Now the rest of Hancock’s group was another matter. It wasn’t as though a lone woman went around escorted by six burly warrior Westerners. Male chaperones for unmarried—and married—family members were common enough, but this group didn’t have a chance of blending in or of being considered native.
Wanting to remove as many layers of clothing underneath the burka as possible, Honor quickly stripped down to the bare minimum, careful to keep the garment shielding her body, though none of the men looked her way.
She stuffed the discarded clothing into her pack and then crammed the last of the rations into her mouth, washing it all down with several long swallows of water.
When all the men were once more assembled inside, prepared to depart, Hancock performed quick introductions of his men and she committed each name to memory. She mentally rolled her eyes when he got to Mojo. Appropriate since the only words that had passed the man’s lips within her hearing had been either “Good mojo” or “Bad mojo.”
Mere minutes later, she was hustled into the waiting vehicle, Hancock hovering at her elbow but not interfering as she hauled herself into the elevated backseat. Perhaps he was testing her range of motion, but she’d already vowed to herself that no matter how much her body screamed at her, none of these men would think she was incapable of carrying her own weight. Literally.
The only tell was her tightly clenched jaw as she settled into position next to Conrad, easily the next scariest man in the group after Hancock. She’d prefer Mojo, as ridiculous as it sounded, because Mojo was one mean-looking son of a bitch, but he hadn’t been anything but gentle and patient with her. Conrad’s features were . . . cold. His eyes were empty and soulless, as though the life had long been sucked from him and he was more machine than man, acting on orders like a robot.
She shivered involuntarily, once again wondering if her salvation was scarier than the alternative. Being sandwiched between two men who looked as though they were well acquainted with death and destruction should comfort her frayed nerves and ease some of the paralyzing terror that seemed permanently injected into her veins. They certainly looked capable of taking on—and defeating—anyone or anything. These were precisely the kind of men she needed if she hoped to escape the desperate clutches of A New Era. And yet she was nervous. Fear, her constant companion over the last week, clung tenaciously to her, deeply entrenched and refusing to surrender its choke hold on her.
Maybe she’d never feel safe again. Maybe even after she got home—she refused to say if she got home because unless she believed it, truly believed in it and Hancock’s ability to get her there, she was doomed before they ever forged on. She could well see the nightmare of the attack and her friends and coworkers so savagely murdered and dismembered hovering in her conscious and subconscious for all time.
One didn’t simply “get over” something like this. She had a much better understanding now of the horrors that enlisted military endured. Over and over. And why so many suffered so horribly on their return home. Why so many were diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. How could anyone possibly lead a normal life completely free of their demons when hell was ever-present in the back of their minds? In their memories?
She unconsciously shifted closer to Hancock, seeking the warmth of his body, some of the rapidly coiling tension in her stomach loosening as his heat bled into her skin.
Then she stiffened, blinking as a vague recollection taunted her, licking at the fringes of her memory. She frowned, straining to call it forward. She’d been in Hancock’s arms, her cheeks wet, chest tight with grief and fear. He’d held her. When?
Last night.
She must have been crying in her sleep. Hancock had lifted her from the cot where she slept and lowered her to his bedroll beside him and he’d wrapped his arms around her, anchoring her, rocking and soothing her, murmuring gentle words the entire while.
It took all her discipline not to yank her gaze to the side and stare at him as if she could somehow decipher the puzzle by looking into his eyes.
She wasn’t imagining it. She hadn’t dreamed it. She’d lain in his arms until some point when she’d drifted into sleep solidly enough that he transferred her back to the cot without her ever remembering. Until now.
Struggling to keep the betraying frown of puzzlement from deepening, she bit into her bottom lip and pondered why she was even making a big deal out of it. He was human, after all, despite her doubts to the contrary. Last night just proved he wasn’t a complete dick and that he did have compassion. He obviously kept it under wraps for reasons unknown, but then she supposed that if he did this all the time, unselfishly put his life on the line for others, it didn’t pay to get emotionally involved in any capacity.
She could understand why he’d view her and the countless others he’d helped as . . . things. Not human beings with feelings or emotions. Because then if things went wrong he would feel that much more. Maybe it was the way he stayed sane. Whatever his methodology, she was grateful, because it was working. And whatever got her out of this hellhole and back on U.S. soil, she was one hundred ten percent behind.
Still she couldn’t help but glance up at Hancock when he wasn’t looking, studying the firm outline of his jaw and his chiseled features that seemed set in stone. She wondered what his story was. What he and his men officially did or if they even officially existed.
What a terrible half-life that must be, to live and yet be nothing to the world, nobody to anyone. To continually put their lives at risk for strangers they didn’t know and would never see again. Did anyone ever thank them? Truly thank them? She made a mental vow that whenever they got to wherever they were going, she was going to thank each and every one of them by name. They would know that she wouldn’t forget that they gave her a chance at life. That they saved her from certain torture and death.
And at the same time, as incongruous as it might sound, it only reaffirmed her commitment to her relief efforts. No one would blame her if she never took another assignment. If she stayed safely inside the confines of the United States and enjoyed the protection and freedoms of living within its borders. Living in the ignorant bliss that so many Americans enjoyed—embraced. Most people would think her insane to wade back into the fray after such a close brush with the unthinkable.
But there were people in need. People without others to fight for them. To help them do something her countrymen took for granted. Survive. Be free. Hancock and his men were people who took up that fight. She’d devoted her life to the cause of helping others. Just because she’d faced adversity—and overcome it—didn’t give her justification to simply step aside and quit. Allow others to assume the risk in her stead.
If anything it only made her that much more determined not to allow these assholes to silence her efforts. Her family wouldn’t like it. They wouldn’t go down without one hell of a fight, as they had the first time she’d come to this war-torn, embattled region. They would need time with her—time she’d gladly grant them—so they could ensure that she was well and truly safe. Alive. Unhurt.
But then she’d pick up the banner again and nothing would deter her from her calling. It wasn’t something she could ignore, opting for a safe nine-to-five job. It was who and what she was, and to walk away was not only a betrayal of the people so desperately in need but a betrayal of herself, her ideals and her beliefs.
“Whatever it is that has you so deep in thought, it better not be a plan I’m not privy to.”
Hancock’s drawl broke through her thought process, startling her into lifting her gaze to see him studying her intently. What, did he think she was planning to run from him and escape on her own? Not likely. He was her best and only hope of getting home alive and she knew it.