muscles into action. She blinked, bringing her surroundings into focus, and then glanced over the room to see some of Hancock’s men still sleeping. There were four present, minus Hancock and one other, but she imagined they’d taken turns on watch through the night.
For that matter, she had no idea where they were or where they’d sought refuge. It felt like a cave. Stifling and claustrophobic. No windows or light, the air stale without the renewal of a breeze.
She took the few stolen moments of quiet and solitude to ascertain her condition without Hancock’s close scrutiny through eyes that saw too much. She flexed her knee, relieved to find that it wasn’t as stiff or swollen, though it was still painful and resistant to movement. Her head didn’t ache as vilely as it had the day before, but that could be due to the remnants of the pain medication that had made her oblivious to all else.
She took several long seconds to do a self-evaluation, time she hadn’t had the luxury of before in her desperate need to keep moving. There was no doubt she was bruised and had suffered cuts and lacerations in dozens of places on her ravaged body, but the only two injuries that stood to hinder them in any way were her head injury and the injury to her knee. Everything else was manageable, and for that matter, she wasn’t about to allow herself to be an obstacle to the thing she wanted most.
Her ultimate escape. Freedom.
For that she could endure anything. She had endured everything over the last several days, pushing her body beyond its limits in her desperate effort to survive.
But now she had help and despite Hancock’s taunt about looking a gift horse in the mouth, she wasn’t about to make things harder by not cooperating fully. She might not like the man, and he might make her teeth grind in irritation, but if he got her out of this mess she’d bite her tongue and not do anything to make him regret rescuing her. Liking him was purely optional, though if he did manage to get her out in one piece, it made her nothing more than a petty, sulky child for holding a grudge over his less-than-congenial personality.
She decided then to stop acting like a petulant twit and keep her mouth shut from here on out. He wouldn’t hear a single argument or complaint from her if it killed her.
She started when she heard a noise and glanced rapidly in the direction of the sound to see Hancock and one of the other men descend the steps into the tiny room that housed the rest of the sleeping men.
For a moment their gazes locked and even in the dim lighting, there was something . . . She shook her head as a fleeting memory chased through her mind, continuing before she could grab on. She frowned because there was something she was missing. Something nagging at her.
“Time to move out.”
He didn’t speak loudly, but then he didn’t have to. Evidently his men were trained to wake on command and be alert and ready to roll out. The room became a flurry of activity. She pushed herself upright on the cot, recoiling at the nausea that formed in the pit of her belly. She recovered quickly—or so she thought—not wanting to give them pause for concern. Over her dead body would she delay them when she wanted to get the hell out of here worse than they did.
Hancock, damn him for never missing a single detail, immediately crossed the room and hunkered down next to her cot.
“Are you ill?” he asked in a low enough voice that it didn’t carry to his men.
She was absurdly grateful that he hadn’t embarrassed her or made her appear weak in front of the others. Her pride was important to her. It was all she had left. That and hope. Those two things would be all that saw her through the coming days.
“No. I just moved too quickly. I’m all right. Really.”
“When was the last time you ate anything?” he asked, that piercing gaze raking over her bones as if he could see all things.
“Day before yesterday,” she said with a grimace, remembering the tasteless, bland MRE she’d eaten on autopilot, chasing it with the last of her water reserves.
Hancock turned and called out to one of his men, who instantly dug out a packet and tossed it Hancock’s way. Another came forward with a vacuum-sealed packet and canteen. He tore open both packs and dumped them onto the bed next to her.
A variety of dried items, some fruit and some that looked like meat, lay next to her, and it was all she could do not to fall on them like a starving wolf.
He leaned the canister against her thigh and then rose to his full height once more.
“You scarf down what you can while we get the vehicle out and packed. One pack is vitamin based and the other is protein. Get as much of both down as you can without making yourself sick.”
She nodded, already making a grab for the food. To her surprise, it was good. It wasn’t remotely appetizing-looking and it had no smell whatsoever, but flavor burst onto her tongue the minute it made contact.
She savored the first bite, enjoying it and wanting it to last, but then it sank in that he’d told her to get down what she could and they were readying to go. Which meant if she didn’t pick up the pace, she wasn’t going to get much to eat at all.
While she stuffed her face and drank from the canteen like an automaton, she curiously surveyed the preparation going on around her, marveling at how fluidly graceful this team was. They worked in silent unison, not needing to communicate. They simply knew what to do and the most adept way of doing it. It was like watching a well-oiled machine.
A few moments later, Hancock approached carrying what looked to be an entire bolt of black fabric over his arm. She grimaced, knowing instantly it was for her.
“We are fortunate in that we are entering regions where burkas are the most common manner of dress for women. If you had worn one before, you would have drawn unwanted attention to yourself. You did well by not trying to hide completely.”
There was a hint of praise that brought heat crawling up her neck and into her cheeks.
“This will keep you completely covered, and no one will question a woman wearing such a garment where we will be traveling the next two days.”
Though the burka would be stifling and the height of uncomfortable, Honor was extremely grateful that it would cover her from head to toe. Even her eyes wouldn’t be visible and she’d blend seamlessly with any other women if they were forced into a public setting.
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 suck
ed 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.
So deeply entrenched in her fierce thought process was she that she spoke before censoring her words.
“I was merely making a vow not to let these assholes make me quit,” she blurted out.
Embarrassed by her impassioned outburst, she ducked her head, her voice more of a mumble now.
“Most people would run home and never leave again,” she said quietly. “I’m not most people and I’m needed here. And other places. Places most people won’t go. But those are the places where the need is the greatest. And just as you have all risked your lives to save me—one person—then so too will I risk my life to help countless others. Your risk won’t be in vain. My life means something. It has purpose. I won’t go quietly, nor will I let those bastards frighten me into sticking my head into the sand and staying at home with Mommy and Daddy like a coward.”
Her tone had grown fiercer with every word until they blazed with heat to match the intensity of her emotions.
The others fell silent, the quiet stretching and blanketing the interior of the vehicle. Some looked down. Others looked away, blindly, out a window or at simply nothing at all. There was tangible discomfort and she frowned, not understanding why. Were they pissed that they were risking their lives for someone who would willingly put herself at risk all over again?
She supposed it did seem as though she were ungrateful and uncaring of the sacrifices they made. They were probably wondering why the hell they were out here in the middle of the desert risking their asses for a woman who didn’t appreciate their efforts or why they didn’t just dump her out and leave her to fend for herself.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said in a low voice. “But I can’t turn my back on these people. They have no one to fight for them. No one to aid them. And if I let terrorists sway me from my objective, then they win, regardless of whether I escape or not, whether I live or die.”
She plunged ahead before any could respond, not that a response appeared imminent. They
weren’t exactly talkative. They made Hancock seem like a regular conversationalist, and he was a bare-minimum kind of guy at best. But his men? Had even less to say. But perhaps as their leader, they let Hancock do the talking while they did the acting.
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve done—what you’re doing. Nor am I being cavalier about the fact that you risked your lives to rescue me and pull me out. It may appear to you that way, but I can’t possibly explain how much it matters to me that I not be manipulated and coerced through fear or threats.”
Conrad muttered an indecipherable curse beside her, turning so he faced the window and she couldn’t see his eyes or expression. She could swear that her statement had made them all . . . uncomfortable . . . and not for the reasons she’d cited. Copeland, or Cope as his team called him, looked guilty.
She swung her puzzled stare in Hancock’s direction and for once found comfort in the fact that his face was an impenetrable mask, no emotion, opinion or judgment. No agreement or condemnation echoed in his eyes. He just regarded her with that steady gaze, his expression inscrutable as always.
Obviously her imagination was getting away from her and she was seeing things that weren’t there. And now that she’d put it out there like an apology . . . Who was she kidding? It had been an apology, a plea for understanding and maybe even approval. Now it just pissed her off because she didn’t need their permission to do what she felt called to do. They certainly didn’t need or require her approval, nor did they give two shits what she thought of them, so why should she feel beholden to them as if because they saved her life, she gave up her power over her life to them? Her choices. Her decisions.
They didn’t own her or her mind. Definitely not her choices. She owed them gratitude, absolutely. She owed them respect and her full cooperation for as long as she was under their protection. But she didn’t owe them anything more, and she damn sure didn’t need their permission to do with her life what she wanted—needed. Just as they didn’t need—or want—hers.
Hancock merely shrugged. “If you get home, what you do afterward is solely up to you. You’re a grown woman and you don’t owe anyone an explanation for the choices you make.”
For some reason it bothered her that he’d said if she got home. Not when. It bothered her a lot. Because Hancock was nothing if not completely calm and confident. He exuded absolute faith and self-assurance in his ability and that of his team. It was the first time he’d even hinted that she wouldn’t absolutely get out of this mess. As if it were even a remote possibility she wouldn’t. It caused her pulse to ratchet up and pound at her temples, resurrecting the ache in her head that had subsided and hadn’t returned. Until now.
She wanted to crawl back into his arms and huddle there as she’d done the night before, albeit unknowingly at the time. But even now memories of feeling utterly safe and comforted floated back to her, bringing the events of the last night even closer to the forefront of her mind. She wanted that feeling back. Even if for only a few moments. Just long enough to dispel the sudden and unsettling unease rioting through her veins.
She could only imagine his reaction were she to do such a thing. It was obvious he had no desire for her to know he’d held and comforted her last night. His actions certainly hadn’t betrayed him in any way, nor had he referenced the event. He acted as though it had never happened, and she strongly suspected were she to bring it up that he’d deny it and tell her it was only a dream. Even though she knew damn well it was—had been—real. She’d never forget the sensation of being in his arms and the comfort and strength she’d drawn from those few hours, even if it had taken her a bit to get it all back.
He’d shown her kindness when she’d assumed the very worst about him. But then she was fast learning he was multifaceted with so many layers that she could probably dig and pull back forever and never learn everything there was to know about him. The least she could do was respect his obvious wish not to ever acknowledge his actions.
Perhaps he considered it a weakness, but to Honor it had been something she desperately needed. He’d anchored her at her weakest, when she was at the mercy of her nightmares and despair had welled from the deepest recesses of her soul.
What to him was weakness was to her a badly needed infusion of strength. His strength.
She didn’t respond to his dubious statement, refusing to show how his one lapse in confidence had shaken her to the core. It could have merely been a slip of the tongue, an inadvertent figure of speech, but then he didn’t strike her as someone who ever allowed anything to carelessly fall from his lips.
Silence once more reigned and Honor focused on the barren landscape that sped by. She was well on her way into a self-induced hypnotic state when Hancock jarred her from her trance.
“We have to refuel several miles from our current position. It’s a rural village but a crossroads and the epicenter of fuel distribution in this area, so there will be traffic coming and going in all directions. But we don’t have a choice. We won’t make it to the next available fuel supply. When we arrive, I’ll get out and fuel the vehicle. There will be a place for you to relieve yourself. Conrad will escort you, but keep your head lowered at all times, one step behind him, and make it fast.”
“I’m well aware of the culture and customs here,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose you are,” Hancock mused after studying her a moment. “But I never assume when it comes to life or death, so expect to hear more information you already know.”
He had a solid point.
“How many regional languages do you speak?” he asked, surprising her with his seeming curiosity.
“I’m fluent in Arabic and seventeen other lesser spoken languages in a three-country block and quite passable in at least a dozen more. I’m particularly good at mimicry. I hear an accent and can immediately pick up on it.”
Hancock lifted one eyebrow. “How long have you studied Middle Eastern languages?”
“I was self-taught in high school,” she admitted. “Well, before that in junior high, but I went hard-core in high school. There aren’t many high schools in the entire country that even offer Arabic as a course, much less the less-spoken regional languages.”
“You must be a very good student to pull that off in less than a decade.”
She shrugged, uncomfortable with the compliment even though it wasn’t stated as such. It was more a statement of fact.
“I have an affinity for languages. In addition to the Middle Eastern languages I speak, I’m also fluent in French and Spanish and can carry basic conversation in German and Italian. It was just something that always interested me and I pick them up quickly. Once I got to university, I spent an extra three semesters beyond the time it would have taken to earn my degree taking every Middle East language course they offered and taking another dozen online courses concurrently. I knew what I wanted to do after college. My degree was simply a training tool that enabled me to better understand the culture I would be immersing myself in.”
“What’s the going rate for an angel of mercy these days?” Viper drawled.
She felt a quick surge of anger and to her surprise, Hancock shot his man a look of clear reprimand that had Viper clearing his throat.
“No disrespect intended,” he said before focusing his attention through the windshield once more.
“I receive a tax-free stipend,” she said through stiff lips. Somehow for him to question the reason for what she did, to reduce it to a mercenary business,