Damnation Code (William Massa) - William Massa Page 0,13

alcoholics and Talon intended to join their ranks.

The whiskey burned as it went down his throat and immediately made him crave another one. Despite his growing buzz, the alcohol wasn’t helping Talon forget or calming him down. On the contrary, the booze was adding fuel to the fire. Each shot only stoked the flames inside him.

For three long days Talon spent his waking hours hitting any watering hole that would take his money. At night he slept off the alcohol at the rundown motel where he’d sought refuge. He didn’t shower, didn’t eat, didn’t give a damn.

As the days of drinking added up, his fury was coming to a boil, metastasizing into a murderous rage. Terrible thoughts swirled through his mind. On the third day he ended up in a run-down goth-punk bar. He didn’t share anything in common with its patrons except for a hunger to forget.

After his fifth drink of the night, he began to notice a crew of black-clad Goths. The tall, pale leader of the group — a young, cantankerous asshole — would have scored well in a Marilyn Manson lookalike contest. One of the Goth chicks mistook his attention for interest and flashed him a black-lipstick smile. Her wandering eye didn’t go over well with her beau. He gave Talon the finger before pulling his girl off the barstool and dragging her toward the exit. His friends filed out after him without paying for their drinks.

Talon didn’t pay attention to the bartender’s shouts. All he could think about was the tattoo he’d spotted on the Goth’s hand when he flipped him off.

It was an inverted pentagram.

***

Talon followed the brazen gang of Goths for a couple of blocks. A heavy fog shrouded the streets, turning the world into a dreamlike landscape of bleeding shadows.

Talon kept his distance but stayed close enough, never losing sight of his quarry. It soon became apparent where the punks were headed. They were walking toward the Mission Dolores Church and its adjoining cemetery.

The Goths paid little heed to the lone figure trailing them. Even if they spotted him, Talon would offer little cause for alarm. They were four, he was one and in his currently abysmal state, he bore a stronger resemblance to a homeless man than a highly trained killer.

Talon passed through the wrought-iron main gate and began to close the gap once they entered the maze of tombstones.

The fog grew heavier and erased the black-clad punks from view. Focusing on his other senses, Talon tracked the sound of their voices. Their laughter gave way to the hiss of spray canisters. Like a predator drone that had locked on its target, he homed in on the Goths.

The mist cleared and the ring of punks stood revealed. Streaks of graffiti slithered down a vandalized tombstone. The Goths were in the process of painting inverted pentagrams on the headstones. They stopped for a beat, admiring their handiwork, and suddenly became aware of Talon’s presence.

For a silent moment the vandals traded glances. Then their leader glared at Talon. “What the fuck you looking at?”

The Goth never finished his sentence as Talon’s hand lashed out at him. Now beyond mercy and reason, the Delta Force operator had allowed the alcohol roaring through his system to unleash his killer instinct. His fist connected and sent the raven-haired man crashing into the nearest grave-mound. The crack of bone snapping against the tombstone echoed over the cemetery.

The other Goths stared with big eyes, feet rooted. No one was smiling any longer. Another Goth challenged Talon, fists up. His foolish bravery was rewarded with a vicious series of combination punches that hurled him into a memorial’s flowerbed. Before the youth could get up, Talon was upon him, applying a chokehold designed to snap his neck when…

The pitiful cry of one of the Goth chicks pierced Talon’s drunken haze of insanity. “Please, don’t hurt him, we’re sorry...”

Talon stared at the young woman as if waking from a terrible nightmare. Mascara ran down her face in dark streaks. The fear in her eyes was all too real.

Catching his breath, Talon regarded the nearly unconscious kid whose neck he’d almost broken. He studied the punk’s pentagram tattoo and realized these weren’t hardened killers but a bunch of teenagers playing dress-up.

Talon eyed his hands; they were bloodied from the fight. “Get the hell out of here,” he hissed.

The girl blinked at him, almost as if she couldn’t quite believe this turn of events. As Talon sank to his knees, the Goths wisely