Apocalypse Soldier (3 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I order you a beer, at least?”

“Sure. I’ll take a Heineken.”

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

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

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
 

“How have you been sleeping?”

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

“I’m sorry…”

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

“How about a friend?”

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

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

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

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

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

“What sort of details?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What type of training?” Talon asked.

“Training in how to perform exorcisms.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“One more thing…”

Talon paused.

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

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

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

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

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

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

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

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

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

Or so he thought…
 

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

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