Darkest Before Dawn

by Maya Banks

  Hancock vibrated with rage. He simmered, like a volcano about to erupt. His eyes were icier than she’d ever seen them, and she’d been witness to that flat, emotionless coldness before, but never this degree of utter frigidity. These were the eyes of a killer. Eyes that evoked terror in whoever was his target.

  “Money, making money, is a game to him. And no matter how much he has, he craves more. Because to him, money is power, and power, ultimate power, is what he wants most. He sees himself as a god. He’ll never stop, and so someone has to take him down.”

  “You,” she whispered.

  He gave a clipped nod. “I’m the best chance anyone has of taking him out because unlike others, I don’t have a heart, a conscience. I’m more machine than man. A programmed killing machine, willing to do whatever it takes to take him down. Even become the very thing he is. I am what he is. I’m no better than what he is.”

  “You are not a heartless killing machine,” she snapped, angry all over again. “Tell me something, Hancock. Do you go out and find some innocent woman to rape and torture, prolonging her agony until she can finally take no more and then dispose her like trash? Do you prey on children? Are you a depraved pedophile who enjoys inflicting pain and terror on innocent children?”

  His eyes were shocked, and he shuddered, revulsion swamping his eyes. “No! Never! God, no.”

  She smiled her satisfaction, and he didn’t look pleased that she’d pushed his button and had gotten the reaction she obviously wanted from him.

  “There is a difference between becoming like someone in order infiltrate his ranks in order to kill him and save thousands of lives and becoming that monster when you aren’t on the hunt for one,” she said in a soft voice. “You can tell yourself all manner of lies, Hancock. You can try to convince yourself that you’re no better than Maksimov, but you and I both know the truth. Even though you’ll never admit it to yourself. You do what you have to do in order to save countless innocents, but you hate it and you hate yourself. But that’s not who you are. It’s not who you will ever be. The world is a better place for having you in it,” she said, even quieter than before. “Don’t let evil win and let it convince you that you are evil. That you’re some unfeeling bastard who craves killing, torturing and shedding blood. Because when you truly start believing that of yourself, then you will become the very thing you hate the most.”

  “Fuck me. Swear to God I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Honor,” he said, his agitation obvious.

  Her face immediately fell, and she turned, trying to hide it from him. Because they both knew exactly what he was going to do with her, and she didn’t want to make him feel even worse.

  How fucked up was that? That she wanted to shield him from her pain. That she didn’t want to cause him pain. To add yet one more burden—sin—to stain his already tarnished soul. He had betrayed her. He’d deceived her at every turn. She should hate him. She shouldn’t care how much pain she caused him or he caused himself. But she couldn’t do it. She didn’t understand this . . . connection . . . whatever the hell it was between them, only that it was there. A living, breathing entity that she was powerless against. She simply couldn’t turn it off and make herself cold and unfeeling as Hancock could when he wished it. It wasn’t her nature. It wasn’t who she was, any more than Hancock was what he purported to be.

  “That was a sorry thing to say,” Hancock said in a low growl. “Goddamn it, Honor, I’m sorry. That was shitty and unforgivable.”

  “I thought I had already established that only I get to decide what is shitty or unforgivable,” she said lightly.

  And then she gave him a somber look and beckoned him with her hand.

  Grudgingly, he came, settling onto the bed next to her. This time it was she who took his hand, when before she’d tried to avoid any personal contact with him. She curled her fingers around his and at first he was rigid, stiff and unyielding, but she simply waited, refusing to allow him to slip from her grasp.

  Then with a sigh he relaxed and stroked his thumb over her knuckles.

  “Look at me, Hancock,” she asked softly.

  At first he refused, but then finally he lifted his gaze to hers, and he looked . . . tormented. Something deep inside her twisted painfully and robbed her of breath. There was grief in his eyes and it hurt her. And it made her want to take it from him. To somehow ease the horrible pain inside him.

  “I know you don’t believe me. You don’t have to. But you are going to listen to what I have to say and you aren’t going to block me out because you don’t want to hear what I have to say. Do you understand?”

  He went utterly still and his eyes became even more haunted, as if he dreaded her next words. But he nodded slowly, his gaze holding hers. Those beautiful green eyes full of so much agony that it hurt to hold on to that connection. But she didn’t look away. She didn’t want him to perceive it as a rejection of who and what he thought himself to be.

  “I don’t hate you,” she said, gauging his reaction. “I did, at first,” she admitted. “I felt betrayed. I trusted you. I felt safe with you when I hadn’t felt safe in a long time.”

  Every word was as though she’d thrust a dagger into him and twisted, the evidence there in the fathomless depths of those green pools.

  “I’m not saying this to hurt you,” she said, allowing the ache she felt into her voice. “I’m saying this to get to my point.”

  “I deserve far worse,” he bit out.

  She ignored him.

  “But I understand, Hancock. You don’t think I do because you don’t want to think I do. But I understand why this must happen. I’ve already given you my forgiveness. What you do with that is up to you, but it’s given nonetheless. You can’t make me take it back. I won’t take it back. It’s mine to give. You don’t get to decide what I give or don’t give. You either accept it or don’t, but it’s given and when I give something, I don’t take it back. Ever.

  “Do I want to die? Of course not. I have so much to live for. So many dreams . . .” She drifted off, knowing this was pointless and would only make him feel worse. She shook her head to rid herself of the direction her words had drifted.

  “But I know that my death is a necessary thing. And if my death means that Maksimov can no longer cause so much hurt to so many others, then I can die in peace. I’ll know that my life did mean something. That my surviving the attack did in fact have a purpose. A much higher purpose. And that’s enough for me. I can face death and not be afraid because I’ll picture all those women, those young girls and know they are safe because you took Maksimov down.”

  He made an inarticulate sound of rage but didn’t interrupt her.

  “You showed me kindness and gentleness,” she said quietly. “You didn’t hurt me, and we both know someone else would have. They wouldn’t have cared what condition I was delivered to Maksimov in. But you protected me and we both know that. And for that I thank you. But what I thank you the most for is giving me the truth. So that I don’t go to my death terrified, alone. That I’ll know as I take my last breath that my death wasn’t senseless and without purpose.”

  Tears glittered in Hancock’s eyes, shocking her with uncharacteristic emotion. He looked gutted. He had the look of a man tortured with demons that would haunt him for eternity. She wished with everything she had that she could take them for him. So that he could be free. Most of all she hated that her dying would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  “I have two things to ask of you, Hancock. Just two. And they’re simple. I’ll never ask for another thing and I won’t fight you. I won’t try to escape. I do have some dignity and I’ve resigned myself to what must be. But I want you to promise me two things.”

  “Anything,” he said hoarsely.

  “Promise me that my death won’t be in vain. Swear to me that you’ll take Maksimov out.”

  “He’s going down,” Hancock said, menace in his voice. “I swear it, Honor. I will not let your sacrifice be for nothing
. Never.”

  She briefly closed her eyes, steeling herself for the second request.

  “Please spare my parents the details. You can tell them that my death brought an end to a maniac and his entire empire. But swear to me that you’ll tell them my death was quick and merciful. Promise me you won’t tell them how I died. They’d never survive it. I don’t want them to know that I prayed for death or that I died screaming and begging for death. I don’t want them to know all that was done to me. Please, Hancock. Please, I’m begging. Do this for me. For them.”

  Hancock gathered her hand in his, squeezing so hard it took all her control not to wince because she knew he wasn’t trying to hurt her. It was the strength of his emotions, emotions he was trying not to allow to show but she did. She saw him. The heart of him. Past the outward facade he’d perfected over a lifetime.

  “All your family will know is what a fierce, brave and loving woman you were. They will know of all the lives you saved and the courage you showed the entire time. When I said that you mattered, that you would never be forgotten, I never meant for you to think that what would be remembered is the way you . . . died.”

  The last came out strangled, as if just saying the word wounded him deeply. He looked away from her, no longer able to keep their gazes locked and so she wouldn’t see what he so desperately tried to hide.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her own voice thick with tears.

  “How can you thank me for being the instrument of your death?” he raged, anger and sorrow reflected in every word. “How can you offer forgiveness and understanding to your executioner? You should hate me, Honor. You should despise me. You should be plotting to kill me, to escape, to do whatever necessary to take me down, and all you ask is that I make sure Maksimov dies and that your family is shielded from the details of your torture and agony?”

  Her face went soft, and she lifted her hand to gently stroke his cheek.

  “You aren’t my executioner.”

  “The fuck I’m not,” he said, fire in his voice. “I’m not a goddamn hero. I’m a merciless killer who is willing to sacrifice everything that is good in this world so I can complete my mission. That makes me no better than Maksimov, no matter what you say or think.”

  He abruptly stood and she felt the loss of their closeness, suddenly chilled and shivering.

  “You need to rest,” he clipped out. “You’re in pain. And don’t deny it. Conrad is going to give you another injection, and I want you to sleep.”

  But she knew his order was only partly born of his belief that she needed rest and relief from the relentless pain that nagged her. He could no longer bear to look at her. Could no longer bear the guilt and horrible anger and helpless rage without losing all control.

  Because they both knew her fate was inevitable, and he hated himself because there was no other way. No alternative. And they both knew it. He hated that she could so calmly accept what he could not and that worse, she’d given him forgiveness and understanding, two things he felt he didn’t deserve.

  CHAPTER 23

  “THE exchange has been set up.” Bristow said what Hancock already knew, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Maksimov was very pleased when I told him I had the woman in my possession.”

  Hancock stood in silence, waiting. Behind him his men were just as silent, though he could feel the undercurrents, the tension radiating from them all. Because they knew that once Honor was delivered to Maksimov, she had no protection. And none of them were fool enough to think Maksimov wouldn’t avail himself of Honor and enjoy her for a time before he made the delivery to ANE.

  “You leave in two days’ time. I have the coordinates and all the information you need. Maksimov has explicit instructions as to how he wants the woman delivered. I expect you to heed them all.”

  Hancock merely nodded and took the folder from Bristow’s outstretched hand.

  “Consider it done,” Hancock said coolly.

  Bristow tossed a thick envelope toward Hancock. “Half your payment now. The other when you make the delivery.”

  It took every ounce of his willpower not to kill the man right here and now. The envelope burned his skin. Blood money. He would give it to his men. They deserved it. But he wasn’t taking one goddamn cent for sending Honor to her death.

  “You can leave now,” Bristow said arrogantly. “I’ll see to the travel arrangements. Discretion will be necessary, of course.”

  “I will make the plans,” Hancock said in a cold tone. “You hired me to do a job, but it will be done my way. My men. My mission.”

  “Very well. As long as you accomplish what I’m paying you to do, I don’t care how it’s done.”

  Without another word, Hancock turned and stalked from the room before he completely lost it and slit the man’s throat.

  His men followed, and the only thing that broke the silence was, “Bad mojo.”

  Very bad mojo indeed.

  He couldn’t even look his men in the eyes. He merely told them to rest and prepare for the journey ahead. No one argued. No one said anything at all. They merely melted away to their separate quarters, no one attempting to meet his gaze just as he had avoided theirs.

  He doubted any of them would sleep the next two nights.

  CHAPTER 24

  HONOR was roused from a medication-induced sleep to a strong hand over her mouth and another cupping and squeezing one breast roughly, painfully. Her heart leapt as she struggled through the fog and haze from the medication.

  “He won’t save you this time, you little bitch. He’s too busy planning your delivery to Maksimov, and I intend to make use of the little time I have left before I hand you over to the Russian. A man like Maksimov won’t mind used goods. He certainly won’t turn you back over to ANE before having his fill of you.”

  Bristow.

  Oh God. Where was Hancock? Had Bristow drugged him to make sure he wasn’t a threat? Or was he truly planning the exchange as Bristow had said?

  When he tore her shirt, rending it in two and exposing both her breasts, she began struggling, the effects of the medication quickly disappearing as adrenaline kicked in and she fought with every ounce of strength she had.

  He didn’t slap her as he had before. He balled his fist and punched her in the mouth, leaving her breathless and panting at the pain. Then he punished her with his mouth, kissing her brutally, licking at the blood that seeped from her torn lip.

  He stuffed a foul-tasting rag into her mouth, and to her horror she realized it was dipped in some kind of drug. Then he taped her mouth shut, trapping the material in her mouth.

  But she wasn’t going down like this. Yes, she’d resigned herself to her fate but not to being raped by this asshole. She’d die before allowing that to happen.

  His hands mauled her, roving possessively over her body, delving below the band of her pants, pulling impatiently and swearing when she still resisted. Maybe he thought the drug would have rendered her senseless by now, but she’d had enough medication and drugs to have built a slight resistance and could hold out longer now.

  She fought soundlessly, panicked by the fact that she could make no sound. No scream for help. For Hancock.

  His fingers jabbed brutally between her legs and she went wild, bucking, kicking, fighting with every bit of strength and willpower she could muster. She could feel the effects of the drug, knew she was sluggish, but she drew on reserves she didn’t even realize she possessed.

  He cursed and hit her, again and again, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

  He bit at her breasts savagely, leaving marks and bruises. Tears of rage and helplessness burned her eyelids. She’d had enough of being helpless and powerless.

  She managed to free one of her hands, and she ripped at the heavy tape, gasping as skin came away. She shoved the rag with her tongue, recoiling at the taste, but she managed to spit it out and then let out a scream.

  He hit her on the side of the head and she nearly lost consciousness. And th
en he was on her again, tearing at his pants to free his huge erection. She was naked, her clothing in shreds. Something dug into her hip and she realized he had a knife attached to his belt. He wasn’t even bothering to remove his pants. He planned to shove them down just enough to free his cock and shove it into her resisting body.

  Knowing this was her only chance, she grabbed the handle, thumbing the snap that held it secure, and yanked as hard as she could. She rolled away, opening the knife, and stumbled from the bed, falling to her knees as she crawled toward the corner of the room.

  “You think you can kill me with that?” he sneered.

  “N-no,” she said shakily. “But I can kill myself and fuck up your arrangement with Maksimov, and from what I hear he’s not a man to fuck with. He’ll be very pissed that you didn’t deliver the goods.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re a horrible bluffer.”

  She brought the blade to her wrist and cut a thin line, just enough that he could see the blood trickle down her arm and drip onto the floor.

  Panic entered his eyes and he backed off.

  Her adrenaline was fast wearing off and she knew he’d simply wait, outlast her. Sorrow filled her because killing herself meant that thousands of others would also die. All because she wasn’t strong enough to allow this man to rape her. Something that would no doubt happen over and over when she was handed off to Maksimov and then to ANE. Like a used piece of garbage. Worthless. Trash.

  A sob escaped and the burn of the blade deepened as she realized that she’d cut deeper, not even realizing it. She was deep inside the shell of her shattered mind. She’d withdrawn from the horror of it all.

  Useless. A sacrificial lamb. Something to be used, raped, beaten, tortured. Worthless. Nothing. Nameless and faceless. Just another statistic.

  There was sound. It dimly registered. Oddly, it sounded like a lion’s roar, but she blocked it out as she did everything but the knife, slowly draining her life’s blood. But wait. One wrist wouldn’t be enough, and if she didn’t cut the other now, she’d lack the strength and the use of it that she needed in order to cut her other wrist.

  Clumsily, she transferred the blade to her other hand, frowning at how slippery it was. And how weak she felt.

  Slowly, blocking the pain, she made the cut as if she were outside her body watching with disinterest as she drew blood a second time. She watched in odd fascination as blood welled and slid over her skin, staining the floor and smearing her leg.

  Another sound roused her and her grip tightened on the knife. This was taking too long. So she lifted it, again surprised by how weak she felt, and she put the blade to her neck. An arterial bleed would have her dead much faster.

  CHAPTER 25

  HANCOCK kept his meeting with his team brief, giving them the rundown on the intel Bristow had provided and what their plan of action would be. It was a grim, mostly silent exchange with Hancock doing all the talking except for the occasional “Bad mojo” from Mojo.

  He didn’t like being away from Honor, even for the half hour he took after he’d ensured she was asleep after being given a lighter dose of pain medication. She didn’t like the fog, as she described it. It made her feel vulnerable and impaired. So he compromised, because he couldn’t bear the thought of her hurting when so much pain awaited her.

  He dismissed his men and immediately started across the house to the wing where Honor’s room was. He was halfway there when his blood froze in his veins.

  A scream shattered the eerie silence of the house. Honor’s scream.

  He ran, fear lodged in his throat, nearly paralyzing him. Only the desperate need to get to her, to protect her, shoved away the paralysis as adrenaline kicked in and the formidable killer swiftly rose to the surface, overriding all else.

  He expected the worst, but when he burst into her room, his heart nearly stopped, because it was far worse than he could have ever imagined.

  Bristow was standing across the room from where Honor was huddled in the far corner, clutching a lethal knife to her throat. A thin trickle of blood slithered down her neck, but then he saw that both wrists were slashed and blood ran freely from the wounds.

  There was blood on her face, her mouth and jaw swollen and already bruised.

  Murderous rage consumed him. He wanted to take the bastard apart with his bare hands, but he didn’t have time. Honor didn’t have time.

  Her eyes were vacant and haunted. She’d retreated deep inside herself and he doubted she was even aware that he’d come. Too late. He’d failed to protect her. Again.

  “I’ve got Bristow,” Conrad said coldly, rage equaling Hancock’s own savage in his voice. “You see to her. You’re going to have to talk her down. She’s not there anymore.”

  “Not in front of her,” Hancock snapped. “She’s already traumatized enough.”

  “Wait just a goddamn minute,” Bristow demanded. “You forget you work for me. She’s mine until I give her to Maksimov, and I’ll do what I damn well please with her.”

  Conrad merely executed a crippling maneuver that had Bristow on his knees, wheezing for breath. Then he twisted the man’s arm behind his back, pushing upward until the snap of a breaking bone could be heard. And just as quickly, Conrad herded him out of the room. Bristow was a dead man.