Darkest Before Dawn (KGI #10)(88)

She’d told him that they had desperately tried to dissuade her from going but that in the end, they’d supported her decision. When they knew the truth—and they would know the full truth, minus the gory details that did them no good to dream about at night—they would ally themselves with him and be just as determined to keep her out of harm’s way.

A prickle of alarm, a shift in the air, brought unease knotting Hancock’s gut. And he always listened to his gut. Even as he shifted Honor from the cradling position he held her in to carefully place her in a fireman’s hold so he could free the hand that already gripped the stock of his pistol, he heard Mojo’s muttered “Bad mojo.”

A sentiment shared by his other teammates as they stopped and sniffed the air like predators on the hunt. Or prey, measuring their opponent.

Pain seared into Hancock’s left shoulder, leaving him breathless as hot blood scaled its way down his arm and side. Damn it. He’d made a rookie mistake. With Honor cradled in his arms, no one had a clear shot at him without risking hitting her. When he moved her, it left his entire left side exposed.

He staggered to his knees, ensuring that he took the brunt of the fall so Honor wasn’t jarred into consciousness. The very last thing he needed was her awake and aware, convinced he’d betrayed her and given her up to the enemy. And who was to say he hadn’t done just that, f*ck it all.

His arm went numb as he tried to stumble upward and right himself so he could position himself over Honor, but his rifle fell from his hand’s useless grip. His knees hit the ground, jarring his entire body painfully, and his men erupted in gunfire around him, with shouts of “Get down! Get down! Sniper! Six o’clock. Cover Hancock, damn it! He’s down!”

He fell forward, rotating as best he could so he absorbed the impact, not Honor. She was little more than a rag doll lying beside him, his arm curled tightly around her.

The world around him was going to hell. Ambush. Some of his men had been shot, some already dying.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Honor, his voice barely audible. “I’m so sorry, Honor.”

The firefight was fierce and unrelenting. His men gave as good as they got, but Hancock couldn’t spot Maksimov anywhere. And all he could do was try to keep Honor covered as best he could and somehow maneuver his now-useless arm so he could get a grip on his gun, now slippery with his own blood and the only goddamn means he had of protecting Honor.

From seemingly a mile away, Hancock heard Cope shout, “Mojo!”

Hancock closed his eyes. Goddamn it, no! Mojo had obviously taken a hit, and by the frantic note in Cope’s voice it was bad.

Grief consumed him when he heard Viper’s equally impassioned plea. “Mojo! You stay with us, goddamn it. Don’t you dare let go. Do you hear me? Fight, damn it! You fight!”

Copeland scrambled over and dragged Mojo behind thick rock outcroppings that provided natural cover and only one way in or out. Anyone coming in would meet with the end of Cope’s rifle and he was in a cold-blooded rage, ready to take out every single one of the bastards.

“Mojo, man, hold on. Speak to me,” Cope begged, shaking his teammate.

Blood bubbled and was frothy coming from Mojo’s lips, and Cope knew that wasn’t good. A hit to the lung.

As Viper pleaded with Mojo to hold on, Mojo whispered, “Good mojo.”

Then he smiled, to the shock of his teammates. Mojo never smiled. He turned to his teammate with tears streaming down his face. A face carved with emotion they’d never once witnessed. Stoic and reserved. Never had much to say. He was overcome and could barely speak around the tears clogging his throat.

“I always figured I’d go to hell for all I’ve done in my time on earth. But this has to be heaven. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

There was awe in his voice, and then his words trailed off and his gaze became fixed, but there was such an expression of peace that it choked Cope up, and he laid his head on Mojo’s chest as Mojo took his last gasping breath.

His eyes fluttered closed and he suddenly looked so much younger; the lines of age and of the horrors they’d seen and participated in eased, leaving smooth skin of youth in their stead. His lips curved upward almost as if he were holding his arms wide, welcoming death like a long-lost lover.

Hancock felt a kick at his leg and stiffened, his grip on Honor tight, so tight it would leave a bruise. He’d never been more afraid in his life. He was absolutely unable to protect her. There was nothing he could do to prevent her from being taken from him. And God help him, but he’d tear the world apart to find her again.

“Well, maybe I was wrong.” A heavily accented Russian voice made him stiffen, his arm imperceptibly tightening around Honor. “Perhaps he didn’t form too much of an attachment to the girl and my informants were wrong.”

Of course Maksimov would have more than one mole reporting every movement made in Bristow’s household. Whom had Hancock overlooked? He’d sniffed the first out quickly, but how had Bristow gained any knowledge of his “attachment” to Honor? Unless . . .

No, he wouldn’t even allow for the seed of doubt. His men were solid. They wouldn’t betray him. There was someone else in Bristow’s operation who’d been feeding Maksimov information, and it was Hancock’s own goddamn fault for losing his shit when Bristow had tried to rape Honor a second time and having the * killed. That would have tipped off Maksimov in a big way, because he would know of icy Hancock. The one with no emotions, no feelings. As cold as an iceberg and absolutely incapable of human feelings or reactions. Maksimov’s informant would have left out no intel that was useful to Maksimov.