by Maya Banks
Her tone had grown fiercer with every word until they blazed with heat to match the intensity of her emotions.
The others fell silent, the quiet stretching and blanketing the interior of the vehicle. Some looked down. Others looked away, blindly, out a window or at simply nothing at all. There was tangible discomfort and she frowned, not understanding why. Were they pissed that they were risking their lives for someone who would willingly put herself at risk all over again?
She supposed it did seem as though she were ungrateful and uncaring of the sacrifices they made. They were probably wondering why the hell they were out here in the middle of the desert risking their asses for a woman who didn’t appreciate their efforts or why they didn’t just dump her out and leave her to fend for herself.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said in a low voice. “But I can’t turn my back on these people. They have no one to fight for them. No one to aid them. And if I let terrorists sway me from my objective, then they win, regardless of whether I escape or not, whether I live or die.”
She plunged ahead before any could respond, not that a response appeared imminent. They weren’t exactly talkative. They made Hancock seem like a regular conversationalist, and he was a bare-minimum kind of guy at best. But his men? Had even less to say. But perhaps as their leader, they let Hancock do the talking while they did the acting.
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve done—what you’re doing. Nor am I being cavalier about the fact that you risked your lives to rescue me and pull me out. It may appear to you that way, but I can’t possibly explain how much it matters to me that I not be manipulated and coerced through fear or threats.”
Conrad muttered an indecipherable curse beside her, turning so he faced the window and she couldn’t see his eyes or expression. She could swear that her statement had made them all . . . uncomfortable . . . and not for the reasons she’d cited. Copeland, or Cope as his team called him, looked guilty.
She swung her puzzled stare in Hancock’s direction and for once found comfort in the fact that his face was an impenetrable mask, no emotion, opinion or judgment. No agreement or condemnation echoed in his eyes. He just regarded her with that steady gaze, his expression inscrutable as always.
Obviously her imagination was getting away from her and she was seeing things that weren’t there. And now that she’d put it out there like an apology . . . Who was she kidding? It had been an apology, a plea for understanding and maybe even approval. Now it just pissed her off because she didn’t need their permission to do what she felt called to do. They certainly didn’t need or require her approval, nor did they give two shits what she thought of them, so why should she feel beholden to them as if because they saved her life, she gave up her power over her life to them? Her choices. Her decisions.
They didn’t own her or her mind. Definitely not her choices. She owed them gratitude, absolutely. She owed them respect and her full cooperation for as long as she was under their protection. But she didn’t owe them anything more, and she damn sure didn’t need their permission to do with her life what she wanted—needed. Just as they didn’t need—or want—hers.
Hancock merely shrugged. “If you get home, what you do afterward is solely up to you. You’re a grown woman and you don’t owe anyone an explanation for the choices you make.”
For some reason it bothered her that he’d said if she got home. Not when. It bothered her a lot. Because Hancock was nothing if not completely calm and confident. He exuded absolute faith and self-assurance in his ability and that of his team. It was the first time he’d even hinted that she wouldn’t absolutely get out of this mess. As if it were even a remote possibility she wouldn’t. It caused her pulse to ratchet up and pound at her temples, resurrecting the ache in her head that had subsided and hadn’t returned. Until now.
She wanted to crawl back into his arms and huddle there as she’d done the night before, albeit unknowingly at the time. But even now memories of feeling utterly safe and comforted floated back to her, bringing the events of the last night even closer to the forefront of her mind. She wanted that feeling back. Even if for only a few moments. Just long enough to dispel the sudden and unsettling unease rioting through her veins.
She could only imagine his reaction were she to do such a thing. It was obvious he had no desire for her to know he’d held and comforted her last night. His actions certainly hadn’t betrayed him in any way, nor had he referenced the event. He acted as though it had never happened, and she strongly suspected were she to bring it up that he’d deny it and tell her it was only a dream. Even though she knew damn well it was—had been—real. She’d never forget the sensation of being in his arms and the comfort and strength she’d drawn from those few hours, even if it had taken her a bit to get it all back.
He’d shown her kindness when she’d assumed the very worst about him. But then she was fast learning he was multifaceted with so many layers that she could probably dig and pull back forever and never learn everything there was to know about him. The least she could do was respect his obvious wish not to ever acknowledge his actions.
Perhaps he considered it a weakness, but to Honor it had been something she desperately needed. He’d anchored her at her weakest, when she was at the mercy of her nightmares and despair had welled from the deepest recesses of her soul.
What to him was weakness was to her a badly needed infusion of strength. His strength.
She didn’t respond to his dubious statement, refusing to show how his one lapse in confidence had shaken her to the core. It could have merely been a slip of the tongue, an inadvertent figure of speech, but then he didn’t strike her as someone who ever allowed anything to carelessly fall from his lips.
Silence once more reigned and Honor focused on the barren landscape that sped by. She was well on her way into a self-induced hypnotic state when Hancock jarred her from her trance.
“We have to refuel several miles from our current position. It’s a rural village but a crossroads and the epicenter of fuel distribution in this area, so there will be traffic coming and going in all directions. But we don’t have a choice. We won’t make it to the next available fuel supply. When we arrive, I’ll get out and fuel the vehicle. There will be a place for you to relieve yourself. Conrad will escort you, but keep your head lowered at all times, one step behind him, and make it fast.”
“I’m well aware of the culture and customs here,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose you are,” Hancock mused after studying her a moment. “But I never assume when it comes to life or death, so expect to hear more information you already know.”
He had a solid point.
“How many regional languages do you speak?” he asked, surprising her with his seeming curiosity.
“I’m fluent in Arabic and seventeen other lesser spoken languages in a three-country block and quite passable in at least a dozen more. I’m particularly good at mimicry. I hear an accent and can immediately pick up on it.”
Hancock lifted one eyebrow. “How long have you studied Middle Eastern languages?”
“I was self-taught in high school,” she admitted. “Well, before that in junior high, but I went hard-core in high school. There aren’t many high schools in the entire country that even offer Arabic as a course, much less the less-spoken regional languages.”
“You must be a very good student to pull that off in less than a decade.”
She shrugged, uncomfortable with the compliment even though it wasn’t stated as such. It was more a statement of fact.
“I have an affinity for languages. In addition to the Middle Eastern languages I speak, I’m also fluent in French and Spanish and can carry basic conversation in German and Italian. It was just something that always interested me and I pick them up quickly. Once I got to university, I spent an extra three semesters beyond the time it would have taken to earn my degree taking every Middle East language course they offered and taking another doze
n online courses concurrently. I knew what I wanted to do after college. My degree was simply a training tool that enabled me to better understand the culture I would be immersing myself in.”
“What’s the going rate for an angel of mercy these days?” Viper drawled.
She felt a quick surge of anger and to her surprise, Hancock shot his man a look of clear reprimand that had Viper clearing his throat.
“No disrespect intended,” he said before focusing his attention through the windshield once more.
“I receive a tax-free stipend,” she said through stiff lips. Somehow for him to question the reason for what she did, to reduce it to a mercenary business, pricked her nerves. “A very small stipend. Certainly not enough to make a living wage back home. My housing is provided for here, but I share—I shared,” she added quietly, “quarters with three other women relief workers. And food is more often than not provided by the villages, though they have little to spare. The certified medical staff certainly make more—they’d have to be paid well to take this kind of job—but the people like me, we’re basically volunteers.”
She fell silent, refusing to say anything further—to defend herself any further when she had no obligation to justify her life to these men. Even if they were saving it.
“Since it will be obvious that we aren’t from this immediate area, if and only if you must speak, do so in the common language, Arabic,” Hancock instructed needlessly.
But this time she didn’t remind him of her extensive knowledge. As he said, when life or death was the ultimate consequence, it never paid to assume.
CHAPTER 11
THOUGH Hancock had warned her—them all—that the village was a crossroads in a rural area, she hadn’t been prepared for just how much traffic flowed through the village seemingly dropped in the middle of nowhere. It was as if the outpost served as a central hub to the entire country. Everyone traveled through this place when traversing the region.
Before they pulled into the outskirts of the settlement, Hancock had quietly warned them to stay close and stick together and for Conrad to get Honor in and out in minutes. Not only was the village an epicenter for people traveling to the far reaches and to other lands, but it was a place where one could acquire just about . . . anything.
Not only was the local economy supported by its steady fuel reserves and an army that protected those reserves day and night, but there were also arms dealers in every other tent, openly displaying their wares. It wasn’t legal, but the government looked the other way, turning a blind eye to the goings-on in the small population.
It was hard to imagine a bustling marketplace where for miles there was literally nothing in every direction. Interspersed among the tents selling guns and explosives and defensive apparatus were women preparing food and selling it. Clothing. Supplies. Fresh water. It could all be had for a price.
There was deceptiveness to the air of festivity. An innocuous feel that was quickly dispelled once someone looked beyond the surface and studied the faces and stances of the people buying and selling wares.
Honor studied every single person they passed as they weaved their way through the village to the opposite end where the fuel tanks were. There was grimness, an air of expectancy, watchfulness and wariness. On constant guard, guns—assault rifles—at the ready that no one tried to hide but kept in plain sight at all times.
She shuddered, imagining what the reality of living such a life was for these people. Yes, she’d lived and worked in an area of unrest, but apart from outsiders encroaching, the village was peaceful. Full of people who only wanted sanctuary from the senseless violence that was so predominant here and who had no wish to wake up each day facing a fight for their lives. And until A New Era’s attack, the village had gone largely unnoticed, even with the Western presence in the relief center. She had no doubt that her—and others’—presence wasn’t well received by most, but they were left alone. And they did provide shelter, food and essentials for survival that even those who despised everything Honor stood for didn’t quibble over accepting.
The people in this far-flung, hole-in-the-wall crossroads dealt with death and battle on a daily basis. Living in paranoia. Reacting instantly to any threat, imagined or real.
A very real chill worked its way to her bones, despite the heavy burka enveloping her from head to toe.
“Get ready,” Hancock warned, his tone low and utterly grave.
Already his gaze was up and sweeping the area, those cold eyes taking in the minutest detail. There was only a nearly imperceptible twitch to his jaw that betrayed his unease and how on guard he was.
“Are you sure she should get out here?” Conrad asked, turning his gaze on his team leader. “We can always find a place in the desert and let her squat where no one is around.”
Hancock shook his head. “I need to know if we’re met with suspicion. I and the others will be closely watching as you and Honor go in to see what attention you gain. I need to know if they’ve been tipped off and know who you are.”
“And if they are?” Honor asked in a strangled tone. “Isn’t this basically setting me up as bait? Like leading a blindfolded cow to slaughter?”
“Yes,” Hancock said bluntly, no apology in his voice. “But you aren’t being meekly led to your demise. My team and I will protect you. I need to know who is enemy and who is oblivious to who you are and most importantly where you are.”
“I wish I had your confidence,” she muttered. “It’s easy for you to say when you aren’t the sacrificial lamb.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he corrected. “You, they want alive. Me and my men? Not so much. Completely expendable. And we’re all that stands in the way of them getting their hands on you. So yeah, we’re definitely taking the bigger risk here.”
She was instantly ashamed at the selfishness of her thoughts. It made perfect sense now that he’d laid it out as matter-of-factly as he had. She’d never approached it from his mind-set, and it made her feel like a spoiled diva whose needs took priority over all others, at all costs. Even as the sobering thoughts dug into her consciousness, she sent Hancock a look of apology he couldn’t possibly misconstrue. But there was no acknowledgment—or condemnation, for that matter—in his eyes. But then he hadn’t pointed out the fact that he and his men were at greater risk than she was to take her down a few notches. He’d merely stated a fact in that unruffled manner he had perfected.
They pulled up to the tanker on the periphery of the village, the one that had the clearest escape route should the shit hit the fan. Conrad immediately herded Honor from the vehicle, and she was careful to keep her head bowed in a posture of submissiveness and remain a step behind and to the side of Conrad as he hurried her into a crude hut used as a washroom.
First he went in and checked to make sure no one was inside. Once satisfied it was empty, he gave Honor firm orders to get her business done as soon as possible and meet him at the entrance, where he was pulling guard duty to make sure no one intruded.
She wasted no time, fighting with the heavy burka and squatting carefully over the disgusting hole in the ground that was already filled with human waste. She breathed through her mouth so the foul odor didn’t fill her nostrils, afraid her stomach would revolt and she’d waste precious seconds throwing up.
It was uncomfortable as hell, bent at an awkward angle, holding the folds of her garment up so they didn’t get soiled in the process. Her knee protested holding herself as steady as possible while she went about the business of relieving herself.
By the time she’d peed about two gallons, both legs were shaking and her hurt knee was buckling incessantly, causing her to balance precariously on her good leg. She hastily washed up as best she could with the discolored water in the washbasin against the wall and didn’t even speculate on its cleanliness. It would only freak her out more than she already was.
She returned to where Conrad stood, his stance impatient even as his wary gaze constantly scanned the entire ar
ea. When he completed a sweep, he began all over again, never taking his eyes from the goings-on around them.
He glanced her way when he caught sight of her and dipped his head in the direction of the military vehicle where Hancock was finishing up the refuel. She fell into step behind him, and as Conrad continually did, she too kept a watchful eye on everyone in her sight line.
When they turned around the outhouse, Honor nearly froze. Only her rigid control prevented her from reacting to the sight of an armed man in fatigues lifting his assault rifle and pointing it at . . . Conrad.
Shit!
She couldn’t just act like she hadn’t seen it, and she had to act fast. Completely disregarding Hancock’s—and Conrad’s—strict instructions to not draw undue attention to herself, she launched herself toward Conrad as though she had fallen.
She crashed into the unsuspecting man, and the adrenaline surge that had spiked through her veins gave her much more strength than she thought she possessed. Conrad went sprawling just as a volley of bullets peppered the area right where Conrad had been standing a fraction of a second earlier.
Tensing, expecting pain from one of the bullets that had surely struck her, she hunched in on herself even as she dropped like a rock. Which was stupid because she and Conrad both needed to be on their feet so they could make their escape. But self-preservation ruled and she acted instinctively to prevent herself from getting killed. Even though she hadn’t been the intended target.
Vicious curses from more than one location blistered the air, and Honor suddenly found herself roughly dragged to her feet, thrown over a shoulder and flopping like a fish out of water as Hancock sprinted toward the waiting vehicle.
