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by Maya Banks
The man holding her feet in his lap handed Hancock something that looked suspiciously like a syringe. Three of them. When had he gotten them and where? She hadn’t detected movement, but then she wasn’t all that coherent at the moment.
Fear gripped her and she reached up to stay the man’s hand just as Hancock’s hand closed around the syringes.
“What are those and what are you planning to do?” she asked fearfully.
“You need to calm yourself, Honor. You have enough stress without adding to it with unnecessary worry. I’m merely giving you an injection of antibiotics and pain medicine so it will take the edge off your pain and allow you to rest properly.”
“I gave myself an injection of antibiotics before I escaped the clinic,” she said. “And I took pills with me and I’ve been taking them three times a day ever since.”
“Smart girl. You think well on your feet.”
Was that a compliment? From Hancock the unfeeling, arrogant asshole? Maybe she was more screwed up than she initially thought, because now she was imagining things that simply weren’t there.
“However, you have cuts and scrapes in dozens of places that are all susceptible to crippling infection—a complication we certainly don’t need right now. And that knee is still pretty nasty-looking and is still swollen to twice its normal size. So in addition to the antibiotics and pain medicine, I’m also giving you a shot of steroids to help with the inflammation. I have a Medrol dose pack that you’ll start taking tonight and continue for the next five days. You should start feeling relief as soon as tomorrow.”
“We won’t be to where we’re going for five days?” she asked in alarm.
Panic skittered its way up her spine. Five days seemed an eternity. The days spent evading the murderers stalking her every move had been endless. She’d hoped . . . She’d assumed that now that she had help that they would be to safety in a short time. The idea of being exposed for so long scared her. They were a group of seven including herself, and she’d be of no help to Hancock and his men in a firefight. And they were up against an untold number of crazed militants who would never stand down until their objective was achieved. Capturing her.
She could practically see him shrug, though her eyes were closed. As if it weren’t a source of concern to him at all. Was he really that confident in his abilities? In his men’s abilities? She should take comfort in that kind of arrogance and self-assurance. But she couldn’t quite quell the desperate fear that took over all else.
“I won’t know until we get there,” he said vaguely. “Now be still so I can administer the injections. It might burn, but it will go away quickly.”
“It can’t hurt more than it already does,” she said through tight lips.
He obviously injected the pain medication first, a fact she was grateful for, because now acknowledged, pain was screaming through her body in unrelenting waves. She could feel the glimmer of relief as he pulled the layers of her garment up so her hip was exposed. She didn’t protest with false modesty. At this point anything that gave her relief was more important than the fact he was exposing far more of her than she would have liked.
The man at her feet rotated her just enough so Hancock could access the back of her hip and then Hancock carefully swabbed the area, cleaning it with alcohol before efficiently administering both injections.
In a few seconds it was over and she sagged as Hancock readjusted her clothing. Already her surroundings were a warm, hazy glow and a wonderful leaden feeling had stolen over her body, chasing away the ever-present pain.
Still, she struggled against the heavy layers of unconsciousness and roused herself enough to open her eyes and direct her worried question up at Hancock.
“What if we run into trouble? I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag right now,” she admitted.
There was a hint of amusement in Hancock’s tone. “Leave the fighting to us. I don’t anticipate trouble—yet. So take this opportunity to rest up and heal.”
Maybe he was human after all. Or perhaps she’d misjudged him. He was, after all, carrying out a mission. Just like any other soldier or special ops force or whatever the hell he was. Black ops maybe? He was certainly secretive enough, and he hadn’t identified the branch of the military he served. Perhaps he was one of those who didn’t officially exist and he gave her no information that she could inadvertently leak at a later date.
She didn’t care. She would claim fairies rescued her just as long as she got back home. Safe. Alive.
“Thank you,” she whispered, still holding on to the last bit of awareness she possessed.
This time there was genuine puzzlement in Hancock’s voice.
“For what?”
“For saving me,” she said, her words nearly unintelligible. “For helping me. And for promising you’d get me back home.”
He stiffened beneath her. She could feel the muscles of his legs go rigid, and the hand that had been absently stroking her hand stilled and then withdrew.
“I made no such promise, Honor,” he said in a tight voice.
Maybe he wasn’t comfortable with people thanking him. If he was off the books and didn’t exist, then he wasn’t used to being thanked for anything. He and his men were ghosts. What a terrible way to live. Risking your lives for others and never being thanked.
“You trying is enough,” she murmured. “You’re my last and only hope. So thank you.”
“Go to sleep, Honor,” he said, his tone suggesting he had no liking for her words. “You need to rest while you can.”
It was a command she had no difficulty obeying. She was more than halfway there already. All it took was letting her eyelids falls heavily so that her lashes rested on her cheeks and succumbing to the sweet call of oblivion.
CHAPTER 9
IT was many hours later when the group pulled to a stop at an underground compound where they would seek refuge for the night. Dark had long since descended, making the way slower going as they drove a path through the desert where no road existed.
It had taken Hancock longer than he would have liked, but he wasn’t about to risk his men by stopping in the open in an area that wasn’t defensible. At least here, they would be underground in a blastproof bunker, and they’d take turns at watch so they’d know if anyone ventured close.
His men were well used to operating on little to no sleep. They could stay up for days and still be alert and aware in a fight, so a few hours spent on watch would hardly impair them going forward.
He eased from the vehicle and then reached in and lifted Honor’s small body into his arms, anchoring her against his chest as he strode toward the entrance Conrad had already hurried to open.
“Get the vehicle to cover,” Hancock ordered, pausing at the entrance to issue orders to his men. “Mojo, you and Conrad take first watch. Two hours. Henderson and Viper, you take the next shift.” He glanced at Copeland—or Cope as he was called for his cool-under-pressure way of being able to cope with anything. “Cope, you and I will take last watch. I’ll get everyone up when it’s time to get on the move again.”
“Why we stopping now, boss?” Conrad asked, his gaze inquisitive.
Hancock could well understand why his men would wonder at his uncharacteristic stop. They usually pushed themselves, going days without sleep in order to achieve their objective as quickly as possible.
“The woman will be useless to us unless she has time to rest and recover.”
“Bad mojo,” Mojo muttered.
“I don’t mind saying that this mission blows,” Cope spoke up.
Hancock looked at his man in surprise. He couldn’t ever remember any of his men taking issue with the many missions that were in that nebulous area between good and bad. Some of them soul sucking, taking a piece of them at a time until there was little humanity left in any of them. Hancock included. This mission was hardly one of their worst. They’d done far worse in the name of “good” and the protection of others. The innocent who couldn’t s
tand for themselves. That was Titan’s job. To stand for them. To protect them while they slept the sleep of the ignorant, never knowing how close they came to death.
“She doesn’t deserve her fate,” Cope said by way of explanation, his expression grim, actual anger brimming in his usually cold, emotionless gaze. “And I don’t like the fact that we’re deceiving her. She’s . . . courageous,” he said, as though struggling to come up with the right word to describe her. “She deserves to be spared. She held off those fuckers for over a week and evaded capture. I don’t know of anyone, much less a woman, who can claim the same. She’s already a fucking national hero, not only to the people here, but in the U.S. as well.”
“Bad mojo,” Mojo said again, making Hancock realize that Mojo’s feelings mirrored Copeland’s own, and that was why he’d uttered the first “Bad mojo.”
Well, fuck. This wasn’t ever a complication he’d encountered with his team. Not once. Not even when they’d forcibly taken Grace from KGI, shooting one of KGI’s men in the process and damn near killing Rio later. And Grace as well. Not when they’d allowed Caldwell to abduct Maren when she was pregnant and vulnerable and keep her under lock and key until Hancock was forced—by his goddamn newly developed conscience—to intercede and blow his mission all to hell to get her out.
“One hero? Or the hundreds of thousands of innocent people who will fall victim to Maksimov if he isn’t taken out for good?” Hancock asked in a challenging tone, reminding his men of their role in the world. Reminding them of their purpose. Their only purpose. Their mission wasn’t to judge, to decide who was worthy or unworthy. Their only job was to rid the world of the predators who preyed on the innocent, which meant that sometimes they were the very ones preying on the innocent in order to achieve their goal.
The dissension in his ranks mirrored his own thoughts too closely—thoughts he’d firmly shoved away, not allowing himself to feel guilt. Or regret. He didn’t like it one goddamn bit, and he had to nip this in the bud before it got out of control and he had mutiny on his hands—something he’d never considered in a million years. His men were too steady. Too solid. Too focused. Just as he was. They followed his lead, never questioning.
Until now.
“I get it,” Cope muttered. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“We don’t have to like it,” Hancock said tightly. “But we do have to do our job. Even at the cost of one innocent. The good of the many—”
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Cope said, impatiently cutting his leader off, again something Hancock’s men never dared to do. “The good of the many takes priority over the good of the one. Team motto. Whatever. But it gets pretty damn old and it’s why, after Maksimov, I’m done.”
“You know we have to go after A New Era,” Hancock said quietly, still holding Honor firmly against his chest.
Looks were exchanged between his team members. Some of acknowledgment. Some of resignation and acceptance. Some indecisive.
“Bad mojo,” Mojo said in a disgruntled voice that clearly reflected his stand. And it wasn’t with the mission or the “greater good.”
“And what then?” Conrad asked, speaking up for the first time. “I’m in. I’m with you. You know that. But when will it be time to stop fighting the good fight and allow others to fight in our stead? There’s always another asshole who needs taking out. After Maksimov, after A New Era, there will be another. There’s always another. When does it end?”
Frustration licked up Hancock’s spine. And the source of the conflict that had arisen amid his men was curled protectively in his arms. One small woman. A very small part of him wished she’d died with the others. Because then he wouldn’t be here, having chased over half the country after her. He wouldn’t be having this ridiculous conversation with his men, whose priorities had never wavered in all the time they’d worked under him. And yet one small woman had done considerable damage to their unity, and that pissed him off.
If she hadn’t survived, things would be a hell of a lot less complicated.
“That has to be your choice,” Hancock said honestly. “You can walk away at any time. No one’s making you stay. Do we need you? Hell, yeah. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back than the five of you. But everyone here would understand if you walked away at any time. After Maksimov, if you—any of you—are ready to hang it up, no one is going to have a single word to say other than good journey. And you’ll always have my gratitude for your service. If you ever have need of me, all it takes is a call. We will always have your back. Once one of us, always one of us. Your retiring doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”
When his men remained silent, Hancock gave them an impatient look they couldn’t misunderstand. Get the vehicle to cover and bed down for the night. They’d wasted enough time already. Time they didn’t have to spare.
Then he simply descended the makeshift steps into the shelter and traveled across the small enclosure to the far corner, where he placed Honor on one of the cots so he and his men would be between her and the entrance. It was the safest place in the small compound.
They were well protected here, surrounded by reinforced walls and ceilings that prevented their heat signatures from penetrating and being detected by someone on the outside using heat-seeking instruments. And unless someone dropped a nuclear bomb on them, it was safe from blasts. Unless they sustained a continuous and heavy attack.
It was a leftover facility from the days when Titan worked under the U.S. government with full permission to carry out their missions using whatever means necessary. They’d been equipped with the best that money could buy. It was risky to come back here, but Titan had long ago been disbanded and only KGI and one lone CIA operative and his black ops team, who reported only to Resnick, the CIA agent, knew with absolute certainty that Hancock and his men were still alive and a definite threat to anyone who crossed their path. There was suspicion, especially among the upper echelons, those who’d had a part in Titan’s creation, that Titan was still operating. Or rather had gone rogue. But only very few knew that they were very much alive—and more dangerous than ever.
He had no worries over KGI, even though they weren’t exactly allies. Were they enemies? Only KGI could answer that, but they owed Hancock. He’d done much to safeguard Grace—and Elizabeth, an innocent child whose only sin was being born to a father who was wholly evil. Even if KGI hadn’t known that at the time. They still might not know.
And he’d sacrificed his mission for Maren Scofield—now Maren Steele—the closest he’d gotten to taking Maksimov down. Until now.
So he doubted KGI would ever sell him or his existence out, even if he had been responsible for injuries to two of their men. They were too damn . . . honorable. Veritable Captain Americas. Everything Hancock wasn’t and had no desire to be.
The CIA operative was another matter, but his government had turned on him, just as they’d turned on Titan. And even though Titan had damn near killed Adam Resnick and accessed his classified files, Resnick no longer had the allies within his own ranks to ever retaliate. He’d be a fool to go after Hancock on his own, and the man was no fool. He was cagey and smart and had dirt on everyone from the highest-ranking military personnel to the White House itself and everywhere in between. He was feared and hated by many. His days were very likely numbered. He had enough on his hands staying alive and away from those who would celebrate his death without adding Hancock to the ranks wanting him dead.
Those who now hunted Titan were nothing more than mercenaries. Not organized black ops groups. Few in the government knew of Titan’s existence to begin with. So it was highly improbable that anyone would search for them here. And certainly not when A New Era controlled so much of the area. Collecting a generous bounty for bringing Titan down wasn’t worth the risk of getting themselves killed in the process, and mercenaries had no concept of selfless sacrifice. Their mission wasn’t one of honor or for the greater good. Their only goal was to line their pockets and elevate their reputa
tion.
“Everything’s locked down and secure,” Viper said as he stepped into the small room. “Conrad and Mojo have set up watch so they’ll know if an ant farts within a mile of our location.”
“Then you and the others bed down and catch some sleep until it’s time for your watch,” Hancock directed. “It may be the last night we get any sleep until we deliver the woman to Bristow.”
He purposely didn’t invoke Honor’s name. His men were already looking at her not as a means to an end, simply a pawn, but as a heroic human being. An innocent female who didn’t deserve to be given false hope such as they were indeed giving her, even if they didn’t lie to her in so many words. Theirs was a sin of omission, but it paled in comparison to their many other sins. There was no salvation for men such as them. They were resigned to eternal damnation, their souls so stained that they’d never see the light again. As the old but apt saying went, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Viper doused the lights, shrouding the interior in darkness as the men took to the few cots and bedrolls they carried with them. They were trained to fall asleep on command, their bodies well accustomed to taking sleep when they got the chance and to rousing, awake and alert, ready for action.
And yet Hancock found himself unable to do just that. Long after his men were already asleep, Hancock lay there, his bedroll just inches from Honor’s cot, his thoughts consumed by the sacrifice he was preparing to lay at Bristow’s—and ultimately Maksimov’s—feet.
He had no idea of the passage of time when he picked up on a sound that would go undetected by most others. But his ears were attuned to the slightest change. Turning toward the sound, he realized it came from where Honor lay sleeping. Or he assumed she was sleeping.
The sound was so faint that at first he thought he imagined it or that it had simply been a noise she’d made in sleep, but no, there it was again. It sounded like . . .
Weeping.