by Maya Banks
White teeth flashed and she was reminded of a predator’s teeth set in a snarl as they closed in on their prey. A shiver of apprehension skated down her spine and she absently rubbed at one arm through the heavy material of her garment.
“I plan to drive right past them.”
Honor went rigid with fear. The people who’d awaited her were clearly uneasy and were inching away, clearly wanting to be out of this place. And to be rid of her. They well knew what they risked by allowing her to travel with them, and now, with the arrival of this ominous-looking stranger, they were even more nervous. She couldn’t blame them. And neither could she consign them to certain death. She couldn’t take the chance that this man wasn’t telling her the absolute truth. She would not be responsible for these people’s deaths.
She waved them off, making that sudden decision when it became clear that they knew she was a death trap. The American was right. She wouldn’t simply lead her supposed saviors meekly to the slaughter when it gave her absolutely no chance of escape. He, on the other hand, was offering one, and his arrogance suggested he actually thought—knew—he would be successful.
It came down to the lesser of two evils. One known and one unknown. She knew what fate awaited her at the hands of the savages who hunted her. She didn’t know what the American’s intentions were, but given that her only other option was certain torture, endless agony and death, it made the decision to go with the unknown the only logical choice.
“You’ve made your decision. Now move it,” he said, no gentleness to his voice.
Somehow she’d imagined her rescue a little different. Perhaps at the hands of American soldiers who would at least acknowledge her as a sister, inquire as to her health. Not taunt her into making a decision. For that matter, shouldn’t he have identified himself as a member of the U.S. military? Shouldn’t he have identified himself, period?
She frowned. The military didn’t just order people around for their own good, did they? But then she supposed that was exactly what they did on a daily basis when rescuing captives or hostages. Time was critical, and following orders was essential to their survival.
“What branch of the military do you serve and where are your dog tags?” she blurted, even as she stumbled along beside him, attempting to match his much longer stride.
She bit into her lip to quell the sound of pain as her knee protested the vigorous motion it was unused to. It was silly, but she didn’t want to show weakness in front of this warrior. And he clearly was a warrior. She wanted to show only strength, give him no reason to fault her, and she’d be damned if she’d slow him down.
Again his teeth flashed, but in no way was it in a smile. Quite frankly, he scared her every time he did it. He reminded her too much of the big bad wolf about to devour Little Red Riding Hood, only in Honor’s case, she’d been wandering through the desert, not the forest, and there were no wolves here. But there were plenty of demons. Spawns of Satan himself. Evil ran strong here, stained with the blood of the innocents.
“It’s a little late to be asking me for ID now,” he said mildly.
He arrived at a military-looking vehicle and for the first time her blood pulsed wildly with excitement. It looked American, and while that might sound like a stupid thought from a clueless civilian, she’d worked throughout this region for a good while and she’d come into contact with all manner of military equipment and vehicles. She’d quickly learned to recognize friend or foe by subtle things maybe others wouldn’t notice. But when your life depended on knowing, and assuming would get you killed faster than a stray bullet in a fight zone, you tended to fast become an expert on learning the differences between those who would kill you and those who would save you.
He all but shoved her into the back and slid in beside her, slamming his door closed while she struggled to right herself from where her head had plunged toward the floorboard and the heavy material covered her and twisted around her, preventing her from gracefully extricating herself. Then the vehicle lurched into motion, flattening her once more. Frustrated and angry with the lack of care her “rescuer” had offered thus far, she planted her hands on the floorboard and attempted to push herself upward and out of the tangle of material effectively trapping her legs and obscuring her vision.
To her shock, he planted a firm hand in the middle of her back and shoved her even farther down onto the floor. Another man already seated in the back of the utility vehicle pushed her head underneath his legs, but he used care that the first man forwent.
When she would have protested, a hand circled her nape and fingers tightened around the slim column of her neck in warning. And though she’d been acquainted with the man who’d intercepted her in the village for merely a few minutes, she knew it was his hand on her neck, not that of the second who’d helped pushed her to the floorboard.
He squeezed once more and then, in direct contradiction to the brute strength of his grasp and seeming disregard for whether he hurt or scared her, he rubbed his thumb up and down the line just below her ear in a soothing manner, even as his grip remained tight.
“Do not move,” the man ordered.
Material similar to the aid blankets they stocked at the relief center fell over her, blocking the light and encasing her in darkness. But it was too heavy to be one of the simple blankets handed out in relief packets. This was more of a utility blanket, or canvas perhaps. It was hard to make out the feel and texture when she was already swathed in a pool of her own garment.
The heat was suffocating. Sweat moistened the roots of her hair and bathed her forehead. It felt as though she were slowly baking in an oven. Even the air she inhaled was scorching, made stuffy by the heavy blankets covering her, giving her little space to breathe.
Her mind was ablaze with confusion. Had she merely traded one form of hell for another? Made a bargain for her life when both outcomes would result in her death?
The vehicle moved far too fast over the bumpy terrain, and Honor felt every single one of those bumps. The hand still wrapped around her nape remained firm though the American’s thumb continued its idle, soothing, up-and-down motion. So she focused on that one simple comfort when she’d been denied comfort for so long and blocked out the battering her already bruised and sore body was taking.
She sensed the decreased speed the moment the vehicle slowed and she went rigid, holding her breath, knowing they hadn’t gone far. Were they being stopped? He’d very arrogantly stated that he planned to drive right by the roadblocks, and something in his voice had given her faith that he’d be able to do just that.
Very real fear took hold, paralyzing her. She didn’t realize that she had begun shaking and still hadn’t drawn a breath until the grip around her neck loosened and his fingers stroked through her hair beneath the layers of material covering her.
“Hold it together, Honor,” he said.
For the first time she heard gentleness in his voice, felt it in his touch. It made her want to break down and sob. So maybe she needed him to be a ruthless asshole. As long as she stayed pissed, she remained focused and didn’t risk falling apart at the seams.
“I need you to calm yourself.” This time his voice was more authoritative, all hints of gentleness gone. “You’re shaking like a leaf and the blankets are jumping around like they cover a litter of squirming puppies.”
Her chest burned and she latched on to his command, willing herself to obey.
“Breathe,” he said harshly. “Goddamn it, breathe or pass out. But pull yourself together. You aren’t out of the woods yet, and now is not the time to let yourself go.”
Honor heard other muttered curses, and she could swear she heard someone say, “Bad mojo.” Maybe she was finally losing her weakening grip on her sanity.
The American tightened his grip around her nape as he’d done before and shook her, though not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to get her attention. And it did the job.
“I’m okay,” she whispered.
Sweet, healin
g air flowed into oxygen-starved lungs. Her body relaxed and the burn subsided as she went limp on the floorboard of the now-stopped vehicle.
“Thank fuck,” the American muttered, loosening his grip and then withdrawing his hand from beneath the blankets entirely.
As absurd as the sensation was, she felt bereft and cold the minute the warmth of his flesh left hers. She clamped her jaw shut and kept it so tight that pain rushed her, but she did so to prevent her teeth from chattering.
It humiliated her that she’d fallen apart and acted like a complete nitwit in front of these men. It didn’t matter if they were ally or enemy. Just as she refused to ever be in a position of begging the assassins who hunted her to kill her and end her endless misery, pride also stiffened her spine when it came to these men. She was acting like a helpless heroine in a dramatic novel where the female’s sole objective was to highlight the manly alpha male’s heroic ability to save her useless ass time and time again.
She’d come this far—for so many days—on her own, relying on no one but herself and her determination to survive. She mentally chastised herself and firmed up her resolve to not show such weakness in front of these men, regardless of who they were, ever again.
A thousand questions burned her lips. She wanted to demand answers. It took all her discipline not to interrogate her “savior” and ask him what the hell his plan was and what he planned to do with her. Because she wasn’t entirely certain that he was one of the good guys, despite knowing the bastards gunning for her weren’t the good guys.
Quiet descended over the interior of the vehicle, and she heard the sound of a window sliding downward. She closed her eyes and remained limp, pushing her thoughts into a blank void of nothingness. Calm was the only thing that would save her, and so she simply did as she must and drew it around her like one of the soft quilts her mother created for her loved ones.
She allowed herself to drift into those happier memories, pulled images of her parents, her brothers and her sister into her mind and surrounded herself with their love. It allowed her to float free of her current circumstances, the danger cloaking her like a dense fog, and remain still and serene, blocking everything but the smiling faces of her loved ones.
So ensconced was she in her alternate reality that she didn’t register the vehicle lurching into motion again. It wasn’t until the American’s hand delved beneath the blanket, lifting it, and then his fingers slid over her chin, turning it so she was angled to partially face him, that she realized they had resumed traveling.
“Honor?”
The one-word question conveyed it all. He was asking if she was all right. If she was still with them in the mental realm or if she’d lost the battle for her sanity and retreated deep into herself.
“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely.
CHAPTER 7
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 r
oot. 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.”
