by Maya Banks
With considerable effort, he dragged his lips from hers but didn’t immediately distance himself from her. She wondered why she considered that a huge victory. He leaned his forehead into hers in a surprisingly tender gesture, his breaths blowing raggedly over her throbbing mouth.
“That was not a good idea,” he said through tightly clenched teeth. “Goddamn it, that was stupid.”
Okay, that hurt. She could admit it, and even if she couldn’t, the very real physical reaction—her flinch—would have betrayed her.
She scrambled for something—anything—to say to break the awkward silent tension that surrounded them, stretching her nerves to their breaking point.
“How soon will I be well enough to go home?” she asked anxiously.
It had the effect of a fierce blizzard. His face became shuttered, locked down as fury so cold blistered through his eyes and then blasted her, sending wave after wave of goose bumps racing across her flesh.
He abruptly rose, turning his back as if he didn’t want her to see any part of him or his reaction.
“You still have some healing to do before we can move you,” he said flatly.
And then he strode to the door, yanking it open and then slamming it behind him with enough force to knock one of the paintings on the wall askew.
CHAPTER 18
HANCOCK knew he was walking a razor’s edge in a true battle for his sanity. Worse, he was battling against what he knew must be done. The mission. The cost of completing his mission. All tied to one innocent woman with more courage and fire than he’d ever witnessed in one small female warrior.
He’d bullied her for days, ensuring that he and only he had access to the room where she was kept . . . prisoner. No way to leave the room, though as prisons went, he’d made sure it had all the comforts she could possibly need or want.
He avoided her questions. Natural questions. Questions she had the right to know the answers to. But the minute he answered them, all was lost. Because he wouldn’t lie to her. And he’d have to face her, those large trusting eyes, and watch the light shrivel to nothing but haunting resignation. And worse, betrayal. She would know that he was the very thing she’d run from and fought against, the thing she now believed she was safe from. She didn’t know—yet—that he was delivering her to the worst sort of evil, who would then hand her right back to the devil she knew.
And he couldn’t bear it. Even knowing his time was running out and that every day that passed that he didn’t tell her the truth about his intentions was simply a delaying tactic. Because he wanted those few days for her. Hell, he wanted them for himself. Just a few more hours, days, whatever he could buy when she still looked at him with trust in those warm brown eyes. With no fear or hesitancy to follow his lead.
With trust.
She trusted him when she should trust no one. He’d told her as much. But Honor being Honor, the very thing she was named for. God, the irony of just how well that name fit her. How could her parents have known that she would live up to the legacy and prophesy of that name?
No one had ever trusted him. His men respected him. They obeyed him without question. They’d die for him without hesitation, just as he would do for them. They had loyalty that ran deep in their blood. But they didn’t trust him any more than they trusted their other teammates or even themselves. They were all too aware of what they were. Ruthless killers, willing to sacrifice an innocent woman to achieve their means.
“When?” Conrad asked bluntly as he and his men gathered outside the huge mansion belonging to Bristow.
The irony of them already being stateside wasn’t lost on Hancock. Honor thought she was still somewhere in the bowels of the Middle East, and that their every movement could be watched, that they were in danger of discovery. If she discovered just how close she was to her family, he’d have to tie her to the bed to prevent her from bolting out on her own.
He glanced at his men, at their tight expressions as they stood expectantly, waiting for go time.
It was one of the few times Hancock had left Honor’s side, but he’d ensured she’d sleep in his absence, and Bristow’s men knew the consequences of trespassing. Hancock had made it very clear that no one was to be granted access to Honor’s private quarters, using her injuries as an excuse.
Bristow was impatient. Excited and edgy, like someone who’d found a treasure worth more than all the gold and jewels in the world. His anticipation was thick in the air when he was in the room and it was why Hancock avoided him for the most part. Bristow’s sickness of the soul—the foul stench that always emanated from him—was difficult for Hancock to handle without it overwhelming his senses. He felt ill, smothered by so much evil that he could barely breathe. It was suffocating him, like someone who was severely claustrophobic, and Hancock was anything but that. He could remain motionless in a cramped space a man of his size should never be able to fit into for days, weeks when necessary, waiting for that one opportunity. A rare window in which only one with ultimate patience would ever get to take down an elusive mark.
Bristow wanted to send word to Maksimov immediately, but Hancock warned him that if Maksimov knew of the woman before they were ready, he wouldn’t sit back and wait as Bristow was currently doing. He’d come after Honor and he’d lay waste to anyone in the path of his quarry.
Hancock had made it very clear that Honor must heal before they arranged to deliver her to Maksimov and that it had to be on their—Hancock’s—terms or they would lose any bargaining power they currently possessed. The only thing keeping Bristow alive was the fact that Maksimov didn’t know where Honor was, and he made certain that Bristow realized just how dangerous and powerful a man like Maksimov was.
Bristow was dangerous and held much power in his own right, but Hancock made certain that Bristow feared Maksimov and rightly so. He spoke of Maksimov in a tone that Bristow couldn’t possibly mistake, and Bristow had gone pale listening to Hancock’s matter-of-fact recitation of just what Maksimov would do to achieve his means. Life and death meant nothing to a man such as Maksimov, who didn’t just consider himself invincible. He truly thought he was immortal. A god among mere men, able to come and go as he pleased. A bringer of death and destruction, and he was unstoppable.
That kind of thinking nearly made it so in Maksimov’s case. He was a cagey bastard, unlike others who’d come before him wearing that same shield of invincibility, convinced that no one could get to him, who had fucked up. They all did at some point. But so far Maksimov displayed no sign of carelessness. No sign that he took for granted what he thought himself to be. Indestructible.
Though he thought it, was utterly convinced of it, he still was careful to keep a tightly woven net of security around him, removing anyone he considered a threat to his cause. He was judge and executioner, and no one received a fair trial with Maksimov. If Maksimov even thought one was disloyal, had betrayed him or simply didn’t have the will to do what Maksimov demanded, then he was discarded with all the care Maksimov reserved for disposing trash.
That kind of fear bought him a lot of loyalty. It bought him men who’d rather take certain death than face Maksimov after failing to carry out a mission. He bred relentless, desperate soldiers who’d die carrying out Maksimov’s orders, sometimes by their own hand if they failed. It was a preferable fate to facing Maksimov and having to tell the dictator they had failed. Maksimov had no tolerance for failure. He didn’t accept it in himself and he sure as hell didn’t accept it from those who worked for him.
In all the years Hancock had hunted him, he’d found no weakness in Maksimov he could exploit. Not a single chink in his armor. The man cared for nothing other than himself. It was damn hard to get close to a man in order to be able to exploit his weaknesses when it appeared he had none.
But Hancock knew better. There was something. There was always something. He himself would have sworn he had no weaknesses. Nothing that could be used against him. But he also knew he was wrong. He had Big Eddie. Raid and Ryker. A
nd Eden. Precious, innocent and good Eden.
He’d been careful never to expose them, never to allow anyone to know of their existence because they would most certainly be in danger every day of their lives. He even kept his distance from the fucking Kellys because anyone with eyes could tell that he respected them. He might not like them, their methods or their ethics. The things he considered their weaknesses. But over the years he’d grown to realize that they weren’t so different from him. They just controlled their impulses better than Hancock did.
When someone hurt one of their own, they retaliated and carried out swift justice. And it wasn’t the justice most people considered. They hadn’t used the legal system. No, they’d carried out their own brand of justice, crossing lines Hancock had long ago crossed. From them he hadn’t expected it, though. They were too rigidly set in good. Captain Americas, he’d always sneered at them and about them.
But some of the things they’d done in the name of justice were no better than Hancock had done himself on many occasions. He felt a stirring of admiration for P.J. Coletrane. The woman had been brutalized. The details still set his teeth on edge because he was furious at her team for leaving her vulnerable. For not covering her better. She deserved better than what they’d given her, and she’d paid the ultimate price.
And then she’d walked away from her team, not wanting to drag them into the muck of revenge. No justice. Cold-blooded revenge. She’d hunted down every single man responsible for the vicious attack on her, and she’d killed them all. And in the end, her team had caught up to her and they’d stood side by side with her, not allowing her to bear the brunt of the repercussions.
The Kellys were a different breed of people. The kind of people that Hancock once could have been more like had he chosen a different path. The right path. They were fierce protectors. The good guys. The ones you called on when you needed help. They were good, maybe as good as Hancock was himself, but where he stood out, having the distinct advantage, was that he was far more willing to delve into those twisted gray—no, not even gray . . . black areas. A line none of the Kellys would ever cross unless it concerned someone they loved. One of their wives. Their teammates. Any other mission would be run by the book.
None of them. Not a single member of the KGI group would ever stoop to Hancock’s level. They’d never rescue a beaten-down woman who then took a bullet meant for one of their men and then repay her with treachery. All in the name of the greater good.
P.J. Coletrane’s face came into his vision, her snarling features giving him an inward smile. He could hear her words as if she’d said them herself.
Fuck the greater good.
Yes, it was absolutely something she—and the rest of her team—would say. Especially Steele. The team leader reputed to be much like Hancock himself. Ice running in his veins. A machine incapable of feeling anything. Able to do a mission without emotion clouding his judgment and weighing him down.
But now? The ice man had been taken down by one small blond woman and a baby girl who looked just like her mama. Hancock was no longer sure Steele was the same man he’d been before. Except . . . except if his wife or daughter was in danger. Then there would be no controlling the man. He would become a ruthless killing machine unlike any the world had ever seen before. Hancock wasn’t even sure that he could take on an enraged Steele if his wife’s and child’s lives were at stake.
Realizing his men were still silent and edgy, waiting for him to answer Conrad’s question, Hancock jerked his thoughts to the present, swearing violently under his breath. He was off his game and his team knew it. Just like they were growing edgier by the day as they drew closer to . . . betrayal. The day when they’d hand Honor over to Maksimov, hopefully enabling them to take out the man once and for all. But it would likely be too late for Honor. They’d already resigned themselves to her death and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it. But it didn’t mean that every time he looked in his team’s eyes he didn’t see helpless rage burning in their depths. He was sure it was mirrored in his own, despite his best attempt to keep them from seeing just how tormented he was over what they must do.
“Soon,” Hancock said in a low voice. “She’s recovering more every day. I’ve been able to keep Bristow off her. He’s afraid of me. But he’s terrified of Maksimov and I’ve told him that Maksimov would not be pleased to be presented with a hurt and damaged Honor because it would lessen her value to ANE. He doesn’t like it, but he fears us both too much to disobey me on this. And I’ve had one of you stationed outside her door at all times, even when I’m inside with her bullying her to eat and giving her pain medication when she overexerts herself.”
“Except now,” Copeland said mildly.
“Bad mojo,” Mojo growled.
A prickle of unease chased up Hancock’s spine. His men were right. He’d summoned them outside where he could speak freely to them. The walls had ears in Bristow’s home. Nothing went unobserved. It was why he and his men were so careful not to be oversolicitous when it came to Honor. They treated her as a prisoner they didn’t want damaged. Damaged goods didn’t make for good trades.
But they had left her alone. For an hour now. What if Bristow had seized the opportunity to look in on his “guest”? He wasn’t a patient man and he clearly hadn’t liked being kept apart from her. All the work Hancock had done could be unraveled in just a few minutes’ time in Bristow’s presence.
He’d been too arrogant, too certain of his hold on Bristow, when he should have known better. Bristow believed himself invincible, and though he was afraid of and intimidated by Hancock, he wasn’t afraid that Hancock would kill him. And that was where he was wrong. Hancock would take Bristow apart with his bare hands if he hurt Honor.
“Get back,” Hancock said hoarsely. “Get back now. Find Bristow’s men and make sure they are under control. Kill anyone who resists. I’ll take care of Bristow.”
“Hancock.”
Conrad’s cold voice penetrated the red-hot haze surrounding Hancock’s mind, turning him once more into a ruthless killing machine.
“You can’t compromise the mission over what he’s done. If he’s done anything at all.”
“The hell I can’t,” Hancock spat. “I don’t need Bristow to make the exchange with Maksimov. I did at first. But that contact has been made. All I have to do is complete the drop and then take the bastard and his entire network down.”
“But not in time to save Honor,” Viper said tightly.
Hancock swung his haunted gaze to his man. “Don’t you think I would if I could?”
“Would you?” Henderson pressed, his face drawn into grim lines. “You’ve never wavered in a mission before. Why now?”
“You forget I sacrificed two opportunities to take down Maksimov to save innocent lives,” Hancock snapped. “I won’t do so a third time. Now move out. If he’s touched Honor, if he’s made her afraid, I’ll kill him.”
None of his men commented on the hypocrisy of Hancock’s killing a man who would at least be more honest with Honor than Hancock had been. None dared.
CHAPTER 19
HONOR was so tired of being in the bed, she was ready to scream. If one more day passed and she heard, just as she heard every time she asked Hancock the question of when she could go home, “Not yet,” she was going to hurt someone. And she was only fantasizing about one face to smash. When she wasn’t fantasizing about the mouth attached to that face.
She was out of her freaking mind. Barking mad, crazy as a loon. It could only be explained by the insanity she’d endured over the last two weeks. Surely no one could come out of something like this with their mind intact. She wasn’t an exception. She’d lost as much brain mass as she had blood, so she couldn’t hold her fixation with the brooding badass huge question mark that was Hancock against herself. Or so she tried to convince herself. But she was failing miserably.
What kind of a freak was attracted to a man she didn’t even know? A man shrouded with so many la
yers of secrets that even each individual layer had multiple layers. It would take eternity to discern the man beneath the cloak of mystery, and even then she wasn’t certain there was anything but those secrets he wore like skin.
She was crazy. It was the only reasonable explanation. And then she wanted to laugh at herself for using the word reasonable when explaining crazy.
The door opened and her pulse immediately leapt, anticipating the only man who’d come into her room in the past days. Yesterday, she’d been feeling restless and cagey and decided to test the extent of the damage done to her; she’d forced herself out of bed, determined to walk out of this room and figure out where the hell she was. At this point she was just desperate for a change in scenery. The lavender walls and cheery floral artwork were just taunting her, since the very last thing she was feeling was happy and carefree.
It had exhausted her, but elation had lent her a surge of strength when she’d finally shuffled to the door, only for that illusion of strength to evaporate when the knob wouldn’t turn. She was locked in, and it only locked from the outside.
She wasn’t a prisoner. Was she?
Not knowing what else to do, with her knees perilously close to giving out on her, she shuffled back to the bed and crawled onto it, her body protesting her every movement. And then a sound had her freezing and just as quickly turning to settle into place on the bed, angry at the guilt she felt, as though she were an errant teenager trying to sneak out.
She wasn’t a prisoner!
Her pulse, already elevated, spiked, and it was like pressing the accelerator to the floor on a sports car. A man she’d never seen slid like an oily snake through the barely opened door. He didn’t fit in this world. This place. But then where was here?
It was she who didn’t belong here.
An uneasy sensation circled and swelled as fear boiled in her stomach and acid traced its way up her throat. Worse, the moment the intruder picked up on her fear, she saw him go hard with arousal. There was an unmistakable bulge in his expensive slacks that clearly outlined his erection, and low laughter escaped him. It—he—was vile and repulsive.
“Who are you?” she demanded with far more bravado than she felt.
She gathered the sheets in a tight bundle, shielding her body from his view even though she was fully dressed beneath the covers.
Just like that his eyes went flat and cold and a shiver went up her spine. Malice glittered brightly in the black orbs as he advanced on the bed. She opened her mouth to scream and he was on her in an instant, stifling any cry she would have made with a sharp slap to her mouth.
The blow stunned her into silence and only a small whimper of pain escaped.
“I’m the man who owns you. Temporarily,” he added, the sound of his voice coming as a hiss, cold on her skin as though he weren’t a living thing at all. A monster. Like so many of the monsters that haunted her dreams.
Where was Hancock?
Inside she was screaming for him. His name. Over and over. A litany, begging him to save her. Again. Who was this man? How did he get into her room? Hancock had told her she was safe.
Hadn’t he?
She frantically searched her memory for the words. For what exactly he’d said to her. They hadn’t had very many actual conversations. She would be certain of what he’d promised her. She was sure. She’d held the few assurances he’d given her close to her heart. A talisman.
Her scrambled mind could only come up with one promise.
He’d get her past, through, away from the terrorist cell hunting her, stalking her every movement. But surely . . .
No, she wouldn’t think it. Wouldn’t allow herself the loss of the only thing she had to keep her strong. That kept hope and faith alive in her heart. This asshole wouldn’t take that from her.
“That’s better,” he said in a silky purr. “You’re naturally submissive. I can sense it. You will be easily taught discipline and obedience, though, regretfully, my time with you will be short.”
Her eyes shot darts, her lips drawn in a mutinous line. Submissive? Obedient? She wanted to tear his eyes out and then go for his balls.
If he thought her some helpless nitwit, boy did he have a surprise in store.
She batted her eyelashes with clueless innocence, giving this asshole her best “Honor eyes,” as her family had dubbed them. The look that assured her that no one could ever remain angry at her long. The one that instantly got her out of trouble when she’d been stirring up mischief.
“I think you must have me mistaken for someone else,” she said in a calm voice. “I don’t know who you are or where I am for that matter, but I don’t have a submissive bone in my body, and if you so much as try to force my obedience, I’ll cut your heart out.”
Yes, she’d spoken calmly, but there was blistering violence and absolute conviction in her tone, her expression. She hadn’t survived as long as she had by being weak or being controlled by fear.
He threw back his head and laughed. “You seem awfully sure of yourself, Honor Cambridge.”
“And if I fail, Hancock will finish the job,” she said coldly.
At that, glee entered his eyes. Glee. A supremely satisfied expression gripped him even as he wound his hand tightly in her hair and yanked her protesting body close to his. He kissed her brutally, forcing her mouth open by using his teeth, slicing at her lips until her gasp of pain allowed his tongue to shove inside.
She struggled wildly, but he was far stronger, and she was weakened by her injuries. Tears burned her eyelids and she refused to cry, refused to allow this man the satisfaction of seeing her tears of pain, rage and worse, fear.
Where was Hancock?
“Hancock is renowned for his conquests,” the man said, his breath stroking over her damaged, trembling lips. “It is said he can make anyone do his bidding. He can make anyone believe whatever it is they want him to believe. Tell me, Honor, did he promise to see you safely home to your family? Think carefully. I also know Hancock not to be a liar. Interesting code, don’t you think? A cold-blooded killer. A mercenary. With a code. He doesn’t lie. And yet he can make you believe something he never promised. How easily you must have fallen under his spell.”
“You won’t make me believe he’s what you say he is,” she said in a frigid tone.
His hand wound even tighter in her hair and he yanked back, exposing her vulnerable neck much as a vampire would with its prey. God, she really was to the point of hysteria if she was calmly contemplating how like the fictitious monster