by Maya Banks
HANCOCK’S gaze flickered dispassionately at the stubborn, courageous woman with grudging admiration he didn’t allow to show. He didn’t want to feel anything with regard to a woman who was nothing more than a pawn. A means to an end. A tool he would use like any other intel or weapon in order to take down a man who’d caused more casualties than most wars, and he’d suffer no remorse whatsoever.
It wasn’t in his nature to underestimate anyone or any situation, and yet he could admit that he’d underestimated Honor Cambridge and her resourcefulness. At first but not any longer.
When he’d left Bristow, the cowardly bastard was pissed because Hancock had left none of his men behind for his protection, leaving him to rely solely on the other lackeys he called his security. But Hancock had fully expected to apprehend his quarry and be back in a short amount of time. Instead, he’d spent days combing through villages, questioning the locals and keeping his ear to the ground as rumors had started to whisper on the winds of a lone woman who’d eluded a vicious terrorist organization for over a week.
Over time, the gossip had become less secretive and a legend had arisen, a beacon of hope and a symbol of courage. She had become iconic to the vulnerable and oppressed people who lived without hope, in fear of A New Era and their unpredictable savagery. There was no rhyme or reason to their vengeance. No one foolishly thought themselves safe or beyond the reach of the militant group that had ballooned into a monstrous, gluttonous leech, drinking more blood and craving more power. It was a hell of a way to live, knowing that each day could be the day they appeared in the crosshairs of the group and were dispassionately murdered with no regard whatsoever.
It was through the stories of her survival and escape retold, the reverence and respect already ingrained within their hearts—their pride in one fierce American warrior woman, as they’d labeled her—that Hancock felt as though he’d truly gotten to know the real Honor Cambridge. No longer was he guided by the sterile, peripheral intel he’d been provided giving him a rundown of her life, her training and how long she’d tirelessly and selflessly devoted herself to the needs of others in an area few would dare to venture into. The true heart of her and her motivation had been revealed to him by those who knew her, or knew of her. She was believed by many to be an angel sent from Allah. A courageous angel of vengeance who fearlessly ventured into places avoided by most sane people, who simply didn’t care about the horrific suffering of those who lived their entire lives here and certainly wouldn’t risk their lives to offer compassion and try to make their lives a little easier. To give them a single moment of peace when such a thing was alien and unknown to them.
Hell, even the U.S. military stayed out of the areas A New Era had a foothold in, not wanting to start a bloody war and sacrifice countless American soldiers in a battle that could never be won. If they weren’t able to rid the world of the ever-growing army, they would fail. If they annihilated the lot of them, the terrorists would be held up as martyrs, inspiring others to revenge, which would give them victory even from the grave.
It was inevitable, of course. When the fanatical group felt they were powerful enough to turn their focus on U.S. holdings—and it was only a matter of time—then the United States would have no choice but to retaliate. And it wouldn’t be an easy or swift war. It would be fought over years with no clear victor ever being declared no matter what propaganda was circulated.
He’d expected Honor to be a terrified damsel in distress, throwing herself hysterically into his protection once she discovered he was American and that he was getting her out of the country. And she had been afraid. No sane person wouldn’t be in her situation. But she’d kept it together and had refused to give in to the overwhelming panic and despair she had to be feeling.
She was hurt and exhausted. He’d seen the remains of the relief center and he was astounded that she’d survived, much less been able to flee and remain one step ahead of ruthless killers hunting her for days—a group that had endless resources and whose reach extended well beyond the borders of this country.
This was a tough woman. A fighter. He could feel regret that one such as she would have to be sacrificed for the greater good, but not so much that it would deter him from his ultimate goal of bringing Maksimov down. And now, seeing the horrific trail of death and terror that followed A New Era’s every move, Hancock knew that he couldn’t stop at just Maksimov, as he’d decided some time ago. This group had to be dismantled. Destroyed before their power became such that they were unstoppable.
He inwardly grimaced because he wasn’t a liar, and he hadn’t lied to her in so many words. Only because he hadn’t offered her much in the way of words at all. He couldn’t see her as human. An innocent. Someone who deserved saving because her life meant something and the world would lose one of the good. Because if he allowed himself those dangerous emotions, they’d interfere with vengeance for hundreds of thousands who had no other to carry out justice for them. Not to mention the ones who would follow. Who hadn’t yet fallen victim to the brand of violence Maksimov sold—and inspired—on a daily basis. Those were the faceless people he allowed to infiltrate his conscience and take permanent root. Not a single woman—a martyr to his cause. He wouldn’t turn his back on the masses when so many others had—and would continue to do so.
He hadn’t promised this woman ultimate salvation or even that he’d get her safely home. All he’d told her was one simple truth. That he wasn’t going to allow her to be captured by A New Era. He’d said nothing further, leaving her to decipher what she would of the one promise he had made her. A promise he would absolutely keep. Or die trying.
And when the time came to . . . betray . . . her, he wouldn’t lie to her then either. He had to prevent the scowl from forming on his face at the idea that he was betraying anyone. It wasn’t betrayal to save the majority at the cost of one single person, woman or man. That kind of thinking was what had fucked up the last two opportunities he’d had to take Maksimov out for good, and he’d be damned if it would happen again. He wasn’t a goddamn hero. He was the face and bringer of justice. Nothing more.
She would know that her fate meant something, though. That her life meant something—everything. Whether it gave her solace or not, he couldn’t control, but he wouldn’t allow her to think that her death was yet another senseless, meaningless statistic. And he would, as tribute to her bravery and sacrifice, send word to her family, letting them know their daughter, their sister, hadn’t died for nothing. She would, if Hancock’s plan was executed and carried out successfully, save too many innocent lives to count.
When Honor still looked expectantly at him, her eyes narrowing at his prolonged silence, he remembered that she’d asked, or rather demanded, to know who he was. He supposed she deserved that at least. And it would give credence to the idea that he and his men had been sent to extricate her, though he wouldn’t actively cultivate that lie. What conclusions she drew were of her own making.
“I’m Hancock,” he said simply. “And the men surrounding you are my team. They’re highly skilled. The best. They won’t let any harm come to you as we journey to a safer place.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she studied him intently. She didn’t like his vagueness, and furthermore she knew he was holding something back. In addition to being tenacious and extremely courageous, she had a sharp, intelligent mind and she was adept at reading people.
He sighed inwardly. It was never easy. He wanted to have no respect or admiration for this woman. He didn’t want to feel anything at all. It would have been far better if she had been a hysterical, mindless, incompetent twit. He could summon disdain and annoyance for such a person. But he respected a fighting spirit. Bravery in the face of overwhelming terror. And the refusal to back down even when confronting insurmountable obstacles. These were traits he not only admired but had actively cultivated in all the men serving him. It had been ingrained in him, first by his foster parents, and later by the man who’d been Titan’s first l
eader. Rio. The man who’d trained Hancock and taught him the necessary skills to be the ultimate fighting—and thinking—machine. Because battles were won not by brute force alone, but by strategy and the ability to correctly assess the enemy. By pushing detrimental emotion aside and feeling nothing at all. By becoming more machine than man.
“Just where is this ‘safe place’?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’ll let you know when we get there.”
Again, a truth. Because they were winging it and with Honor once more slipping beyond A New Era’s grasp, the terrorists would be more enraged than ever. They’d thought that victory was finally theirs after tracking her to the village and surrounding it, lying in wait to apprehend her.
As unpredictable as they were, and with the true extent of their reach and many of their allies secret and as of yet unknown, Hancock wasn’t fool enough to think that because he’d gotten Honor safely from the village, it would be a simple matter of leaving the area. Her pursuers would know she had help, and they’d put two and two together and realize that Hancock and his men were the only logical source of that aid. It would take only minimal investigation to realize that Hancock and his men weren’t who they’d appeared to be—members of A New Era contributing to the search for the American woman. They were now targets just as Honor was.
“How far is this journey to this place you’ll let me know when we get to?”
She was sounding more pissed by the minute, and edgy sarcasm laced her every word.
He reached down and pulled her carefully onto the seat between him and Mojo. She likely hadn’t gotten a good look at the member of his team on her other side or she would have been scared out of her mind.
Mojo was . . . He was the epitome of what Titan had sought and wanted to create at its inception. Already battle hardened and suffering what the shrinks all called post-traumatic stress disorder, he was an unfeeling, fighting machine. He rarely spoke. His moniker had been given to him because his trademark comment for everything was either “Good mojo” or “Bad mojo.” Given their line of work, it was rare they’d ever heard “Good mojo.”
He was big and scary-looking, mostly bald with a light layer of bristly short-cropped hair. It was only close up that you could even see he had hair. Scars lined his face and his nose had been broken numerous times. His eyes were flat and cold, the kind that made religious people cross themselves and utter a quick prayer.
But no, she’d obviously gotten a look at him already because she glared up at him, not a hint of fear or revulsion in her features as Mojo helped pull her up between him and Hancock.
“Now you want to help me,” she muttered.
To Hancock’s astonishment, Mojo almost smiled. Almost. It was the closest the man had ever come to anything remotely resembling a smile.
His teeth flashed. “Good mojo.”
“Whatever,” Honor said under her breath. “Hey!” she said, slapping at Hancock’s hand when it delved underneath her robe. He slid his palm up her leg, pushing the material with it. “What are you doing?”
“I need to take a look at your injury,” Hancock said, ignoring her indignation.
“You’re just avoiding my question,” she accused.
“What question would that be?” he asked in the same disinterested tone that suggested she was an inconvenience.
“All of them?” she snapped. “But we’ll start with how long will it take to get to this mysterious place you’re taking me?”
Her tone was frigid, but her eyes flashed and he realized that the few photos he’d been provided of her hadn’t accurately portrayed her true character any more than the rundown of her personal data.
She looked sweet, innocent, benign and meek in the photos. Like a naïve do-gooder with the idea she was going to save the world but who had no idea of the reality of the situations she put herself in.
But in reality, she was anything but sweet or meek. There was a seething cauldron of fire simmering just below the naïve-looking features. And her will was strong, as evidenced by the fact that after surviving the attack, she’d run, and not recklessly with no plan or intelligence. She was cool under pressure, and she thought quick on her feet. It wouldn’t do for Hancock to ever relax his guard around her. If he gave her too much of a reason to distrust him and his intentions—as she had every reason to—she wouldn’t hesitate to bolt, and he didn’t have time to spend another week running her to ground. This time he might not get to her before A New Era did.
“A few days. Maybe more. Maybe less.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter and he was confident he’d get her there regardless of the time it took. He needed her to believe him. In him. But he would never encourage her to trust him.
Honor’s eyes widened in confusion. She even glanced at Mojo as if seeking confirmation, and then she made a sound of disgust as if realizing how ridiculous it was to try to read anything from the other man’s expression.
“You don’t have a helicopter? Like a badass helicopter? What kind of military unit sent to rescue a . . .” She rubbed a hand through her dye-caked hair in agitation. “What am I even? Not a hostage exactly. A missing person? But does anyone even know I’m still alive? That I survived the bombing?”
Pain flashed in her eyes. Not the physical kind, but emotional pain, as if thinking of her family and the grief they must be enduring not knowing if she was alive or dead, if she was hurting, scared, prisoner somewhere no one would ever find her.
She shook it off just as quickly, shoving the pain from her eyes, and refocused them sharply on Hancock. She was unexpectedly . . . strong. He didn’t often find himself surprised by anything. But Honor was just that. Something completely unexpected and yet refreshing.
“What kind of military unit doesn’t even have a helicopter? How were you supposed to get out, much less get me out?” she demanded, incredulity evident in the question. “You think we’re just going to drive out of here?”
And then her brow furrowed as if she’d realized something else. The woman asked too many damned questions, instead of showing some gratitude that he’d prevented the assholes tracking her from capturing her, and he was starting to get pissed. Were it not for him getting to her when he did, even now she’d be suffering horribly and would face days, even weeks of endless pain and agony. The conscience he’d severed from his mind whispered deep inside that he was going to subject her to the same fate. He was only delaying the inevitable, and worse, instilling false hope that her ordeal was over. And that just made him angrier. He didn’t bother to hide it from her either.
Before he could voice his anger, she plunged ahead as if not understanding the danger of stroking his ire.
“And days? I would have been over the border in another day, two at the most, and I was walking. We’re driving. It should only take hours!”
He curbed the harsh edge of his temper—barely—but he still sounded pissed when he spoke. “What I think is that you’re spending far too much time asking pointless questions and looking a gift horse in the mouth.”
He’d been unwinding the binding on her knee all the while she’d been raking him over the hot coals, and in his annoyance he pulled too forcibly at the last strip covering a layer of some kind of muddy goop that had pasted the bandage to the bare skin around her knee. The cloth yanked free, taking a thin layer of scab with it. Blood immediately welled and Hancock swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, goddamn it. He had to gain her trust without divulging anything more than necessary, not act like the terrorists chasing her was a preferable option.
She flinched but then bit into her lip, the white edges of her teeth barely visible. Her face lost color, making the dye rubbed into her skin appear even darker and unnatural against such paleness.
Hancock cursed again under his breath and simply held out his hand for the swath of cloth Mojo was already extending. He dabbed at the fresh blood and then took the bottle of hydrogen peroxide Mojo handed over next and lifted his gaze to H
onor’s.
“This is going to hurt,” he said, his voice an apology for already inadvertently hurting her.
“I’ll get over it,” she said, her gaze going stony.
Still, she closed her eyes and swayed precariously when Hancock dribbled the liquid over her entire knee, using the cloth to absorb the rinse. She looked like she was listing to the side and Mojo must have thought so too because he palmed her upper arm, his huge hand dwarfing her delicate bone structure, and steadied her, holding her up and in place.
“Thank you,” Honor murmured, never opening her eyes.
“Bad mojo,” Mojo said, shaking his head as he looked at the swollen knee Hancock was being a lot more careful with now.
“A New Era controls the airspace here,” Hancock found himself explaining. As if she deserved answers. Fuck. It was as close to an actual apology as possible without actually telling her he was sorry. He continued, though his voice was still tight with anger. No longer at her, though. At himself for feeling the need to explain himself to anyone. And for taking out his anger and frustration on her. Hurting her unintentionally. “They have weapons capable of bringing down a fighter jet. A chopper would be child’s play for them. We have to circumvent their area of control, and it’s wide and growing wider with every day, before we can risk traveling by air. So until such time as it’s safe, we’ll be traveling on the ground.”
“But why are we moving away from the border?” she asked, no accusation in her voice this time. Just genuine puzzlement.
Maybe he should just wash his hands of her and make Conrad take over the job as her babysitter. She clearly wasn’t intimidated by Hancock, which pissed him off and bruised his male ego more than he’d like to admit. Conrad, however, hated everyone and didn’t bother to pretend otherwise. He gave his loyalty and regard to his team. No one else. And Hancock was the only other person in the world Conrad took orders from and followed. He hadn’t been any happier than Hancock about being sent like fucking errand boys to round up a woman who’d ended up taking up far too much time and effort on their part.
“Let’s pretend for a moment that you got lucky and were able to get past the men surrounding the village waiting for you—which you wouldn’t have. But suppose you did and made it to the border, where you assumed you’d be home free. You would have been nailed within a mile of crossing into the next country. A child could have predicted your destination. The shortest distance between two points, your attack and what you perceived as freedom, is a straight line. The nearest American presence. And once past the border you would have thought you were home free when in fact, apart from the fact that A New Era’s minions are everywhere, a huge bounty was placed on your head, along with the fact that you were heading to the border being broadcasted far and wide. Any number of people would have been lined up, lying in wait, only too eager to hand you over to the enemy.”
Anger simmered in her eyes and her features tightened. Her fingers curled into tight fists atop her thighs, and he had the passing thought that she was tempted to punch him. He almost laughed.
“You think I survived this long by being stupid?” she hissed. “That I’m a childish idiot who would think that crossing a mere border would somehow make me impervious to capture or harm? I’m a woman alone, traveling alone. Even were I not hunted by a group of assholes I would still be at risk from any number of other sources. I would never have let my guard down—and I still won’t—until I’m on a plane back home.”
Her chin came up, a defiant, challenging gesture as she issued the warning that she didn’t trust him or his motives. No, she wasn’t stupid. Never once had he thought that. Stupid would have been throwing herself in his arms and at his mercy and never questioning, just assuming that he had come to save her. Stupid would have gotten her captured within hours of her digging herself out of the rubble. Stupid did not survive over a week in a hot, barren, unfamiliar land with no one to help you but yourself.
“This is a pointless and childish argument,” he said, purposely using her own words against her. “The border is being watched and heavily patrolled. The area between the border and anyone remotely friendly to your cause will be barricaded and sealed. And we’ll get our asses shot down if we attempt to fly a helo out of here. Now, have I satisfied your ridiculous curiosity so we can stop wasting time?”
“Of course. What right do I have to know anything that affects my safety or that could get me killed? Yep, that’s childish of me all right. By all means, oh lord and master. Lead on. I just hope to hell you know what you’re doing because so far you’ve left a lot to be desired. I’ve heard a lot of talking, but no proof that anything you say is the truth.”
CHAPTER 8
HONOR’S entire body hurt. Her head and knee ached vilely as they bumped their way over land without an established road, kicking up a dust cloud that could be seen for miles. They didn’t seem overly concerned with their visibility, and she wondered why they hadn’t opted to travel under the cover of dark as she had. It had certainly kept her alive this long.
She didn’t remember the pain being this severe, but then she’d become very adept at pushing it away and denying its existence. There had been no other choice, because to stop or even hesitate would mean her capture. Now that she was somewhat removed from the immediate threat of discovery at all times, it was as though her mind could no longer block the screams of her body.
Several times, Honor would have sworn that Hancock and the fierce, uncommunicative man on the other side of her protected her from the worst of the bumps by steadying her body with their own. But it was likely her imagination. They were being thrown around just as she was. There was no softness in them. And they’d certainly given her no reason to believe she was anything more than a nuisance, a mission they’d likely objected to and had only carried out under strict orders.
But from whom? Had word spread of her survival? Did the U.S. government care enough about one lowly relief worker to risk some of their finest men, or worse, starting an unofficial war with A New Era? Or had her story reached the media and swept across the world in sensationalistic style, forcing the United States to act? And God, what must her family be enduring? She wanted to asked Hancock if there was a way they could be contacted. Just to let them know she was alive. But no, that would be cruel. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, and to give them false hope only for her to end up dead after all would be terrible for them.
She wanted answers, but these men were as tightlipped as they came. Hancock didn’t even answer her more innocuous questions without making it a federal issue. As if her fate wasn’t something she had a right to know.
Anger blazed through her veins all over again at his domineering, asshole demeanor. But was she doing just as he’d insinuated? No, he hadn’t insinuated anything. He’d very bluntly told her she was looking a gift horse in the mouth. A good bedside demeanor was purely optional. If they got her out of the country and on her way back home, they could all be flaming assholes for all she cared.
“How badly are you hurting?”
Hancock’s soft question startled her, breaking the silence that had descended in the interior of the off-road vehicle. She couldn’t help but swing her head toward him in surprise, wondering if she’d imagined the question. Or the actual . . . concern . . . in his voice. Surely she’d imagined that part at least.
Turning so fast made her promptly regret doing so. Pain speared through her head and suddenly black dots swam in her vision, her surroundings growing dim, fading almost to black.
Hancock swore and then suddenly she found herself eased downward, her head coming to rest gently on Hancock’s lap. The other man lifted her legs and positioned them across his lap so that she lay between the two men.
“You didn’t tell me you had a head injury. Just the knee injury,” Hancock said grimly.
Already his fingers were delving into her hair and she tensed, expecting him to be rough. But he was extremely gentle as he felt along her scalp.
&nbs
p; “I didn’t know,” she managed to slur out. “How could I have known? I was in shock after the attack and then desperate to form a plan to escape—and survive. The only injury that registered was to my knee. It made walking . . . difficult.”
“I can imagine,” Hancock said dryly. “It’s still very swollen, aggravated, no doubt, by all that walking.”
