Spirit Breaker by William Massa Page B

may have succeeded in hurtling him to the ground, but the necro-armor was holding its own. He remembered all too well how the Reaper had dragged Benson’s frame across the ceiling. These ghosts could pass through matter—enter his body, stop his heart, or toss him around like a ragdoll. This suit was saving his ass. Imagine an entire strike force outfitted in Spirit Breaker technology. A group like that would demolish any supernatural threat they encountered. Then again, maybe that was Casca’s plan all along when he’d invested in the Spirit Breaker technology.
    As much as he marveled at the new battle tech, Talon was an old-fashioned soldier at heart. He went to check his trusty machine pistol and realized that it must have been lost in the fray. No time to dwell on it as another specter surged into his body armor and violently reared back in a flash of sizzling energy.  
    Talon cut a hasty retreat into the food court’s maze of bolted down tables and chairs. The spirit shimmered after him, passing through solid objects as if they weren’t there, unaffected by the material world.
    Within seconds the entity was upon him, bony hands reaching.
    Talon’s gloved fist snapped out in a punch. Instead of slipping through the immaterial assailant, it made contact with the ghost. A shock wave of white-hot energy erupted on impact.
    Talon stumbled backward. Sensed movement above him. He looked up and saw a specter suspended in mid-air. A pallid, cadaverous monster, its features blurred. The vague impression features: a mouth like raw a wound, eyes like black marbles.
    He brought up the ecto-rifle.  
    Fired.
    A burst from the weapon seemed to decapitate the entity in mid-descent, the ghostly body crumpling.  
    One thing was for certain—the specters were noticeably slower than the Reaper. If the ghosts drew power from the Lightwalker, perhaps powering so many of these entities was taking its toll on him. If the psychic’s energy was now dispersed among too many ghosts, it offered a glimmer of hope. Maybe, if he could hold them back long enough, this army of the dead might exhaust the cult leader.
    Of course, that gave rise to another important question: Where the hell was the psychic?
    The sound of creaking metal suddenly cut through the food court, and a series of violent tremors rattled the bolted-down furniture. Steel screamed and an invisible force ripped a table from its anchoring, the spirits combining their energy to manipulate physical reality.
    With an ear-splitting screech, the table shot toward Talon. His necro-armor could deflect spirits, but was useless against material objects. The bastards had already adjusted their tactics.  
    The table rammed into Talon and sent him flying. A nearby gated-up storefront filled his field of vision, followed by the inevitable teeth-chattering impact. Metal creaked as he crumpled to the ground, and he exhaled sharply. The armor had cushioned the fall somewhat, but he sensed this was merely the beginning of his opponents’ new strategy. Who knows what else these ghosts might throw at him?  
    Firing non-stop, he scrambled back to his feet. As he looked up, Talon saw the Reaper looming right in front of him. The unholy master of the spectral horde had arrived.  

C HAPTER S EVENTEEN

    CASCA SHOVED THE door open and burst into the foggy night. The driver had as instructed pulled the mobile command center right up to the JC Penney’s main entrance. The billionaire had activated both his necro-helmet and ecto-rifle, and his body was burning up with adrenaline.  
    Strange to feel so alive when he was about to face the dead.  
    Adira appeared on his side, the vibration of her own weapon cutting the silence of the night. He’d read up on the parapsychologist soon after his meeting with Dr. Mason and had found her backstory fascinating. Here was a woman who had survived a haunting that destroyed her entire family. But instead of letting her experiences crush her spirit, she’d