Page 70

"Where was the shipment going?"

"France."

Pieces started moving into place. "Where in France?"

"I don't know." I raised my fist.

"I DON'T!" Anton screamed it.

My breathing came hard, the berserker wanted more, it wanted blood, punishment. I wanted something to make the rage stop. I hit him again; Anton collapsed against the wall. I dragged him upright.

"Viking." Hands grabbed my shoulders. I snarled and threw one arm backward. Marek caught it, "Enough Viking, don’t let it consume you."

"Get the fuck off me."

"He's no use dead."

"I said get the FUCK OFF ME!" I roar, my fangs dropped. I know Roman has given orders that my men need to keep me sane, keep me away from the brink. Marek didn't move, a brave bastard either that or stupid. Kosta stepped in beside him.

"Brother." Not blood brother but one of mine, one of the men who had fought beside me long enough to earn the word. "He's finished," Kosta said.

Anton barely remained conscious, my fist was bloody. His blood, or mine didn't matter. The berserker snarled inside my skull. Finish. Break. Kill. I roar, but then Bryn's voice surfaced in my memory.

Viking. Just my name the way she'd said it from that bed, the way one word from her had dragged me back from madness. I closed my eyes, breathed. Again. Again. Marek's hand remained locked around my forearm, I don’t know how long I stood there regaining my control but I finally stepped backward.

"Get him cleaned up." My voice is hoarse with controlled rage.

Marek released me carefully. "And then?"

I stared at Anton. "He talks again when he wakes up." Anton sagged with relief as I turned away. "And if he's lied about Malakai..." I looked back. "He'll wish I killed him tonight."

It was after three in the morning when we headed home. Kosta drove while I sat in the back of the SUV, staring at the dried blood across my knuckles while streetlights swept rhythmically through the cabin.

Malakai. It couldn't be true, but Ceasar had been dead to us once too. Dead men had an irritating habit of returning lately. I pulled out my phone taking a calming breath before dialling.

Roman answered immediately. "Talk!"

"Anton."

"You found him?"

"He was trying to leave by train."

"What did he give you?"

"Ceasar’s name."

Silence, then Roman exhaled.

"Again."

"Yeah."

"He directly connected him?"

"Ceasar's people arranged a weapons shipment two months ago with military grade. Silver ammunition, explosives. He said the destination was France."

Roman swore quietly before saying. "That matches Volken’s Intel."