Darkest Before Dawn

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.

Before he could voice his anger, she plunged ahead as if not understanding the danger of stroking his ire.

“And days? I would have been over the border in another day, two at the most, and I was walking. We’re driving. It should only take hours!”

He curbed the harsh edge of his temper—barely—but he still sounded pissed when he spoke. “What I think is that you’re spending far too much time asking pointless questions and looking a gift horse in the mouth.”

He’d been unwinding the binding on her knee all the while she’d been raking him over the hot coals, and in his annoyance he pulled too forcibly at the last strip covering a layer of some kind of muddy goop that had pasted the bandage to the bare skin around her knee. The cloth yanked free, taking a thin layer of scab with it. Blood immediately welled and Hancock swore under his breath. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, goddamn it. He had to gain her trust without divulging anything more than necessary, not act like the terrorists chasing her was a preferable option.

She flinched but then bit into her lip, the white edges of her teeth barely visible. Her face lost color, making the dye rubbed into her skin appear even darker and unnatural against such paleness.

Hancock cursed again under his breath and simply held out his hand for the swath of cloth Mojo was already extending. He dabbed at the fresh blood and then took the bottle of hydrogen peroxide Mojo handed over next and lifted his gaze to Honor’s.

“This is going to hurt,” he said, his voice an apology for already inadvertently hurting her.

“I’ll get over it,” she said, her gaze going stony. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">