

At least for the moment.

Talon watched as the demon surfaced to taunt the exorcist, but Nicole regained control before it could do any harm. Father Cabrera sized him up, his expression unreadable, as Talon gave his situation report. The cult was on its way, and while Talon was confident he could hold off the invading army, it was up to the brotherhood to save Nicole. “What’s your plan?” Talon asked.

“Not my plan. Your friend—who, like yourself, never told me his name—suggested our next course of action. We face seven demons, so seven exorcists will combine their prayers to strengthen the ritual and expel these unholy entities from Nicole.”

Talon took a look around at their isolated surroundings. “Great plan. But where the hell - sorry father- are we going to find seven exorcists out here?”

“We may be in the middle of nowhere, but thanks to the internet we have access to the whole world.”

Talon shook his head. “You’re going to stream an exorcism?”

“Six of the world’s leading exorcists will join me through Skype in the chapel. Their faith and spiritual power will be channeled through me,” Cabrera explained.

Talon cocked an eyebrow. “Think it’ll work?”

“We’re about to find out, aren’t we?” the priest said with a touch of bravado that couldn’t quite hide how nervous he was.

“You might be crazy enough for the military,” Talon said.

“No thanks, one uniform is enough.”

They traded a short-lived grin. This guy was okay, for a priest. And he clearly cared about Nicole. That was enough to earn Talon’s trust—for now.

Talon shifted his focus back to Nicole, who’d been watching the exchange in what seemed like silent indifference. She was looking out at the desert and the approaching cultists, her eyes distant and forlorn.

“Are we going to be able win this?” she asked.

“If Father Cabrera and I have anything to say about the matter, yes.”

“The woman in the video, you loved her?” Nicole said, her voice a whisper.

She meant everything to me, Talon thought but merely nodded, his silence saying everything that needed to be said.

“She must’ve been special woman.” She bit her lips. “I’m sorry about your loss. No matter what happens, thank you for trying to save me.”

This said, she turned away and let the monks shepherd her into the monastery.

“We will do everything in our power to drive out these demons, soldier,” Cabrera said.

Talon appreciated the noble sentiment but knew the odds were against them. His eyes met the exorcist’s and he said, “My name is Mark.”

Cabrera nodded and smiled. “Good luck, Mark.”

“Good luck, Father Cabrera.”

Resolute, Talon turned toward the approaching enemy, a lone soldier against the forces of hell.

***

Talon made his stand in a shimmering field of solar panels. The monastery was located thirteen miles from the nearest power line. Bringing in electricity from the outside would have been cost prohibitive. Instead, the monks used energy from the desert sun to generate their own power on-site. Clever.

Talon wondered what motivated men to turn their backs on civilization-not to mention female companionship—and seek out a life in a barren wasteland. On second thought, it actually sounded a lot like military service. Warriors in God’s army. The more he thought about it, the more parallels he saw between soldiers and monks—foremost that they both were forced to give up the amenities of the modern world. For both groups, routine defined their lives. Talon had spent enough years in the desert to know that it took a certain type of individual to put up with hardship like this. Every man wearing a monk’s robe out here had a story.

Live and let live, right?

The sun sizzled down, and Talon wished he was decked out in desert camo instead of his black combat gear. Black worked for nighttime infiltration missions but was ill-suited for desert warfare. The thumb he had dislocated on his left hand was hurting something fierce, too. The damage and strain he’d inflicted to his body were starting to catch up to him at the worst possible time.

Talon pushed aside his discomfort and glassed the scrub-covered hill with a pair of binoculars, tracking the advancing militia. He counted nine men including Amon, who was in the lead. The cultists were closing in from the east, where the mountain would provide plenty of cover. They were using the rocky outcroppings to their best advantage and approached in a V-formation, their specialized military training apparent in their tactics.

Good thing Talon had the same training. The array farm, with its large, moving solar panels, would offer added protection once they got closer.

The AK-47 he’d snatched from one of the cultists only had an effective range up until thirteen-hundred feet. An SPR MK12 sniper rifle would have come in handy at this point, but unfortunately the monastery was beyond the reach of Casca’s care packages. He would have to wait for Amon and his cult members to get closer before engaging them. Still, he hoped to be able to pick them off one by one.

The waiting gave him too much time to think. Talon refused to run the odds or give in to fear. There were many examples in military history where determined soldiers successfully held off superior numbers.

His thoughts turned to Nicole. How was she faring in the monastery? Would Casca’s plan of using technology to create a digital army of exorcists work? He still didn’t know what Amon’s ultimate objective was, and that troubled him most of all. The demons were already inside of Nicole, so what else did he need from her?

Without warning, the solar panel next to him shattered as a hail of bullets destroyed the array. The shot shouldn’t have been possible. The approaching troopers were still hundreds of feet away and therefore out of range, unless…

More lead lashed the air, and Talon flung himself to the ground as bullets whizzed overhead. He peered through the binoculars again and found that Amon’s men were…gone.

Adrenaline surged as fear of the unknown gripped him despite his efforts to stay calm. He’d stared down death many times and confronted terrifying enemies, but he had always done so on a battlefield where the goddamn rules of physics applied. These soldiers operated in a different world, one where ritualistic human sacrifice and magic could distort and transform reality. A silhouette appeared reflected in a nearby array, and without thought Talon opened fire. The bullet found the shooter, and the man was flung back into the solar panels, shattering them on impact.

Somehow, the men had covered over thirteen-hundred feet in less than a minute. How was Amon pulling off these feats of black magic? More importantly, if he could teleport his men and cloak himself, why hadn’t he used the same magic when he was chasing after him earlier? Casca would have some sort of theory, no doubt, but the billionaire was a long way off from the battlefield. Lucky bastard.

Talon thought back to Zagan and how he’d used the occult algorithm to power his magic. The demon soldier seemed to be doing something similar, given what Talon had seen. Amon was definitely drawing on the power of the seven demons somehow, but there seemed to be limits on what he could do. Problem was, Talon didn’t know what those limits were. Did the cult have to be near Nicole to harness the demonic energy? Or maybe there was only so much power they could tap at any given time. Talon didn’t know—and he didn’t have time to find out. If he survived this fight, he’d have to ask Casca.

Another round erupted next to his head, way too close for comfort. Three arrays separated him from the east wall of the monastery. He’d have to make a run for it by leapfrogging from one array to the next. He caught movement seventy yards from his left as a soldier came up to take a shot at him. Talon squeezed the trigger an instant before his opponent. The man’s masked head disappeared in a mist of red.

Two down, way too many more to go.

More bullets sizzled the air. Talon laid down some strafing fire as he exploded into motion. He saw two more arrays shatter—hopefully Casca would foot the bill. Snapping off shots, more fighters went down. Then he hurled himself over the wall that ringed the monastery’s brick courtyard. He crouched behind the stone barrier, using it for cover. A renewed barrage chipped the wall, sending up a spray of dust and stone shrapnel. Talon came up, returned fire, and saw two more cultists collapse. Despite Amon’s parlor tricks, he was laying waste to his assault forces.

Don’t get cocky now, he admonished himself. Cocky will get you killed.

As if to confirm his warning, a hail of bullets pockmarked the bulwark, tearing out large chunks of stone. There were thirty rounds in an AK-47’s magazine, but he must be down to half of that. He probably had only ten rounds left in the Glock. He’d just have to make those last bullets count. Maybe if he took out Amon himself, the others might panic or give up the fight entirely.

He sensed sudden movement behind him. His rational mind told him it was impossible, as none of the cult members could’ve crept up on his six. But, as he kept having to remind himself, this was an enemy for whom the normal rules of physics didn’t apply.

Too late, he tried to dodge. A bullet grazed his shoulder, flinging him backward. As he sailed through the air, he squeezed off three shots. The rounds found their target and punched into the chest of a massively built shooter who had to be Amon. There was a loud thump as the felled giant hit the dust.

Silence reined in the wake of the attack. Talon remained tightly pressed to the ground, eyes ticking back and forth, scoping his surroundings. He didn’t spot any more members of Amon’s cult. Guard up, he crawled toward the downed monster. The masked man splayed before him let out wheezing breaths, desperately struggling to fill his perforated lungs with oxygen. As he closed in on the prone figure, it suddenly seemed smaller in stature than before, shorter and thinner than Talon expected. Gripped with dread, he pulled off Amon’s ski mask…only to come face to face with Father Cabrera. The exorcist stared up at him with shocked eyes, blood bubbling from his lips. Talon could almost hear the demon soldier laughing in the back of his mind.

CHAPTER TWENTY

THE MONKS FLANKED Nicole as they led her to the bed in the middle of the chapel. Cabrera urged her to lie down and let them put on the restraints. “It’s for your own protection,” he said. “Just hold still.”

Someone sure likes to order girls around, a voice hissed inside her. She caught herself agreeing for a moment but then fought back the demon slashing through her consciousness.

Cabrera looked relieved that she was playing along. He must’ve expected resistance from the demons, but the amulet was still reigning in their power. Barely. As the stone-faced monks fastened the restraints around her wrists and ankles, Nicole felt the entities stirring within her soul. They sensed the approaching danger. Their fear of the ritual and the holy surroundings made them push back against the magic of the protective pendant.

Horrific visions tore at her mind. She saw herself gouging out the monks’ eyes and sinking her teeth into their necks. The images both terrified and tantalized as the war inside her intensified with each passing moment. The darkness would not relinquish their prize without a fight.

One of monks just finished tightening the restraints on her left wrist when her right hand snapped out and closed around the friar’s neck with vice-like strength. Ligaments strained and bone crunched as she lifted the man into the air with one arm. The monk’s eyes bulged and he gasped for precious oxygen. A beat later, the other monks descended and overpowered her by sheer weight and numbers. Through their combined efforts, the remaining restraints were snapped tight. She writhed on the bed, the demons now fully alert of what was happening.

“You’re wasting your time,” one of the entities hissed, using her lips like a flesh-and-blood ventriloquist dummy to communicate with Cabrera. “You’re a fool if you think you can defeat us all.”

“I’m getting some help today from a few special friends.”

Nicole craned her neck and took note of the circle of votive candles and monks who ringed the bed. Laptops sat propped in the monks’ robed laps. Onscreen, the computers streamed Skype images of priests taken in churches all over the world: Africa, Asia, Europe, South America. Not just priests, Nicole realized; these were all trained exorcists, knowledgeable in the art of driving out demonic entities. Their voices emanated from the laptops’ speakers, coming together in a Gregorian chant. They were beginning the prayer of deliverance.

She’d known Cabrera would find a way to help her. Hope flared but was quickly extinguished by the growls and snarls of the seven beasts now clawing to the surface of her conscious mind, enraged by what these mortals were attempting.

The ritualistic chanting rose in volume.

Pain took hold of her. She stared at her stomach and gasped with horror. Claws roamed under her skin, pushing and twisting her flesh as if trying to break through her body from the inside out.

…we will not be defeated…

The first bestial howl broke from her lips and reality shrank away. Nicole was being pushed aside, reduced to a spectator in her own body.

She saw the skylights darken. Swarms of black flies crowded the glass, blocking the sunlight. Thousands of them, drawn to the darkness present within the chapel.

She thrashed and writhed as an ungodly scream turned into a series of animalistic growls. Her body strained to rise into the air.

It was all happening again.

The sensation of helplessness numbed her to the point of catatonia. The beasts were now in control, the possession in full effect. The material of her restraints started to rip and then…

It all stopped.

The flies scattered.

The howls died down.

The candles flickered and extinguished.

The writhing and heaving ceased.

The laptops fizzled and grew dark. The images of the saints decorating the ceiling looked down on her, almost as if they were attempting to reassure her.

The exorcism was working.

Cabrera stepped up to the bed and smiled reassuringly. There was incredulous joy in his eyes. Nicole realized that despite his earlier outward confidence, he’d been a lot less certain about the outcome of the ritual than he had been willing to let on.

She closed her eyes, sighing with relief. The combined power of the team of exorcists had worked their magic.

When she opened her eyes, that same breath caught in her throat. Cabrera was gone. In his place stood the demon soldier, the monstrous face looming over her. What had happened? She realized with terror that all the monks around the bed had been replaced with Amon’s black-clad soldiers.

“Let’s see how effective this ritual is without your little trinket.” And with these chilling words, Amon tore the Sumerian pendant from her neck, and the chapel transformed into hell on Earth.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SURVEYING THE BATTLEFIELD, despair threatened to overwhelm Talon. Dead monks, their robes seeping red, had replaced the corpses of black-clad cultists. The body count made him think of the massacre back at Cabrera’s church. But these innocents had perished by his hands. He tried to tell himself that he’d been deceived, that Amon had killed Cabrera and the monks, but his attempts at rationalizing the horror failed. At what point had Amon’s terrible magic switched the friars with the soldiers? Had it only been seconds before the bullets hit their targets? And if the members of the brotherhood were out here…

He thoughts froze as he picked up the sound of heavy boots slapping against stone. He turned away from the fallen monks and confronted a team of cultists, their AK-47s leveled at him. For a split second, he contemplated opening fire and going out in a blaze of glory. But his death would serve no purpose, nor would it alleviate his guilt—a personal absolution that would not save Nicole or prevent these monsters from carrying out their twisted agenda. As long as he was still alive, he still had a chance to save her.

Mind made up, Talon dropped the AK-47 and the Glock. The two weapons clattered against the brick-paved ground. He raised his hands and let the armed soldiers lead him to the chapel. He dreaded what he would find there.

As soon as they stepped into the chapel, his gaze locked on Amon. Cold rage simmered inside him as he saw the demon soldier standing at the center of the church. He loomed over Nicole, who was free from her restraints now. A crimson fire marked her face, the demons in charge.

“Kneel before Amon,” barked one of the soldiers.

Talon flashed a lopsided grin and gave him the finger. The soldier’s response was to strike him in the back of his head with the butt of a machine gun.

Letting out a gasp, Talon went onto his knees. It took him all his self-discipline not to lash out at the attacker with his bare hands.

Amon approached with the confidence of a general who knew he’d won the battle. His soldiers stood around Talon in a semi-circle, AK-47s fixed on him. One wrong move and they would stitch him with lead. There was no other choice but to let this play out.

The beast towered above Talon. This was the first time he had seen the demon soldier up close. From this angle, he became convinced that Casca had been right—plastic surgery not magic had transformed Amon’s face. This wasn’t a monster but a man who dreamt of being a devil.

“Isn’t it a little early for Halloween?” Talon said.

The demon soldier’s animalistic black eyes regarded him without emotion. He leaned closer, lowering onto his haunches until they were face to face with only inches between them. Even though Talon knew this was a man and not a real creature from hell, the dark gaze held an undeniable power.

“I was once a man like you Talon. A soldier. A marine, in fact. Full of idealistic dreams.”

“What happened? Earned yourself discharged for one piercing too many—”

Amon wasn’t amused. “I came to the conclusion that it’s better to rule in hell than to serve the United States military.”

“So what’s the plan? Gather a bunch fanatics with itchy trigger fingers and declare war on the world?”

Amon ignored his sarcasm. “The apocalypse is coming. The signs are all there. War. Famine. Natural disasters. Chaos. We’re the army that will set in motion the new order. An age of darkness will fall upon this world, and we’ll be the generals commanding hell’s conquering legions.”

Talon shook his head. “Quick newsflash. You don’t have to prove to me that you’re nuts; I already know it.”

Amon’s massive hand snapped out and tightened around Talon’s throat, the elongated nails biting deep into his skin and drawing fine points of blood.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?” he asked. His voice was calm, almost soothing. The civil tones were bizarre coming from such a monster.

Talon’s impulse was to counter the question with another wisecrack. Showing an utter lack of respect was his only way of fighting back. Any man who would change his appearance so drastically was a man who wanted to be feared. Well, Talon wouldn’t oblige.

Amon nodded at his troops and they used Kabars to strip off Talon’s shirt, revealing the inverted pentagram scar on his chest. Zagan had carved the symbol of evil into his skin back in San Francisco.

“Zagan and I made you, Mark Talon. Everything you are today is because of us.”

The sarcastic comments died on Talon’s lips. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

How did Amon know about Zagan and the scar?

“I was one of cult members in the video I sent you earlier,” Amon replied. “I saw your beloved Michelle’s life run out in a river of red. My knife pierced her heart. I took her from you as I took your friend Erik.”

Ice crept up Talon’s throat and the world spun on its axis.

“You’re lying.”

“My human name was Fisher. I was Zagan’s head of security. Back when I was a Marine in Fallujah, I earned the nickname ‘the devil soldier.’ You want to know why? Because when my men came under fire, only the dark Lord heard my prayers.”

The pieces were falling into place. Talon wished they weren’t.

“I almost nailed you back at Omicron,” Amon continued. “You were stumbling out of the elevator after your bout with Zagan looking like warmed-over dog shit and walked right into my sight line. You’d be history if it hadn’t been for that bitch taking a shot at me.”

Talon remembered it vividly. Detective Serrone had gunned down the would-be assassin who almost succeeded where Zagan failed. Struck by her round, Fisher had dropped over the first-floor railing and fallen to his death in the Omicron lobby. Or at least he thought the man had fallen to his death. Had Fisher become Amon, the apocalypse soldier?

Talon instinctively recognized the truth in Amon’s soulless eyes. He was ready to lunge at the bastard despite the machine guns fixed on him, but another vicious blow from the AK-47 put an end to any thoughts of immediate retribution. He hit the chapel’s brick floor hard while Amon rose before him, triumphant.

Bloodied, Talon peered up at him and wondered how Fisher had survived Detective Serrone’s bullet. The explanation came to him in a flash: the darkness. Even though he’d blown up the Omicron mainframe, the occult algorithm must’ve possessed enough vestigial power to revive Fisher, allowing Zagan’s second-in-command to escape the corpse-riddled Omicron lobby and kill again.

Zagan had ordered the murder of his fiancée. His cult members had stabbed her to death. But Amon had been the one to deliver the deathblow.

“When I came back from Afghanistan, people thought I was suffering from PTSD,” Amon said. “Perhaps I was. Another vet who’d lost it, consumed by his demons. Waiting to eat a bullet. Good enough to give your life to your country but not good enough to live in it. The shrinks like to tell you that you have to conquer your demons. I say they’ve got it all wrong. I say, embrace your demons.” He inched closer, and added, “Become a demon.”

“You’re no fucking demon,” Talon said. “You’re just an asshole with some bad plastic surgery.”

“Mock me as much as you like, but this mortal coil is about to be remade in my master’s true image.” Amon held up the Sumerian pendant and dangled it in front of Talon’s face. “Without your lucky charm, the seven are fully in control of the vessel.”

One quick glance at Nicole confirmed Amon’s words. She observed him in stony indifference, her expression bereft of any humanity.

Amon waved at his men. Four soldiers dragged Talon across the nave and toward the altar. Earlier, the monks had removed the full-sized wooden cross from the wall as a precaution, fearing Nicole might use her telekinetic powers during the exorcism to turn it into deadly weapon. It was still splayed out on the floor of the chapel. They dumped Talon next to the cross and pulled him on top of it.

Through the haze of pain, he grasped what they planned to do with him. Another soldier stepped up to the cross, the nail gun that the monks had used to bolt down the bed for the exorcism ritual in his hand.

Talon shook off his grogginess and strained against his captors. They pinned him down to the cross and stretched his arms out along the wooden beams. Four soldiers, one for each limb, held him against the cross as the back of his hands were roughly pushed against the wood. A fifth soldier pressed the muzzle of the nail gun against his squirming right hand.

“It is time for us to begin the ritual. The seven are growing impatient,” Amon proclaimed.

A metallic click, like the sound of a silenced pistol going off, echoed through the chapel as the soldier drove the first nail into Talon’s palm.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

AS THE NAILS pierced his hands, Talon grimaced and convulsed but still fought back a scream. He wasn’t going to give his tormentors the satisfaction of seeing him break down.

Once the nails had been driven through flesh and wood, the soldiers lifted the cross and stood it up, using the wall behind the altar as support. A crucified, semi-conscious Talon faced the chapel. His arms stretched to the breaking point, blood running from the wounds in his hands in thick rivulets. His head lolled, jaw tight with pain.

The seven demons inside Nicole regarded him with cruel amusement. Maybe the blood loss was playing tricks with his mind, but Talon thought he could see different inhuman faces shadowing Nicole’s features, each one more horrific than the last. The individual demons distorted the skin, flesh and bone as they momentarily manifested themselves. The power of the seven was in full effect now.

Biting back another wave of misery as his weight pulled against the nails, his eyes locked on Amon and his men. He kneeled before a regal Nicole, honoring the seven demonic beings trapped within her form.

“We are about to begin, my masters,” Amon said.

“Only six will be deemed worthy for this honor,” responded a terrible, disjointed voice. The sound had come from Nicole, each demon phrasing a word in its own accent and timbre. This is what Talon imagined a person suffering from multiple personality disorder would sound like, which in a weird way was an apt analogy.

Amon and his nine remaining soldiers nodded in agreement.

Nicole regarded each one of the apocalypse soldiers and finally pointed at three of the cultists. The soldiers in question separated from the group, having been found lacking for the next step of the ritual. They pulled away from the others, moving closer to Talon.

Amon and the five other chosen ones gathered around Nicole. The circle of six began to intone words in an ancient, guttural language long forgotten by time, each soldier taking a turn as they recited a part of the incantation. The spell designed to channel the demons out of Nicole and into their own bodies.

Talon gnashed his teeth. These sick fucks were allowing themselves to be possessed. To truly become an army of demons.

Through a haze of agony, Talon remembered Casca’s warning about how demons chose humans to possess. They normally pick children or the weak, a stepping-stone into our world. Nicole was this stepping stone. A demon’s abilities to inflict damage were at least somewhat limited inside a teenager. But imagine that evil power within elite soldiers.

He couldn’t let Amon and his soldiers go through with this nightmare. Despite pain that would’ve rendered most men unconscious, Talon strained against the nails buried in his hands, hoping to yank them out. Tendons stood out in his neck like cords.

It was no use. Despite all his efforts, the nails wouldn’t budge, Talon remained pinned to the cross like an insect. He gasped, mentally struggling to not give up. He was reaching his physical limits. Even if he could through some miracle tear himself off the cross, by the time he hit the chapel floor he would be spent, defeated before the real battle had even begun. It was hopeless.

Nevertheless he clung to consciousness. His rage kept him going, fueled him. In the ceremonial circle, the words flowed faster and faster, the chanting growing more guttural, animalistic, and inhuman with each verse of the spell. Talon remembered spinning albums backward on a record player in the hope of hearing secret messages when he was a kid. It sounded a little like that, a reverse Gregorian chant sped up and distorted, the sounds transformed into a language not meant for human vocal chords.

Nicole’s eyes grew obsidian, mirroring Amon’s appearance, and she was gripped by a violent seizure. Tremors passed through her whole body. Something was moving inside of her, distending the surface of her skin as it fought its way through her shaking body and up her throat. Her neck bulged and then the cause of the distortion crawled out of her mouth. A fat, black scorpion. It slithered from her lips, and Talon fought back a sense of primal revulsion.

The scorpion skittered toward the ring of waiting soldiers. It selected one of the men and shot toward him. The soldier never flinched as the scorpion crawled up his body and into his open mouth. The soldier accepted the demon, eyes ecstatic as the black scorpion burrowed down his gullet.

One by one, the same horrific scene replayed itself. Nicole continued to choke up scorpions that shot toward their new hosts, who in turn welcomed the parasites with a chilling sense of rapture. As soon as the dark gift had been fully embraced, the soldiers’ eyes blazed a fiery red, signaling the demon had fused with its new host. With each demon that crawled out of her, Nicole’s eyes grew clearer, the evil within her lessening.

Talon wanted to avert his gaze but couldn’t. He was morbidly transfixed by the unfolding horror.

By now five of Amon’s chosen had accepted their possession. Only one final willing host awaited. The black scorpion crawled into Amon’s open fanged mouth.

For a moment, nothing happened.

And then Amon began to change.

Unlike the other five soldiers, Amon’s acceptance of his demon had a transformative effect. Once inside him, the dark entity reformed his flesh like clay, increasing Amon’s bestial appearance. Muscles rippled and bulged, filling out his black shirt. The fingers sprung real claws while the incisors elongated. The eyes turned ember-like, as if the fire of the pit were burning inside him. The apocalypse soldier was now truly a half-man, half-beast, a red-fleshed monster straight from hell. He threw back his thick neck and let out a triumphant roar that reverberated through the chapel, rattling the structure. The cross with Talon shook against the wall.

The darkness had found six new agents on Earth.

Talon finally turned away from the monstrous sight, defeated. His will to keep fighting, to refuse surrender, was beginning to falter.

Another set of footsteps drew his semi-conscious attention. A new figure had stepped into the church. His eyes widened in surprised recognition, the new arrival sparking a glimmer of hope. Outlined in the threshold of the chapel’s entrance, chest covered in gore and a cross held high in his hand, was Father Cabrera!

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

FATHER CABRERA FACED Nicole, raised cross in hand. Prayers flowed with practiced ease from his lips and blended with the Gregorian chants being streamed through the laptops’ speakers. His heart beat strong and so did his faith.

Despite the terrible odds, his belief in God infused every fiber of his being. They would drive out this darkness and save Nicole once more from the evil that had touched her. The ritual was already beginning to have an effect.

And then his surroundings changed in a flash and he was a staring down the flashing muzzle of an AK-47. The world exploded with furious sound as the weapon strobed and he felt a terrible impact in his chest that drove the air out of his lungs. The ground came rushing up and then his body slammed into the dirt. He tasted blood and dimly became aware of the figure looming above him.

The soldier. Mark.

But why?

And then there was only darkness.

He didn’t know how long he was out, but when he woke, he was still choking on his own blood. He spat red while his mind reeled and tried to make sense of what had happened. Somehow the demons had turned the tables on him. Tilting his head, he saw the corpses of the monks sprawled around the monastery, and he stifled a cry of frustration. It couldn’t end this way.

He sensed the forces of darkness were working toward a terrible end goal. Part of him wanted to accept defeat, to close his eyes and let the soothing darkness erase all thoughts and take him away to a better place. But then the faces of the dead congregants flickered before his mind’s eye, quickly followed by the monstrous features of the demon soldier. Amon couldn’t be allowed to win. He would avenge the innocents until he could no longer draw breath. The cross in his hand gave him hope. As long as he still had the relic, there might still be a chance.

He stifled another cry as he pushed himself to his feet with excruciating effort. His wounds were still bleeding, and he considered it a miracle that he had managed to stand. It galvanized him, confirming that God was with him and guiding him toward the confrontation with the beasts that had dared to invade this holy site. A terrible evil was growing inside the chapel, and he was the only man left standing. Barely.

Slowly, he commenced his long, pain-filled march toward the chapel. The house of worship seemed to be a million miles away. Each step was an exercise in agony, his chest on fire, his lungs barely able to fill with air.

Yet he persevered.

What awaited him inside the chapel was a scene from a nightmare and far worse than he could’ve possibly imagined. Amon and his soldiers had formed a ring around Nicole, their eyes burning with a demonic fire. The apocalypse soldier loomed over the supplicants of darkness, a monster perfected by the foul forces inside of him. Worst of all was the sight of the soldier named Mark, now crucified in a terrible mockery of the sacrifice that symbolized Father Cabrera’s faith. Nicole stood among them, and even though six of the entities had found new humans to possess, the original demon from eight years ago had chosen to remain inside Nicole.

The soldier weakly looked over. The eyes inside the mask of blood lit up with hope. Seeing the soldier’s strength return, despite his terrible predicament, gave Cabrera more motivation to go on.

Remember your training, Nicole, he thought as he turned his gaze on her. The demon was active inside of her but he had also spotted a glimpse of the true Nicole in there. Emboldened by this, he raised the holy relic of the saints and bellowed out with all the force he could muster.

“Demons, I hereby cast you out of this house of God.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE MONSTROUS DARKNESS inside of Nicole was evacuating her body. One by one, the dark entities passed through her and sought out their new hosts. The horror seemed never-ending, a cycle repeated until she thought she couldn’t stand it. The violent purging affected her on a near cellular level. Each time she ejected one of the monsters, it was the pain of childbirth amplified to infinity. She felt like she was being torn apart from the inside out.

But as the ritual wore on, the agony became slightly more bearable, the strain less pronounced. Expelling these monsters was torture on her body but was fortifying to her soul. As each demon departed, she gained more control.

And then it was over. Her body felt stretched and torn even though outwardly there were no visible scars. To her surprise, death didn’t follow the horror. One demon had chosen to stay behind. This entity had old scores to settle. The beast enjoyed her torment too much to let go of her, even though one of the soldiers might make for a stronger physical host.

What the remaining demon didn’t know was that Nicole had trained with Cabrera for the last four years. When she had first showed up at the exorcist’s church, he’d advised her to live a good life and avoid temptation. By denying the demon power, repossession would become more difficult.

But Nicole had been looking for something different. She had wanted to be able to face the demon on her own terms if it should return, wanted to control any future possession the way Cabrera had.

At first Cabrera had refused to help her, but she had worn him down. He had finally conceded and given her a crash course in how to perform exorcisms. In essence, an exorcist possessed the possessed, gaining control over the demon so he could cast it out. Through prayer, meditation, and study of the ritual, Nicole could achieve that same degree of control. Cabrera had explained to her that only the most adept exorcists could control a demon from within, but with the proper determination and right degree of focus, it was achievable.

She was determined. She was focused.

In a perverse way, she was glad that her old demon had remained inside of her. She’d been looking forward to a rematch for eight years. Today would be her chance.

She could feel herself growing stronger, the whispers inside of her dying down, her own thoughts becoming predominant again. She was back in the driver’s seat. After sharing her body with seven other entities, having one demon inside of her felt almost normal. I know what you’re up, the demon hissed inside her mind. It won’t work.

We’ll see about that.

Approaching footsteps pulled her out of her internal dialogue with the creature. She turned toward the man who’d shown her how to fight the darkness, who’d taught her not be afraid to walk among the shadows.

Thank God, Father Cabrera’s alive.

Then she noticed that his robes were stained with blood and his face was pale and drawn. But he still had returned to the chapel, once again prepared to battle demons.

The priest held up the cross and threw down the gauntlet.

“Demons, I hereby cast you out of this house of God.”

The other entities had noticed him too. They shifted their attention toward Father Cabrera. Amon, a true demon now, began to close in on the dying priest. And he was dying, the demon inside Nicole pointed out, the gunshots having struck vital parts of his anatomy. Only his faith made him cling to life somehow and march into one last battle that he couldn’t win. Weakened by his wounds, without spiritual support, outnumbered and outmatched: there was no way he would walk out of here. And Cabrera clearly knew it too. This was the heroic act of a man who had nothing left to lose. Noble and desperate, all at the same time.

The cross that Cabrera held in his hand projected true power. What they needed was someone strong enough to wield it against this unholy army of darkness. A man who had battled monsters before.

They needed Mark Talon.

If she could gain control over the demon inside of her, she’d be able tap into its power. Power that included the ability to move objects with her mind.

Focusing, she started to siphon the demon’s abilities. She needed to proceed carefully so as not let the entity catch on what she was up to. She’d have to strike fast and hope Talon was up for the challenge. She suspected that he too would want vengeance against the unholy horde.

Her mind tore into the demon’s energy, and she focused on the noble soldier nailed to the cross.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SEEING CABRERA ALIVE lifted Talon’s spirit and jarred him out of his semi-conscious state. Gathering his will, Talon pulled against the nails in his hands with all his strength, hoping that through some miracle he could break free. Pain exploded through his fingers and into his arms, and he slumped forward with a frustrated bellow. The nails still wouldn’t budge.

With a sense of helplessness boiling inside of him, he watched as Amon approached Cabrera. The priest was barely able to keep the cross steady in his quivering, blood-crusted fingers, his prayers a mere whisper. The damage from the bullets had sapped his life force, and he was too weak to channel the power of the exorcism ritual. He was facing a dragon armed with a dull blade. Amon towered over the broken man of God, amused by Cabrera’s hopeless charge.

What the exorcist needed was a miracle.

Talon felt eyes on him. He shifted his gaze and found Nicole looking at him. Not the demon. No, this was Nicole, the woman who’d faced the darkness and walked away from a battle with a monster eight years earlier.

A faint vibration passed through his hands. He could feel himself being pulled forward as some invisible force dislodged the nails from the cross. Encouraged, he yanked his arms with all his might. He couldn’t believe it, but this time the nails were coming free. His biceps bulged, a grimace distorted his features, and the muscles on his shoulders bunched up as he pulled both bloody nails out of the wooden beam.

Free at last, he dropped to the chapel floor, right behind the three soldiers that the darkness had found unworthy. Letting out a roar of triumph that echoed the savagery of Amon’s demonic transformation, Talon attacked.

Before the soldiers could bring up their AK-47s, he was upon them. He looked like a demon himself with the inverted pentagram scar etched on his chest, blood pouring from his stigmata. He spun around and raked the points of the nails, which were still sticking from the back of his hands, across the soldier’s bare throats and faces. It felt like he’d sprung claws of steel. Throats opened and blood sprayed.

Seconds later, he towered over the dead and the dying, his hands dripping gore, his eyes half-mad. Amon turned toward Talon and two pairs of eyes, both inhuman in their own way, met from across the chapel. The nails popped out of Talon’s hands, once again helped along by Nicole’s telekinesis, and plunked to the stone floor.

“Your savagery won’t be a match for us,” Amon said.

Talon was breathing heavily, sucking in oxygen in immense gulps as he steeled himself for what lay ahead. He knew Amon was right. The three dead men had been mortal. But now he was up against six demons. Seven if he counted Nicole—though she seemed to have a handle on her situation. Adrenaline couldn’t completely mask the surging pain, his throbbing hands on fire. He thanked his maker that the cultists hadn’t nailed his feet to the cross too.

The demon soldiers, features distorted by the darkness raging inside them, closed in. Talon faced the approaching horde, knowing it would be a short battle. But at least he’d go down fighting instead of being a helpless spectator. He was ready to meet his maker.

As he bent down to scoop up an AK-47, the second miracle occurred. Once again, he was pretty sure Nicole was the one who was pulling the strings behind the scene. Chanting voices began to rise in the chapel, growing in volume with each passing second.

The demon soldiers paused in their approach, startled.

Talon spotted the source of the voices. The laptops had all come back to life, and the six exorcists were back online. The chanting and powerful prayers filled the church, weaving an invisible power. Talon remembered Cabrera’s earlier words: The ritual is to make the demon vulnerable, the cross drives them out, and the blade severs their link to our reality.

As soon as the thought passed through Talon’s mind, Cabrera’s cross flew from the priest’s hand, shot across the nave of the church, and landed in Talon’s bloody left palm. His crimson fingers closed around the holy relic and found the switch that sprang the blade at the bottom of the cross.

He faced the horde, the crossblade in on hand, an AK-47 in the other, and a savage smile on his face. The odds were still against him, but he was armed now with both steel and magic.

Before he could close the distance to the demon horde, a loud thumping sound rattled the giant skylights in the chapel. A large shadow fell over the windows, blotting out the sun. It was a sound all too familiar to a soldier. The buzz of an approaching helicopter could mean only one thing: Agent Doyle!

The next moment the skylights shattered and a team of gasmask-wearing SWAT team members in heavy tactical gear exploded through the chapel’s windows on rappel lines, submachine guns blazing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AGENT DOYLE KICKED open the doors to the chapel and joined the battle. Smoke from an onslaught of gas grenades was everywhere. His breathing amplified by the gasmask on his face, he flashed his weapon, ready for some payback. Three SWAT officers flanked him, sporting the same take-no-prisoner attitude. The red beams of their laser-sighted guns speared the dense smoke and found their targets.

It was the mirror image of another raid that had changed his life forever twenty-two years earlier. Back then, he was just a scared kid—and he hadn’t had the luxury of wearing a gasmask. His mom had told him to press a wet towel against his face, but he’d still struggled with each breath while a terrifying cacophony of gunfire and screams had filled the ranch. During those horrific minutes of the FBI assault, young Doyle had become convinced the apocalypse their cult leader had foretold was upon them. As much as he had detested cult life on the ranch, Armageddon had seemed a far more terrifying alternative.

Doyle forced himself back to the present by unloading a number of rounds into the AK-47 wielding cultists. The apocalypse soldiers went down in a shower of red. Unleashing an unrelenting stream of bullets, Doyle advanced deeper into the chapel. After the assault on the police convoy, no one as taking any chances. Their objective was clear-cut: take out these bastards with as little collateral damage as possible. The barrage of automatic fire continued for another minute and only died down after all the cultists were on the ground.

Doyle approached one of the downed soldiers. The chest of the man was shredded, his AK-47 laying impotently next to him in a pool of blood. These terrorists had taken out over twelve police officers, and Doyle felt nothing for the bastards.

He was about to turn away when the bullet-riddled corpse stirred. The figure sprung to its feet with preternatural speed, eyes behind the ski mask flashing red.

Before Doyle knew what was happening, the figure launched into him. One blow sent his submachine gun flying, and it vanished in the lingering carpet of smoke. The next punch sent him flying. He crashed into a wall with a bone-rattling crunch, slammed to the ground, and lay still. The world went fuzzy around the edges, swimming in and out of focus. Damn it, he couldn’t allow himself to pass out. Not now. Not in the midst of a conflict between life and death.

He gasped for air, centered himself, and his vision cleared. He blinked and saw that the same horror was repeating itself throughout the chapel. The gunned-down cultists were rising from the dead and striking back at the FBI agents with inhuman savagery. AK-47s cut a bloody swath through the team. It was a replay of the terrible freeway attack. A slaughter of good men.

For a moment, Doyle only made out shadows, the black-clad devil soldiers indistinguishable from the members of the SWAT team. The shrill screams of his men told Doyle that the tide of battle had turned.

What are we up against?

As soon as the question shot through his mind, he received his answer. A red-skinned, horned devil rose from the roiling smoke, his immense physique eclipsing a frozen SWAT officer. The demon’s clawed hand snatched out, closed around the SWAT member’s throat, and lifted him into the air. The officer jerked like a puppet. There was a sound of bones snapping, and the beast flicked the lifeless SWAT guy aside. The dead man vanished in the smoke.

Doyle was reminded once again of his years spent at the cult’s compound. No matter how hard he’d tried, those formative memories had been burned into his soul. Fire and brimstone speeches had dominated daily life with the cult. Demons and devils walked the earth, corrupting unbelievers and spreading sin, all in preparation of the impending apocalypse. Now, as the demon creature unleashed a bellowing roar, Doyle was eleven years old again and knew that the day had come.

The apocalypse had arrived.

The demon spun toward him, and Doyle snapped a fresh magazine into his submachine gun. His rounds struck the beast’s massive chest but did nothing to halt the slow, even steps. The muzzle flash of the spitting gun illuminated the advancing monster, revealing details that would haunt Doyle for as long as he’d live. Razor-sharp teeth gleamed in the monster’s open mouth, promising agony and death.

The monster’s shadow engulfed him, canceling out the desert light streaming through the shattered skylights. At the same time, crackling static broke over his mike, a soundtrack that underscored the horror show. The officers outside the church were asking for an update.

We’re being massacred by demons from hell, Doyle thought crazily. He wondered how that news would go over back at Langley. Part of him was almost relieved that he’d never have to fill out a report on this case.

Body rigid with fear, Doyle stared up at the beast and waited for certain death. The creature was almost upon him when it paused, its black eyes fixed on something to the right. Doyle craned his neck and spotted the reason for the demon’s hesitation.

A new yet familiar figure had arrived on the scene. It was the stranger who’d pulled him out of the burning cruiser. He was bare-chested now and armed with a machine gun in one hand, a large golden cross in the other.

The man who’d saved Doyle’s life earlier that day raised his weapons and attacked the demon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE CHAPEL HAD become a warzone. Bullets lashed the air as the SWAT team engaged the demon soldiers.

Talon’s heart thudded in his ears as he sought cover behind the altar, intent on not getting caught in the crossfire. There was a blinding flash of light and an intensely loud bang. Talon shielded his eyes and pressed his hands against his ears, but he still went blind and deaf for a few seconds. Even when his senses started to work again, he could only make out vague shapes and strobelike flashes in the billowing clouds of smoke.

At first it seemed that the SWAT guys were defeating the demon soldiers but appearances could be deceiving. Bullets might slow down these monsters, but Talon doubted they’d be sufficient to stop them. The demonic entities would protect their hosts. Only one weapon could truly destroy them, and that weapon was in Talon’s gore-smeared left hand—the crossblade.

His suspicion was confirmed moments later when the demon soldiers rose back to their feet and returned fire. The stunned SWAT guys were caught off guard and proved to be no match for these possessed soldiers of the apocalypse.

The team was being slaughtered. The time had come for Talon to join the fight. He scanned the chapel for Father Cabrera and Nicole, but they had vanished in the clouds of gas and human chaos. He hoped they were safe.

As he sprung to his feet, he recalled Cabrera’s description of Nicole’s exorcism back at the hospital. The cross drove out the entity while the blade destroyed its physical manifestation. Normally this meant pressing the cross against the bare skin of the afflicted victim, since the goal was to avoid harming the innocent host. But these soldiers weren’t innocent. Talon would be able use the knife with lethal force.

With this thought in mind, Talon lunged, his machine gun spitting cruel fire while his crossblade cut through the air. Warding off two demon soldiers with a spray of lead, he whirled toward a third and drew the crossblade across his torso. The demon’s body shook and contorted, the cross’s power in full effect. His mouth foamed as a black scorpion emerged from his lips. Before the demon could skitter away, Talon lanced the scorpion with the blade. It evaporated into thin air, the relic’s magic sending it back to whatever dark void it had crawled from.

Talon barely slowed down as he spun around, repeating the same attack with the next two devil soldiers. The knife slashed the cultists and speared their supernatural parasites, while fire from his machine gun drove them back. As soon as the entities evacuated their hosts, the soldiers succumbed to the mortal wounds Talon had inflicted upon them.

A force of nature, he continued to demolish the horde, one after another, until he fought his way to Amon. The apocalypse soldier loomed over Doyle, ready to strike at the FBI agent.

Each one of these soldiers had returned from the war with a demon inside of them—a demon born from the horrors they’d faced and the hard decisions they’d made. Failing to overcome their darkness, they’d embraced it and chosen to become demons themselves. Talon had a demon too. It had been infecting his life ever since the darkness had claimed his Michelle. But he wouldn’t let this darkness consume him. He’d been given a rare opportunity most men never receive.

A chance to face and slay his demon.

Michelle’s face flashing in his mind, he emptied a magazine into Amon. The bullets ripped through the massive muscles with ferocious force and punched the monster back. Then Talon was upon him, the crossblade zeroing in on the fiend’s heart. All he needed to do was drive the knife home and wait for the parasite to burst forth.

Amon was expecting the attack.

A massive paw snapped around the hand holding the incoming crossblade and stopped it inches before it would’ve pierced his flesh. Retaliating, Amon lunged forward, burying gleaming razor-sharp teeth into Talon’s bare shoulder.

Talon cried out and backed away, blood streaming from the bite wound. Amon glared at him, his inhuman teeth rimmed red. He bellowed and grabbed Talon, lifted him into the air like a ragdoll, and tossed him across the length of the chapel. He crashed into the altar with devastating force, the impact knocking the wind out of him and sending the AK-47 flying.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Amon rushing toward him with thundering steps like a nightmarish offensive tackle. He was somewhat slowed by the exorcism prayers but still powerful enough to destroy him upon impact.

Forty feet separated the apocalypse soldier from Talon.

Spent, part of him wanted to just stay put and await the inevitable but the memory of what this beast had done to Michelle spurred him on.

Thirty feet.

Talon picked himself up, a man of blood.

Twenty feet.

He climbed onto the altar.

Ten feet.

Stumbled erect on the altar, now towering over the incoming demon.

Five feet.

He discarded the AK-47 and closed both hands around the crossblade. Ready to face his maker, Talon leaped at the incoming monster as if he was stage diving at some heavy metal concert.

He crashed into Amon, and the impact sent man and demon flying. As they rolled over the church floor, Talon brought up the blade and drove it deep into Amon’s gut. Before the monster could dig its teeth into him again, he rolled away, bolted to his feet in one smooth motion, and whirled, crossblade up…

Just in time for the black scorpion to dig itself out of the knife-wound in Amon’s stomach. As the scorpion shot across the floor, Talon rammed the blade into it with a satisfying splat. The demonic insect dispersed into thin air, emitting a keening wail.

Amon stumbled backward, hands clawing his bleeding gut. His transformation was already reversing, details obscured by the tendrils of smoke. One moment he was a monster, another he was merely a man who dreamt of being one.

Realizing what was happening to him, Amon retreated into the roiling smoke. Talon picked himself up, every part of his body aching. Finally the smoke had cleared enough and he was able to spot Nicole and Cabrera. She was crouched over the the unconscious priest, keeping him close. Was the demon still inside of her? The answer would have to wait. Amon was getting away. Talon was about to run after him when the sound of a magazine being snapped into a machine gun gave him pause.

He turned.

Doyle raised his weapon and aimed it at Talon. For a moment he faced the FBI agent. Doyle was barely able to stay on his feet and his hand shook, but even a wounded shooter could do damage with a spray of lead. To Talon’s surprise, Doyle lowered the weapon and said, “Go and send that fucker to hell where he belongs.”

Talon nodded, picked up an AK-47, and raced after Amon.

***

A hawk circled above the monastery as Talon emerged from the chapel. The white-hot sun greeted him, and for a moment he stumbled on the sandy terrain. Between his chewed-up shoulder and the holes in his hands, he’d lost a lot of blood. But his feet kept taking one step after another, driven forward by the thought of vengeance. There was no sign of Amon, almost as if the desert had swallowed him whole, but the trail of blood told a different story. It led him down the dirt road toward the cultists’ vehicles. Up ahead, an engine revved and the Hummer jumped into motion.

It didn’t get far. After less than a hundred feet, the Hummer veered off the road and slammed into a rocky outcropping. Smoke belched from the hood.

Looks like I’m not the only one who’s messed up.

Talon advanced carefully, not sure if Amon had a back-up firearm in the vehicle. As he drew closer, a hand reached out of the driver’s window and, sure enough, squeezed off a couple of rounds. The attack felt perfunctory and desperate. Each bullet missed him by a wide margin, kicking up the hard-packed ground. Amon’s aim was way off, which Talon hoped meant he must be succumbing to his wounds. He counted the shots, and once the magazine was empty, he continued his approach, AK-47 raised.

As he drew closer, his enemy became visible. Amon was slumped behind the wheel, covered with blood that had turned his shirt the color of his dyed skin. He breathed shallowly, his black eyes peering out at the desert landscape. What did the man who dreamt of being a demon see during his hour of defeat? Between the boiling heat and the barren wasteland, maybe he could pretend to already be gazing out at the searing plains of hell.

Hearing his approach, Amon tilted his head toward him. Compared to the monster he’d turned into briefly in the chapel, his old appearance felt pathetic and ridiculous in the bright sunlight, a cheap Halloween mask that failed to terrify. Above, a police helicopter circled, but Talon hoped Doyle had told them to not take a shot at him.

“I know you don’t fear hell,” Talon said, ”but I wonder what awaits someone who has failed his dark masters.”

Amon spat blood and said venomously, “I’ll say hello to your bitch when I get there.”

Talon raised the AK-47.

A heartbeat before he depressed the trigger, he recalled a quote from the Bible that he’d first heard when he was an altar boy, something that had always stuck with him: If anyone kills Cain, vengeance will be taken on him sevenfold.”

He took no little pleasure in pumping seven rounds into Amon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

TALON FACED MICHELLE’S grave as sheets of rain poured from dark clouds. She’d been buried just south of San Francisco in Colam, a town famous for its many cemeteries, and the distinction of having more dead residents than living souls.

Talon lowered the wreath next to the tombstone and turned away. Today marked five months since his fiancée’s murder. He hoped that the death of one of her killers would bring her peace the way it had for him.

Rain pelted his face as he walked toward the waiting Tesla Model X parked near the gates of the cemetery. He got in and took a seat next to Casca, who was keeping himself busy with his iPad. The billionaire looked up from whatever text he’d been perusing. “It’s raining something fierce out here.”

“After Arizona, it’s a nice change of pace. So what are you reading?” Talon asked.

“Actually some fascinating research on RVPs.”

“RVPs?”

“Radio voice phenomena. Research into receiving the voices of the deceased over the air.”

“Sounds like perfect reading material while visiting a cemetery.”

Casca grinned. The Tesla began to move, the rain-soaked landscape of tombstones flashing past their windows.

“I just spoke with Father Cabrera, and it appears he’s doing better with each day. I’m surprised. Don’t Delta guys shoot to kill?”

“We do.”

With a shrug, Casca said, “Maybe it’s a miracle.”

Talon had never believed in miracles, but neither had he put much credence in monsters and demons. In a world where the forces of darkness could walk among us, why couldn’t a miracle or two be possible?

Casca extricated a familiar item from his suit jacket. The Sumerian pentagram amulet. “Oh, before I forget. Cabrera was nice enough to have the brotherhood return the amulet.” He handed it to Talon.

After killing Amon, Talon had not returned to the chapel. He’d felt confident that Nicole was in control of her situation and knew that medical help was on the way. If he hung around, he’d risk being arrested. He didn’t plan on spending his remaining days in a jail cell while the forces of darkness waged their shadow war. He was needed in the field.

As he took off on the Ducati, the police helicopter hovering above the chapel didn’t follow him. Doyle’s gratitude for having saved his life twice in the same day must’ve outweighed his professional curiosity. Perhaps their paths would cross again in the future, maybe this time as allies.

“You got to be better about not leaving these items behind, Sergeant. Magical weapons don’t grow on trees.”

“You’re never going to let me forget about the demon slayer blade, are you now? You try fighting a demonic cyborg with explosives going off all around you and see if you remember to pull the knife out of the bad guy.”

Casca smiled. “My spies, who include a certain Detective Serrone, assure me it’s safe in some SFPD evidence locker. I’m working on getting it back.”

“Good to hear. How is Nicole doing?” Talon asked.

“She has decided to remain at the monastery for now,” Casca said. “To continue to learn about the darkness inside her. To become better at controlling it.”

“Did Cabrera try to exorcise her demon?’

“They did, but it isn’t working. When Nicole tapped into the entity’s power, it permanently fused with her. Every day she faces a new battle with the creature, a never-ending struggle over who will be in control. But she is also able to harness the demon’s abilities.”

Talon considered this.

“For now she’s found a way to conquer her darkness. I’ll be monitoring her progress.”

“Keep me updated.”

Casca arched an eyebrow. “How about you? How are you feeling?”

“Like shit. I might have to take you up on that offer for some R&R days.”

Casca was both surprised and pleased by his request.

“I think they’re well deserved and long overdue. I still have Autumn’s number if you feel like spending some time in LA.”

“Actually, I was thinking of visiting an old military buddy in New York City.”

Talon smiled. A trip to Queens would be a good way to reconnect with his former life even if it was only for a short period.

The ghostly cemetery receded and for a moment, death seemed far away. Talon knew all too well that the moment of peace wouldn’t last, but he’d enjoy the momentary lull until the fight began again.

They’d won another battle, but the war against the darkness would go on.

Maybe the apocalypse was coming.

But it wasn’t going to be today.

THE END

MARK TALON RETURNS IN BOOK 3: SPIRIT BREAKER OUT NOW!

The former Delta Force Operator must confront an evil psychic and the terrifying forces of the afterlife in his most heart-pounding adventure yet.

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William Massa is a screenwriter (Return to House on Haunted Hill) and script consultant. He has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now calls Los Angeles his home. William writes horror, science fiction and dark fantasy. Directing a movie one day is on William’s bucket list. More books are on the way.

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After a decade spent fighting the enemy abroad and keeping his country safe, Delta Force Operator MARK TALON is ready to settle down with the love of his life. But Talon’s world crumbles when his fiancée becomes the victim of a terrifying cult.

In the wake of his terrible loss, Talon dedicates himself to a new mission – hunting down evil occultists across the globe and stopping them before they can unleash the forces of darkness upon an unsuspecting world.

In ICE SHADOWS, Talon must head to Norway to stop Rezok, a Black Metal musician who plans on using an ancient Norse ritual to trigger a frozen cataclysm.

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OCCULT ASSASSIN #2.5: ICE SHADOWS (A NOVELLA)

CHAPTER ONE

WHIRLING SNOWFLAKES LANDED on Kristin’s face like icy kisses as her athletic frame hurtled down the steep mountain at fifty-plus miles per hour. Sending sprays of powder into the air, she skied with the skill and carefree abandon of someone in their mid-twenties. All around her, a state-of-the art lighting system turned the tree-lined slopes into an azure, phantasmagorical winter wonderland.

Kristin had arrived in Bergen, Norway, less than 48 hours earlier. Originally from Oslo, she worked as an account executive for a large advertising firm in London but tried to visit as often as her hectic schedule permitted. After the failure of her most recent romantic relationship, a doomed coupling with a French commercial director, the mountains of her homeland had been calling her.

Ahead the trail forked and Kristin opted for the steeper, more challenging backcountry chute. Twilight deepened and the woods grew dark. With fewer light poles available, she’d have to rely on her other senses. She tightened her body, further increasing her speed.

For a moment her problems ceased to matter and she felt in complete control. How she wished some of that confidence extended to her love life. She had tried to convince herself that Pierre was just a fling, but she was heartbroken. Their relationship had lasted for less than a month before the flowers and fancy dinners gave way to unanswered calls and unreturned texts. After three days of radio silence, she’d gotten the hint – the Frenchman had moved on. Why had she thought she could tame a well-known Lothario and heartbreaker?

She was pulled out of her thoughts when her eyes landed on an unexpected obstacle directly ahead. A six-foot high wall of ice blocked the narrow trail. The blockade flexed and rippled in the starlight. She’d seen videos of ice heaves, tsunami-style waves of frozen water rippling over shorelines and damaging homes. She had forgotten the science behind the phenomenon, but she did know it occurred near lakes and required strong winds. So what had triggered such a strange anomaly at this high altitude? And why did it only seem to be affecting the ski trail?

All these thoughts slashed through her mind within a handful of seconds. The time for speculation had run out – the ice barrier was upon her. She had to act fast. A direct impact at this speed would kill her.

Kristin dug the edges of her skis into the powder. The maneuver sent her flying. Airborne, she twisted her body in midair and landed butt-first, as she’d been trained to do. Her derriere absorbed the brunt of the fall as she slid down the trail on her back. The powdery snow cushioned the impact and Kristin counted her blessings. An icy surface would have been far less pleasant.

For a moment she just lay there, the cold seeping through her ski jacket. Her breath misted in the chilly darkness. She predicted some ugly bruises in the morning, but her training and quick reflexes had spared her any broken bones. With a determined grunt Kristin performed a press up while holding the base of her poles with an uphill hand. Her upper body strength was well developed from regular gym visits and she quickly got back on her feet.

She dusted thick clumps of snow off her ski-suit and bindings before taking a closer look at the surreal sight in front of her. A row of frozen stalagmites jabbed into the air like the teeth of some buried ice giant.

Kristin shivered as she gained a stronger sense of her situation. She was alone on the deserted chute and no sound broke the unnerving silence. Making matters worse, one of the nearby light poles began to flicker and grow dark.

Shit! Other lights followed suit and winked off, drenching the mountain in darkness. The sole illumination now emanated from the dim stars overhead. What was going on? She decided to round the barrier and continue down the mountain as quickly as possible. She instinctively sensed that she was in danger.

To suppress her fear, she concentrated on the task at hand. She trudged along the frozen barricade, moving toward the tree-line on the left side of the trail. How she wished some other skier would materialize, but the odds were slim considering the late hour.

The sound of her skis crunching over the snow echoed eerily on the forlorn trail and her pulse quickened. The wind had picked up and now cut through her clothes. Her teeth chattered and each breath was like inhaling ice. So much for being inured to the cold. She always teased her British colleagues when they complained about their comparatively mild winters. But this was different. The temperature must have dropped over twenty degrees since she took her tumble in the snow. How was this possible?

She reached the trees and began to round the strange ice wall. Behind her the branches stirred, wooden fingers brushing against her back. She stifled a scream.

Get a grip on yourself!

Just a few more seconds and she’d be on her way, blasting down the trail and headed for the safety of the base about 800 feet below.

She suddenly noticed strange carvings etched into the trees. Her eyes narrowed and she had to lean forward to catch a better look. As a native Norwegian, she recognized the symbols as runes, the characters of the alphabet used by the ancient people of Northern Europe. She didn’t know the meaning of these symbols, but it deepened her sense of dread. Heart hammering in her chest, she turned away from the trees and wove around the icy obstacle. Fear fueled her movements. Reality had narrowed to one simple objective — she had to get back on the trail.

Her singular focus paid off and she reached the other side of the ice wall, only to grow dead still… Three human silhouettes blocked the trail ahead.

A scream wanted to escape from Kristin’s throat, but her lips were frozen shut. The tall, gaunt snowboarders loomed before her, creating a human barrier across the width of the chute. Even if she managed to somehow weave around them, nothing would stop them from chasing after her.

The spooky trio advanced. As they stepped into the moonlight, Kristin realized they all wore fiberglass skull-helmets favored by both hardcore snowboarders and paintballers. They looked more like monstrous, medieval skeleton creatures than masked humans.

Despite the punishing cold and her mounting terror, Kristin exploded into motion. Using her poles, she pushed away from the figures and shot back toward the trees.

She had barely advanced a few feet when a massive silhouette peeled from the shadow-soaked woods, barring her escape. Like the others, he wore a skull-mask that erased all humanity from his visage and a glittering knife extended from his gloved hand.

Kristin’s piercing scream cut through the forest but was quickly drowned out by the unforgiving wind.

CHAPTER TWO

THEY CALLED HIM the vampire.

His real name was Rezok and he was the lead singer of the Norwegian black metal band Ice God. He also happened to be the reason why Mark Talon, the occult assassin, had come to Bergen, Norway and found himself in a rundown pub surrounded by a mob of screaming, drunk fans. Any minute now Ice God would hit the stage, and the anticipation in the crowd was palpable.

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 was 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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FEAR THE LIGHT: WHO MURDERED DRACULA?

Over the centuries, many had tried to kill the Count. All had failed. Until now...

Eight vampires gather at Dracula's castle to solve his murder. But as the sun rises outside the chateau, a voice cries out and another creature of the night is slain. Trapped, the sun burning bright outside, the vampires realize they have met their match — a killer who plans on picking them off one by one!

As the daylight reigns and their numbers dwindle, a dark suspicion grows — could Dracula's murderer be hiding in plain sight?

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

"It is nothing like the other vampire books I have read..." - Jenny, Fabulous and Fun Blog

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GARGOYLE KNIGHT

When his kingdom is threatened by an ancient evil, a king is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice. If he is to defeat an army of monsters, he must become one himself! His victory carries a terrible price… An eternity frozen in stone.

Fifteen centuries later, the Celtic warrior is awakened when the world needs him most. A stranger in a strange land with his only guide a beautiful archeology student, he must battle his old adversary once again, all while struggling with his own darkness. For he is by day a man, by night cursed to become… The GARGOYLE!

“An Urban Fantasy Novel That Feels Fun and Alive.There's a cinematic feel in Gargoyle Knight...the experience is sweeping with entertaining action that builds to a satisfying climax"

Fantascize.com

Match: A Supernatural Thriller

Dating apps. A great way to connect in a wired, increasingly busy world, but do you really know who hides behind the smiling pictures? The flirtatious text messages? What if the person on the other end of the dating profile isn't quite what they appear to be...

Mark found her photo on a popular mobile dating site. Her name was Akasha, and she was beautiful. Seductive. Irresistible. She wrote that she was looking for friendship. Love. A real connection.

But Akasha is concealing a horrible secret...

Not everyone you meet online is who they claim to be.

Sometimes they may not even be alive...

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Copyright
- Also by William Massa
- The Mission
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- AUTHOR INFO
- OCCULT ASSASSIN: ICE SHADOWS
- OCCULT ASSASSIN: ICE SHADOWS
- OCCULT ASSASSIN: ICE SHADOWS
- OCCULT ASSASSIN: ICE SHADOWS
- FEAR THE LIGHT
- GARGOYLE KNIGHT
- MATCH