Hancock had made it very clear that Honor must heal before they arranged to deliver her to Maksimov and that it had to be on their—Hancock’s—terms or they would lose any bargaining power they currently possessed. The only thing keeping Bristow alive was the fact that Maksimov didn’t know where Honor was, and he made certain that Bristow realized just how dangerous and powerful a man like Maksimov was.
Bristow was dangerous and held much power in his own right, but Hancock made certain that Bristow feared Maksimov and rightly so. He spoke of Maksimov in a tone that Bristow couldn’t possibly mistake, and Bristow had gone pale listening to Hancock’s matter-of-fact recitation of just what Maksimov would do to achieve his means. Life and death meant nothing to a man such as Maksimov, who didn’t just consider himself invincible. He truly thought he was immortal. A god among mere men, able to come and go as he pleased. A bringer of death and destruction, and he was unstoppable.
That kind of thinking nearly made it so in Maksimov’s case. He was a cagey bastard, unlike others who’d come before him wearing that same shield of invincibility, convinced that no one could get to him, who had fucked up. They all did at some point. But so far Maksimov displayed no sign of carelessness. No sign that he took for granted what he thought himself to be. Indestructible.
Though he thought it, was utterly convinced of it, he still was careful to keep a tightly woven net of security around him, removing anyone he considered a threat to his cause. He was judge and executioner, and no one received a fair trial with Maksimov. If Maksimov even thought one was disloyal, had betrayed him or simply didn’t have the will to do what Maksimov demanded, then he was discarded with all the care Maksimov reserved for disposing trash.
That kind of fear bought him a lot of loyalty. It bought him men who’d rather take certain death than face Maksimov after failing to carry out a mission. He bred relentless, desperate soldiers who’d die carrying out Maksimov’s orders, sometimes by their own hand if they failed. It was a preferable fate to facing Maksimov and having to tell the dictator they had failed. Maksimov had no tolerance for failure. He didn’t accept it in himself and he sure as hell didn’t accept it from those who worked for him.
In all the years Hancock had hunted him, he’d found no weakness in Maksimov he could exploit. Not a single chink in his armor. The man cared for nothing other than himself. It was damn hard to get close to a man in order to be able to exploit his weaknesses when it appeared he had none.
But Hancock knew better. There was something. There was always something. He himself would have sworn he had no weaknesses. Nothing that could be used against him. But he also knew he was wrong. He had Big Eddie. Raid and Ryker. And Eden. Precious, innocent and good Eden.
He’d been careful never to expose them, never to allow anyone to know of their existence because they would most certainly be in danger every day of their lives. He even kept his distance from the fucking Kellys because anyone with eyes could tell that he respected them. He might not like them, their methods or their ethics. The things he considered their weaknesses. But over the years he’d grown to realize that they weren’t so different from him. They just controlled their impulses better than Hancock did.
When someone hurt one of their own, they retaliated and carried out swift justice. And it wasn’t the justice most people considered. They hadn’t used the legal system. No, they’d carried out their own brand of justice, crossing lines Hancock had long ago crossed. From them he hadn’t expected it, though. They were too rigidly set in good. Captain Americas, he’d always sneered at them and about them.
But some of the things they’d done in the name of justice were no better than Hancock had done himself on many occasions. He felt a stirring of admiration for P.J. Coletrane. The woman had been brutalized. The details still set his teeth on edge because he was furious at her team for leaving her vulnerable. For not covering her better. She deserved better than what they’d given her, and she’d paid the ultimate price.
And then she’d walked away from her team, not wanting to drag them into the muck of revenge. No justice. Cold-blooded revenge. She’d hunted down every single man responsible for the vicious attack on her, and she’d killed them all. And in the end, her team had caught up to her and they’d stood side by side with her, not allowing her to bear the brunt of the repercussions.
The Kellys were a different breed of people. The kind of people that Hancock once could have been more like had he chosen a different path. The right path. They were fierce protectors. The good guys. The ones you called on when you needed help. They were good, maybe as good as Hancock was himself, but where he stood out, having the distinct advantage, was that he was far more willing to delve into those twisted gray—no, not even gray . . . black areas. A line none of the Kellys would ever cross unless it concerned someone they loved. One of their wives. Their teammates. Any other mission would be run by the book.
None of them. Not a single member of the KGI group would ever stoop to Hancock’s level. They’d never rescue a beaten-down woman who then took a bullet meant for one of their men and then repay her with treachery. All in the name of the greater good.
P.J. Coletrane’s face came into his vision, her snarling features giving him an inward smile. He could hear her words as if she’d said them herself.
Fuck the greater good.
Yes, it was absolutely something she—and the rest of her team—would say. Especially Steele. The team leader reputed to be much like Hancock himself. Ice running in his veins. A machine incapable of feeling anything. Able to do a mission without emotion clouding his judgment and weighing him down.