Darkest Before Dawn

He’d given her a hell of a lot more than the answers to the questions she’d asked. Much more. And she hadn’t had time to sort through the tangle of emotions swamping her. She was confused, heart and mind completely at odds.

“Not all of them,” she murmured.

“The ones that mattered,” he said simply.

She pushed herself upward, testing the restraints that her injuries had placed on her body, satisfied she could do so without giving away the pain that swamped her.

“It was a very abbreviated version. One you might give in a debriefing. Not lying, but not giving the full truth either.”

He nodded, unsurprised by her perceptiveness. Not many people saw past the facade he always, always had in place, and yet she saw so much deeper, to the man behind the iron mask, and he didn’t like it one bit.

“I want it all,” she said in a low voice. “If this is to be my fate, what must be done, then I at least deserve . . . everything. And this time no one is coming near me with a needle.”

“And after?” Hancock challenged. “When you’re drooping with fatigue and have gone pale with the obvious pain you’re feeling even now, will you fight me then or will you allow me to give you this small thing—a few hours where you aren’t hurting and you aren’t remembering betrayal?”

She’d have to be blind not to see the flash of pain he couldn’t control. Not in front of her. He might as well be an open book where she was concerned. For fuck’s sake, she’d apologized to him. For being selfish. For not being strong. Didn’t she realize she had courage that most men couldn’t muster? Could never possess? Courage wasn’t something learned. It was born in fire, by hell itself. It was bravery in the absence of fear, or perhaps masking fear.

She was the most fucking fierce woman he’d ever met in his life, and he knew there’d never be another like her. He could search the world over and never meet any woman—or man to equal her.

“After,” she agreed, and he realized her steely resolve disguised just how much mental and physical pain she was even now enduring. “But first I want the whole truth. Not just the watered-down bare-bones truth you choose to give me. I want to know who this Maksimov is and why he’s such a threat. Why a man as ruthless as Bristow is afraid of him and why you’re so certain that he would just hand me over to ANE.”

Hancock rubbed a hand over his hair and to his nape, gripping it in obvious agitation. It was obvious he had no liking for her question. He didn’t even attempt to hide his revulsion, and that frightened the hell out of her, that he would react so violently. Yet, she also knew he would give her the answers she demanded. Was she prepared, truly prepared, for the unvarnished, ugly truth?

“Maksimov is a monster beyond your wildest imagination. He’s cunning and ruthless and has no conscience.” He visibly winced, shame entering his gaze as he stared at Honor. “Just like me.”

She shook her head before she even realized she was doing so, adamant, her eyes going flat, angry.

“Don’t you ever compare yourself to him,” she said fiercely. “You don’t fool me, Hancock. Don’t even try lying or attempt to make me see what you want me to see. I see you. And you are not Maksimov.”

He looked . . . bewildered, as if he had no idea how to respond to her impassioned statement. For a long moment silence reigned.

“Back to Maksimov?” she prompted.

“Killing is second nature to him. To him killing is as normal as breathing. As eating or drinking. If it gets him what he wants, he does it. He thrives on pain, torment.” He winced again. “Torture. Rape. You can’t imagine the twisted, sadistic things he does to the women he rapes. He’s into every imaginable crime. He has no loyalty except to himself. He deals drugs, guns, bombs. Human trafficking. He’s a fucking pedophile and he indulges himself even as he sells children to people who are as perverted and twisted as he is.”

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.