by Maya Banks
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 layers 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 this abomination was.
“I won’t have to,” he said with smug satisfaction. “He works for me. I paid him to bring you to me. You are a bargaining tool who serves a higher purpose. You’ll get me what I want and then you’ll get Maksimov what he wants. And then A New Era will get what they want.”
He studied her a brief moment, purposely drawing out her terror.
“You,” he finished triumphantly. “The very thing you thought you escaped will be your ultimate destiny. All you’ve done has been for nothing. But your escaping them greatly benefits me. Greatly,” he murmured, dropping his voice as he raked his gaze over her shaking body.
“Come in, Hancock,” the man called, evidently having heard something Honor hadn’t. “I should have known you’d be back to look in on your little pet.”
Bile rose in her throat. No. This wasn’t happening. He was messing with her head. She closed her eyes, refusing to be drawn into his sick game.
Her head was yanked brutally back until she feared her neck would snap.
“Open your eyes,” the man said, his voice snapping over her with the force of a whip.
Not because she wanted to, but because she had to, did she obey. She had to know what was truth and what were lies. When her vision cleared, she saw Hancock standing silently at the foot of the bed, his eyes intent and watchful, but it was the air of disinterest and the blankness in his gaze that terrified her.
“No,” she whispered. “No!”
This time she screamed it, and then she kept screaming even when she reeled from the fist connecting with her jaw to silence her.
“You know Maksimov will not be pleased,” Hancock said in a cool, unruffled voice. “You’re a fool, Bristow. She was healing nicely. Now you’ve bruised the one part of her that wasn’t already damaged. Her face. You know Maksimov likes a pretty face. He won’t be happy that the merchandise incurred further damage at your hands.”
Merchandise? She stared at Hancock in horror, knowing she couldn’t control the shock of his betrayal from her eyes, and he didn’t so much as flinch. There was no guilt, just steady resolve radiating from him in waves.
Oh God. No.
Honor rolled, the man suddenly allowing her to do so as if he saw exactly what was about to happen.
She barely was able to get her head over the side of the bed in time to vomit all over the floor. She registered the distant sound of a scuffle, angry words being exchanged, but her head was splintering apart with pain as she continued to heave when there was nothing more to expel from her stomach. And the pain from the stress on her injured side, the stitches no doubt torn, robbed her of breath. Her hair hung down in disarray as her head went limp. She simply no longer had the strength to hold it up.
Blood mixed with her tears dripped onto the floor, a macabre sight along with the contents of her stomach. Mostly bile. She felt sick to her very soul.
And then surprisingly gentle hands slid over her shoulders, one palming the back of her head, the other lifting the part of her that hung lifelessly over the edge of the bed. She shuddered, going into a frenzied attack. She knew those hands. Knew that to
uch. What was once her greatest source of comfort was now vile. Evil. She’d never felt so devastated in her life.
“Damn it, Honor, stop fighting me. You’ll only hurt yourself more.”
She reared her head back, hating that her vision swam with tears. She barely registered that the man Hancock had called Bristow was now gone, and in his place were all of Hancock’s men. The whole traitorous lot of them.
“There is no way for me to hurt more,” she said dully.
Someone, more than one man, swore, in more than one language, but her gaze never left Hancock’s. He regarded her somberly, no hint of guilt. No regret for so callously betraying her trust. She’d been foolish to give it. That was on her. But then she’d had no real choice. No real chance. She’d fooled herself into thinking that she had one. She’d been doomed from the moment the clinic had fallen down around her and on her, the screams of her coworkers still echoing in her ears, the stench of blood ever present in her nostrils.
Shock and a keen sense of betrayal paralyzed her. She’d trusted him. Not at first, but she’d grown to trust him over the past days as he’d fought to get her out of the country and out of the hands of A New Era.
Someone, she never lifted her gaze to acknowledge whoever it was, gently pressed a cup containing cold water into her hand and then provided her a basin, holding it a few inches below her mouth.
“Rinse your mouth and spit in the bowl,” came the gruff order, the roar in her head, her ears, her heart too overwhelmed to register whose voice it was.
She did as instructed mechanically, like a thing programmed. A machine with no feelings, no thought processes or choice. And when she finished spitting the foul taste from her mouth, she gulped down several sips of the chilled liquid to soothe her raw throat, made so when she’d screamed her denial of Hancock’s betrayal.
Her gaze settled back on Hancock accusingly, certain that her pain and confusion shone brightly in her eyes. He regarded her quietly, dispassionately. But then, of course, he wouldn’t have the grace to look ashamed. He wasn’t her white knight, her savior. He was the instrument of her demise.