Occult Assassin 4: Soul Jacker (7 page)

“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.
 

C
HAPTER
N
INE

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.