Chapter 1125: The Black Magic Sorcerer (Patreon)

“Robert Miller’s wife admitted she was the killer?” Lopez, who had rushed to the hotel at the crack of dawn, stared with bloodshot eyes. He looked like someone who’d spent the whole night chasing shadows.

“She believes her prayer to Santa Muerte is what caused her husband’s death,” Jack replied, his expression caught between disbelief and dry humor.

“…After learning about her husband’s infidelity, she chose to stay for the sake of their son—but deep down, she still held resentment. So she turned to her deity, praying for misfortune to befall him.”

“Holy Mother…” Lopez murmured, making the sign of the cross. “May the Lord forgive her sins.”

“Regardless, it gave us an idea.” Jack handed him a tablet. “I know Santa Muerte is an illegal faith in Mexico—banned by the authorities and with its statues prohibited from public display. That’s why we need your help.”

“If the killer is Santa Muerte herself, maybe you need an exorcist, not me,” Lopez joked, scanning the images on the tablet—various Santa Muerte statues adorned in red, black, and gold bridal gowns.

“Red, black, and gold?” Lopez nodded thoughtfully. “The two victims were painted in the first two colors. So you think the killer might be a zealot?”

“Exactly,” Jubal replied. “This has gone beyond superstition. Considering the use of a scythe to kill both victims, we believe this is part of a ritual sacrifice related to Santa Muerte.

Of course, we’ve seen other colors of statues online, but sources are inconsistent and often contradictory. We’re still analyzing them.”

Lopez scratched his head. “Well, I’ve only ever encountered Santa Muerte when I was ordered to destroy roadside shrines. These heresies date back to the 18th century, but they’ve always been suppressed by the Catholic Church. People only passed them down by word of mouth and set up altars secretly in their homes.

That said, since you asked me last night to look into local religious groups involved in black magic and witchcraft, I did find someone. There’s a fairly well-known black magic practitioner here in Tijuana. Maybe he can shed some light.”

Santa Muerte was already a hybrid of Catholic and indigenous Aztec beliefs, with bits and pieces of voodoo and other occult practices mixed in. A prominent local sorcerer was as close to an expert on the subject as they could hope to find.

“His name is Julio Salazar. People call him ‘The Cuckoo.’ According to one of my sources, even if he isn’t directly involved, he’ll know something.”

Lopez spoke with certainty.

“‘The Cuckoo’ is considered the top black magic sorcerer in this area. Even cartel members come to him for blessings to ensure their drug shipments arrive safely.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s our guy,” Jack muttered, not bothering to hide his disdain for conmen and cultists. He called Clay to grab gear.

Hannah wasn’t especially interested in black magic, so Jack, Clay, and JJ joined Lopez en route to Julio Salazar’s shop near the red-light district. The rest of the team remained at the hotel to continue researching Santa Muerte online.

“You’re not kidding, are you?” Clay asked as they pulled up to a storefront glowing with flickering neon signs, advertising tarot readings. He looked incredulously at Lopez.

“Nope.” Lopez shrugged. “When he’s not performing dark rituals, this is where he reads palms and hosts seances for tourists. He sells voodoo dolls and occult paraphernalia too.”

So this “top black sorcerer” was running a tourist trap?

Jack shook his head, equally exasperated, as he stepped out and strapped on his bulletproof vest. He’d half-joked earlier that this “Cuckoo” might be their killer—but honestly, it wasn’t out of the question.

Given the man’s cartel ties, extra caution was warranted. Bulletproof vests might not protect against curses—but they definitely helped with bullets.

The shop was styled like a gypsy fortune-teller’s den, only far more eclectic.

Jack wasn’t exactly an expert in black magic, but the FBI had trained them to recognize signs of cult activity. He could identify several esoteric symbols scattered throughout.

Skulls, Stars of David, Ankh crosses, pentagrams, hexagrams, ouroboros, inverted crosses—even yin-yang and swastikas were scattered about in chaotic fashion.

But what really drew Jack’s attention wasn’t the decor—it was the smell. Beneath the layers of pungent incense and herbs was the unmistakable scent of fresh blood.

“On alert!” Jack barked, drawing his pistol. The others didn’t hesitate. Though they weren’t sure what he’d noticed, they fell into formation behind him.

The shop was partitioned into dimly lit rooms, thick curtains hanging everywhere. Jack activated his tactical flashlight, and the team split into two units to search room by room.

Once they’d cleared the outer rooms, they reached the innermost one. A thick velvet curtain blocked the entrance. The smell of blood was so intense now that even the less sensitive among them could detect it.

Lopez exchanged a glance with JJ. The two simultaneously pulled back the curtain. Jack and Clay crouched low, weapons raised, and swept the room with their flashlights.

A man sat slumped in a chair, facing away from the door. A candle still burned on the table before him—the only light source in the room until their arrival.

Jack’s weapon-mounted light caught a massive, half-congealed pool of blood beneath the chair.

“He’s dead,” Clay said, moving around the table.

When the beam hit the man’s front side, even the battle-hardened Navy SEAL recoiled.

The victim’s head drooped. His chest was soaked in blood, forming a grotesque red cascade down his torso. Blood had splattered onto the walls several meters away, creating an abstract mural.

That alone might not have fazed Clay.

But when Jack lifted the man’s chin, the flashlight revealed something even worse: two gaping, hollow sockets where his eyes used to be.

“His eyeballs were gouged out.”

“Guess black magic didn’t save this sorcerer,” Jack said coldly, his gallows humor pushing the line of decency even for this scene.