Apocalypse Soldier (2 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It will be over soon.”

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

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

The knife touched Jeff’s throat…

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

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

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

Something beyond his experience.
 

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

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

A sound made Colton whirl.
 

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a start.”

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

***

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

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

“Don’t worry, kid, I’m here to help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

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

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

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

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

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

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