Darkest Before Dawn (KGI 10)

“Honor?”

The one-word question conveyed it all. He was asking if she was all right. If she was still with them in the mental realm or if she’d lost the battle for her sanity and retreated deep into herself.

“Who are you?” she asked hoarsely.

CHAPTER 7

HANCOCK’S gaze flickered dispassionately at the stubborn, courageous woman with grudging admiration he didn’t allow to show. He didn’t want to feel anything with regard to a woman who was nothing more than a pawn. A means to an end. A tool he would use like any other intel or weapon in order to take down a man who’d caused more casualties than most wars, and he’d suffer no remorse whatsoever.

It wasn’t in his nature to underestimate anyone or any situation, and yet he could admit that he’d underestimated Honor Cambridge and her resourcefulness. At first but not any longer.

When he’d left Bristow, the cowardly bastard was pissed because Hancock had left none of his men behind for his protection, leaving him to rely solely on the other lackeys he called his security. But Hancock had fully expected to apprehend his quarry and be back in a short amount of time. Instead, he’d spent days combing through villages, questioning the locals and keeping his ear to the ground as rumors had started to whisper on the winds of a lone woman who’d eluded a vicious terrorist organization for over a week.

Over time, the gossip had become less secretive and a legend had arisen, a beacon of hope and a symbol of courage. She had become iconic to the vulnerable and oppressed people who lived without hope, in fear of A New Era and their unpredictable savagery. There was no rhyme or reason to their vengeance. No one foolishly thought themselves safe or beyond the reach of the militant group that had ballooned into a monstrous, gluttonous leech, drinking more blood and craving more power. It was a hell of a way to live, knowing that each day could be the day they appeared in the crosshairs of the group and were dispassionately murdered with no regard whatsoever.

It was through the stories of her survival and escape retold, the reverence and respect already ingrained within their hearts—their pride in one fierce American warrior woman, as they’d labeled her—that Hancock felt as though he’d truly gotten to know the real Honor Cambridge. No longer was he guided by the sterile, peripheral intel he’d been provided giving him a rundown of her life, her training and how long she’d tirelessly and selflessly devoted herself to the needs of others in an area few would dare to venture into. The true heart of her and her motivation had been revealed to him by those who knew her, or knew of her. She was believed by many to be an angel sent from Allah. A courageous angel of vengeance who fearlessly ventured into places avoided by most sane people, who simply didn’t care about the horrific suffering of those who lived their entire lives here and certainly wouldn’t risk their lives to offer compassion and try to make their lives a little easier. To give them a single moment of peace when such a thing was alien and unknown to them.

Hell, even the U.S. military stayed out of the areas A New Era had a foothold in, not wanting to start a bloody war and sacrifice countless American soldiers in a battle that could never be won. If they weren’t able to rid the world of the ever-growing army, they would fail. If they annihilated the lot of them, the terrorists would be held up as martyrs, inspiring others to revenge, which would give them victory even from the grave.

It was inevitable, of course. When the fanatical group felt they were powerful enough to turn their focus on U.S. holdings—and it was only a matter of time—then the United States would have no choice but to retaliate. And it wouldn’t be an easy or swift war. It would be fought over years with no clear victor ever being declared no matter what propaganda was circulated.

He’d expected Honor to be a terrified damsel in distress, throwing herself hysterically into his protection once she discovered he was American and that he was getting her out of the country. And she had been afraid. No sane person wouldn’t be in her situation. But she’d kept it together and had refused to give in to the overwhelming panic and despair she had to be feeling.

She was hurt and exhausted. He’d seen the remains of the relief center and he was astounded that she’d survived, much less been able to flee and remain one step ahead of ruthless killers hunting her for days—a group that had endless resources and whose reach extended well beyond the borders of this country.

This was a tough woman. A fighter. He could feel regret that one such as she would have to be sacrificed for the greater good, but not so much that it would deter him from his ultimate goal of bringing Maksimov down. And now, seeing the horrific trail of death and terror that followed A New Era’s every move, Hancock knew that he couldn’t stop at just Maksimov, as he’d decided some time ago. This group had to be dismantled. Destroyed before their power became such that they were unstoppable.

He inwardly grimaced because he wasn’t a liar, and he hadn’t lied to her in so many words. Only because he hadn’t offered her much in the way of words at all. He couldn’t see her as human. An innocent. Someone who deserved saving because her life meant something and the world would lose one of the good. Because if he allowed himself those dangerous emotions, they’d interfere with vengeance for hundreds of thousands who had no other to carry out justice for them. Not to mention the ones who would follow. Who hadn’t yet fallen victim to the brand of violence Maksimov sold—and inspired—on a daily basis. Those were the faceless people he allowed to infiltrate his conscience and take permanent root. Not a single woman—a martyr to his cause. He wouldn’t turn his back on the masses when so many others had—and would continue to do so.