Darkest Before Dawn (KGI series) (20 page)

“We have a long drive. You should sleep,” Conrad said gruffly. “The pain meds will help and you won’t be aware of the bumpy terrain, nor will it cause you undue pain.”

She nodded slowly, her reflexes dulled. And then fear took hold and her eyes flew open when she had just about drifted into oblivion.

“I’m helpless like this,” she said in a panicked voice. “What if we run into trouble? I’ll be completely useless. I’ll get us
all
killed.”

It was the same argument she’d used before when she’d been heavily medicated, only this time no amusement glimmered in Hancock’s eyes as it had the first time she’d said nearly those exact words. In fact, utter seriousness was etched into his expression. Gravity and promise glittered brightly in his eyes and she drew comfort from the wordless exchange between them. Sometimes a single look said a thousand words.

Hancock put his hand to her forehead and wiped her hair back from her brow.

“You don’t worry about that. You’ll be of no use to us if you don’t rest and recover. We
will
protect you. Now go to sleep, Honor. I’ll wake you when it’s time.”

She frowned, but the pull of the medication was making her swimmy and she could no longer fight its effects.

Summoning her last moments of coherency, she gripped Conrad’s hand, thinking he would be more willing to listen to her demand than Hancock.

“Promise me,” she said, shocked at how difficult it was to get the words past her lips. “Promise me that if I hinder you in any way, you’ll leave me and save yourselves. I’ve cheated death multiple times already. It’s only a matter of time before death wins, and I refuse to allow you to die trying to prevent the inevitable.”

Conrad’s response was explosive. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

But she had already slipped under, fading away under the spell of the medication.

Conrad turned his furious gaze on his team leader, who didn’t look any happier over Honor’s demand.

“Jesus Christ,” Conrad muttered. “Is she for real?”

“Yes, she is,” Hancock said quietly. “Which makes our betrayal of her all the more reprehensible.”

Conrad’s lips formed a tight white line, anger and helpless rage flashing in his eyes.

“There has to be another way, Hancock. One that doesn’t involve fucking over an innocent woman.”

“Don’t you think I’ve weighed all the options?” Hancock snapped, his carefully constructed control fraying precariously. He was displaying uncharacteristic emotion. But then so too were his men. “Don’t you think if I had any other way to take Maksimov down, I’d do it? Honor is our
only
means of getting close enough to Maksimov to take him out for good. If there was a way,
any
other way, I’d jump all over it and send Honor home in a heartbeat, but goddamn it, she
is
the only way. We don’t have to like it. We don’t fucking like it. But it doesn’t change what
has
to be.”

His words were laced with bitterness. Anger, self-loathing. Regret. Guilt. Things he
never
allowed himself to feel—things he hadn’t though himself
capable
of feeling—because to do so was asking for failure. And he would not fail a third time. Too many lives depended on this, his final—and only—remaining shot at taking Maksimov out for good.

“She doesn’t deserve this from any of us,” Conrad said bitterly.

Hancock sighed because damn it, this was precisely what he didn’t want to happen. His men respected Honor, admired her courage and resiliency, and where before they’d never suffered a fit of conscience over doing the job, now they were adamantly opposed to handing Honor over to unspeakable torture and eventual death. Hell, it would be kinder if they just shot her and got it over with. But then Maksimov would elude them again. It always came back to that. Maksimov and their relentless pursuit of a monster the likes of which the world had never known. At any cost. Goddamn it. Any cost. Honor. She
was the cost of succeeding in their mission and he hated himself for not having any other way. No other choice. He’d have to live with his goddamn conscience for the rest of his life.

“No, she doesn’t deserve this,” Hancock admitted. “But we have no choice, Conrad. You know that and it’s why you’re so pissed. Maksimov is responsible for countless deaths and endless misery and suffering. He has to be taken down, no matter what it takes. I don’t like it any more than you do, but the mission comes first. As does the greater good.”

“If I never hear ‘for the greater good’ again it’ll be too soon,” Conrad spat.

Hancock was just as sick of carrying that flag and adhering to that motto, but he didn’t say as much to his man. If he showed any weakness, any reluctance to carry out the mission they were charged with, his men would revolt. And he couldn’t afford that. They were too close. He could taste victory. Smell it. Could envision Maksimov’s death and the end of a reign of terror unlike any other in the world.

Conrad’s face was contorted in a scowl, and he packed the supplies back into the med kit and then crawled over the backseat, leaving Hancock with the unconscious Honor.

Hancock didn’t move for a long time. He merely remained on his knees staring down at a brave woman. The bravest woman he’d ever encountered. The most selfless woman he’d ever met. And he hated himself for what he must do.

Finally he eased himself down and lay beside her, so his body was flush against hers. Paying heed to her injured side, he tucked one arm beneath her head so it was pillowed and didn’t absorb the hard bumps as they raced across the terrain.

Then he slid his other arm over her abdomen, holding her gently against him, and then lay his head next to hers, offering comfort even while she slept.

CHAPTER 14

“GIVE her a tranquilizer,” Hancock said grimly to Conrad. “I don’t want her to see us getting on the plane. It will give her false hope and I’m not going to lie to her. It’s better if she isn’t aware of what’s going on until we get to Bristow.”

“Bad mojo,” Mojo muttered, a deep scowl on his battered features.

Viper, Henderson and Copeland didn’t look any less pissed.

“Nothing like turning a lamb loose among a pack of wolves,” Copeland said in disgust.

“Look,” Hancock said, simmering with impatience. “I don’t like it any more than you all do. I’m not a
complete
heartless bastard.” Even if until recent times he would have argued to the death that he was anything but just that. An unfeeling asshole whose soul was black and his heart long ago gone. He didn’t regret saving Elizabeth, an innocent twelve-year-old girl. He didn’t regret saving Grace, Rio’s wife. And he damn sure didn’t regret letting Maksimov slip through his fingers again to save Maren, a woman who was good to her toes and had a heart as big as China. But this time, he couldn’t allow guilt, conscience or anything else to deter him from his mission. “But Maksimov has to be taken down. I let emotion cloud my judgment, not once, but twice
when I was this close to taking Maksimov out. We won’t get another opportunity. This is our last and only chance. Do I like what we have to do? Hell no. But can you live with your conscience if we save one woman at the expense of hundreds of thousands? Because Maksimov grows bolder and more powerful by the day. If he isn’t stopped, many will suffer. If we stop him, only
one
suffers. Honor.”

“And that’s supposed to make us feel better?” Henderson muttered, shocking Hancock by expressing that he felt anything at all. For that matter, all of his men had turned into men Hancock no longer recognized. They were all unfeeling bastards. It was what made them efficient killers.

“There has to be another way,” Conrad said stubbornly. “Can’t we fake it? Send pictures of Honor and arrange a meet-up for the exchange and then take his ass out without Honor ever being at risk?”

“You know we can’t do that,” Hancock said in a low voice. “You’re forgetting Bristow. We’re bringing her to Bristow because Honor is a way for Bristow to get in tight with Maksimov, and for Maksimov, Honor is the ultimate bargaining chip with ANE. He won’t take anything at face value. He’s too smart to fall for a trick. He will know if we even try to fuck him over.”

A round of vicious curses rent the air. Hancock echoed every one of them in his mind, but damn it, they didn’t have a choice. Sometimes the greater good sucked balls. He was tired of deciding what the greater good even was. He wasn’t judge and executioner, even if that was precisely what he’d been for the last decade. But years of being judge and jury and being an instrument of justice was weighing heavily on him, and he was tired. Tired of the deception. Tired of aligning his loyalty with the enemy so he could become the very thing he despised above all else. He just wanted . . . peace. To be able to sleep at night without the nightmares of his past replaying over and over in his tortured mind. He was a damned fool for ever thinking that was even a possibility. He knew that now, when before he’d been able to lie to himself and think it would all be okay once he stepped down. Because Honor would torture not only his dreams,
but every waking moment. He’d never have peace. He didn’t deserve it.

Without a word, Conrad hoisted himself over the backseat, to where Hancock still lay with Honor nestled in his arms. At any other time, he’d cut off his arm before ever allowing his men to see him displaying tenderness. Anything but the robotic, inhuman persona that had become second nature to him. But now? He didn’t give a shit. All his men had a soft spot for Honor. They wouldn’t think anything of him offering her comfort. Especially since it was the least he could do when he planned to turn her over to a monster.

Conrad dug into the med kit and prepared a sedative. Then he glanced over at Hancock.

“How long you want her to be out?”

“Until we take her to Bristow. I’d rather she awaken in a bed and not immediately know her . . . fate.”

It was delaying the inevitable, but he wanted to give her these last moments. As long as he could grant her. It was cruel, he supposed, to give her that much more hope. But if she could have just a few hours more devoid of fear and the horrific sense of betrayal she would feel the moment she learned the truth, then he’d give those hours to her.

Conrad scowled again but drew more of the medication into the syringe.

“She’ll be out for a while,” he said as he gently inserted the needle into her hip.

When he was done, he put away the supplies and then hauled himself over into the backseat without another word.

The atmosphere was tense in the vehicle. No one spoke, but then that wasn’t unusual. They weren’t a chatty group by any stretch of the imagination. Most of their communication wasn’t verbal anyway. They’d worked together too many years. They could anticipate each other’s moves without needing to be told. And they had their own set of hand signals.

But this silence was different. It wasn’t the silence embraced by the men who lived and breathed the team. It was a pissed-off, surly,
helpless
silence, and none of them were happy about it at all. They were pissed that they cared.
And they were pissed that they’d considered, even for a moment, aborting their mission to save one courageous woman.

•   •   •

HONOR had slept, as Hancock intended, for the remainder of their hazardous trek over the desert to the airfield where the plane waited that would take them to Bristow. He never moved from her side, and in her sleep, she’d sought out his body heat, snuggling into his hard frame, her softness melding seamlessly. Like they fit. It was an absurd, stupid thought, but he couldn’t prevent it from flickering through his mind. Just as he couldn’t deny the comfort her closeness gave him. Comfort he didn’t deserve.

Instinctively he knew she needed this. Human touch. Comfort. Contact. She’d been through a horrific ordeal and he was delivering her to worse. There was nothing he could do about her fate, but he could at least offer her a little peace, respite from the inevitable storm. And it wasn’t nearly as distasteful as he would have thought. The idea that he could offer anyone, especially a woman, any measure of comfort was something he would have thought not only impossible but not in the least bit . . . enjoyable. That he would
like
it.

There was something about this small, fierce woman that got to him. And that pissed him off. Nothing got to him. Not when it came to the mission. To the greater good. He couldn’t afford to be human, to feel emotion. Emotion could get him killed. It could get his men killed. And he owed them more than that. They were fiercely loyal to him and to one another. They’d put their lives on the line for him, just as he had for them, many times. Allowing a distraction such as the woman lying nestled in his arms would be a . . . disaster.

As he lay there, definitely not resting as she did against him, he realized he was even more pissed that she trusted him. Maybe she hadn’t even acknowledged it to herself, but her actions defied whatever thoughts she had concerning his trustworthiness. She relaxed with him when she was vulnerable. Hurting, afraid, alone. She instinctively sought out his comfort and strength, clinging to it when she had nothing
else in the world to hold on to. He’d become her anchor. In her mind, he was her savior, when he was the very worst sort of bastard.

He was worse than the animals hunting her. Worse than Bristow and Maksimov. Because none of those men would even attempt to lie to her. To gain her trust. To make her believe they were something they weren’t. Only he did—was doing—that. And it burned like acid in his veins.

He owed her truth, that he wasn’t her savior. That he was the instrument of her unspeakable torment and eventual death.
Then
she could hate him. Could never harbor illusions about who and what he was. And he’d never have to look into eyes filled with betrayal when she realized how wrong she’d been about him. But she’d proved that she was a fighter, and he couldn’t afford any resistance. Any chance she would escape—and she would try. Over and over. It would slow them down and risk not getting her out at all. Even if her return was inevitable.