Occult Assassin 4: Soul Jacker (9 page)

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.
 

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

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.