Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker
Date: 2015-12-30 00:00:00+00:00
Description: An ancient evil haunts the slums of Paris... A drug dealer has found a way to spark the flames of rage and revolution by tapping into the powers of the occult. Now the ancient curse of the Jinn has returned to the modern world and threatens its future. Only two people stand in the way of the living nightmare--Detective Samia Ahmed, who must face down police prejudice and her own dark past, and Mark Talon, the Occult Assassin. Will they be able to to stop the wrath of the Soul Jacker before the City of Light descends into darkness?NOTE: CONTAINS THE COFFIN COLLECTOR BONUS SHORT STORYIn COFFIN C
Publisher: CreateSpace Publishing

OCCULT ASSASSIN

SOUL JACKER

BOOK 4

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.

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Also by William Massa

THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

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

Occult Assassin #2: Apocalypse Soldier - Amazon US Amazon UK

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

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

Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker

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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

COMING SOON

TARGET EARTH: THE SYSTEM BOOK 1

GARGOYLE QUEST

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 Soul Jacker, Talon must head to the ghettos of Paris and face the curse of the Jinn.

CHAPTER ONE

A QUAINT MEDIEVAL chapel topped the Northern Italian mountain, the breathtaking vista offering no indication of the evil forces converging on its summit. The first sign that something might be amiss came when a silver helicopter popped up from behind a jagged rock formation, a shadow against the sun, and zeroed in on the stone structure.

Alerted by the deafening rotor wash, Roberto Abatte, high priest of the Order of the Flayed Prince, emerged from the chapel. Shielding his eyes from the blinding sunlight, he peered up at the approaching craft. As expected, Laura Santerre, heir to her late father’s fashion empire, was both the last to arrive and the flashiest entrance of them all. Most of the other acolytes had braved the series of winding roads that snaked up the steep mountain, their luxury cars now parked around the chapel. Big security men in expensive suits fronted the fleet of BMWs, Ferrarris and Maseratis. They eyed the approaching craft with wary suspicion.

As the helicopter touched down, the guards raised their hands to shield themselves from the buffeting gusts of wind. Roberto faced the incoming craft in stoic silence. At this altitude the icy air packed a punch, but his self-discipline prevented him from showing any discomfort. He couldn’t allow himself the luxury of displaying weakness in front of his flock.

Laura climbed out of the helicopter and strode toward him, flanked by two guards of her own. She was dressed in a formfitting black dress that accentuated her ample curves and formed a perfect contrast to her alabaster skin and blood-red lipstick.

Laura didn’t bother to hide her sexual interest as their eyes met. Another spoiled brat, Roberto thought, to whom the cult and its rituals were just a way to stave off boredom and convince herself that she mattered. Her file painted the picture of a young woman who tried on identities the way other people changed clothes. Over the years she’d experimented with drugs, sexuality, religion, and a string of failed business ventures. Her curiosity rarely led to a lasting commitment—but she would soon discover the Order wasn’t a role she would be able to discard so easily.

“I hope I’m not too late,” Laura said. Roberto shook his head and indicated with a wave of his hand that she should follow him into the stone chapel. Her high heels echoed against the marble floor as they entered the place of worship. Six pairs of curious eyes tracked the new arrival. The congregants’ eagerness to commence the initiation rite was all too palpable.

Laura grew still, unable to mask her surprise as she took in the Christian symbols of worship surrounding her. Having expected this reaction, Robert explained, “If the Inquisition taught us anything, it’s the art of hiding in plain sight. Look more closely and you will see what I mean.”

A smile curled Laura’s lips as she spotted the subtle signs. Upon first glance, the stained glass windows depicted classic images from the Bible, but closer inspection revealed the symbols of black magic embedded in the imagery: a triangle with the all-seeing eye looming over a saint, a pentagram among a firmament of stars, a savior crucified on an inverted cross. The telltale indicators of the left-hand path would jump out at any person who knew what to look for.

Roberto tilted his head toward the congregants, and Laura joined their ranks. He advanced toward the altar, on which a thick, leather-bound book rested. Taking up position before the tome, he regarded his gathered flock. There was a famous soccer star and his actress wife, the owner of a fleet of luxury cars, even a countess. Wealth had bought them power and prestige but couldn’t satisfy all their needs. These men and women recognized the limits of material rewards and yearned to be part of something far grander and more meaningful.

Roberto planned to fill that emptiness today.

His eyes fell on the leather-bound tome. The ancient volume radiated an eerie energy. It was more than mere parchment bound by animal hide. The Grimoire Incatrix had been translated from the original Arabic into Latin during the 13th century, and the incantations contained within its weathered pages formed a direct line of communication with a force not of this Earth. When spoken at the right pitch and at the correct time of year, the words could open doorways to other worlds.

A solar eclipse was mere minutes away, and a dark baptism awaited the well-heeled power brokers in the chapel, an initiation rite that would bind them to the Order—and to the darkness. Once the moon finished swallowing the sun, the black magic within the book would manifest itself in the unholy chapel.

“Today marks a new chapter for all of you,” Roberto declared, fanatical conviction fueling his words. “Soon your old selves will be nothing but a memory. Rebirth awaits. Are you ready to take the final step and prove your devotion to the darkness?”

Their answer was a resounding yes.

He leaned over the Grimoire, flipped open the book…and froze. His stomach churned as the world tilted. The book before him was not filled with ancient secrets. It was a hollowed out replica containing a digital timer and a tangle of wires embedded in a clump of white putty. Before he could scream, the timer hit zero and charges ignited the plastic explosives. A heartbeat later, the entire congregation of devil worshippers got their chance to experience hell on Earth.

***

The stained-glass windows of the chapel blew out with devastating force, the explosion shattering the idyllic mountain setting. The stunned guards outside froze, the blast shaking bones and rattling teeth while apocalyptic columns of searing flame painted their faces scarlet. An instant later, their hands reached for their firearms as they rushed toward the raging inferno.

They hadn’t gotten far when a series of muffled pops erupted and three of the men went down before they knew what hit them. Another volley of lead forced the remaining guards to seek shelter between the parked cars. Eyes darting, they tried to spot the new assailant. They were still combing the mountaintop battlefield when the chapel door flung open and one of the cultists burst from the structure. Fire licked the man’s form. Two bullets struck down the living torch—a mercy killing, courtesy of the same mysterious assailant.

The guards spun around and spotted a shadowy figure disappearing behind a nearby Mercedes. A moment later the sound of the engine bashed the air and the vehicle screamed past them, hurtling down the narrow mountain road. Shouts were exchanged and the men rushed to their cars and motorcycles.

The chase was on.

Behind the wheel of the fleeing Mercedes, Mark Talon allowed himself to steal a glance at his rear-view mirror. The eyes staring back at him flickered with single-minded determination. Six months earlier the former Delta Operator had lost his fiancée at the hands of a murderous cult. In the wake of the tragedy, he’d turned his back on his military career and signed up for a new mission - hunting down evil occultists across the globe and stopping them before they could unleash the forces of darkness upon the world.

The roar of a black Ducati motorcycle bashed the air as it popped up in the mirror next to his face, a BMW hot on its tail.

Talon punched the Mercedes’ accelerator, his attention split between the high-speed chase and the object that had brought him to the remote chapel: The Grimoire Incatrix.

According to Simon Casca, the Silicon Valley billionaire turned occult expert who sponsored his missions, it was one of the most dangerous tomes of black magic in the world. Five long weeks of recon had led them to Northern Italy. The billionaire’s intel had steered him toward Roberto and his connection with an organization known as the Order of the Flayed Prince.

How the hell do these cultists think up these names?

After tailing the man for a few days, Talon had discovered that Roberto kept the book locked up in the Cassa Depositi e Prestiti and only retrieved it from the Italian banking institution for special occasions. So he’d waited, remaining in the shadows, biding his time.

Until today.

Once he had discovered the location of the initiation ceremony, he’d made his move. Approaching the chapel from the mountain-side, he ‘d reached the peak thirty minutes before Roberto did. Hiding in the chapel’s vestibule, he’d switched out the books and waited for the new members of the circle to arrive. He had felt zero mercy when the bomb went off. Each one of the initiates had spilled blood as part of their dark rites. Seven innocent lives had been snuffed out so that the decadent fools could gain access into one more elite club.

The dead could not be brought back, but Talon would make certain these fanatics would never hurt anyone else again. He knew from experience that the world was a better place without certain people in it.

The screaming engines of the advancing BMW and Ducati reminded Talon that one more battle lay ahead. The explosion in the chapel had cut off the head of the snake, but he still had to deal with the spasms of its dying body.

Talon twisted the steering wheel, the tires tattooing black marks on the winding road as he carved a hairpin turn. One wrong move would send the car hurtling down the steep mountainside to a fiery end. Right hand on the wheel, he used the left to bring up his Glock. With the press of a button, the window whirred open and then he was returning fire, the recoil sending tremors up his arm. The mountain landscape streaked past him in a mad blur. In the fading light, it was difficult to aim. The sun’s light was growing dimmer, and darkness was falling like a shroud across the land.

The solar eclipse was beginning.

Right on schedule…

Talon had come prepared. He lowered the Glock for a beat and snatched a pair of night-vision goggles from his satchel. The glasses transformed the road ahead into a spectral green landscape. As the orb of the moon slid over the sun, tires screeched behind him, his pursuers struggling to adjust to the sudden darkness.

Once again Talon’s eyes darted toward the rear-view mirror, but this time his blood turned to ice. A dark, faceless entity peered back at him—a figure carved from shadow. Struggling to keep his terror in check, Talon spun around and found the backseat empty.

His gaze traveled to the Grimoire, and Casca’s warning came to mind. The tome would do anything in its power to remain with its rightful owner. This wasn’t just a book but a direct line to another plane of existence, with the ability to sway the minds of those who didn’t keep their guard up. The terrible vision in the backseat of the car was probably just the beginning. As soon as the fatalistic thought crossed his mind, the book launched its next attack. The windshield fogged up and an oily mist filled the car. It coated the windows and turned the world black. Damn it! He was flying blind now. If he missed the upcoming turn, the Mercedes would go over the side of the road…

There was no hesitation as his gloved fist shot out at the windshield. Glass shattered and the ghostly green vision of the mountain landscape jumped back into view. Not a moment too soon as the guardrail rushed up at him. Talon understood he was mere seconds away from shrieking down the mountain in a steel coffin. He jerked the wheel, inwardly cursing the infernal book as he barely navigated the sharp turn. Rubber burned.

The car grew icy cold, but Talon wasn’t impressed. The Grimoire might be pulling out all the stops, but cheap parlor tricks wouldn’t be enough to defeat him. He turned away from the book of black magic and focused on the motorcycle closing in from behind.

With a snarl, he floored the brakes. The biker was going too fast to correct his course and slammed into the back of Talon’s Mercedes. The impact sent the rider over the handlebars, and the man crashed full-force into the rear windshield. A beat later, his lifeless form lay prostate in the backseat amid a shower of broken glass, his helmeted head lolling. Talon punched the gas, leaving the twisted, smoking remains of the shattered motorcycle behind.

Talon’s attention switched to the roadway ahead. The BMW was gaining on him.

Alright, come and get me!

The BMW pulled abreast of the Mercedes on the left side, and Talon clenched his jaw as he whipped the wheel. Metal collided with metal, the BMW protesting under the violent assault. Talon repeated the move once, twice, his face distorted with killer instinct. The third impact sent the Mercedes through the railing. The driver’s terrified scream echoed as the car plummeted down the rocky hillside.

Talon had only a moment to celebrate his victory. A helicopter was moving in fast, headed straight toward him. A man leaned out of the craft, machine pistol leveled at the Mercedes. Bullets stitched the road before perforating the hood, turning much of the Mercedes into Swiss cheese. It was only a matter of time before Talon lost control of the vehicle—or a lucky bullet hit the gas tank. The Glock was no match for the sustained firepower of his airborne attackers. What to do?

Talon glanced at the dead motorcyclist, and a plan sparked behind his eyes. Instead of slowing the Mercedes, whose engine was now belching smoke, he sped up and reached behind his seat to remove the corpse’s helmet. Swiftly, Talon donned the helmet.

Thirty feet in front of him, the chopper hovered beyond the road’s flimsy guard railing like some mechanical beast of prey. One last task remained before Talon could make his move. He grabbed the Grimoire and slipped it under his leather jacket. A burning sensation assaulted his chest, almost as if the book had sprouted claws and was ripping its way through skin and bone to get at his pounding heart. How he wished he could leave the infernal tome behind, but Casca would never forgive him. Besides, if the billionaire was right, even an explosion wouldn’t destroy the magical book.

The Grimoire secured, Talon hurled himself from the moving Mercedes. The mountain road lashed out at him with voracious ferocity, the impact rattling every bone in his body.

The Mercedes kept shooting down the road, on a direct collision course with the chopper. The pilot tried to pull away from the out-of-control car, now turned deadly projectile, but he failed to react fast enough. With a ferocious shriek of rending metal and glass, the Mercedes slammed into the cockpit.

The explosion that followed canceled out the eclipse, as for a brief moment it lit up the mountainside. The fiery wreck vanished from view behind the guardrail, and a series of smaller explosions rocked the landscape.

The symphony of destruction gave way to silence.

Talon lay on the dusty ground, grateful to still be alive and in one piece. He inhaled deeply and stumbled to his feet. His muscles screamed out in pain.

He extricated the book from under his leather jacket while the darkness around him lifted. The moon was beginning to pass the sun, and the first rays of sunlight lit up the world once more. The stench of burning metal and plastic permeated the air. Even the book was cold to the touch again, almost as if it sensed the battle was over.

Already dreading the bruises that would form by the time he reached the bottom of the mountain, Talon began his descent. Once again he’d cheated death, but how much longer would his luck hold up? He cast off the thought and eyed the book over which so much blood had been spilled. Talon could already picture Casca’s excited smile when he handed him the Grimoire. But would the tome of infernal magic truly be safe in the hands of the billionaire?

CHAPTER TWO

DEMONS ROAMED THE streets of Paris.

Ismael Henni had spotted the first creature three weeks earlier on his daily train ride to the City of Lights. As an elderly French lady had struggled to shuffle into the packed Metro, their eyes had met. There had been nothing human about those eyes, just black orbs of unforgiving darkness. A gnarled hand had clutched his forearm, and he had choked back a gasp of pain, stunned by the lady’s fearsome strength. A reptilian tongue had slithered between the blackened stumps of her teeth.

Taking three quick steps back from the shocking apparition, he had crashed into a businessman who shot him an annoyed glance. By the time Ismael whirled back to the old lady, reality, to his relief, had returned to normal. Once again the sweet madame, she’d eyed him with a stunned expression, as surprised by his behavior as he’d been by her demonic transformation. Ismael attempted to convince himself that his vision had been triggered by an overactive imagination, but knew he was lying to himself.

The rest of the train ride turned out to be uneventful, but that night sleep hadn’t come easily. The next day the old lady’s mad cackle kept ringing through the one-bedroom apartment he shared with his mother and sister. Ismael was twenty-two and of Tunisian and Algerian descent, a third generation French Muslim. On average he spent two hours every day commuting between his home and Paris, where he worked at a fast food burger joint. A menial gig, but a step up from the job at the Coca-Cola bottling plant he’d held before. The color of his skin and his post code automatically disqualified him from the better jobs in the city. An address in the Parisian suburbs—the banlieues as Parisians referred to the area—would be a warning flag for any recruiter. It was a wasteland of housing projects dominated by poverty, unemployment, and gang violence best to be avoided. Rarely did the police patrol the crime-ridden slums, except for the occasional appearance by your friendly neighborhood RAID team.

Ismael got up, showered and dressed. His mother greeted him in the kitchen, concern etched across her features. “You’re having nightmares,” she said. “I could hear your screams.”

Ismael didn’t feel like getting into it and kissed her on the cheek before dashing out. Hopefully work would make him forget. But the horror was merely beginning. Over the next weeks, more creatures began to reveal themselves on the trains and streets of Paris. The demons always appeared innocuous at first before their true nature surfaced. Taut skin would transform into the rotting flesh of a leper. Smiles became snarls, revealing rows of sharpened teeth. He might admire the derriere of a well-endowed customer at his restaurant, only to spot a glimpse of a monstrous tail slithering underneath her dress a second later. Soon he could no longer deny what his senses were telling him: devils dwelled among them.

They wore the mask of humanity, but the illusion now failed to put him under its blinding spell. He knew the truth. The evil hordes controlled Paris, and suddenly everything else in his hard life made sense. The discrimination against his people, the lack of opportunity for a better life. The citizens of France were the true enemy, demons that had enslaved generations of Arabs and Africans. They would deport them all if they could, but it was far easier to keep them trapped in the broken suburbs that orbited the City of Light like burnt-out stars.

Ismael now saw the world for what it truly was, stripped of all illusions. The time had come to strike back at his oppressors.

To take a stand against the demons.

After two weeks of bearing witness to the horrors around him, he started bringing a knife to work. He concealed the weapon under his jacket, but its weight filled him with a sense of security. Would the twelve inches of stainless steel do much good if the bestial horde decided to strike out at him? He doubted it, but the knife made him feel better. At least he would be able to take a few of them with him if they attacked.

His terror came to a head five days later—exactly three weeks after he’d spotted his first demon. Three men boarded the train, and their mistrustful eyes landed on Ismael. He picked up on their dismissive judgment, their sly grins and superior laughter. They saw him as someone who didn’t have a place in this European city. An outsider. An alien.

What are you doing so far from home, brown boy? You’re trespassing, beur! Paris is for real French! Time to head back to the Middle East where you people belong!

Eyes blazing with crimson fire, their words devolved into guttural shrieks directed at him. As they pointed their fingers at him, the digits elongated and sprouted claws.

In the past he would’ve held his tongue, but not any longer. His days of slinking through French society like a shadow were over. Something snapped in Ismael, and he whipped the knife from his coat. For a frozen moment, the fluorescent lights of the subway train played across the steel. The three demons paused, reverting back to their human disguise. The eyes facing him filled with fear, but Ismael wasn’t going to fall for their tricks this time. He was tired of their games.

Without hesitation, he drove the knife into the first man’s chest. The blade cut easily through layers of muscle, and the stunned man gasped with agony. Green blood spurted and pooled on the subway floor.

The blood of a demon.

Reassured by this proof of the man’s inhuman nature, he withdrew the knife and slashed the second man’s throat in one swift move. The other passengers screamed and tried to surge away from him in the same panicked way Ismael had recoiled from the old lady demon three weeks earlier.

The third monster tried to join the retreating ranks, but Ismael’s knife still managed to find him. He struck with force and precision, catching the fleeing demon in the shoulder blade.

There was a stunned cry as the man went down, reduced to a screaming, bleeding mass of humanity.

The wheels of the train squealed as they pulled into the bustling Gare de Norde station, the frontier zone between the world of affluent Paris and the ghettos of the banlieues. It was one of the few places in the city where the two worlds met.

A soft ding announced the train stop and the doors swung open. The mob emptied into the station, cries of panic accompanying their rapid escape.

Ismael took a deep breath, wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving a green streak on his forehead. Following an irrational impulse, he dipped two fingers into the widening pool of blood and drew a symbol that resembled the letter M on the nearest window. His body moved of its own volition, the act disconnected from conscious thought.

Once done, he stumbled into the station. His gaze flitted back and forth, surveying his environment. He was intimately familiar with the station from his daily commute, but the place appeared foreign and hostile now. Everywhere terrified people turned away from him as if he was the monster. Shouts drowned out all other sounds. A part of him rejoiced in their fear. Serves them right, he thought. This was a taste of their own medicine. How many times had he worried some skinhead might jump him on the way home?

A police officer barreled toward him, gun up. The cop’s features were grotesquely distorted as if some mad plastic surgeon had tried to mold flesh and blood to resemble a living funhouse mirror. A slash of a mouth, eyes set too far apart, a crumpled mass of cartilage pretending to be a nose. It reminded Ismael of a Picasso painting given unnatural life.

All thoughts of his own safety cast aside, he rushed toward the demon, his knife raised, lips pulled back into a scream.

The police officer’s gun roared.

The world went topsy-turvy as the impact propelled him backwards. The train station’s stone floor rushed up at him. Bone slapped concrete with devastating force. He heard footsteps and shouts, but he couldn’t tell where they were coming from.

Ismael’s adrenaline spiked, and somehow he managed to jump back to his feet. He lurched toward the officer, his knife outstretched, and this time his blade found its target. Even as the demon in the police uniform fell, others rushed forward. They fired on Ismael and he collapsed. The shouts and gunshots grew dim as a soulless darkness consumed the station.

CHAPTER THREE

CASCA PERKED UP as he leafed through the age-worn pages of the Grimoire, fingers trembling with excitement. His awed expression made Talon think of a little kid unwrapping his first present on Christmas morning.

Thirty-six hours had passed since Talon had battled the mysterious Order of the Flayed Prince for the occult object in question. He now sat across from his benefactor in a quaint café in the Italian city of Cuneo. Located at the foot of the Maritime Alps, it had been nicknamed the “City of Seven Sieges” and still bore the marks of its military history. The ruins of the fortress walls that once ringed the area were visible everywhere. The twelfth-century fortified town had once been a strategic military center. Now Cuneo was better known for its Cuneesi al Rhum, chocolates with a rum-based filling.

Funny how the world turns, Talon thought. Eying Casca, he wondered how much his own perception of the billionaire had changed since their last mission. Back in Ohio, when they’d faced the Reaper, Talon had learned that Casca was not just trying to understand metaphysical forces but was also practicing magic himself. His benefactor justified his actions by claiming that he was tapping into the light, not the darkness.

Or at least so he believed.

Talon had witnessed enough horrors during his military career to be skeptical. How often had men with good intention set the tragedies of history in motion? Could the billionaire continue on his current path without being corrupted by forces he was trying to control? Only time would answer that question.

Almost as if Casca guessed what Talon was thinking, he said, “Sergeant, you look like someone who just handed a kid a loaded gun.”

Talon warily met Casca’s gaze. Had the billionaire actually learned to read minds?

“I know you’re worried I might turn into some magical big bad,” Casca continued, “but I’m on your side.”

Talon nodded. His benefactor had a point. On the surface, a billionaire and former Delta Force Operator might seem to share little in common, but what connected them was a shared sense of mission. They’d both declared war against the forces of darkness after losing loved ones to the occult. Together they would do their best to make sure no one else suffered a similar fate.

Casca leaned closer and said, “To battle terrorists, you and your men needed to get into their heads. Figure out what made them tick. My studies of the occult are not so different. You’ve seen yourself how important some of the magical weapons have been in our recent battles.”

Casca was referring to the demon slayer blade Talon carried and the pentagram amulet draped around his neck, which could alert him of approaching black magic dangers.

“All I’m saying is be careful,” Talon said.

Casca flashed him a grin. “I’m touched by your concern.”

Talon decided it might be better to change the subject for now. The billionaire had offered up few details about the Order of the Flayed Prince when he sent him after the Grimoire, and Talon was hungry for answers. “So what do we know about this cult besides their interest in classic literature?”

“Not much, unfortunately,” Casca replied in a sober voice. Talon detected a trace of hesitation, and he suddenly wondered if his benefactor might know more about this mysterious cabal than he had let on. “They’ve been recruiting wealthy people into their ranks. To what specific purpose, I don’t know.”

Casca raised the Grimoire. “The loss of the Incatrix marks a blow against them, but it won’t end their activities. You took out a cell and eliminated their latest wave of recruits but the larger organization remains.”

An organization that now knows someone is gunning for them, Talon mentally added. Aloud, he asked, “How do we proceed?”

“Their agenda is to recruit members of the economic elite. Influencers. I doubt that’s going to change. So why not let them come to us?”

Talon studied Casca carefully, his curiosity building.

“Forbes is doing an interview with me next week, and I plan to mention my interest in the occult.”

Realization hit Talon. Instead of tracking down the cult, Casca would let them come to him.

“What if they don’t take the bait?” he asked.

“Considering we just thinned their numbers, I’m sure I’ll be hearing from them soon enough.” The billionaire’s eyes glittered with a confidence that bordered on cockiness. The events in Ohio had definitely changed him. Talon still wasn’t quite sure what to make of this new Casca.

“What do we do while we wait?”

“Why not focus on a more immediate problem for now? There’s a situation developing in Paris which requires our attention.”

Talon perked up. “You’re referring to the recent string of terror attacks orchestrated by North Africans and Algerians?”

Casca nodded. “I’m glad you’re keeping up with the news.”

Even though Talon was busy fighting a different war these days, he still shared a keen interest in world affairs. Battling demons and cults hadn’t made him forget that evil came in many forms—and that earth-bound enemies could cause as much harm as supernatural ones. His thoughts often turned to his Delta brothers on the frontline in the battle against terrorism. Part of him still felt like he’d abandoned his unit by stepping away from his military duties but what choice did he have after what had happened in San Francisco? If not for him, who would stand against the darkness?

“How much do you know about the ‘banlieues’?” Casca inquired.

There was no hesitation as Talon answered. “Since the 1970s, the phrase banlieues has been used to describe the grim high-rise housing estates in the suburbs that ring many French cities. They are the home of many immigrants and French citizens of foreign descent, mostly of Algerian and North African origin.”

“I’m impressed. Go on.”

“French Muslims often straddle two worlds. Unlike immigrants in the US, the descendents of foreigners aren’t well integrated into mainstream French society. They have little economic upward mobility and feel that secular France is at war with Islam. Consequently, it doesn’t come as a surprise that France has supplied more jihadists to the Islamic state than any other Western country.”

Talon recalled a nearly three-week riot in 2005, which illustrated the potential of conflict in the area. And then there was the recent attack on the magazine Charlie Hebdo by Islamist extremists offended by their satirical portrayal of Muslims. The killers were all Frenchmen born of Algerian and North-African descent who had grown up in the impoverished Paris suburbs. Their attack had ratcheted up ethnic tensions in Europe, igniting social problems that had been simmering away since the 1950s when the first Algerian immigrants arrived. Many Parisians feared the banlieues could become incubators for future acts of terrorism, and this fear was unfortunately turning into a self-fulfilling prophecy.

“What makes you think these attacks have an occult explanation?” Talon asked.

Casca answered by turning his laptop toward Talon. “The following video was taken by a witness two days earlier on the Metro.” Casca pressed play, and a chilling scene began to unfold. Onscreen, a young Algerian man exploded into violent motion as he whipped out a knife and launched a terrifying attack at the stunned commuters. Shouts of panic rang out as blood flowed freely. At one point, the camera zoomed in on the knife-wielding killer, the attacker’s voice growing audible over the screams on the train. The man was mumbling strange words in an exotic language. There was no fanatical glee on the young man’s face, nor did he display the aloof, removed quality found among most mass murderers. In fact, he appeared even more terrified than the commuters.

It hit Talon then. This attack wasn’t inspired by hatred but by fear.

Before the young man exited the subway, he drew a symbol, which resembled the letter M, on one of train’s windows. The video went dark and was replaced with a surveillance shot of a train station. It showed the killer facing down a police officer. Bullets lashed into the crazed man and hurled him to the ground. Despite the violent hail of lead, the man picked himself up and lurched toward the cop, his knife finding the hapless officer. How could he be displaying such freakish strength after taking multiple bullets? He had to be on PCP or some other drug, Talon thought. More cops appeared, and this time, the power of their firearms dropped the madman.

In the end, he was only human.

The video ended and Casca’s eyes locked on him. “As you can see, the attacker was gunned down by the French police shortly after the attack on the Metro.”

“Did you observe anything unusual about our attacker?”

“He looks terrified. And he appears to be on some kind of drug, if he could take a few bullets and keep on coming.”

“My feeling exactly. Could be just a symptom of psychosis, but there’s more. Let me replay the scene without the background sound.”

A moment later, the scene of violence unspooled again, this time with he background noise stripped out. The man’s words were clearly audible. Talon possessed a working knowledge of Arabic and would have recognized the language, but this was gibberish to him.

“What language is he speaking?”

“Good question. Some of the words sounded familiar, and I had a linguist verify my suspicion. He is using Suryaniyya, or ancient Syriac, which is a dialect of Aramaic. It’s an offshoot of the ancestral language of the Semites.”

“Why is a French-born Algerian using an ancient language?” Talon asked.

“I’m getting to that. Could you make out the symbol he painted on the window in the train?”

“An M?”

“An M to us. If we separate it down the middle, we get two opposite Vs. An inverted ‘V’ means ‘eight’ in Arabic. So this symbol may look like an ‘M’ but is a double eight or eighty-eight. In the Islamic world, 88 holds the same dark power as 666 does for a Christians. The holy Quran states that the Devil has eighty-eight Jinn tribes.”

Talon searched Casca’s face. Had he really said jinn? “Don’t tell me they’ve spotted a flying carpet in Paris too.”

Casca barely cracked a smile. “I know how it sounds to a Western sensibility. Jinns are associated with fairy tales in our collective consciousness, but the Muslim world regards them quite differently. According to Arabian and later Islamic mythology, Jinns are entities that can take on animal form and possess humans. Evil spirits that can whisper into people’s souls and tell them to submit to evil desires.”

Manifestations of the darkness, Talon thought. He recalled Casca’s explanation of how myths were just a culture’s way of making sense of forces beyond their understanding. Two forces coursed through the universe: the darkness and the light. Cultural sensibilities filtered these forces, and man’s imagination and myths determined how they might materialize on the earthly plane.

“Recent surveys reveal that over half of the Muslim world believes in their existence,” Casca said. “In 2010, East London resident Shayma Ali stabbed her four-year old daughter forty times and cut out her liver while Quranic verses played in the background. She was convinced that the child was possessed by an evil Jinn. The year before, in Birmingham, England, twenty-one-year-old Naila Mumtaz was murdered by her in-laws and husband when they attempted to drive out a Jinn spirit. Naila was six months pregnant when she was assaulted, smothered, and suffocated during the exorcism.”

“Alright, I get it. Genies—”

“Jinns,” Casca corrected him.

“Jinns…are serious business.”

“More interestingly, according to legend, Jinns could converse in many human languages but chose to use Syriac among themselves.”

“So what’s going on here? This guy was possessed by a Jinn?”

The frozen video on the laptop was replaced with autopsy pictures of the killer. Talon didn’t bother to ask how he’d gotten them. Casca had contacts in many police departments across the globe; his vast fortune could be quite persuasive. In the photos, the knife-wielding attacker was laid out on a stainless steel operating table. Casca clicked through a series of morgue shots until he found a close-up of the dead man’s outstretched hand. A strange symbol was visible across his palm. Upon closer inspection, Talon realized it was an M. Correction, a double inverted V.

88.

The mark of the Jinn.

“According to my source at the Paris police department, the image wasn’t a tattoo but was caused from hemorrhaging blood vessels under the skin.”

Talon mulled this over. He wasn’t laughing any longer. The more he found out about these jinns, the spookier it was all starting to sound to him.

“There’s been more than one attack?”

“Unfortunately. In addition to the Metro attack, there have been six similar incidents recently in the Paris area. All the attackers came from the banlieues, all the assaults displayed a high degree of brutality. In two instances the cases even echoed the Miami cannibal attacks of 2012.”

Talon cocked an eyebrow. “Some of these crazies have been chewing people’s faces off?”

Casca nodded grimly

“What do the French make of all of this?” Talon asked.

“As expected, the press is speculating about homegrown Islamic jihadists. But I have a feeling there’s more going on.”

When Casca had a feeling, Talon paid attention. “Sounds like you want me to head out to Paris.”

“Might as well keep yourself busy while we wait for the Order of the Flayed Prince to make their next move.”

Here we go again, Talon thought. With a sigh he replied, “Time to brush up on my French.”

CHAPTER FOUR

A COLD RAIN blanketed the monolithic high-rise housing projects of Vichy-Sous. Corbusier, the Swiss architect behind the buildings, had called them “machines for living,” an attitude that had turned them into “machines for alienation.” There was little variation in the neighborhood, a drab, concrete wasteland stretching to infinity in the misty rain. It made Detective Samia Ahmed think of an outpost on some far-flung world.

Hands resting on the steering wheel of their green, unmarked Peugeot 308, she eyed her partner, Detective Pierre Baudin. He was munching on a croissant, alternating bites from the pastry with deep swigs from his café au lait. Crumbs decorated his black coat like giant dandruff flakes, and a gloved hand kept brushing them off while he ate his late breakfast. His careless habits extended to his disheveled appearance. He’d missed a spot under the chin while shaving this morning, and his rumpled shirt hadn’t seen an iron in quite some time. Yet she overlooked his less-than-stellar hygiene in favor of his many other admirable qualities. Besides being a good cop, he wasn’t a racist like many other members of the force. Pierre never looked down on her for her brown skin or Muslim religion. On the contrary, he never failed to tell her how much he admired her for seeking employment in the mostly male, white, Christian police force.

Samia had grown up in an assisted housing project much like this one. A place dominated by squalor and poverty—in short, a slum. She spotted a few Addidas-clad young punks loitering on the slick sidewalks.

The recent string of attacks by residents of the banlieues against Parisians had sent shockwaves through the country. Giving the case to a female detective of Algerian descent might have been a shrewd bit of political maneuvering, but she planned to work her butt off to prove she deserved the job. She knew these neighborhoods and understood the culture. With any luck, her background would help her overcome the mistrust many of the locals held for the law.

She slowed the car and pulled up to an empty parking spot on the side of the street facing the tenement. Ismael Hassin had stabbed three innocent people on the Metro the other day, and she hoped that talking with his family might shed some light on his behavior. The animal savagery of the attacks had raised the possibility that drugs might be involved.

Pierre wolfed down the last of his breakfast and got out of the car. Samia followed his example. The hostile stares of a few local goons immediately landed on them. Cops rarely ventured out to the banlieues, but Samia wasn’t your average cop. She acknowledged the men and held their gaze, hoping the color of her skin would keep them at bay.

Pierre maintained his cool and even managed a smile as he said, “Friends of yours?” She shot him a mock-angry look while they brushed past the punks and into the building. French hip-hop throbbed from one of the units. They headed toward a graffiti-covered elevator.

“What am I looking at?” Pierre pointed at a sign spray-painted next to the lift. It was the image of a raised hand, but instead of a little finger it appeared to have two thumbs, one on either side. The hand contained an eye at its center and a collection of Arabic symbols.

“It’s the hand of Fatima. It’s one of the national symbols of Algeria and stands for the five pillars of Islam.” Noticing Pierre’s perplexed expression, she added, “It’s a protective charm meant to ward off the evil eye.”

Pierre cocked an eyebrow. “The evil eye?”

Samia nodded but skipped a long explanation. She turned toward the elevator. It reeked of piss and dog shit, a strong incentive to opt for the stairs instead. Unfortuantely, Ismael Henni’s mother rented a small apartment on the tenth floor. Samia’s daily workout regimen included both running and Crossfit sessions, and she easily climbed the ten flights of stairs. Pierre didn’t quite fare as well and she could hear him huffing and puffing behind her.

“Didn’t I tell you to quit smoking?”

“Why do women have to ruin every pleasure known to man?”

They grinned at each other.

A few minutes later, they arrived at their destination. The dank hallway of the tenth floor was as rundown as the elevator. Muffled sounds drifted from the various apartments. Many of the residents were unemployed and spent their days on the couch, numbing themselves with TV shows and video games.

“Let’s do this,” Pierre said as they reached the Henni residence. Samia rang the buzzer. There was a beat of silence followed by rapidly approaching footsteps. Knife marks scarred the doors of the various units, a sharp reminder of the neighborhood’s heavy gang presence. No wonder Mrs. Henni was hesitant to answer the door. Samia opened her coat, held up her badge, and faced the spy hole.

“Madame Henni, I’m Detective Samia Ahmed and this is my partner, Detective Pierre Baudin. We’re here to talk to you about your son. We spoke on the phone a little earlier.”

A pause. Then the sound of a security chain being pulled back. The lock was disengaged and the door opened a few inches. A face shrouded in shadow appeared on the other side.

“I’m sorry for your loss, madame, and I know you’re grieving for your son. But we must talk about what happened. Could we please come inside?”

“I can’t help you.”

“All we want to do is talk. Please.”

Warring emotions flickered across Mrs. Henni’s face as she finally opened the door. She was about five foot-two, a big woman whose shapeless form was hidden under a grey dress and black hijab. The Quran instructed women to dress in a modest way, and the hijab was a big part of Arabic culture, especially for those who hadn’t been born in the country. The French government had outlawed headscarves in their schools, but in privacy of people’s homes, neighborhoods and mosques, the cultural tradition lived on. Samia personally embraced the freedom of the West, but she also believed immigrants should be able to wear what they wanted. Forbidding a Muslim woman to wear a traditional hijab might inspire her to completely cover her face with a niqab as a form of protest. Forced cultural assimilation came at a price, and whether right or wrong, the government’s actions were widening the rift between the banlieues and the rest of French society.

They followed Mrs. Henni into her drab apartment. Noise from a talk show greeted them. Samia caught a glimpse of a young man slouched on the ratty couch. He barely looked up from the TV as they passed by, showing little interest in the visitors, hypnotized by the drama of the program. The police file had mentioned Ismael’s brother, and she mentally ran down what she knew about the killer’s sibling. High School dropout. Unemployed. A prime target for radicalization. He sounded like another banlieue statistic in the making.

Mrs. Henni told them to take a seat in the dining area as she poured them cups of hot tea.

“First off, Mrs. Henni, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Samia said. “Your son committed terrible crimes, but I know how hard life can be out here. All we’re trying to do today is gain a better understanding of what might’ve driven him to murder. Had he joined any groups that you were aware of or was he hanging out with any new friends?”

Mrs. Henni sipped her tea, eyes never leaving Samia’s, but she didn’t say a word. This wasn’t going to be easy—but then again, Samia hadn’t expected it to be.

“Did you notice anything unusual in your son’s behavior leading up to the attack?”

Mrs. Henni showed no signs of having registered the question.

Pierre pulled out a small vial emblazoned with the letter M, which had been found among Ismael’s possessions. Some of the other attackers had carried similar vials, and the police feared a new drug might be infesting the streets of Paris. Toxicology had discovered traces of a strange substance in the young man’s bloodstream, but the lab had been unable to make heads or tails out of it. According to the scientists, this wasn’t like any drug they’d seen before.

“Do you know where your son got this drug? Did he ever talk about it?”

There was a flicker of recognition in Mrs. Henni’s gaze as she studied the empty vial. She was clearly familiar with the drug on some level, but she merely shook her head and wiped tears from her eyes. Her features emerged from the hijab like a turtle from a shell. “Ismael is a good boy.”

Samia noted the mother’s refusal to use the past tense when talking about her deceased son. This visit was turning into another dead end. She cursed inwardly and fought to control her growing frustration.

She asked more questions anyway, hoping Mrs. Henni might open up, but after ten increasingly frustrating minutes of questioning, she decided to call it a day. Her partner’s long look told her he shared her feelings. This was getting them nowhere.

She finished the last sip of her tea and got up, thanking Mr. Henni for her time as she turned toward the exit. Ismael’s brother had evacuated his spot on the well-worn couch and silently snuck out of the apartment. She suddenly wondered if they might’ve questioned the wrong person today.

As they left, Mrs. Henni locked the door behind them. Milky beams of sunlight seeped into the deserted corridor from a large window next to the staircase. To their surprise, someone was waiting for them in the stairs. Ismael’s brother, Hakim, leaned against the wall. His eyes flitted nervously back and forth.

He’s afraid, Samia thought.

“We need to talk,” he declared matter-of-factly before she could even ask him a question. He kept darting paranoid glances around. Who or what was he terrified of?

“Talk about what?”Pierre asked. “Do you know anything about the drug your brother was taking?”

Hakim remained mum, almost as if he was having a change of heart about sharing information with the police.

“Listen, we’re trying to stop anyone else from getting hurt. I know Ismael wasn’t a violent guy-”

“I’m taking a big risk talking to you. His eyes and ears are everywhere…”

Pierre took a step forward. “Who are you talking about?”

There was a scared beat of hesitation before he said, “Rakan.”

A frown furrowed Samia’s brows. “Who is Rakan?”

“He’s the devil who stole my brother’s soul.”

As if to emphasize his words, he held up an empty glass vial. It was engraved with an M just like the other vials they’d found among the recent attackers. She traded glances with her partner before she said, “The drugs…they come from around here?”

Hakim nodded. “They call that shit Soul Jacker on the street. It steals your soul.”

Samia considered this.

“Where can we find Rakan?” Pierre asked.

Hakim bit his lips and stepped away from the large window, revealing the thirty-story tenement located about a block away. The forbidding structure rose from the urban sprawl like a fortress of darkness. It was by far the ugliest and tallest building in the neighborhood. Samia searched her memory for the name. Le Tour de Flandre—The Flanders Tower.

Hakim tilted his head toward the building, the meaning of the gesture unmistakable.

Before he could add anything else to his story, Hakim’s eyes widened with sudden terror. Samia whirled and so did Pierre. Mrs. Henni lurked behind them. Her tears were gone and so were any other signs of grief. Her face seemed carved from stone, her eyes narrowed into slits. The wrinkles had metastasized, transforming her face into a spiderweb of gnarled skin. In her grey dress and black hijab, she moved like a wraith.

Words in Arabic exploded from her lips in a guttural, distorted voice that barely sounded human. Without hesitation she launched herself at a terrified Hakim. Before Samia could stop her, the heavy-set lady slammed into her son, the momentum carrying them both toward the large window. Glass shattered, and the two figures disappeared from view, plunging ten stories down.

Samia peered through the jagged maw of glass. Below, blood framed the shattered bodies of mother and son. Mrs. Henni’s final words, spoken in Arabic, echoed in her mind. Samia doubted she would ever be able to forget them.

Your soul belongs to me.

CHAPTER FIVE

AFTER HE FINISHED up his meeting with Casca, Talon returned to his rental car, a black Aston Martin Vanquish, and began his long journey to Paris. The powerful V-8 engine and the low-profile sports car body made him feel like a teenager again as he hurtled down the endless roads. He normally tried not to take advantage of Casca’s generosity, but how many times would he get a chance to drive through the Swiss Alps? Flying might’ve been faster, but he had a funny feeling airport security would have some issues with the ominous looking pentagram around his neck—not to mention the demon slayer blade and his trusted Glock.

While the snow-capped mountains streaked past him, a British-accented voice emanated from his car speakers, elaborating on the complex history and mythology of the Jinn. Casca had been thoughtful enough to provide a few audiobooks on the subject. There was much to learn. Even though Jinns could be conjured with the help of occult rituals, they were difficult to control. The only person said to have complete power over them was the legendary biblical King Solomon. According to the stories, God gave Solomon a magic ring that allowed him to subdue the Jinn. In some of the tales the ring was inscribed with a pentacle, which made Talon think of his own magical Sumerian talisman. Could there be some sort of connection?

After five hours of listening to various experts chime in about the cultural origins of the Jinn, Talon had heard enough. His mind reeling from data overload, he turned off the audiobook and switched to a local rock station. As much fun as Arabic demonology might be for some people, it just wasn’t the right soundtrack for the stunning mountain vista.

Another six hours passed before he arrived in the City of Lights. The streets glistened with rain. Paris was cold and dark, and Talon questioned if the sun would ever shine on the beautiful metropolis again. He’d lived here for one year when he was ten while his diplomat father was stationed at the American embassy. He remembered many a rainy day spent indoors learning French and missing the States. He still knew enough of the language to get by but was far from fluent.

Using his GPS he located Hotel Inis, where he’d booked a room for the next week. He’d passed on a fancy hotel in favor of a more modest dwelling near the Gare de Nord, the train station regarded as the frontier between central Paris and the banlieues. He planned to reconnoiter the suburb of Vichy-Sous, the hometown of all the attackers, by train. Talon didn’t see any point in setting up camp too far away from the enemy.

After parking his rental, he checked into his room and within minutes fell into a deep, dreamless sleep despite the scent of cigarettes staining the air. The next morning he showered, slipped into a baggy hoodie, dark pants, and boots, and headed for the nearby Metro. His tan, combined with the beard he’d grown while in Italy, would hopefully allow him to blend in with the predominantly Moroccan and Algerian population—as long as no one looked too closely. He had successfully gone unnoticed back in Afghanistan during his Delta days, so he should do okay in a Paris suburb.

The train ride to Vichy-Sous offered a good preview of what was waiting for him in the suburbs. This wasn’t some postcard vision of France where people wore berets and carried baguettes. Minorities dominated these banlieues, a world apart from the tourist fantasy of Paris. France struggled to integrate their diverse population of immigrants and instead had isolated them in subsidized neighborhoods where crime and unemployment defined their lives. It was an ethnic powder keg waiting to go off.

Yet there was opportunity here. Many of these people were second and third generation French and could act as formidable allies in the war against terror if France finally embraced them as citizens. Unfortunately this was a city where someone called Mohammed, Ali, or Kamel was four times a likely to be unemployed than someone named Philippe or Renee, a city where drug dealers competed with career advertisers to recruit teenagers from the banlieues. It was fertile ground for extreme ideologies to take root. And now someone appeared to be weaponizing the anger of the banlieues with the power of the occult.

The power of the Jinn.

Talon eyed the blank faces of the fellow commuters, their thousand-yard stares mirroring the dreary, rain-soaked cement landscape zipping past them outside. Three teens shot him cursory glances, but he met their probing gazes with a hard look and they turned away. The train passed the Périphérique, the highway that encircled Paris. Talon recalled that entering or leaving the suburbs was often called “crossing the périphérique,” as if what lay beyond was an unknown frontier.

Forty minutes later, they reached the end of the line, and Talon stepped into the Vichy-Sous train station. Even the weather seemed different out here, damp and murky. A cold wind blew through the wet landscape, and a skyline of ugly, oppressive cement behemoths greeted him. Endless rail tracks cut through a wasteland of graffiti-covered walls, abandoned industrial lots, soccer fields and trash fires. The beauty of the Swiss Alps seemed a world away.

The air was ripe with rain that wouldn’t fall as Talon braved the forlorn neighborhood of colossal tenements. The population of the suburb was a snapshot of French colonial history. Vichy-Sous was far more diverse than the ghettos back in the States. Bearded men wearing chechias and flowing white habayas emerged from a mosque. Down the road, French hip-hop drifted from a coffee shop, interspersed with a salvo of Arabic. The graffiti showcased the rage and rebellion simmering under the suburb’s surface. Arabic slogans bled across crumbling walls and told their own story. Na'al abouk la France! and Nik les schmitts: “Fuck France” and “Fuck the cops.” The French street names felt out of place in the Arabic neighborhood and heightened Talon’s feeling of cultural disorientation.

Three veiled women passed Talon and the muscles in his neck bunched up. Talon was surprised by his response. The neighborhood triggered something normally buried deep inside of him, transporting him back to his days in Iraq and Afghanistan, when each robed stranger could turn out to be a suicide bomber. The old paranoia suddenly held him in its grip. Heightening the sensation was the fact that he was flying solo this time around. There was no unit watching his back—hell, he didn’t even have body armor. Was he was entering a battlefield armed only with a knife and the Glock?

The thought rattled him and he had to remind himself that this was a French suburb and not a Middle Eastern warzone. But was that true? The recent attacks felt like a declaration of war, and who knew what future horrors were being conceived in this neighborhood. The constant presence of weed, gangsters, girls, and Islam made for a heady cocktail of crime and extremism. The new generations were trapped in a cultural limbo with little knowledge of where they came from and no chance of ever being fully accepted into the homeland their parents or grandparents had chosen for them.

Talon dedicated the next three days for reconnaissance. He hit up the most run-down bars he could find and observed the locals while pretending to sip on his beer. The scene was a mirror funhouse version of an American ghetto. Black and brown faces sporting baggy hip-hop gangster styles with a European touch abounded—Latinos replaced with Arabs. Talon wasn’t quite sure what he was looking for but had a feeling he’d know when he came across it.

After three fruitless days, he was almost ready to give up when his luck finally changed. A group of hooded men entered the bar, their eyes blank and pitiless as they studied the patrons. The big Algerian bartender, Jammaal, faced them with a wary expression, his body coiled and tense. Talon stealthily studied the newcomers as they navigated the smoke-filled bar. They sported glossy black hooded coats, sweatpants, and sneakers, their faces stoic, their demeanor business-like. They zeroed in on two younger men who were playing a game of pool in the back.

Talon couldn’t quite make out the words, but he didn’t need to. The glass vial in the gangbanger’s hand told him everything he needed to know. He was witnessing a drug deal, but no money was exchanged. It appeared the group was merely handing out samples.

The bartender clenched his jaw and balled his fists, but experience must have taught him to hold his tongue. As the gangbangers shuffled out of the bar, the leader of the group took note of Talon. His expression barely wavered as he approached. A beat later, the man loomed before him. Talon held the drug dealer’s gaze but tried to project curiosity as opposed to hostility. The leader appraised him for a second before he pulled out a glass vial containing a clear liquid.

“A hit of this will lift the veil. Show you the truth. It will take a small life and turn it into a powerful one.”

With these words, the drug dealer turned away from Talon and left the bar. They didn’t even wait to see if Talon would take the bait and try their wares.

Jamaal reached out for the vial, but Talon fingers closed around it first.

“You take that shit, you’ll be their slave for life,” the bartender stated matter-of-factly.

“Thanks, but I can take care of myself.”

The bartender shrugged, figuring Talon for another lost cause.

He touched the vial, and his pentacle amulet immediately ignited with magical energy. This substance was setting off occult alarm bells. Inspecting it further, he notice the inverted double-V engraved in the vial. The same sign the attacker had left behind during the train murders and had been engraved in the palm of his hand. The symbol of the Jinn.

What could it mean? Maybe Casca might have a theory.

Talon pocketed the vial. He then pulled out a few Euros, making sure his tip was on the generous side, and exited the bar.

The wind was wet and chilly and neutralized the light buzz of the beer. The drug dealers were about a hundred feet ahead, and Talon stealthily began to follow them. He would’ve expected a pack of gangbangers to be raising hell as they made their way through this lawless territory, where most French cops didn’t dare venture, but the opposite held true. The crew made no noise, and in their hoodies they seemed like monks who’d taken a vow of silence. Once again, his pentagram grew hot to the touch, and Talon’s worst suspicions were confirmed. Dark forces were active here. Could the dealers be under the influence of the strange drug they were giving away? Were they possessed by Jinn?

They marched down the street, stopping whenever they encountered someone new. Each time the same scene repeated itself as vials of the mysterious drug were passed out freely.

They’re not selling product but infecting the neighborhood, Talon realized.

Talon followed the group to a large tenement and saw them vanish through the main entrance. He was about to go after them when sirens cut through the night. He stepped back into the shadows as a van and a Peugeot pulled up to the towering tenement with screeching tires. Sirens bled into the foggy darkness. Apparently he wasn’t the only one taking an interest in these drug dealers.

The French police had decided to join the party.

CHAPTER SIX

ABOUT A DOZEN members of the French RAID team crowded the briefing room, pumped for action and oozing testosterone. Officers checked guns and secured their tactical bullet-proof vests. Detective Samia and her partner stood in the back, observing in silence, their plainclothes attire making them stand out among the sea of black-clad armored warriors. The team wasn’t even fully suited up, yet their eagerness to get the mission under way was palpable. Soon enough those boots would be kicking in doors, their rifles spitting bullets. These men were highly trained professionals, the best of the best. Arresting a few low-level drug dealers wouldn’t pose much of a challenge for these men under normal circumstances. Street attitude was a poor substitute for tactical armor and years of military-style training. Nevertheless, Samia couldn’t shake a growing sense of anxiety. Something was off about this case. The extreme violence of the attacks, the mysterious nature of this new drug—not to mention the horrific murder-suicide she witnessed back in the banlieues earlier in the day. Something terrible was unfolding in the housing projects.

The police chief entered and took his place behind a podium. The men quieted down. His demeanor deadly serious, he addressed the eager team. “As you probably heard, a new drug is making the rounds.” To emphasize his words, he held up an empty vial they’d confiscated from one of the dead attackers. From where she was standing, Samia couldn’t quite make out the strange markings. No one on the force had been able to identify the symbol, and it added another level of mystery to the case. “We don’t know how many people are using the drug and our science guys are still trying to figure out what the hell we’re dealing with here. What we do know is this shit makes people go crazy. Think of it as meth and bath salts on steroids. You guys have all seen the stories on the news. Six attacks in the last eight days alone, resulting in twenty dead and another fifteen in the hospital. This drug turns users into homicidal monsters, and the sooner it’s off the street, the sooner I’ll be able to catch up with some much needed beauty sleep.”

What had Hakim called the drug? Soul Jacker. Remembering the name sent shivers down her back.

“What’s our move?” a second RAID guy wanted to know.

“Detectives Ahmed and Baudin have found credible evidence that the drug is being manufactured in a Vichy-Sous housing project.” The tenement building in question appeared onscreen. “If their source is to be believed, the whole operation is run by a man named Assad Rakan.”

The building was replaced with a mugshot of an Algerian male. The hardened features projected attitude, the eyes dead and cold. “Rakan, age 34, has had multiple run-ins with the law and served a three-year prison sentence in 2008. We believe he was radicalized while in prison and in 2014 traveled to Syria in an attempt to join ISIS. Five months later, he returned to Paris. The government tried to keep close tabs on him, but he somehow managed to disappear from the face of the earth.”

Samia stared at the man onscreen. The face was all too familiar to her, a detail she hadn’t shared with anyone, not even her partner. The captain might pull her off the case if he found about her past with Rakan and she wanted—needed—to be on the scene when these men stormed the building. Hopefully having an officer of Algerian descent among their ranks would prevent any abuses of power. Samia wanted this drug off the streets as much as everyone else, but she had no desire to see innocent bystanders getting caught in the crossfire. That fate should reunite her with Rakan like this seemed both ironic and weirdly inevitable. She’d always known where the dark path he was headed down would take him.

“I want your men to get the bad guys and shut down this operation with minimal losses. Fire only if fired upon. Lets avoid a media shitstorm. Headlines, not obituaries. Be safe and be professional. Let’s do this!”

The chief stepped away from the podium, and the briefing was officially over. Once again the room buzzed with activity as the men geared up for the impending raid. Samia and her partner fell in step with the team members as they filed out of the briefing room and headed for the waiting RAID van.

Samia and Pierre followed the team in their unmarked Peugeot. The team would go in first and take the lead in the operation, but Samia didn’t intend to sit this one out on the sidelines. She was itching for action. As someone who’d grown up in the banlieues, she knew all too well the poverty and hopelessness fueling extremist ideology. Any crime committed by someone in the banlieues would be inevitably magnified through a lens of race and religion, reaffirming stereotypes and increasing harassment of the locals by law enforcement. These attacks by fanatics were putting her people in a terrible light once again. Rakan had to be stopped, and she wanted to be there when it happened.

Fat raindrops pelted their windshield, and sharp gusts of wind stirred the awnings of the stores they passed. Beyond the shops, the projects loomed, jagged and towering. As she tailed the RAID van, she noticed Pierre looking at her.

“Something on your mind?” she asked.

“I was about to ask you the same.”

She held his gaze and he said, “What do you think we’re walking into here?’

“I don’t know. I don’t even understand what happened the other day.”

For a second, the image of Mrs. Henni slashed through her mind, the woman’s mad face distorted, inhuman. Radicalism bubbled and simmered in these neighborhoods, but what could trigger such lethal ferocity, especially from a mother and directed toward her son? The memory made her shudder and she fought back the terrible vision of Mrs. Henni dragging her own flesh and blood to his doom.

Reality reeled her out of her thoughts as the RAID van screeched to a halt in front of the looming tenement. The back door burst open and a swarm of armed men emerged from the van into the misty night.

Samia slowed her vehicle and pulled up to the curb. Clouds of fog swallowed up the beams of her car. As she got out of the Peugeot, the raw April wind pierced her jacket and she clenched her jaw, fingers tight around the steel grip of her service revolver. The building felt abandoned, further heightening her unease. Many of the residents didn’t hold down steady jobs, and the apartments normally teemed with life and activity. There should be gangs of teens lurking near the entrance, locals shuffling down the sidewalks, lights flickering in windows. But the structure appeared as deserted as a moonscape. An eerie, unnatural silence reigned, almost as if aliens had abducted everyone in the vicinity. Something was wrong. And judging from the nervous expressions on the team members’ faces, they sensed it too.

“They knew we were coming,” Samia said to her partner. She wasn’t fatalistic, but the certainty had been building all day. Now that they were finally here, her worst fears seemed to be coming true. The tower loomed, oppressive and intimidating. Something waited within its thick walls, something that was all too aware of the twelve RAID team members and two homicide detectives making their way through its arched main entrance.

Deep down, Samia sensed they were walking into a trap.

CHAPTER SEVEN

A SCREAM WOKE Yasmine in the middle of the night. For a disorientated moment she drifted, neither asleep nor awake, still wondering if the cry had been an echo of a dream. Then a second bloodcurdling cry cut through the night, and she jerked upright. Eyes wide open now, she rolled out of bed. This wasn’t the first time high-pitched shouts had awoken her in the last month. It was turning into a semi-regular occurrence. She eyed the time on her phone; it was three-thirty in the morning. The terrified screams as well as the freezing cold inside her subsidized housing unit made her shake all over. Yasmine felt like she was seventeen going on ninety. Life in the banlieues had forced her to grow up quickly.

She wrapped a blanket around her body as she opened the bedroom window. Wind lashed her face with arctic force and her teeth chattered. Who needed coffee when one had a French spring? Many of the older Algerians complained incessantly about the damp weather in their adopted country and for once, she found herself on the same page.

Clutching the blanket tighter, she stuck her head out of the window, just in time for the terrified scream to reverberate through the night one last time. The way it suddenly cut off told her the man’s suffering had come to an end. The Flanders Tower had claimed its latest victim.

She craned her neck toward the dim lights glittering on the top floor of the thirty-story tenement. The cries always came from the top floor and always in the middle of night. She shuddered at the thought of what might be happening up there.

She waited another minute before she closed the window and jumped back into the bed. She pulled the covers tight, but her body wouldn’t stop shaking. Something evil had taken up residence in her building.

An evil that was growing stronger.

Despite the nightmarish visions her imagination conjured in the dark of her bedroom, Yasmine managed to nod off. By the time her eyes fluttered open again, it was seven-fifteen and time to get ready for work. She showered and got dressed. She’d dropped out of high school a year earlier so she could work at a flower shop fifteen minutes down the street. Her teachers had protested her decision, believing she was throwing away her whole future. They were right, but someone needed to make money to take care of her grandmother. Her parents had been out of the picture for years, and her grandmother had done the best she could to raise her under not so ideal conditions.

Yasmine peeked into the adjoining bedroom where her ailing granny wasted away. She walked up to the bed and stifled her revulsion. The air was heavy with sickness and foul perspiration. Nevertheless, she kneeled beside her grandmother and planted a kiss on her cheek. The old woman smiled weakly at her. Yasmine gently stroked her grandmother’s worn face until she fell asleep. Granny spent much of the day in bed, and that was fine with Yasmine. The poor woman had worked like a dog for most of her life; it was time for her to rest. She deserved some peace.

Yasmine slipped out of the bedroom and left the apartment. Her unit was located on the ninth floor, and her steps reverberated in the desolate stairwell as she descended. Only a few weeks earlier the building had bustled with life. The elderly would play cards in the downstairs lobby over cups of hot tea, while teenagers would roam the passageways of the various floors, shouting and hollering and doing their best to make their presence known. She missed the energy that used to course through the building. Rakan had turned the tenement, which housed over eight hundred units, into a ghost town. The punks still haunted the floors, but now they did so in unnatural silence. The young men’s faces were masklike whenever they ran into her, their blank gazes following her with hostile intent. The wild abandon of youth had been replaced with a robotic, inhuman creepiness. Thinking about these changes made her clutch the Fatima necklace her grandmother had given her. She had no idea if it could actually ward off evil forces, but she felt safer wearing it than not.

Shaking off her disturbing thoughts, she reached the lobby without incident and walked briskly away from the tenement, which cast a long shadow in the grey morning light. Another rainy day awaited her. How she wished it was already summer. Even the weirdness unfolding in her building would seem more palatable if the sun could chase away the thick, grey clouds. She wished she could leave the tenement for good, but where could she and her grandmother go? The woman was sick, maybe even dying, and where else would they find a government subsidized dwelling? They were trapped in this neighborhood, trapped in that infernal building.

She arrived at the flower shop and welcomed the chance to throw herself into her work. Anything to get her mind off her troubles. The job could be monotonous, but the beautiful flowers distracted her and she tried to have fun with her arrangements. It turned out to be a busy day, and time passed quickly. Around five o’clock Yasmine’s mood darkened. All too soon she’d have to set foot in her building again. Her small steps lacked energy as she returned to the tenement. Fog clung to the deserted structure, and the few people she spotted in the mist walked past her in silence, features locked. There was something about the intensity of their quiet looks that wasn’t quite normal. Somehow she’d have to find a way for her and her granny to move out of this neighborhood before they became like everyone else.

With a heavy heart she entered her building and tried to avoid a run-in with a gang of teens. She was about to sidle past them when one boy spoke up. Hearing a human voice after the days of silent stares silence made her flinch.

“Your time has come, Yasmine.”

The gangbanger held up a vial with a clear liquid and a strange symbol engraved on its surface.

“Let us lift the veil, Yasmine.”

The chilling words galvanized her into action. She burst into motion, turning on her heels and running as fast as her legs could carry her the other way. She reached a second staircase, made sure she was alone, and tore up those nine flights of stairs as if she was being chased by the devil himself. Breathing heavily, face masked with sweat, she stumbled toward her unit…and paused. To her horror, the door to her apartment was open. Nerves frayed, her mouth went dry as she gingerly stepped into her dwelling, driven by one thought.

Granny.

She considered all the missing elderly people and cold terror gripped her. The dark apartment amplified her steps. Once inside her granny’s bedroom, her worst fears became reality. The rumpled, sweat-stained bed was empty. Her grandmother was gone.

Sounds behind her made her whirl, and she came face to face with the punks from the lobby. They crowded the doorframe. No further words were necessary. She knew why they were here.

Your time has come, Yasmine.

There would be no escape. No one ever did. As these thoughts tumbled through her mind, another noise broke the silence. This time it wasn’t a terrified scream, thank God. Instead sirens filled the night.

The police.

But would they arrive on time?

Two men grabbed her by the arms. She fought them with all her might, but her resistance ceased the moment a fist connected with her face. Her head snapped back, and the coppery flavor of blood filled her mouth. What did they want from her?

A moment later she received her answer. One of he punks leaned closer, glass vial in his hand. “Open your mouth.”

She tightened her lips, teeth clenching down hard. If she swallowed the substance in the vial, she too would become like the others. A shadow of her former self. One of Rakan’s soulless drones.

The leader of the group twisted her right index finger until she heard the bone break. Her lips parted with pain, and a tasteless liquid hit her tongue. A second punk pressed a flask of water against her lips, which made it impossible to not swallow the drug. She grew limp in her attackers’ arms, her will to resist swept away as the unholy concoction burned its way down her throat—and into her soul.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE RAID TEAM charged up the tenement’s two main staircases in a single file. Samia and Pierre followed, weapons ready, eyes alert. Glass crunched under her shoes, and she realized the vials of the mysterious new drug littered the ground.

The inside of the boxy tenement building was hollowed out and contained a large atrium that spanned the height of the construction. Thirty stories worth of apartment units grew before her in each direction. It felt like she was standing in the courtyard of a prison, she thought. Balconies decked out with satellite dishes ringed the floors—a lifeline to Arabic programming. The pervasive graffiti only increased her growing feeling of dread. Making matters even worse was the tenement’s sense of spooky desolation. The heavy police presence would motivate many residents to stay in their units, but curiosity should’ve gotten the best of at least some of them. There had to be at least eight hundred apartments in a building this size. So where was everyone?

Voices of the ascending team members crackled over her earpiece, amplified by the building’s unnerving silence. She picked up the mounting tension in their exchanges; they all sensed the growing threat. Had Rakan and his crew taken up position on the top floors? Were they perhaps keeping hostages?

She craned her neck toward the upper floors. Shadowy figures flitted through the thickening layer of condensation. Was she looking at the RAID team or the enemy? The mist was now descending to the atrium at an accelerated pace, swallowing one floor after another, erasing the human silhouettes from view.

A strange banging sound suddenly drew her attention. The tip of a machete poked from a roiling cloud of fog about ten stories above the atrium. The man wielding the weapon kept rhythmically tapping the tip of the blade against the balcony’s metal railing.

Again and again.

Mist devoured the blade, but the unnerving sound continued unabated. It echoed and grew in volume. Phantom figures in the fog were joining the unholy chorus. At least ten knifes and machetes were striking railing and walls now like the drumbeats of an approaching enemy tribe. Any moment now the advancing RAID team would make contact with the machete-wielding locals. Knifes seemed no match for bullets, but these hooded gangbangers had the home turf advantage—not to mention the concealing power of the almost supernatural fog.

Pierre was clearly struggling to keep his growing panic at bay as the eerie fog kept expanding. Samia had never seen anything quite like the incoming cloud. It was almost as if the mist was assisting the enemy. Her heart hammered in her chest, but the firearm somehow remained steady in her hands.

“What the hell is happening here?” Pierre said. “Have you ever seen anything like this fog before?”

Samia shook her head and palmed her mic. “Captain, how are things up there?” Hissing static greeted her question.

The silence stretched.

She peered up again, hoping to see what was going on, but realized it was hopeless. All movement erased by the insatiable fog.

The incessant banging of machetes continued.

Suddenly a figure appeared out of the mist. The man was of average size, of Algerian descent, and wore a hoodie over a pair of gym pants. He was a stranger, but he regarded Samia with an unnerving sense of familiarity. What he said next shook her to the core.

“You shouldn’t have come here, kanz.”

Only one man had ever called her kanz—Arabic for “treasure”—and that had been a long time ago. Before she could counter with a question of her own, the hooded man vanished back into the fog.

“Freeze!” she shouted, but the mist had already engulfed the stranger.

“What was that?” Pierre wanted to know, but Samia found herself beyond words. A second later, gunfire shredded the atrium, followed by shouts and cries. There was a rush of air as something tore past her, and a RAID guy splattered against the atrium floor. Empty eyes peered at infinity through a mask of blood.

She backed away, gun trembling in her hand. Pierre wasn’t faring much better. He was taking a few steps back when a hoodie-wearing figure burst from the condensation, an axe clutched tightly in his hand. There was no time to shout out a warning before the axe came down on Pierre’s head. Blood sprayed, and her partner was reduced to a twitching mass.

The killer regarded her with empty eyes. Gore dripped from the axe in thick strands. Once again, she couldn’t quite shake the sense of familiarity in the long stare. This man knew her…

As he raised the bloody axe Samia centered her sights on him. Bullets flung the figure backward into the fog. At the same time, a volley of gunfire rained down from the fourth floor. Her training took over and she dashed toward the stairs, running in a zigzag pattern, trying to make as poor a target as possible.

More sounds behind her. Incoming footfalls. A crowd surged through the building’s main entrance, gangbangers armed with guns and machetes.

No way she could stop them all. She had only one option.

Escape.

Legs pumping, she barreled into the nearest staircase, leaving the open space of the atrium behind. The fog was making it impossible to spot friend or foe. She had to catch up with the RAID team. Their best odds were to present a united front. The image of Pierre’s cleaved skull haunted her, and it took all her self-discipline to cast the memory aside. She would mourn him later—if she was lucky enough to experience a later.

A sound made her turn as another attacker materialized in the narrow staircase in front of her. Two-hundred pounds of muscle and bone barreled into her. Her pistol slipped from her grip as she was pinned against the wall. The gun hit the floor and she staggered away, legs caving in, dazed from the brunt force of the attack. She peered up at her massive attacker. He sported an icy expression as he raised a machete over her head.

You shouldn’t have come here, kanz.

No, she shouldn’t have.

The machete came rushing down.

***

Talon watched the RAID team, trailed by two plainclothes officers, vanish through the main entrance of the ugly apartment tower. A fine drizzle pricked his face while he crouched behind the cars parked across the street from the tenement, observing the unfolding events in grave silence. The heavy police presence left little doubt as to whether he’d come to the right place.

Talon debated what his next move should be. Originally he’d hoped to reconnoiter the building and get a better sense of this new enemy. He still had no real idea what he was up against, and rushing into battle without intel was a guaranteed way to end up in a body bag. Unfortunately, the arrival of the authorities made it difficult to remain in the shadows. Maybe the cops could handle this problem on their own, but most likely they would be in over their heads if occult forces were truly at work here.

Pounding footfalls jolted Talon out of his thoughts. A quick glance to his left revealed an advancing gang of punks. They were marching toward the parked RAID van, heads held high with ruthless determination, expressions fixed into cold, hard stares. The eyes of the van’s driver widened as the gang closed in.

A split second later, one of the attackers raised an AK-47 and pumped a burst into the van. The windshield shattered and the driver’s head snapped back. The attack unfolded with such lethal speed that there was nothing Talon could’ve done to save the officer’s life. He cursed under his breath as he smoothly unholstered his Glock. The enemy still hadn’t spotted him, and he planned to use the element of surprise as a way of overcoming their superiority in numbers. They might not be trained soldiers, but these gangbangers were heavily armed and didn’t seem to care about their own survival—always a dangerous combination. Their empty expressions reminded him of the punks who’d offered him the drug earlier. Who knew how the drug affected its users? He was reminded of the video Casca had shown him. The attacker had kept coming despite being riddled by bullets. Caution was in order. Talon waited for the hoods to disappear inside the structure before he started moving.

As he swiftly crossed the street on his way to the building, pops of automatic gunfire detonated. His pentacle radiated waves of searing heat as an unnatural fog descended on the building like a poisonous cloud. Black magic had to be in play here. The RAID team had walked into a paranormal trap. Under normal circumstances the team’s superior training would have left no doubt as to the outcome of the battle, but other forces were at work here. Superior training and tactics were worthless if one couldn’t see the attacking enemy. And Talon somehow doubted the fog would handicap the bad guys in the same way.

Throwing all caution aside, the blood thrumming in his veins, Talon picked up his pace and rushed into the building. He shared a kinship with these officers. They were men dedicated to protecting their city and its people at all cost. They were willing to risk their lives to carry out their duty and deserved better then to be slaughtered like cattle. If there was any chance he could turn the tide of the battle in their favor, he had to give it a go.

Guard up, finger on the trigger, he entered the building’s lobby and then stepped through a second glass door into the large, rectangular-shaped atrium. Twenty floors of apartments encircled him. How many people called this place their home? Now there was no sign of a living soul. Most of the units remained hidden behind a wall of spectral fog. Only the sound of automatic fire and the screams of the RAID team hinted at the life-and-death battle being waged above.

Talon spotted two dead officers in a giant pool of red and his heart sank. For a moment, he was reminded of the scene of terror he’d faced at Omicron back in Silicon Valley. Would the bloodshed ever cease? He had no idea what the dark endgame might be here, but he swore right then and there he’d do everything in his power to put an end to it.

A woman’s scream exploded from a nearby staircase and his senses snapped alert. He whirled and rapidly homed in on the voice. The second plainclothes detective was down and her attacker was wielding a machete. She must’ve dropped her pistol and was staring up at certain death. Yet there was no fear on those enigmatic eyes. Her legs scissored out and connected with her attacker’s knees. He let out a grunt, the maneuver buying her enough time to scoop up her firearm and bring it up with practiced ease. She blasted Mr. Machete and the man crumpled. She still hadn’t noticed Talon behind her and was stumbling to her feet when another gangbanger shot from the staircase. This guy sported an AK-47, and it was Talon’s turn to fire. Two quick shots drove the man back in a tangle of limbs.

Aware of his presence now, she spun toward him, her pistol leveled, still not sure if Talon was a friend or foe. For a moment they regarded each other as the mist circled and undulated around them, guns leveled. He couldn’t help but take in the detective’s striking, exotic looks and jet-black hair.

“I’m here to help,” Talon said in French.

The words meant nothing to the detective and her guard didn’t waver, her eyes remaining narrowed into slits. Talon couldn’t blame her. In his baggy hoodie, he looked like just another gangbanger out on the prowl. Why would she trust a stranger? He needed to convince her that he was on her side, but how?

A beat later he received his chance as two more gangbangers burst from the fog. Talon took out the two men with military precision. More men appeared behind them as the next phalanx of locals surged into the atrium. It was almost as if the building was calling in reinforcements from the neighborhood, the gangbangers following some twisted siren call for murderous action.

“Come,” Talon said, and this time the detective fell in step with him. They ran toward the staircase as clouds of condensation greedily wrapped around them. Talon whipped out his pentacle and held it up at the encroaching fog. The amulet radiated heat, its own inherent magic reacting to mystical fog. The clouds parted before them, clearing a narrow path. They still could only see a few feet ahead, but at least no enemy would be able to sneak up on them unseen.

Five flights of steps later, Talon heard another group rapidly storming down the stairs. The heat coming off his pentacle intensified. Danger was closing in from above. His arm shot out at the detective, a clear signal for her to stop in her tracks. She eyed him curiously. He shook his head and pointed at the door that led out onto the sixth floor.

“What if it’s the RAID—?”

She broke off, having spotted the pentacle. He sensed another round of questions coming on yet knew this wasn’t the time or the place for long-winded explanations. He grabbed the woman’s arm and dragged her onto the sixth floor. Fortunately, she seemed to trust his instincts enough to go along with him. Talon had moved not a moment too soon as the group of gangbangers hurtled down the stairs.

“Where are we going?” the detective asked.

Good question, Talon thought. He truly was making this up as he was going along. A real plan could be formulated later. Right now, it only boiled down to survival. Death was approaching from every direction, and he was doing his best to stay one step ahead of the grim reaper.

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

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

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

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

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

Talon pulled the detective into the dark apartment.

CHAPTER NINE

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

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

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

Gotcha, cretins…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something far worse.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TEN

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

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

Samia exhaled.

They’d found a momentary refuge.

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

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

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

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

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

Dammit!

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

“What’s happening here?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

“He wears the sign of Solomon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rakan is part of this madness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

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

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

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

Hatred and rage defined his reborn self. The boy who once upon a time wanted to grow up to be a photographer had been replaced with a hardened criminal who sought refuge and transcendence in the teachings of radical Islam. Over half the prison population was Muslim, and his tormentors had driven him toward his own people. Toward Abdul Akmal, considered one of France’s most radical jihadists. The man had trained with Osama Bin Laden, and his words had fired up Rakan’s soul. Abdul’s electric message had spoken to him in a deep way, and by the time he left the prison, Rakan was ready to lay down his life in the battle with the infidels.

As soon as Rakan had managed to scrape enough money together to purchase an airplane ticket, he booked a one-way trip to Syria. A new holy war was being waged by a group hellbent on establishing a caliphate and fighting an epochal battle against the infidels. Rakan was eager to join their ranks. The battlefield was waiting, and he yearned to see the blood of his enemy color the desert red.

It was in Syria that he learned the art of war. The streets and prison had taught him how to handle himself, but the training in the desert turned him into a soldier. A few weeks into his grueling transformation, an imam approached him. The man had the presence of a great spiritual warrior - he radiated a mixture of battle-seasoned wisdom and animal cunning. A general in a holy war, he spoke of mysteries that, at the time, still meant little to Rakan.

The imam had plans for Rakan. He wanted him to return to Paris and bring the war to the enemy. The imam promised to give Rakan a weapon that would allow him to strike a decisive blow. A weapon no airport security in the world would be able to detect.

The Jinn.

At the time, Rakan was still oblivious of the power the imam was entrusting him with. The man must’ve seen potential in him, however, because during an elaborate ceremony Rakan was presented with the instrument of the infidel’s destruction. The imam handed him a small clay pot, which contained an oval seed resembling a bean pod. Rakan’s disappointment was palpable. He expected guns or explosives, but the imam simply ordered him to swallow the seed.

Rakan raged. What sort of joke was this? Was he being mocked for being too Westernized? Officially, recruits from the West were welcomed, but he could sense that the locals didn’t trust them. They did little to hide their scorn. It was clear they thought the years of breathing the air of the infidels somehow infected the moral character of these foreigners. But Rakan had believed he’d earned the imam’s respect.

Searching the imam’s face, he detected no mockery in the serious features. He did as he was told. He scooped up the seed, which felt wet and alive in his freshly calloused hand. For a split second he thought the pod wriggled. The sensation didn’t deter him from carrying out the imam’s request. On the contrary, it made the next step so much easier. All doubt swept away by the humming magic in his hands, he swallowed the bean pod. A wave of heat welled up inside of him, and an approving smile lit up the imam’s sun-scorched features.

Four days later, he was on a plane to Paris. The strange seed inside him would play a vital role in the days and weeks to come, but the imam had refused to offer up further guidance. The spiritual leader’s last words still rang in Rakan’s ears: When the time comes, you will know what to do. The conviction behind this statement had boosted his confidence and calmed his nerves.

Returning to the banlieues after getting his first taste of battle was hard. For a few days, Rakan felt lost and alienated. In his heart, he knew he didn’t belong here any longer. In Syria, he had been a holy warrior fighting for a cause far greater than himself. In France he was just a statistic, the product of a broken system. Just another French Algerian with a record and no prospects.

After five days, the imam’s wisdom was finally revealed to him. The intestinal cramps started in the early evening. He first response was to blame the processed Western cuisine, but the pain in his stomach kept getting worse. It felt as if he’d swallowed razor blades. He gasped with agony and was tempted to call an ambulance, but another voice told him to abandon the idea. The anguish stirring in his gut wasn’t triggered by a bad meal. The power of the seed inside of him was about to manifest itself. The pain was unbearable, but he had been chosen for a reason. The imam had sensed both his strength and his burning commitment to the cause. Now it was Rakan’s chance to prove him right.

He crawled out of bed and stumbled to his feet, fighting back the retching sensation racking his body. Tapping into every reserve of energy, he pushed himself erect and staggered out of his apartment. He felt compelled to head to the roof of the tenement. A gaggle of punks lurked around the elevator and watched him like a pack of wary jackals. Even though they outnumbered him, no one dared to mess with Rakan. He’d broken enough jaws and knocked out enough teeth to earn their respect over the years, and there were rumors that he’d become even more dangerous after his stint in prison.

He turned away from the elevator and headed for the stairs. His unit was located on the fifteenth floor, and only five flights separated him from the roof. Climbing those steps turned out to be one of the most challenging tasks of his life. Each step became an excruciating exercise. But even as the terrible pain churned away inside of him, his resolve grew firmer.

A cold rain pelted his face as he pushed open the roof access door with his last vestige of strength and stepped onto the rooftop, gasping. Rain sweeping down on him, his legs caved as another set of violent convulsions contorted his body. He violently hunched over, his neck snapping to attention, and for a moment he thought his back was going to break. Something stirred deep inside of him. His lips parted, and he swallowed rain. Instead of offering any relief, the water seemed to intensify his contractions. Whatever was inside of him wanted…needed…to get out. Another sharp wave of pain exploded through his stomach and all the way up his esophagus. The world turned dark, reduced to the sensation of his body stretching and twisting as something forced its way out.

Without warning, a strange mass shot up his throat and filled his mouth. Revulsion and nausea threatened to overwhelm him as the living parasite fought its way into the world. A second later, a black, segmented serpent, measuring about twelve inches in length, burst from his wide-open lips and uncoiled across the rain-slick roof. It reared up like a cobra before slithering away, drawn to the dark puddles. Rain cascaded down on them, man and beast, in heavy sheets. Rakan eyed the snake-like creature before him. This was the weapon the imam had promised. His body had protected and nurtured it, smuggling it into France and allowing it to grow from mere seed into the monster he birthed. Soon the country would get to experience its fearsome power.

Rakan knew what to do next. The young and able-bodied would join the ranks of his army, the elderly would feed the Jinn so his new master could attain its full strength. Over the coming weeks, the Jinn’s physical transformation reminded him of his own journey in prison. He’d entered the French prison system as a scrawny teen, but three years later, a 250-pound man stepped through those iron gates into the light of freedom.

As the Jinn grew in size, its body began to produce the drug.

Anyone under its influence became an extension of the Jinn.

Of Rakan.

They were all connected now, bound by his master’s lifeforce, one organism driven by a single, dark mission: to declare war on the French oppressors.

Rakan stepped into the atrium, and his piercing gaze locked with his waiting flock. He basked in their hushed reverence. His commanding physique was cloaked in a black, formfitting hoodie, bulging muscle stretching the fabric. His clean-shaven head and thick beard demanded respect. His followers were awaiting his orders. The premature arrival of the cops was forcing him to push up his timetable. Even though his master could block their communications, it was solely a matter of time before more cops would arrive. This next wave of officers would be far better prepared than the first. Originally he’d hoped to let the terror grow and metastasize with each successive attack until the enemy turned on itself. The RAID team had ruined those plans; he would have to launch his final attack now. The fifteen men and women gathered before him would deliver one devastating blow, which would make the previous attacks pale in comparison.

The group regarded him with near-religious anticipation. Words wouldn’t be needed. Shared hatred fueled their fanaticism and determined their destiny. They filed out of the atrium, an assortment of pistols, machetes, and explosive vests hidden under their baggy hoodies and raincoats. Rakan had transformed them into glorious martyrs who were willing to sacrifice themselves in the name of their new master. Their souls were his to command. Soon his army would rain down terror on Paris, and cast the city of Light into darkness.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE DEATH SCREAM reverberated through the walls of the tenement. The old man quivered in stark terror. Anger coiled up in Talon. The poor man had suffered immensely, his life defined by fear and loss. Physically he might be alive but inside he’d died a thousand times since Rakan unleashed his reign of fear in the banlieues.

Another victim of the occult.

The screaming stopped, and silence descended upon the building. He could tell the detective was struggling to maintain her composure.

“We can’t stay here,” he said matter-of-factly.

“What do you suggest we do? We’re outnumbered and I can’t get through to call for reinforcements.”

He chewed it over in his mind. By now the police probably were aware that something had gone wrong with the raid. Soon enough, a new team would arrive, but they too would have to battle Rakan’s forces. Bottom line, they were on their own and would have to rely on their own wits to survive. This time Casca wouldn’t show up at the last minute with some mystical ace up his sleeve. His amulet and demon slayer blade, combined with his trusty Glock, would have to be enough to stop these fanatics. Retreat seemed the wiser strategy, but odds were good they’d never make it out of the building. Rakan’s followers most likely anticipated the move and were sealing off all exits. The key was to do the unexpected and—with a little luck—catch the enemy off guard. Going after the mastermind behind this nightmare was their best bet.

“We make a go for the elevators and head for the top floor,” Talon said. “Last thing they’ll expect is for us to come straight at them. We take out Rakan, and maybe his followers will back off.”

Samia shook her head. “It’s suicide,” she said.

“So is waiting for them to corner us.”

A flicker of anger crept into the detective’s eyes. “Why should I even trust you? You pop up out of nowhere, claiming to be one of the good guys. But who the hell are you?”

“There’s more to all of this than just extremist ideology. You saw the fog and the power of this drug, and you heard his story. Rakan has found a way to turn people into killers.”

She still stared at him, still wavering. He took a step toward her.

“You want to know who I am and why I’m here. I’ve seen things most men couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares. There are horrors out there, dark forces men can tap into. Men like Rakan.” Talon knew how fantastical it all sounded, but he hoped the detective would be open-minded enough to consider his words.

Talon turned back to the old man and noticed the Quran resting on the kitchen table. Like many religious texts, the book could inspire both great deeds of faith and barbaric acts of violence. Talon couldn’t shake the sense his old life as a Delta Force Operator had collided with his new mission fighting against the occult.

He’d fought Al Quada and ISIS as a Delta Operator and seen firsthand the power of ideology distorted in the name of hatred. He didn’t equate the Muslim faith with evil; men had murdered in the name of all great religions. He’d worked side by side with many Muslim soldiers and informants over the years. Good people who wanted to help him and his team of Delta soldiers take out the fanatical assholes who were turning Iraq into a slaughterhouse. The way Talon saw it, the true enemy was extremist ideology. It didn’t matter in what form it might come. Cult teachings, world religions, nationalism—they all could channel hatred in the same destructive manner and pit people against each other.

“How much ammo do you have left?” Talon asked, focusing on the upcoming mission. Mind made up, there would be no looking back or second-guessing himself.

Before the detective could reply, her walkie-talkie crackled to life.

A penetrating voice, deep and mellifluous at the same time, filled the apartment. “You can keep running, my dear Samia, but you can’t hide from me. This building belongs to me.”

Talon’s jaw tightened, realizing the speaker was the enemy.

The voice continued, “Don’t you find it ironic that we should be reunited like this?”

Samia offered no answer, seemingly too shocked to respond. Talon concluded there was some sort of past between the detective and the man on her walkie-talkie. Just what he needed—another complication in an already difficult mission.

“Before you die, I hope to look into your eyes and understand what made you join the forces with the enemy and turn on your own people.”

Samia found her voice at last. “I became a cop to protect my people.”

“If your think your badge buys you acceptance in a country of the infidel, you’re a fool. We’re strangers in a strange land.”

“You think killing a few cops will change things for our people?”

“This is just the beginning, kanz.”

With this ominous message, the radio grew silent.

Talon wanted to know how the detective knew Rakan, but before he could ask her about it, he caught shadowy movement beyond windows in the living room. A trio of human silhouettes appeared against the glass, which Talon now realized opened up onto a balcony. Even though the new arrivals were cloaked in darkness, he recognized the shape of their AK-47s.

Instincts snapping him into alertness, he threw himself on top of the detective as a volley of lead shredded the apartment. They hit the floor as bullets decimated every piece of furniture in the unit. Metal sparked, wood erupted, and glass shattered. The old man’s frail form twitched like a marionette before crashing to the ground in a string-cut sprawl.

Talon’s heart pounded, but his features remained composed, scoping the battlefield with clinical detachment. The Glock rested in his hand, waiting for the right moment to unleash hellfire on his attackers. Thick tendrils of cloying smoke wafted through the dead man’s home, and the stench of cordite filled the air. Silence followed the barrage as the enemy swapped their spent magazines for fresh ones.

Talon seized the moment.

His hand came up, he sighted on his target, and he fired. The bullet smashed first through glass before finding flesh and bone. The target was catapulted backward, disappearing from the balcony as the impact sent him over the railing. Three more shots took out Rakan’s followers. A heartbeat later, the apartment’s front door flew open, and more armed men jumped into view.

Talon whirled toward the new enemies as Samia unleashed her own volley. The men crumpled, but the enemy knew their position now and they would have to stay in motion. Talon had no idea how many more foes might lurk in the adjoining hallway but it would be better to face them head on than to be boxed in until they ran out of ammo.

He nodded at Samia, and they both sprang to their feet. Taking the lead, gun ready, Talon rushed for the exit. Samia followed right behind him, eyes alert, her fear held in check. Talon’s strategy was simple. Fight their way to the elevators and then make a go for the top floor. Rakan or one of his minions might detect their approach, but that’s where the second part of the plan would come into play.

The corridor was still blanketed in the unnatural mist, but it was free from armed fanatics. Luck was on their side, and they reached the lift without any further resistance. Talon stabbed the call button and the elevator doors split open. They slipped inside and he punched in the top floor.

Samia’s voice shook as she said, “We can’t go out there. Rakan will know we’re on our way. They’ll be waiting for us.” Her dark eyes darting from side to side. He could see how hard she was fighting to control her burgeoning panic.

“I know,” said Talon. “That’s why we’re not going out there. We’re going up here.”

Talon pointed at the elevator’s roof access door. He popped open the hatch and lifted Samia through the opening. Less than a minute later, he’d pulled himself onto the roof of the ascending elevator. If the enemy planned to open fire once the lift reached the top floor, they would be safe on the roof and positioned to rain down destruction from above.

His eyes locked with the detective’s. “What was all that about back in the apartment? You used to know Rakan?”

She turned away and replied in a halting voice, “I grew up in the banlieues. Rakan and I were close for a while. I always worried things would end badly for him. He became a criminal.”

“And you became a cop,” he said.

Samia nodded. Talon wondered how he might use this revelation to his advantage in the upcoming battle. More importantly, could Samia still be trusted in a fight with a man she once loved?

Questions continued to cycle through his mind as the lift ground to a halt. Three floors still separated them from the top. He traded a look with Samia and tilted his Glock toward the open elevator roof hatch. She followed his example, body coiled and expression tense as the elevator doors opened in the cab below. A hungry fusillade tore apart the elevator’s interior as Rakan’s followers opened fire. Sparks and smoke filled the lift. After about ten seconds, the gunfire stopped, and two of the attackers cautiously stepped inside.

Talon was about to open fire on the enemy below when his pentacle flared with scorching heat. He sensed sudden movement in the elevator shaft as a massive shape shot through the darkness. Samia’s lips opened to form a scream as a the thing wrapped its tentacles around her waist and hoisted her into the shadows above with brutal force.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SAMIA HAD SENSED rapid movement above her, the hairs on her neck prickling with alarm. A thick, powerful limb had closed around her waist and squeezed with ferocious force. She had dropped her pistol and an instant later, she was airborne, being whisked up the elevator shaft by some unholy beast. She caught a glimpse of the wet, albino-white tentacle, a network of fiery red veins visible under the translucent skin.

She screamed as she was pulled through the open elevator door three floors above and hit a hallway coated in a weird, sticky slime. The tentacle tightened and she was dragged down the wet hallway. Her scream echoed in the empty hall.

All movement suddenly stopped and the ivory tentacle withdrew, vanishing down the far end of the corridor. Dizzy, she sucked down a big gulp of air, becoming aware of the stench of rotten fruit. She realized the smell was coming from the sodden carpet. It smelled exactly like Rakan’s mysterious new drug. Was this monster somehow excreting the drug Rakan was feeding his followers? The thought boggled her mind. Talon had said there was more to this case than met the eye, but this was impossible—wasn’t it? A shadow moved and she turned to see the monster slithering ponderously toward her. Samia wished the beast had remained cloaked in the shadows. The transparent creature called to mind a giant earthworm or super-sized maggot. A ring of squirming tendrils framed a maw of razor-sharp teeth positioned below a giant cyclopian eye. The tentacles moved in strange synchronicity, seemingly under the command of an inhuman yet intelligent mind. Like a slug, the beast was leaving a slimy trail on the floor as it advanced toward her.

Rakan’s drug. It had to be.

Then she spotted the body of the RAID captain inside the see-through mass of the monster. The hapless officer resembled a fly caught in amber, his skin almost completely dissolved by the creature’s digestive fluids. While she watched, the RAID captain’s skeleton twisted and bones were ejected one by one from the demon’s slimy body as it quivered and sloshed toward her with malevolent intent, tentacles jittering. Samia remembered the old man’s story. The elderly were sacrificed while the young were turned into soldiers. She was about to become a meal for this beast.

What ancient evil had her former lover unleashed upon the world?

Her grandmother had told her tales of demons and Jinns when Samia was a child, but she hadn’t believed them. Her mind turned back to the graffiti of the hand of Fatima she’d come across in the neighboring building, a symbol of protection. It all made sense now. An ancient force of evil had returned to haunt the modern world.

Talon’s words slashed through her mind: I’ve seen things most men couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares. There are horrors out there, dark forces certain men can tap into. Men like Rakan.

Her terror catapulted her back to her feet, and she began to retreat down the corridor. Unarmed, her only option was to flee. But where could she go? The giant worm reared up, readying for an attack, its tentacles casting a mad parade of shadows against the walls.

Seconds before they could pull her toward the waiting maw, the beast froze in place. Footsteps echoed behind her. She spun around to see Rakan closing in from the other side. The skinny young man who’d courted her ten years earlier had been replaced by a powerfully muscled figure. The long hair was gone, and a thick beard hid most of his features. Only his eyes remained untouched by time. The spark of fanaticism had always been present, even when he had been a skinny teenager, but years of prison and hardship had fueled the fire that now burned with piercing intensity.

Had she truly once been in love with this man?

His eyes locked with hers, empty slits bereft of mercy or human emotion. Rakan had spared her so he could say his farewell, she realized, but it was only a momentary reprieve. His attention shifted to the monster at the far end of the corridor.

“Master, accept my offering.”

With these fatalistic words, the beast reared upward and rippled toward a screaming Samia.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

YASMINE FOLLOWED THE others into the waiting van parked outside their tenement building. For the first time in her life, the world and her role in it made perfect sense. She finally understood her true purpose. Thanks to Rakan, the cause of all her suffering and pain had been revealed. The demons that ruled this unholy land had banished her and her family to this forgotten part of the city to live out their lives without hope. Rakan understood this. He’d lifted the veil that had blinded her.

The true enemy walked the streets of Paris. Safe in their wealthy neighborhoods, they felt shielded from their impoverished neighbors—but this false sense of security would be shattered today.

Today they would stand up to their oppressors.

She climbed into the van, joining a group of twelve other men and women. Their faces were familiar, fellow residents of her building, some who she knew by name and others who’d been strangers to her even though they they were neighbors. Most were armed with AK-47s and machine pistols. At least half of the group sported explosive vests under their jackets and coats.

Yasmine had never fired a gun in her life, but the weapon felt strangely good in her hands, almost soothing. The metal was warm to the touch, and she was gripped by a powerful sense of confidence and purpose. She knew exactly what to do. All uncertainty had left her body. A singular goal drove her now, shared by the others in the van. Soon she’d be pointing her gun at the monsters that ruled this accursed land.

The door clanged shut, and the vehicle lurched into motion. Rain pelted the windows, washing away the building she’d called home for most of her life. As the tenement receded in the haze, she cleared her mind of all thoughts beyond the upcoming battle.

Nevertheless, her eagerness made the drive toward their destination seem to last an eternity. When the van finally pulled into the underground parking garage of the Forum des Halles, Paris’ largest shopping center, Yasmine rejoiced. The moment of reckoning was at hand.

It took them another ten minutes to find a parking spot in the crowded structure. Their oppressors were busy fattening their stomachs and filling their empty lives with material possessions that would never make them happy. She almost felt sorry for them. They were travelers on the wrong path, driven by goals and desires that took them further away from the truth and deeper into the darkness.

Yasmine drew a deep breath as the driver killed the engine. He opened the door, and they all filed out of the van, faces locked into masks of concentration. The final battle was about to begin.

The mall was crowded with stores, restaurants, discotheques, a museum, and movie theaters. A city below the city, Yasmine thought. High street retailers dominated the shopping landscape: Mango, Zara, Kookai, H & M, Bershka, Sephora, Yves Rocher, and Fnac were all represented. Symbols of wealth and privilege, all serving as another sharp reminder of her people’s oppression. The French embraced materialism and spent their inflated paychecks on all this junk while her people barely could make ends meet. Failed colonialism and a need for cheap labor had lured them to this country so that their sweat and backbreaking work could bolster the economy of the infidel. Caught in a cycle of material indulgence and selfishness, their ungracious hosts refused to bear enough children, forcing the government to continue to import cheap labor from other parts of the world. They promised immigrants a better life, but all her people received for their efforts was a subsidized housing unit in a forsaken neighborhood where no one else wanted to live.

Even though some shops had already closed for the night, crowds filled the underground city. Bright overhead lights revealed a series of escalators busy carrying shoppers from the surface to the underground shopping paradise below. She studied the eclectic crowd, fighting back a surge of primal terror. On the surface, these people might look human, but Rakan had opened her eyes to the truth. Demons lurked below the façade of wealth and refinement. Crimson eyes glared back at her, and peals of cackling laughter drifted from restaurants and shops. Struggling to fight back a panic attack, she took in the world as it truly was. Her hijab, which immediately identified her as a resident of the banlieues, was a beacon to these monsters. They homed in on her cultural differences, earning suspicious glances from the security officers who roamed the underground hallways of the complex like a hungry pack of wolves. They were servants of the demons. The guards would have to be taken out first before they could point their machine pistols at the demons lurking inside the maze of shops and restaurants.

She studied the others in her group. They were spreading out across the mall, forming teams of two or three so as to not arouse unnecessary suspicion. Eventually the demons would become aware of their presence, but by then it would be too late. Yasmine knew that she would certainly fall in battle to the infidel’s bullets, but she planned to take a few of them with her.

Someone had to stand up to these monsters.

Someone had to try to save their people.

Hopefully her sacrifice would pave the way for a better future. She was ready to lay down her life in the name of her new master and his glorious vision. This was not merely an attack on the decadent West—it was the first salvo in a war.

With the confidence of a seasoned soldier, she released the safety of her AK-47 and steeled herself for the next phase of the plan.

Soon the blood of the demons would flow freely inside the Forum des Halles.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SAMIA’S SCREAM ECHOED as the tentacle closed around her waist and pulled her up the elevator shaft. Talon reacted on pure instinct. He brought up his Glock but was unable to squeeze off a shot without risking hitting Samia. He let out a curse of frustration as the detective was pulled toward an open elevator door three floors above him and vanished from view.

More men barreled into the lift below him and started opening fire at the elevator roof. He had to go after Samia and get out of there before one of those fanatics managed a lucky shot. His eyes locked on the steel emergency ladder that ran up the length of the shaft.

Without hesitation he hurled himself toward the ladder and began to scale it, bullets whizzing past him. As he fought his way to the top floor, his mind was on fire. What sort of creature had snatched Samia in the darkness? Talon had faced mad cult leaders, demons, and even the spirits of the dead, but he’d never seen anything like the monster that had abducted Samia. What was he up against?

Casca would have an answer; the billionaire always did. There was always some archaic text he could reference that would make the miraculous feel mundane and the extraordinary ordinary. Based on the size of the tentacle, Talon concluded a beast of massive proportions lurked on the top floor. He had imagined the Jinn as a creature made of smoke or fire, but the nightmare waiting above him was all-too-solid—and a monstrosity of gargantuan size.

The last six months had exposed the vast gulf between myth and reality. How did Rakan control a creature of such proportions? Or maybe he was getting it all wrong here. Maybe Rakan was the servant and the beast the master. Whatever the case may be, it would be up to him to stop both man and beast, and he prayed his weapons would be adequate for the job.

Moving swiftly, he continued his ascent. Stray bullets pinged against steel cables, narrowly missing him. He refused to worry about Rakan’s followers below; all of his thoughts were focused on the primordial terror he was about to confront in battle.

He arrived at the top floor and slipped through the open elevator doors. The monster had pried them apart with enormous force and must’ve damaged the mechanism in the process.

As Talon stepped into the corridor, an overpowering stench of rotting fruit made him gag. His shoes smacked against the slippery floor, and he slowed his gait to avoid losing his footing on the slimy substance. After a few cautious steps—Glock in one hand, the demon slayer blade in the other—another insight hit him. The smell of decay came from the thick fluid blanketing the floor. It had to be the drug Rakan was distributing to his followers, but why had buckets of it been emptied out across the floor?

Eyes alert, nerves on edge, he advanced down the dark corridor. Adrenaline pumped furiously through his veins, his dread growing with each step. A monster lurked in these hallways, waiting to strike. He could have definitely used a pair of night-vision goggles, and an MP5 and a few grenades sure would’ve calmed his ragged nerves. The Glock and demon slayer blade felt ill-suited for battling the colossus that had snatched Samia.

Where was the detective? Had the creature devoured her?

A second later he received his answer as he nearly tripped over the prone figure splayed across the floor. Samia looked up at him, eyes shiny with terror and her clothes coated in slime. Her lips weakly whispered words that drove a chill up his spine: “We’re not alone.”

A sudden sound behind him made him whirl. A figure had appeared on the other end of the hallway. The powerfully built man cut an intimidating silhouette in the moonlight. It had to be Rakan.

There was the master, but where was the Jinn? Talon’s eyes roved the dim corridor, and at last he caught a glimpse of shadowy motion another twenty feet behind Samia. A gargantuan worm oozed from the darkness and filled the hallway with its impressive bulk. Talon swallowed hard, atavistic fear taking hold of him. The creature slithered toward Samia with preternatural speed, leaving a trail of slime in its wake. Talon’s stomach lurched, the truth hitting him in a wave of revulsion. Rakan’s drug was a byproduct of this giant worm.

Talon doubted bullets would be effective against a beast of that size, but old habits died hard. He reflexively emptied a whole magazine into the incoming creature, the slugs digging deep into the translucent skin. The gelatinous mass of the monster’s body absorbed the projectiles without sustaining any damage. Blood twitched and pulsed under the glassy skin, but the monster didn’t slow its inexorable approach. If anything, the bullets seemed to just be pissing it off.

Two tentacles shot out from the teeth-ringed jaw, unfurling down the hallway with lightning speed. Before they could snatch the detective and add her to its list of victims, Talon was beside her, demon slayer blade in hand. The knife cut a wide arc and found its target: the first incoming tentacle. The blessed steel managed to bite into the creature’s flesh, drawing blood where the bullets had been useless. A roar shook the walls of the corridor as the tentacle withdrew as if struck by lightning. It whipped back into the wormlike body, vanishing momentarily from view.

Talon wondered where this abomination had come from. Had some ancient ritual or some other form of infernal magic given birth to it? Or had it always dwelled amongst humanity, lurking in the shadows?

Didn’t matter. Casca might care to speculate at length about the Jinn’s origins, but Talon was more interested in how to defeat it.

Another cry of pain joined the monster’s roar. Talon whirled toward the beast’s human master closing in from the other end of the corridor. Rakan was screaming, a large gash running across his arm.

Somehow attacking the beast had hurt the man.

The Jinn, the drug, Rakan—the three were all linked. Together, they chained the residents of the tenement in a nightmare of enslavement and addiction. It would be up to Talon to cast off those shackles and break the hold Rakan’s drug exerted on the poor people of this neighborhood.

“Watch out!” Samia screamed as two more of the wounded beast’s tentacles rippled toward him. This time around one of the tendrils wrapped around him before he could launch a counter-attack with the magical blade. The creature’s wet flesh pressed with inhuman force, and he dropped the demon slayer blade with a scream of pain. Steel thumped against the wet floor.

The Jinn pulled him thirty feet down the hallway toward its wide-open maw, eight-inch teeth gleaming with the same strange substance that blanketed the floor.

Talon was helpless. Nothing would stop the beast now, unless…

The pentacle burned painfully against his chest, igniting in response to the approaching darkness. It made him wonder—could the amulet be a weapon as well as an early warning system?

There was only one way to find out!

Fueled by a rush of newfound hope, he snatched his amulet with his one free hand, every muscle in his body screaming with agony. Seconds before the teeth of the waiting maw could tear him open, he pressed the amulet against the monster’s glistening, see-through flesh.

The contact was electric, the results immediate. The Jinn released him from its steely grip mere seconds before those razor-sharp teeth would’ve ripped off his face.

The tentacles violently reared back, and Talon was sent tumbling down the corridor.

He hit the wet floor face first. Desperately, he pressed his lips together, refusing to allow any of the horrible, addictive substance into his mouth. Barely clinging to consciousness, he knew he had to get back to his feet.Tapping into a last reserve of strength, he stumbled erect, but it was too late. Rakan’s massive shadow eclipsed the wall before him. One meaty arm closed around his throat in a brutal headlock.

Talon clenched his jaw; he had to get out of the submission hold before it was too late. Instincts taking over, he twisted his head to prevent Rakan from choking him. In the same instant, he brought up his middle fingers under the man’s nose. He pushed up and back. Rakan’s grip loosened, giving Talon enough leeway to make his next move. He put all his weight into his enemy, slamming him against the wall.

Rakan grunted, releasing his hold with a pain-filled curse.

The beast on the other end of the corridor echoed his irritation with a renewed roar. Interesting, Talon thought. Apparently the link between man and monster worked both ways.

Talon spun around just as Rakan’s fist blasted out at him. The drug dealer’s paw connected with his ribs, cracking bone. Talon exhaled agony and stumbled away from the mountain of a man, who outweighed him by at least fifty pounds.

He’d defeated bigger men, but Rakan’s punches were fueled by the supernatural power of the Jinn.

Talon’s bleary eyes turned toward Samia. She had scooped up his demon slayer blade and now bravely faced the fast approaching monster. Even armed with the magical weapon, she didn’t stand a chance. The Jinn’s weight and momentum would flatten her.

Death was closing in from both sides of the corridor. The Jinn on one end, Rakan on the other. Struck by sudden inspiration, Talon’s gaze locked on Samia.

“Throw me the knife!”

The detective looked at him with disbelief yet did as she was told. She slid the blade across the floor and Talon caught the magical weapon before it slid to a stop. Blade in hand, he swung around at Rakan. To hurt the beast, he would have to harm the man. Talon drew the knife across Rakan’s face, drawing a deep gash across the man’s eyes.

Blinded, Rakan staggered back with a scream.

On the other end, the Jinn bellowed, and slowed its advance, blood gushing from its cyclopean eye.

The maneuver had bought Talon and Samia precious seconds.

Talon toyed with the idea of going after Rakan, but even without his sight, the drug dealer made a formidable opponent. Besides, the Jinn would be upon him before Talon could subdue Rakan.

There was only one way to defeat both enemies—turn them on each other. He would have to pit master against servant and trust that he and the detective could escape in the melee. Talon surged toward Samia and pointed at the open elevator door. Understanding filled her features and she nodded. Just before Talon flung himself through the door, he shouted, “Hey, come and get me, you slimy bastard!”

Before either Rakan or the Jinn could reach them, Talon and Samia jumped into the dark elevator shaft. Their hands clasped the emergency ladder while the enraged Jinn barreled down the corridor, its bulk shooting past the open elevator doors. In its blinded state, the monster was unaware that its real prey had fled. Driven by rage, it kept spiraling down the corridor, headed straight for the nearest human.

Rakan.

A heartbeat later, the massive beast opened its mouth wide and engulfed the man in its path. As the servant disappeared inside the translucent form of his master, the spiritual link between them shattered. The giant worm reared and bucked but kept moving, completely out of control. Unable to slow its forward momentum, the Jinn burst through the window at the end of the corridor and disappeared in a rain of shattering glass, plunging to the wet streets below.

***

Yasmine was about to whip out the AK-47 from under her long coat when the world around her shifted. For the first time in days, her thoughts were clear and her mind once again her own. One moment the notion of mowing down the demonic Parisians in the small café before her seemed like a sacred calling. Now she felt sickened by what she’d almost done. It felt like she was waking from a terrible nightmare. She spotted five other banlieue residents in the surging crowds, terrified eyes in ashen brown faces, mirroring her own shock and fear.

Yasmine was all too aware of the machine gun under her coat and the phalanx of security personnel milling around the mall. Somehow, she had to flee the shopping center and get rid of the weapon without being caught. If she was arrested or killed, then who would take care of Granny.

Her heart skipped a beat. She vaguely recalled returning to her apartment only to find Granny missing. That’s when the punks had grabbed her. They’d forced her to take the drug, and afterwards, there had been only darkness. She’d been convinced that she lived in a world where demons ruled Paris and were to blame for every misfortune that had befallen her people.

Moving as swiftly as she could without drawing attention to herself, she fled the underground shopping center. She was driven by one single thought: she had to get home. As soon as she reached the parking structure, she pulled the machine gun from under her coat and let it drop behind a trash bin. It clattered against the concrete floor and she picked up her pace, using her hijab to keep her features obscured from the security cameras placed intermittently around the parking structure.

A few minutes later, she stepped into the Paris night. A fine drizzle stung her skin. She welcomed the sensation, which further grounded her in reality. She could sense that this nightmare was truly behind her. She didn’t understand what had broken the unholy spell the drug had exerted on her—and truth be told, she didn’t want to know. Yasmine was free; it didn’t matter why or how. All that mattered was finding her grandmother.

She walked briskly down the brightly lit streets of Paris, appreciating, perhaps for the first time, the beauty of her adopted city.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

BY THE TIME Samia stepped out of the tenement and into the night, the rain had stopped and the mist had thinned out. Swirling tendrils of fog still wove their way through the streets, but the condensation had lost its supernatural menace. She still couldn’t quite believe that they had defeated Rakan and the unholy creature under his command.

As they’d descended the tenement stairs, they’d encountered many of Rakan’s erstwhile followers. They all looked like they were waking from a horrible nightmare—which, from what Samia understood, wasn’t that far from the truth. The death of the Jinn had broken the dark spell of its lifeforce.

She expected to find the beast’s shattered form on the pavement, but they only discovered Rakan’s broken body splayed a few feet from the building. The twenty-story fall and the creature’s digestive fluids had reduced her former lover’s features into a bloody, pulpy mass. There was no sign of the monster. If both monster and man had been linked somehow, maybe the creature had dissolved in the same way Rakan’s features had been obliterated. Or could the beast have stolen away into the rainy night? The thought sent a cold panic down her spine, and her eyes probed the surrounding darkness. The halogen streetlights did little to illuminate the gray soup around them.

Combing the darkness, her gaze landed on an open sewer grate. Had some part of the monster escaped into the bowels of the city? Wounded, maybe dying, but still able to infiltrate the heart of the metropolis somehow, an evil poison polluting the water that flowed through the city’s stone arteries.

Tensions between the French and her people were at an all time high, and that wasn’t going to change any time soon. Things would get worse before they got better. The last thing her city needed was a monster churning up hatred and fear. The situation was bad enough without a supernatural influence.

Sirens grew audible in the near distance, and Samia let out a sigh of relief. Reinforcements would be arriving any second now.

“I must go,” the American said. She turned toward him and searched his battle-worn features.

I’ve seen things most men couldn’t imagine in their worst nightmares. There are horrors out there, dark forces men can tap into.

She doubted he would share his story with her. He didn’t have to. He’d saved her life, saved this neighborhood. He didn’t owe her any explanations.

“Are you at least going to tell me your full name?”

The American smiled, squeezed her shoulder and said, “Mark Talon.”

With these words, he vanished into the mist.

Moments later, the first squad car pulled up to the tenement.

***

Talon studied Casca as he inspected the strange vial. Five days had passed since the battle in the banlieues, and he now found himself in Casca’s office at his sprawling Silicon Valley mansion. The drug was the only tangible evidence of the horror he’d faced.

“Your experience in Paris changes everything. I will have to revisit the myths of the Jinn and interpret them in a completely new way.”

“Sounds like fun.” Talon rolled his eyes, knowing all too well the billionaire would have a blast unraveling this new occult mystery.

Casca placed the vial in a drawer of his mahogany desk. Talon glanced at the large globe that stood in the office’s corner. For most of his life, he’d been traveling the world, constantly on the go and he had a feeling his lifestyle wouldn’t change any time soon. He wondered where the billionaire would send him next.

Almost as if Casca had scanned his mind, he said, “Did you get a chance to read my interview in Forbes? I think I did an excellent job of playing the rich boy with too much time on his hands and an unhealthy interest in the occult.”

“Can’t say I have. Did the Order of the Flayed Prince take the bait?”

“Someone was paying attention because I received a personal invitation to attend a workshop hosted by the Shadow Seeker Society in New York City.”

“You think they’re connected to the order?”

“There’s only one way to know for sure.”

Talon mulled it over. Normally the billionaire commanded their campaigns from the safety of his mansion while Talon put himself in harm’s way. Now his general planned to venture out onto the battlefield. He’d proven to be a helpful ally when they’d faced the Reaper’s murderous spirit back in the Ohio mall but Talon couldn’t shake a growing sense of unease. Casca was developing an appetite for action, his confidence bolstered by his growing mastery of the magical arts.

On the other hand, the Order wasn’t like the any enemy they faced before. He’d scored another victory in Paris, but even the most skilled soldier knew that survival was mostly a matter of luck—and a lucky streak could only last for so long. This new enemy possessed the funding and membership numbers to pose a real problem. Who knew how deep their influence went and what horrific goals they might be working toward.

“You accepted the invitation?” Talon asked after a long pause.

Casca nodded. “The seminar is scheduled a week from now. I was hoping you might join me for the event.”

Talon cocked an eyebrow, and Casca added, “I have a feeling I might be in need of a personal bodyguard.”

Talon nodded. “I’m on the payroll, boss.”

Casca grinned and Talon joined him. Inwardly, though he wasn’t smiling, gripped by a dark premonition. He sensed the battle ahead would test them both in ways they couldn’t even imagine. Casca believed the Order had taken his bait, but Talon wasn’t so sure. What if their new enemy knew exactly what they were up to? He’d set a cunning and deadly trap in that remote Italian chapel, and he feared that the Order was now planning a trap of their own.

Picking up on his unease, Casca poured him a shot of bourbon. Talon drained the glass and gave his employer a more genuine smile.

Whatever horrors might be waiting for them in New York, this time they’d face them together.

THE END

Mark Talon and Simon Casca return in Doomsday Circle.

The battle between the occult assassin and the mysterious Order of the Flayed Prince is about to heat up.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Dear Readers:

The recent horrific terrorist attack in Paris shocked me deeply, especially since I was in the middle of writing Soul Jacker at the time which echoes some of the ethnic tensions impacting Europe and the world at the moment. This story wasn’t designed to ride on the coattails of a recent tragedy or to be sensationalistic. It was conceived way before the recent horrific attack and was originally planned to be the second book in the series. The Charlie Hebdo attack early this year made me push the story and Apocalypse Soldier became book 2. But the tale continued to haunt me, and I finally came back to it this summer, after I felt enough time had passed. Little did I realize even more horrific attacks would soon rattle the City of Lights. Extremist ideology has been replaced with the occult in the Talon stories but like the Dark Knight movies, Occult Assassin is designed to take the real world of terrorism and give it a fantastical push. Sometimes art imitates life and other times it intercepts it, becoming eerily prophetic. My heart goes out to all the victims and I sincerely hope the story doesn’t offend anyone. It was meant to be cautionary tale, grounded somewhat in reality but clearly a fantasy-horror story.

The world is a dangerous place even without monsters and demons and I’m grateful that the real Mark Talons out there valiantly strive to keep it safe for all of us.

William Massa

December 2015

Los Angeles, CA

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THE STORY CONTINUES IN SILICON WORLD BOOK 0: SILICON DAWN

"Silicon Dawn reads like a mashup of Blade Runner and Se7en." Dwayne Smith, Forty Acres.

THE LINE BETWEEN MAN AND MACHINE HAS BEEN CROSSED...

AND THERE IS NO TURNING BACK.

A diabolical serial killer stalks the city of the future…

Hunting the people who build the machines.

And it's up to two cops to unravel a terrible conspiracy.

The world is still reeling form the devastation of the Omega Virus and struggling to rebuild. A growing android workforce has given rise to the Human Defense League and anti-AI sentiment is at an all-time high.

Adam, the first of the new X-3000 models, arrives into this hostile world. Field-tested on the Luna colonies, now assigned to Earth, Adam is paired with homicide detective Jane Malveaux, who has little love for synthetics.

Before long both Malveaux and Adam must cast aside their differences and join forces to solve a case that will test both man and machine.

PLEASE ENJOY A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF

SILICON DAWN

A SILICON MAN PREQUEL

LOS ANGELES, 2084.

TEN YEARS BEFORE THE EVENTS OF SILICON MAN.

The San Francisco Spaceport bustled with activity. Two spaceplanes had arrived in quick succession, one from the Luna colonies and another from the IMS space station, and weary passengers thronged the arrival hall. Sunlight streamed through the large, oblong windows, and the space travelers basked in the welcoming heat. Feeling the sun on their faces signaled that they were back on the homeworld. The outer colonies had their charms, but nothing beat good old Mother Earth.

Among the new arrivals was someone who’d never before visited the birthplace of humanity. He wore a gray suit and a fedora, the brim of the hat cloaking much of his face in shadow. The look had been popular in the first half of the twentieth century and was in vogue again.

As the man in gray waited his turn in the long line snaking its way toward the security portals, he studied his surroundings. Most of his fellow travelers were barely awake, their slightly atrophied muscles still readjusting to Earth’s gravity, but the man in gray was fully alert. The arrivals area energized him with a sense of wonder. Everything seemed new and different somehow.

Exciting.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on why he felt this way. Maybe it was the sunlight shafting through the windows and the glimpses of azure sky. Or perhaps there was a different energy here on Earth, a confidence and carefree attitude that came with the awareness of being home.

Earth gave life, space claimed it.

One false move or malfunctioning system could easily become the difference between living and dying. Out in the colonies, mankind struggled to carve out a home for itself in an environment seemingly designed to eradicate life at every turn.

The man in gray took note of another detail—mechs were everywhere. For every human servicing the spaceport floors, there were two synthetics. They worked mostly as bag checkers and sanitation workers. These animated mannequins went about their routine, mundane duties in what seemed like a trancelike stupor. They might move like humans, but their frozen features were lifeless, plastic. They were second generation X-2000s, and unlike the first generation, boasted synthetic skin.

As he moved past them, the androids halted their workflow, blank gazes trailing after him. His presence stirred something in them—was it curiosity? Surprise?

The travelers continued their patience-testing journey through an endless series of security checkpoints. A female customs agent divided her attention between the incessant stream of data on her 3-D holo-screen and the flow of humanity before her. When the man in gray’s turn arrived, she said in a perfunctory voice, ”Hmm, the Luna colonies. First time on Earth?”

“Yes,” he answered.

The woman returned the I.D.

“I hope you enjoy your...”

She broke off, eyes filling with disbelief as she caught a better look at him. Before she could say anything else, he’d pocketed his card and was on his way.

He’d been forewarned that he might encounter such a reaction upon his arrival. People would treat him differently on the homeworld than on Luna, but he was steeled for the worst. At least he hoped he was.

Once cleared through customs, the man in gray headed for the spaceport’s nearest exit. Unlike the other travelers, he didn’t carry any luggage. Walking briskly, he stepped through the sliding doors and eyed a nearby cab.

As he approached the vehicle, the cabby kept checking the TV monitor on his dashboard, entranced by some sporting event. The man’s attention barely wavered as the door opened and the man in gray slid into the back.

“To the city, please.”

“You got it,” the cabby replied, barely looking up from the screen. Like the woman in the terminal, he was just another human being dulled by his robotic routine.

The cab glided into traffic. The football game played in the background as the driver guided the cab out of the spaceport. To the cabby’s dismay, a news bulletin interrupted the sporting event. Images of a monolithic industrial complex flashed onscreen. Police hoverships and security drones circled the jagged factory buildings. The voice of a news anchor grew audible.

“In late breaking news, a group of terrorists have seized control of one of Synthetika mech manufacturing plants. Police are already on the scene, ready to deal with the situation. This is the latest escalation in a series of hate crimes directed against Synthetika. It follows the recent announcement that production on the new line of X-3000 models is scheduled to expand later this year.”

The footage showed a mob protesting in front of the sleek corporate headquarters of Synthetika. With fists held high, they brandished placards with anti-mech slogans. A ring of cops tried to keep the crowd in check.

“The X-3000s have met with great success throughout the colonies, and Synthetika feels the new model will prove just as popular here on Earth…”

Images of the X-3000 appeared, driving home the difference between the earlier AI models. These synthetics looked for all intents and purposes human. Only when they tilted their heads did their true nature become apparent. Power bars embedded in the back of their necks sparked with electronic life. A subtle but unmistakable distinction between man and machine.

“Atari Raspell, head of the HDL, had the following comments...”

The Human Defense League’s magnetic leader appeared on-screen. His height, weight, and features seemed average, even plain, but the fierce firebrand conviction of his words wove a hypnotic spell.

“Every day, about three hundred Americans lose their jobs to androids,” Atari explained. “As we speak, there are a million mechs operational in San Francisco alone. Synthetika’s slave race of machines already make up twenty percent of this city's population. What do you think will happen once the X-3000s hit the market? The time has come to stand up for our human rights.”

The cabby nodded his head in vigorous agreement.

“Damn straight. If ya ask me, I think we should just scrap `em all.”

The cabby fired a backward glance at the man in gray, seeking approval and…froze. His passenger wasn’t a man but the spitting image of the X-3000 model showcased in the news bulletin. Shimmering red-green light emanated from the back of the android’s neck, exposing his true nature in the dimly lit cab.

The cab swerved, nearly veering onto the shoulder, and the man in grey said, “You better keep an eye on the road,”

The cabby's attention jerked back to traffic as the self-driving system kicked in, straightening the weaving vehicle.

His creators had named him Adam, being one of the first of his kind. He had expected to encounter intolerance on the homeworld, but not quite so soon after his arrival. He remembered a line from the classic twentieth century movie The Wizard of Oz.

You’re not in Kansas anymore…

Well, he wasn’t on the colonies any longer. Earth suddenly seemed a lot less appealing, and he wished he could tell the cabby to take him back to the spaceport.

Adam studied his reflection in the cab’s rear-view mirror. He could definitely pass as human especially if one didn’t pay too close attention. Unlike the X-2000s back at the arrival terminal, his features were animated, lifelike. Synthetic skin had given way to an organic bioshell grown in amniotic tanks, which perfectly hid the steel endoskeleton and sophisticated electronics underneath.

Synthetika could’ve easily perfected the illusion, but the exposed power bars in the back of his neck served a distinct purpose. It wasn’t a flaw in his design but a conscious choice on his creator’s part to differentiate him from humans. They wanted a machine that was able to appear human but could still be identified as a machine.

Fortunately, it was a difference that could easily be downplayed in social interactions. Adam pulled up the collar of his trench coat, hoping that by obscuring his electronics it might put his driver at ease. He didn’t want to end up in a car accident on his first day.

Synthetika had assigned him to Earth to be an ambassador for a new generation of mechs. In the near future, the X-3000s would be as prevalent here as they were out in the colonies.

An incoming message from his superiors pulled him out of his thoughts. He was receiving new instructions to proceed to the manufacturing plant.

“There’s been a change in plans. I won’t be headed to the city after all.”

The cabby stole a cautious look at him in his rear-view mirror.

“Don't worry,” Adam said. “This won't affect your tip.”

Grab your copy here!

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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
- SILICON DAWN
- SILICON DAWN
- FEAR THE LIGHT
- GARGOYLE KNIGHT
- MATCH