Darkest Before Dawn (KGI #10)(37)

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 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.