Darkest Before Dawn

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.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she studied him intently. She didn’t like his vagueness, and furthermore she knew he was holding something back. In addition to being tenacious and extremely courageous, she had a sharp, intelligent mind and she was adept at reading people.

He sighed inwardly. It was never easy. He wanted to have no respect or admiration for this woman. He didn’t want to feel anything at all. It would have been far better if she had been a hysterical, mindless, incompetent twit. He could summon disdain and annoyance for such a person. But he respected a fighting spirit. Bravery in the face of overwhelming terror. And the refusal to back down even when confronting insurmountable obstacles. These were traits he not only admired but had actively cultivated in all the men serving him. It had been ingrained in him, first by his foster parents, and later by the man who’d been Titan’s first leader. Rio. The man who’d trained Hancock and taught him the necessary skills to be the ultimate fighting—and thinking—machine. Because battles were won not by brute force alone, but by strategy and the ability to correctly assess the enemy. By pushing detrimental emotion aside and feeling nothing at all. By becoming more machine than man.

“Just where is this ‘safe place’?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’ll let you know when we get there.”

Again, a truth. Because they were winging it and with Honor once more slipping beyond A New Era’s grasp, the terrorists would be more enraged than ever. They’d thought that victory was finally theirs after tracking her to the village and surrounding it, lying in wait to apprehend her.

As unpredictable as they were, and with the true extent of their reach and many of their allies secret and as of yet unknown, Hancock wasn’t fool enough to think that because he’d gotten Honor safely from the village, it would be a simple matter of leaving the area. Her pursuers would know she had help, and they’d put two and two together and realize that Hancock and his men were the only logical source of that aid. It would take only minimal investigation to realize that Hancock and his men weren’t who they’d appeared to be—members of A New Era contributing to the search for the American woman. They were now targets just as Honor was.

“How far is this journey to this place you’ll let me know when we get to?”

She was sounding more pissed by the minute, and edgy sarcasm laced her every word.

He reached down and pulled her carefully onto the seat between him and Mojo. She likely hadn’t gotten a good look at the member of his team on her other side or she would have been scared out of her mind.

Mojo was . . . He was the epitome of what Titan had sought and wanted to create at its inception. Already battle hardened and suffering what the shrinks all called post-traumatic stress disorder, he was an unfeeling, fighting machine. He rarely spoke. His moniker had been given to him because his trademark comment for everything was either “Good mojo” or “Bad mojo.” Given their line of work, it was rare they’d ever heard “Good mojo.”

He was big and scary-looking, mostly bald with a light layer of bristly short-cropped hair. It was only close up that you could even see he had hair. Scars lined his face and his nose had been broken numerous times. His eyes were flat and cold, the kind that made religious people cross themselves and utter a quick prayer.

But no, she’d obviously gotten a look at him already because she glared up at him, not a hint of fear or revulsion in her features as Mojo helped pull her up between him and Hancock.

“Now you want to help me,” she muttered.

To Hancock’s astonishment, Mojo almost smiled. Almost. It was the closest the man had ever come to anything remotely resembling a smile.

His teeth flashed. “Good mojo.”

“Whatever,” Honor said under her breath. “Hey!” she said, slapping at Hancock’s hand when it delved underneath her robe. He slid his palm up her leg, pushing the material with it. “What are you doing?”