Dreams of a Dark Warrior

old victims.
    Which meant that they’d found the Neo nest. At last.
    He and his team had dusted off directly after Slaine’s successful capture, and for the better part of a weekthey’d hunted along the murky quays of southern Australia.
    He waved half his men toward the back of the building to block off the only other exit. They wore night-vision goggles and had their sidearms drawn. No TEP-Cs tonight—this was going to be a close-quarter bug hunt.
    Declan had unsheathed his sword and was ready to get his hands dirty. Ready to prove himself.
    He’d gotten through Slaine’s capture without throttling Fegley—a feat in itself. Acting as a mere fail-safe in the background, Declan had done nothing, just watched another heading
his
mission.
    He’d even held his tongue as Fegley had taunted him. Apparently the warden had put two and two together: Declan’s interest in the Valkyrie, followed by his downgraded clearance.
    “Golden boy Chase,” he’d said. “Not so perfect after all. Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”
    Declan shook away those thoughts, needing to stay focused. Already he was in strung-out shape. For days, he’d been unable—or unwilling—to sleep.
To dream.
    When they reached the entrance, he motioned for his team to activate their goggles, then feigned doing so as well, though he’d never needed them.
    Inside the dark warehouse, the stench was pervasive. Four bodies lay tied, gagged, mutilated. An adult male and female and two children.
A family.
    Memories threatened to swamp Declan—scenes from a time when
he
had been bound and tormented, knowing death was coming.
    Pleading for it.
    Seeing the victims’ wounds made his own skin crawl. His raised scars grew hypersensitive, as if he could still feel the injuries that had wrought them—
    A male Neo swooped down on him, delivering a blow that hurtled him across the space. Four other creatures attacked as one.
    Declan tasted blood, ripped off his goggles. His heart began thundering in his ears, his muscles burgeoning.
    He spat a mouthful of blood, then charged into the fray.
    Gore splattered thickly over the walls as Declan stabbed the last Neo, pinning its powerful body to the ground.
    This one was the fourth he’d felled. His team had taken down the other.
    Looming over the creature, Declan pierced its thorax to immobilize it, then unhurriedly twisted his sword as it thrashed. Its compound eyes stared up at him with sentience. When it lashed out its prehensile tongue, Declan eagerly punished it with another onerous twist of the blade, unable to disguise his satisfaction.
    His men regarded him uneasily. They were hardened black-ops soldiers—mercenaries, assassins—and
he
was raising brows?
    Never had he experienced camaraderie with them. For them, the Order was a job. It was Declan’s life.
    And they could never appreciate retribution like this—because they hadn’t earned the right to it. …
    In time, he slammed his boot down against theNeo’s head, wrenching free his sword to strike the killing blow.
    But as he raised his weapon, Declan hesitated.
    For years, he’d dreaded the effects of Neo blood, had wondered endlessly why they’d forced him to drink of their dead.
    Now he realized they’d probably done it just to keep him conscious and alive for longer, nourishing him as they fed from fresh prey.
    There was a more likely explanation for Declan’s abilities.
Going down swinging …
    Had he accepted that he was a berserker? No. But the mere possibility made Declan shake loose his old dread, made him accept that these beings would have no hold over his future.
    They would never take more from him than what he’d already yielded—days of his life, pieces of his flesh …
    My family.
    With a savage yell, he swung, decapitating the creature.
Done. It’s done.
    Inhaling for calm, he ordered the team to do a cleanup, then trudged out into the humid night air to wipe down his sword.
    With no more leads in this city, they’d be returning to the facility days early. Probably just as well; once this adrenaline rush waned, he’d be completely exhausted.
    As he gazed down the dimly-lit quay, he acknowledged that the Valkyrie had been right about one thing. He was never meant to run a facility, to tortureday in and day out. He was a hunter through and through. He
should
be in the thick of the fray.
    And again, his thoughts returned to Regin.
    As far as she was concerned, he was dead inside. He didn’t give a damn about