by Maya Banks
CHAPTER 22
HONOR awakened and the first person she saw hovering at her bedside was Hancock. She glanced accusingly at him, still shaken from the last moments before she’d succumbed to the effects of the medication.
Hancock sighed. “It was only pain medication, Honor. After we spoke, you were exhausted, not just physically but emotionally drained as well. Nothing would have kept you from drifting off. I gave you what you wanted. Answers.”
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.
“There is a difference between becoming like someone in order infiltrate his ranks in order to kill him and save thousands of lives and becoming that monster when you aren’t on the hunt for one,” she said in a soft voice. “You can tell yourself all manner of lies, Hancock. You can try to convince yourself that you’re no better than Maksimov, but you and I both know the truth. Even though you’ll never admit it to yourself. You do what you have to do in order to save countless innocents, but you hate it and you hate yourself. But that’s not who you are. It’s not who you will ever be. The world is a better place for having you in it,” she said, even quieter than before. “Don’t let evil win and let it convince you that you are evil. That you’re some unfeeling bastard who craves killing, torturing and shedding blood. Because when you truly start believing that of yourself, then you will become the very thing you hate the most.”
“Fuck me. Swear to God I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Honor,” he said, his agitation obvious.
Her face immediately fell, and she turned, trying to hide it from him. Because they both knew exactly what he was going to do with her, and she didn’t want to make him feel even worse.
How fucked up was that? That she wanted to shield him from her pain. That she didn’t want to cause him pain. To add yet one more burden—sin—to stain his already tarnished soul. He had betrayed her. He’d deceived her at every turn. She should hate him. She shouldn’t care how much pain she caused him or he caused himself. But she couldn’t do it. She didn’t understand this . . . connection . . . whatever the hell it was between them, only that it was there. A living, breathing entity that she was powerless against. She simply couldn’t turn it off and make herself cold and unfeeling as Hancock could when he wished it. It wasn’t her nature. It wasn’t who she was, any more than Hancock was what he purported to be.
“That was a sorry thing to say,” Hancock said in a low growl. “Goddamn it, Honor, I’m sorry. That was shitty and unforgivable.”
“I thought I had already established that only I get to decide what is shitty or unforgivable,” she said lightly.
And then she gave him a somber look and beckoned him wi
th her hand.
Grudgingly, he came, settling onto the bed next to her. This time it was she who took his hand, when before she’d tried to avoid any personal contact with him. She curled her fingers around his and at first he was rigid, stiff and unyielding, but she simply waited, refusing to allow him to slip from her grasp.
Then with a sigh he relaxed and stroked his thumb over her knuckles.
“Look at me, Hancock,” she asked softly.
At first he refused, but then finally he lifted his gaze to hers, and he looked . . . tormented. Something deep inside her twisted painfully and robbed her of breath. There was grief in his eyes and it hurt her. And it made her want to take it from him. To somehow ease the horrible pain inside him.
“I know you don’t believe me. You don’t have to. But you are going to listen to what I have to say and you aren’t going to block me out because you don’t want to hear what I have to say. Do you understand?”
He went utterly still and his eyes became even more haunted, as if he dreaded her next words. But he nodded slowly, his gaze holding hers. Those beautiful green eyes full of so much agony that it hurt to hold on to that connection. But she didn’t look away. She didn’t want him to perceive it as a rejection of who and what he thought himself to be.
“I don’t hate you,” she said, gauging his reaction. “I did, at first,” she admitted. “I felt betrayed. I trusted you. I felt safe with you when I hadn’t felt safe in a long time.”
Every word was as though she’d thrust a dagger into him and twisted, the evidence there in the fathomless depths of those green pools.
“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” she said, allowing the ache she felt into her voice. “I’m saying this to get to my point.”
“I deserve far worse,” he bit out.
She ignored him.
“But I understand, Hancock. You don’t think I do because you don’t want to think I do. But I understand why this must happen. I’ve already given you my forgiveness. What you do with that is up to you, but it’s given nonetheless. You can’t make me take it back. I won’t take it back. It’s mine to give. You don’t get to decide what I give or don’t give. You either accept it or don’t, but it’s given and when I give something, I don’t take it back. Ever.
“Do I want to die? Of course not. I have so much to live for. So many dreams . . .” She drifted off, knowing this was pointless and would only make him feel worse. She shook her head to rid herself of the direction her words had drifted.
“But I know that my death is a necessary thing. And if my death means that Maksimov can no longer cause so much hurt to so many others, then I can die in peace. I’ll know that my life did mean something. That my surviving the attack did in fact have a purpose. A much higher purpose. And that’s enough for me. I can face death and not be afraid because I’ll picture all those women, those young girls and know they are safe because you took Maksimov down.”
He made an inarticulate sound of rage but didn’t interrupt her.
“You showed me kindness and gentleness,” she said quietly. “You didn’t hurt me, and we both know someone else would have. They wouldn’t have cared what condition I was delivered to Maksimov in. But you protected me and we both know that. And for that I thank you. But what I thank you the most for is giving me the truth. So that I don’t go to my death terrified, alone. That I’ll know as I take my last breath that my death wasn’t senseless and without purpose.”
Tears glittered in Hancock’s eyes, shocking her with uncharacteristic emotion. He looked gutted. He had the look of a man tortured with demons that would haunt him for eternity. She wished with everything she had that she could take them for him. So that he could be free. Most of all she hated that her dying would haunt him for the rest of his life.
“I have two things to ask of you, Hancock. Just two. And they’re simple. I’ll never ask for another thing and I won’t fight you. I won’t try to escape. I do have some dignity and I’ve resigned myself to what must be. But I want you to promise me two things.”
“Anything,” he said hoarsely.
“Promise me that my death won’t be in vain. Swear to me that you’ll take Maksimov out.”
“He’s going down,” Hancock said, menace in his voice. “I swear it, Honor. I will not let your sacrifice be for nothing. Never.”
She briefly closed her eyes, steeling herself for the second request.
“Please spare my parents the details. You can tell them that my death brought an end to a maniac and his entire empire. But swear to me that you’ll tell them my death was quick and merciful. Promise me you won’t tell them how I died. They’d never survive it. I don’t want them to know that I prayed for death or that I died screaming and begging for death. I don’t want them to know all that was done to me. Please, Hancock. Please, I’m begging. Do this for me. For them.”
Hancock gathered her hand in his, squeezing so hard it took all her control not to wince because she knew he wasn’t trying to hurt her. It was the strength of his emotions, emotions he was trying not to allow to show but she did. She saw him. The heart of him. Past the outward facade he’d perfected over a lifetime.
“All your family will know is what a fierce, brave and loving woman you were. They will know of all the lives you saved and the courage you showed the entire time. When I said that you mattered, that you would never be forgotten, I never meant for you to think that what would be remembered is the way you . . . died.”
The last came out strangled, as if just saying the word wounded him deeply. He looked away from her, no longer able to keep their gazes locked and so she wouldn’t see what he so desperately tried to hide.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her own voice thick with tears.
“How can you thank me for being the instrument of your death?” he raged, anger and sorrow reflected in every word. “How can you offer forgiveness and understanding to your executioner? You should hate me, Honor. You should despise me. You should be plotting to kill me, to escape, to do whatever necessary to take me down, and all you ask is that I make sure Maksimov dies and that your family is shielded from the details of your torture and agony?”
Her face went soft, and she lifted her hand to gently stroke his cheek.
“You aren’t my executioner.”
“The fuck I’m not,” he said, fire in his voice. “I’m not a goddamn hero. I’m a merciless killer who is willing to sacrifice everything that is good in this world so I can complete my mission. That makes me no better than Maksimov, no matter what you say or think.”
He abruptly stood and she felt the loss of their closeness, suddenly chilled and shivering.
“You need to rest,” he clipped out. “You’re in pain. And don’t deny it. Conrad is going to give you another injection, and I want you to sleep.”
But she knew his order was only partly born of his belief that she needed rest and relief from the relentless pain that nagged her. He could no longer bear to look at her. Could no longer bear the guilt and horrible anger and helpless rage without losing all control.
Because they both knew her fate was inevitable, and he hated himself because there was no other way. No alternative. And they both knew it. He hated that she could so calmly accept what he could not and that worse, she’d given him forgiveness and understanding, two things he felt he didn’t deserve.
CHAPTER 23
“THE exchange has been set up.” Bristow said what Hancock already knew, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Maksimov was very pleased when I told him I had the woman in my possession.”
Hancock stood in silence, waiting. Behind him his men were just as silent, though he could feel the undercurrents, the tension radiating from them all. Because they knew that once Honor was delivered to Maksimov, she had no protection. And none of them were fool enough to think Maksimov wouldn’t avail himself of Honor and enjoy her for a time before he made the delivery to ANE.
“You leave in two days’ time. I have the coordinates
and all the information you need. Maksimov has explicit instructions as to how he wants the woman delivered. I expect you to heed them all.”
Hancock merely nodded and took the folder from Bristow’s outstretched hand.
“Consider it done,” Hancock said coolly.
Bristow tossed a thick envelope toward Hancock. “Half your payment now. The other when you make the delivery.”
It took every ounce of his willpower not to kill the man right here and now. The envelope burned his skin. Blood money. He would give it to his men. They deserved it. But he wasn’t taking one goddamn cent for sending Honor to her death.
“You can leave now,” Bristow said arrogantly. “I’ll see to the travel arrangements. Discretion will be necessary, of course.”
“I will make the plans,” Hancock said in a cold tone. “You hired me to do a job, but it will be done my way. My men. My mission.”
“Very well. As long as you accomplish what I’m paying you to do, I don’t care how it’s done.”
Without another word, Hancock turned and stalked from the room before he completely lost it and slit the man’s throat.
His men followed, and the only thing that broke the silence was, “Bad mojo.”
Very bad mojo indeed.
He couldn’t even look his men in the eyes. He merely told them to rest and prepare for the journey ahead. No one argued. No one said anything at all. They merely melted away to their separate quarters, no one attempting to meet his gaze just as he had avoided theirs.
He doubted any of them would sleep the next two nights.
CHAPTER 24
HONOR was roused from a medication-induced sleep to a strong hand over her mouth and another cupping and squeezing one breast roughly, painfully. Her heart leapt as she struggled through the fog and haze from the medication.
“He won’t save you this time, you little bitch. He’s too busy planning your delivery to Maksimov, and I intend to make use of the little time I have left before I hand you over to the Russian. A man like Maksimov won’t mind used goods. He certainly won’t turn you back over to ANE before having his fill of you.”