Darkest Before Dawn Page 16

  calculating part of his brain that carried him through every mission, no matter how much of his soul it sucked away. God knew the rest of him had already given in to the overshadowing guilt and despair.

  “No sedative,” Hancock said after studying her a moment longer. And his gaze never once left her face as he gave the next order. “But she gets antibiotics and she gets pain medication. Before anything else. Before you numb her for the stitches. And you wait until it starts taking effect before you so much as touch her.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “THE pain medication does the same thing as a sedative,” Honor accused, shrinking from Conrad’s sudden presence at her bed. “It makes me loopy, and I won’t be put off. I want the damn answers to my questions answered.”

  If a prisoner, mere merchandise, gave imperious orders to men who thought nothing of callously discarding her and sending her through the very gates of hell to greet Satan himself and then expected obedience, it was obvious the captive had indeed lost her mind.

  What’s the worst they could do? Kill her? Torture her? It wasn’t like that wasn’t her eventual fate. Delaying made it all the worse because it gave her too much time to imagine how she could survive even one day in the hands of a brutal inhumane animal whose only goal was to make her suffer.

  “You’ll be aware enough to ask your questions,” came Hancock’s dry, emotionless response. “However, you will not be aware of your pain if I have anything to say about it.”

  Since she well knew that implacable expression, she knew she wouldn’t have a choice regardless of what he decided to do to her.

  Bitter defeat brought acid tears, stinging her eyelids like angry bees. Beside her, Hancock stiffened, and for a moment his hand hovered over her arm before settling there, his fingertips resting on her skin. She jerked back as if he’d burned her and huddled further inside herself, making herself as small as possible in a room filled with impossibly large men.

  Hancock reached down to lift the hem of her pajama top even as he easily slid the band of her bottoms down just enough to bare her hip. Furious at how helpless she was—she felt—she lay there stoic, refusing to show them anything else. No more weaknesses to exploit.

  She felt the first needle slide in, controlling her pained reaction as the medicine burned. She barely managed to prevent wincing in accordance with the involuntary flinch when Conrad’s hand pushed over the injection site and gently massaged the area to spread the medicine more quickly so the discomfort would abate sooner.

  Then as if he hadn’t just touched her with tenderness she knew none of them possessed, he deftly inserted the second needle and administered what she assumed—hoped—was merely the antibiotic Hancock had insisted she be given.

  She waited for betrayal. Waited for the dim awareness that a sedative would bring. The numbing of all her emotions until she drifted off into nothing more than a manageable vegetable, unable to resist whatever they chose to do.

  But other than the fog of the pain medication, which was already doing its job of tamping down the pain—her physical pain—she felt no other indication that she was impaired.

  Apparently Hancock was capable of keeping promises when it suited him.

  He waited long moments, watching her with eyes that missed nothing before turning and dismissing the others. The only instructions he gave his men were, “Keep an eye on that bastard and make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

  She was too tired and sick at heart to even attempt to consider what he meant by his cryptic demand.

  As soon as his men left, leaving her alone with her betrayer, she gave him no chance to take over the situation. No chance to have the advantage, though she knew she in no way had any advantage in this situation.

  “Why?” she asked in a deceptively soft voice.

  She knew that her terrible rage simmered just below the surface, that it wouldn’t take much for it to erupt into something horrible.

  Hancock sighed and put more distance between them, a small thing for her to be grateful for, but she could admit that his closeness only made her feel more trapped, more vulnerable, and if she was going to get through this, she needed any advantage she could gain.

  “I’ve been working undercover a long time, Honor,” he said quietly, as if the walls themselves had ears and eyes.

  Even as he spoke, he swiftly closed the distance between them once more, sliding onto the bed beside her, only this time settling himself to sit next to her, so both their backs rested against the pillows against the headboards.

  “You weren’t my intended target. You merely became . . . collateral damage. An unavoidable sacrifice for the greater good.”

  She made a low sound in her throat because he was subtly dancing around the issue when she wanted the straight, cold truth.

  “I work for Bristow.” A cold smile twisted those ruthless lips. “Or so he’d like to believe. That I’m no threat to him. And that suits my purpose just fine. He’ll never know the truth until it’s too late.”

  “He said you were adept at making people believe what you wanted them to,” she said in a detached tone. “Perhaps he knows more than you think.”

  “Yes, he’s aware of my talent. He simply believes himself impervious. He’s wrong. I’ve been manipulating him since I came to work for him. I needed him only for the connection he has to a Russian named Maksimov. A man who has killed thousands upon thousands of innocent people. Women. Children. None of it matters to Maksimov. He’s unstoppable. I’ve twice been close to bringing him down and he slipped through my fingers. I won’t allow it a third time.”

  She knew that she had everything to do with the confidence with which he spoke of taking him down this time. And it scared the living hell out of her.

  “What could I possibly have that any of you want?” she asked scornfully, attempting to hide the paralyzing fear and sense of fatalism as she realized she was a much bigger piece of the overall picture. Perhaps the only piece that mattered now. She was completely bewildered as to how or why. She was insignificant. A nobody. How could she be so important to not one but three very powerful men—and organizations? She knew why A New Era wanted her. To save face. By why Bristow? And why this Maksimov?

  She was trapped. She’d never go home. Never see her family again. Tears glittered in her vision, but she didn’t attempt to hold them back. She grieved for what could never be. For the loss of the one thing that had gotten her through so many long, painful days. Kept her going despite insurmountable odds. Hope. Hope that had been extinguished the minute Hancock revealed his cutting, impersonal betrayal. Without hope, there was only defeat. And . . . death.

  Sorrowfully, she remembered that brief moment of weakness, when she had the knife in her hands and had contemplated ending it right then. And later, when she had obtained freedom from the rubble she’d been trapped in, her promise to kill herself before ever allowing A New Era the satisfaction of making her beg them for death. God, how she wished she’d given in to the impulse now. At least then she’d have the one thing that was now forever denied her. Peace.

  “You escaped ANE,” Hancock said simply. “You became a beacon of hope to an oppressed people. You gave them hope when they thought none available to them. ANE fucked Maksimov over on a deal. And Maksimov isn’t a man to be trifled with. ANE owes him a lot of money. Bristow is trying to make a play at Maksimov. He’s not stupid enough to think he can take the Russian out and take over his operations. He just wants a piece of the pie. He wants a place of importance within Maksimov’s organization. So he sent me to find you before ANE eventually caught you. And they would have had I not gotten to you when I did.”

  She opened her mouth to let loose her rage and denial, but Hancock simply squeezed her hand, their fingers threaded together, and she didn’t remember them getting that way. But when she tried to tug her hand free, his grip only tightened even as his thumb smoothed over the sensitive skin on her wrist.

  “Bristow is setting up a meeting with Maksimov
and plans to give you to the Russian, who will then dangle you in front of ANE’s nose like the proverbial carrot in front of the donkey’s nose. ANE has lost a lot of face and they will do anything to have you back in their possession so that one slip of a woman does not forever taint their honor and pride by permanently escaping them. Once Maksimov has you, he will then make an exchange with ANE, one that will cost them way more than what they owe Maksimov. But their pride is greater than their common sense, and Maksimov knows this. He will take advantage of it. He’ll get what he wants, and ANE will get what they want.”

  “Me,” she whispered.

  And then she crumbled, yanking her hand from Hancock’s grip as both her hands flew to her face in an effort to stifle the sob that somehow made its way out anyway.

  “Oh God, why didn’t I die that day? Why was I the only one to survive? I believed at first that I had a purpose. That my living stood for something. That I would make it home if for no other reason than so the world would know what these animals had done. That my escaping would be the ultimate act of defiance and refusal to allow them absolute rule and control over such a vast region. But it was all for nothing. All that running, the pain, the fear, all those nights of not being able to sleep for the nightmares and fear of discovery at every turn. I never had a chance, did I?” she asked, her voice small and achingly vulnerable.

  Hancock’s voice was rough. It sounded mean and pissed off. And all he said was one word and yet it conveyed a wealth of emotion.

  “No.”

  She dug her palms into her eyes and rocked back and forth, her distress so great that she wasn’t even aware of what she did or how very fragile she appeared.

  “The medication has had time to take effect,” Hancock said in the same even tone, betraying no hint of anything, as if he hadn’t just sounded enraged seconds before.

  It took a moment for her to realize who he was even addressing until she saw Conrad step from the shadows on the other side of her bed. She’d forgotten his presence. Had assumed he’d left when Hancock had commanded the others to do the same. But he was going to reset the torn stitches. And she’d bared herself painfully, not to only Hancock, but now also to Conrad. A man whose life she’d saved.

  She went silent, not saying a single word, not issuing a single sound as Conrad quickly pulled the pieces of broken sutures from her skin and then reset them, making inarticulate sounds deep in his throat. Almost like the growl of an angry predator.

  She retreated inside herself, already preparing her barriers, seeing how strong they could be and how adept she was at becoming someone, something, altogether different.

  It took a long moment, the room cloaked in silence, for her to realize Conrad had retreated and only Hancock remained.

  “You can go now,” she said, no life in her voice.

  “Honor, listen to me,” Hancock said, an urgency she’d never before detected in his voice brushing over her like an electric shock.

  She stared mutinously ahead, her gaze fixed on a distant object as she continued to retreat more and more into the silent void she’d built around her.

  “Damn it, Honor. For once just listen to me. I know you hate me. Despise me. You have every right. But I need you to listen to me. Your sacrifice will not be in vain,” he said fiercely. “Your bravery will not go untold. Your courage will not be forgotten. You will not ever be forgotten. I swear that to you on my life.”

  “What does it matter?” she asked dully. “I will die a coward, begging for death, wishing with all my heart and soul to die. How is that bravery or courage? I never want my parents to know the truth of my death. It’s kinder to tell them I died in the bombing. Can you promise me that at least, Hancock? Can you do them this one small kindness since I know you won’t do it for me?”

  “No,” he said in a pissed-off voice. “No, I will never let them believe you simply died. I will tell them the truth. That your life and death meant something. That your death saved hundreds of thousands of other people. So they never think your death was senseless and random. They deserve that truth.”

  “So it doesn’t matter what I want, but then that should be obvious to me by now,” she said, self-loathing filling her for even considering for a moment that it would.

  She turned up her face to him and saw him recoil from whatever terrible look was in her eyes. Or perhaps it was the lack of what he saw in her eyes. Life. Meaning. That she no longer cared and had given up. Finally defeated.

  “Why did you kiss me?” she whispered fiercely, hating herself all the more for this display of utter weakness. “Why bother making me care? Making me think you cared at least on the level of one human caring about another? Do you despise me so much then? I can’t conceive of the kind of hatred that drives you.”

  She shivered and ran her hands up and down both arms, folding inward, becoming smaller and more inconsequential with every passing minute. Preparing herself, her defenses, strengthening them for the terrible future that awaited her.

  “I care,” he denied harshly. “I care too goddamn much, and that’s why I’m so fucking pissed off, Honor. Because I’m not supposed to care. I’m not supposed to be human. I’m a killer. A mercenary. Call me what you will, but it’s all true. Every possible terrible thing you can conjure. It’s true. But you can never say I don’t care, goddamn it. Because I care too much.”

  In that moment, Honor knew. She knew that Hancock wasn’t quite as incapable of emotion as she’d thought. That he likely hated what he knew had to be done. But that wouldn’t stop him because he believed in whatever his mission—job—was. And in order to, as he’d put it, save thousands of other lives, hers must be forfeit.

  And he hated that.

  But he hated that he cared even more.

  How lonely and stark must his existence be? Devoid of all the things she took for granted being raised in a huge, loving family, surrounded by unconditional love and support. Things he’d obviously never had—never would have—because he’d never allow himself to have those things.

  He didn’t think he was worthy or that he deserved them.

  She hated him for betraying her, but she understood in a twisted way. In his own way, he was honorable. Doing what most couldn’t do but had to be done to rid the world of monsters. Even become the very thing he hunted. A monster of the worst kind.

  Maybe if he hadn’t made her care about him, the man, she wouldn’t be as hurt or feel so betrayed. Perhaps she’d even understand better that her sacrifice, as he’d deemed it, was necessary.

  But she couldn’t simply put it aside like he did and turn off what made her human. It still hurt. It hurt more than the thought of torture and death. It hurt her that she’d trusted him, that she’d cared about him on a deeper level. That they had shared the intimacy—a bond—that she’d shared with no one else and it had all been thrown back in her face.

  It hadn’t meant to him what it had meant to her, and for that she felt foolish and humiliated.

  Was her hurt pride truly worth the loss of so many lives? Did it even matter how she died or how she was sacrificed if so many others could be saved by one woman? Her?

  And why now was she preparing to try to absolve him of the terrible guilt and suffering she’d seen so briefly in his eyes? What kind of naïve fool did it make her to even believe she could give him absolution or peace?

  “I understand, Hancock,” she said, allowing some of the cold aloofness in her voice to fade away, sincerity taking its place. “And I forgive you, for what it’s worth. You’re right. What is the good of the one compared to the good of the many?”

  Hancock swore savagely, getting up so swiftly that it rocked the bed, and she braced herself, fuzzy from the pain medication. He paced the floor like a caged animal, rage radiating from him in wave after wave.

  “Don’t you ever forgive me,” he hissed. “And you sure as fuck do not offer me an apology that disguises itself as understanding.”

  She gazed at him, allowing sorrow to fill her eyes
. And resignation.

  “You can’t control my feelings, Hancock. You control my fate, yes. My ultimate destiny. My life even. But you can’t control me. You don’t get that choice over whether I grant forgiveness or understanding or even apologize that I’m not stronger, that I can’t just stop fighting and accept that my death will save the lives of so many other innocent people.”

  Hancock stood still, stopping his pacing as he faced her, his hands in tight, clenched balls at his sides as he shook with uncontrolled rage. She sucked in her breath at the raw agony swamping unguardedly in his eyes, something he’d never allow—or want—anyone to see. But she saw it where perhaps no one else would. Where someone else would merely think he was dangerously angry.

  “I don’t make many promises, Honor. And you shouldn’t even trust me to keep them if given. But one thing I vow before all else is that you will be remembered. Your sacrifice will not go unheralded. Your family will be told the truth. Every ugly part of it. Because you and they deserve that much. Your life will not be forgotten. And goddamn it, you matter. You matter.”

  His gaze dropped and his fingers uncurled and curled in rhythmic motion she wasn’t sure he was even aware of. And when he looked back up at her, she inhaled sharply at all that she saw in that one unguarded moment.

  “You matter to me,” he said hoarsely.

  And then he stalked toward her bed, the predator that he was, but when he once more settled onto the bed, there was something fierce in his eyes that had nothing to do with the predator and everything to do with him, the man.

  He framed her face in his hands and kissed her, pouring all of the tightly held emotion into that kiss. He devoured her mouth like a man starving. His tongue swept hotly over hers, leaving her breathless and aching.

  He kissed her as if there were no tomorrow, as if this single moment were all they had, were all that mattered.

  The kiss went on and on until she surrendered, relaxing against the strength and warmth of his muscled body. Then, surprising her, he pressed tiny kisses over the entire line of her lips, pausing at the corners, licking at them delicately with his tongue, and then he simply pressed his mouth to hers and left it there until they both had to gasp for air.

  “You matter, Honor,” he whispered against her lips. “Never think you don’t. You matter to me,” he said, echoing the same words he’d uttered just moments earlier. “You matter too goddamn much.”

  The anguish in his voice was nearly her undoing.

  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.”