Darkest Before Dawn (KGI #10)(35)

“Everything’s locked down and secure,” Viper said as he stepped into the small room. “Conrad and Mojo have set up watch so they’ll know if an ant farts within a mile of our location.”

“Then you and the others bed down and catch some sleep until it’s time for your watch,” Hancock directed. “It may be the last night we get any sleep until we deliver the woman to Bristow.”

He purposely didn’t invoke Honor’s name. His men were already looking at her not as a means to an end, simply a pawn, but as a heroic human being. An innocent female who didn’t deserve to be given false hope such as they were indeed giving her, even if they didn’t lie to her in so many words. Theirs was a sin of omission, but it paled in comparison to their many other sins. There was no salvation for men such as them. They were resigned to eternal damnation, their souls so stained that they’d never see the light again. As the old but apt saying went, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Viper doused the lights, shrouding the interior in darkness as the men took to the few cots and bedrolls they carried with them. They were trained to fall asleep on command, their bodies well accustomed to taking sleep when they got the chance and to rousing, awake and alert, ready for action.

And yet Hancock found himself unable to do just that. Long after his men were already asleep, Hancock lay there, his bedroll just inches from Honor’s cot, his thoughts consumed by the sacrifice he was preparing to lay at Bristow’s—and ultimately Maksimov’s—feet.

He had no idea of the passage of time when he picked up on a sound that would go undetected by most others. But his ears were attuned to the slightest change. Turning toward the sound, he realized it came from where Honor lay sleeping. Or he assumed she was sleeping.

The sound was so faint that at first he thought he imagined it or that it had simply been a noise she’d made in sleep, but no, there it was again. It sounded like . . .

Weeping.

Soft, nearly soundless weeping.

Fuck.

His heart clenched despite his having already hardened it toward this woman. She didn’t sob noisily or wail her distress. In fact he wasn’t entirely certain she was cognizant of the fact that she was crying.

Before he could think better of it, he pushed himself upward so he was on eye level with her and peered even closer, trying to discern her level of consciousness in the dark. Softly he reached out to touch her cheek to see if his supposition was correct, and his chest tightened further when his fingers came away wet with her tears.

She was crying in her sleep. God only knew what nightmares tortured her sleep. She’d seen and been through hell over the last week. Grudging admiration for her resiliency rose within him. She was perhaps the strongest woman he’d ever encountered. No, she wasn’t a woman warrior like those who worked for KGI who could easily kick a man’s ass twice their size.

She was strong despite her lack of fighting skills, her lack of knowledge in defending herself. She was resourceful and determined in the face of impossible odds and she didn’t know the meaning of quit. When many would have already given up and resigned themselves to their fate or even taken their own life to spare themselves certain torture and degradation, she’d stubbornly clung to and fought for her life.

Carefully, so as not to awaken her, he slid his arms beneath her slight body, hoping she was still out from the pain medication he’d given her. He’d purposely given her a large dose so she’d sleep like the dead and gain much-needed rest and strength.

He lowered her to the bedroll beside him, telling himself that he merely didn’t want her to awaken his men. When he was certain she was still sleeping, he settled back down beside her and drew her into the warmth of his body, wrapping his arms around her to offer her the simple gift of being held and comforted. It was the least he could do when he planned to betray her in the worst possible way.

With tenderness he didn’t think he possessed, he pushed away the tendrils of hair obscuring her face and smoothed away the lines marring her face from the dream she was having. Fear radiated from her in tangible waves, and something deep inside him twisted and turned uncomfortably as he took in the fact that her entire body shook with those silent sobs.

In a whisper, so his men couldn’t hear, he brushed his lips over the shell of her ear.

“You’re safe, Honor. I’ve got you. Nothing will hurt you tonight.”

Tonight was all he could give her. He had no idea what tomorrow would bring, though if he was successful in his mission, he knew what the immediate future would bring. He closed his eyes to ward off the images of Honor hurting. Damaged.

Dead.

It was doubtful that she would escape Maksimov unscathed, but even if that unlikely event occurred, she would then be turned over to the very group Hancock was fighting so hard to protect her from now. The irony burned. And she’d certainly not be escaping them unscathed—or at all. Whatever Maksimov dished out to her, it would be a mere fraction of what A New Era would give her.

He risked his life, the lives of his men. All to wrest Honor from the grasp of A New Era simply so Maksimov could use her as a bargaining tool. And hand her over to . . . A New Era.

Her fate was inevitable. Because the right thing to do was to turn her over to Maksimov, giving Hancock unfettered access to the man he’d made his sole mission to take down. But doing the right thing didn’t always feel right.