When Honor still looked expectantly at him, her eyes narrowing at his prolonged silence, he remembered that she’d asked, or rather demanded, to know who he was. He supposed she deserved that at least. And it would give credence to the idea that he and his men had been sent to extricate her, though he wouldn’t actively cultivate that lie. What conclusions she drew were of her own making.
“I’m Hancock,” he said simply. “And the men surrounding you are my team. They’re highly skilled. The best. They won’t let any harm come to you as we journey to a safer place.”
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she studied him intently. She didn’t like his vagueness, and furthermore she knew he was holding something back. In addition to being tenacious and extremely courageous, she had a sharp, intelligent mind and she was adept at reading people.
He sighed inwardly. It was never easy. He wanted to have no respect or admiration for this woman. He didn’t want to feel anything at all. It would have been far better if she had been a hysterical, mindless, incompetent twit. He could summon disdain and annoyance for such a person. But he respected a fighting spirit. Bravery in the face of overwhelming terror. And the refusal to back down even when confronting insurmountable obstacles. These were traits he not only admired but had actively cultivated in all the men serving him. It had been ingrained in him, first by his foster parents, and later by the man who’d been Titan’s first leader. Rio. The man who’d trained Hancock and taught him the necessary skills to be the ultimate fighting—and thinking—machine. Because battles were won not by brute force alone, but by strategy and the ability to correctly assess the enemy. By pushing detrimental emotion aside and feeling nothing at all. By becoming more machine than man.
“Just where is this ‘safe place’?” she asked suspiciously.
“I’ll let you know when we get there.”
Again, a truth. Because they were winging it and with Honor once more slipping beyond A New Era’s grasp, the terrorists would be more enraged than ever. They’d thought that victory was finally theirs after tracking her to the village and surrounding it, lying in wait to apprehend her.
As unpredictable as they were, and with the true extent of their reach and many of their allies secret and as of yet unknown, Hancock wasn’t fool enough to think that because he’d gotten Honor safely from the village, it would be a simple matter of leaving the area. Her pursuers would know she had help, and they’d put two and two together and realize that Hancock and his men were the only logical source of that aid. It would take only minimal investigation to realize that Hancock and his men weren’t who they’d appeared to be—members of A New Era contributing to the search for the American woman. They were now targets just as Honor was.
“How far is this journey to this place you’ll let me know when we get to?”
She was sounding more pissed by the minute, and edgy sarcasm laced her every word.
He reached down and pulled her carefully onto the seat between him and Mojo. She likely hadn’t gotten a good look at the member of his team on her other side or she would have been scared out of her mind.
Mojo was . . . He was the epitome of what Titan had sought and wanted to create at its inception. Already battle hardened and suffering what the shrinks all called post-traumatic stress disorder, he was an unfeeling, fighting machine. He rarely spoke. His moniker had been given to him because his trademark comment for everything was either “Good mojo” or “Bad mojo.” Given their line of work, it was rare they’d ever heard “Good mojo.”
He was big and scary-looking, mostly bald with a light layer of bristly short-cropped hair. It was only close up that you could even see he had hair. Scars lined his face and his nose had been broken numerous times. His eyes were flat and cold, the kind that made religious people cross themselves and utter a quick prayer.
But no, she’d obviously gotten a look at him already because she glared up at him, not a hint of fear or revulsion in her features as Mojo helped pull her up between him and Hancock.
“Now you want to help me,” she muttered.
To Hancock’s astonishment, Mojo almost smiled. Almost. It was the closest the man had ever come to anything remotely resembling a smile.
His teeth flashed. “Good mojo.”
“Whatever,” Honor said under her breath. “Hey!” she said, slapping at Hancock’s hand when it delved underneath her robe. He slid his palm up her leg, pushing the material with it. “What are you doing?”
“I need to take a look at your injury,” Hancock said, ignoring her indignation.
“You’re just avoiding my question,” she accused.
“What question would that be?” he asked in the same disinterested tone that suggested she was an inconvenience.
“All of them?” she snapped. “But we’ll start with how long will it take to get to this mysterious place you’re taking me?”
Her tone was frigid, but her eyes flashed and he realized that the few photos he’d been provided of her hadn’t accurately portrayed her true character any more than the rundown of her personal data.
She looked sweet, innocent, benign and meek in the photos. Like a naïve do-gooder with the idea she was going to save the world but who had no idea of the reality of the situations she put herself in.
But in reality, she was anything but sweet or meek. There was a seething cauldron of fire simmering just below the naïve-looking features. And her will was strong, as evidenced by the fact that after surviving the attack, she’d run, and not recklessly with no plan or intelligence. She was cool under pressure, and she thought quick on her feet. It wouldn’t do for Hancock to ever relax his guard around her. If he gave her too much of a reason to distrust him and his intentions—as she had every reason to—she wouldn’t hesitate to bolt, and he didn’t have time to spend another week running her to ground. This time he might not get to her before A New Era did.
“A few days. Maybe more. Maybe less.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter and he was confident he’d get her there regardless of the time it took. He needed her to believe him. In him. But he would never encourage her to trust him.
Honor’s eyes widened in confusion. She even glanced at Mojo as if seeking confirmation, and then she made a sound of disgust as if realizing how ridiculous it was to try to read anything from the other man’s expression.
“You don’t have a helicopter? Like a badass helicopter? What kind of military unit sent to rescue a . . .” She rubbed a hand through her dye-caked hair in agitation. “What am I even? Not a hostage exactly. A missing person? But does anyone even know I’m still alive? That I survived the bombing?”
Pain flashed in her eyes. Not the physical kind, but emotional pain, as if thinking of her family and the grief they must be enduring not knowing if she was alive or dead, if she was hurting, scared, prisoner somewhere no one would ever find her.
She shook it off just as quickly, shoving the pain from her eyes, and refocused them sharply on Hancock. She was unexpectedly . . . strong. He didn’t often find himself surprised by anything. But Honor was just that. Something completely unexpected and yet refreshing.
“What kind of military unit doesn’t even have a helicopter? How were you supposed to get out, much less get me out?” she demanded, incredulity evident in the question. “You think we’re just going to drive out of here?”
And then her brow furrowed as if she’d realized something else. The woman asked too many damned questions, instead of showing some gratitude that he’d prevented the assholes tracking her from capturing her, and he was starting to get pissed. Were it not for him getting to her when he did, even now she’d be suffering horribly and would face days, even weeks of endless pain and agony. The conscience he’d severed from his mind whispered deep inside that he was going to subject her to the same fate. He was only delaying the inevitable, and worse, instilling false hope that her ordeal was over. And that just made him angrier. He didn’t bother to hide it from her either.