“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 asshole 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.
“Perhaps the idiot Bristow intended to kill her or use her in such a manner that neither you nor ANE would want her,” suggested Ruslan, Bristow’s second. “You’ve received all the intel on him and his men. You know that they take their missions seriously, and you wouldn’t have paid Bristow for damaged goods, which means he and his men wouldn’t have been paid either. He’s a mercenary. I doubt he was interested in anything more than a paycheck.”
“Perhaps,” Maksimov reluctantly conceded. “He did as I asked and drugged her, and it does appear as though he was set to deliver her to me. Ah well, it never pays to be too careful.”
Maksimov sounded perplexed and a little amused at the notion he could be wrong. He toed Hancock’s body and then bent to pry Honor away from him. Honor was lifted and Hancock’s hand trailed down her body to desperately latch onto her hand, holding for the briefest of moments before it was pulled forcibly from his grasp.
“No, I wasn’t wrong at all,” Maksimov said smugly. He appeared in Hancock’s blurred vision above him. “I wonder what you thought you were doing by hand-delivering the girl to me?” He laughed and then leveled a pistol at Hancock’s chest and rapidly fired a shot.
Despite the Kevlar vest Hancock and all his men wore, at such close range and with the fact that Maksimov was using what on the streets were called “cop killers,” meaning they could penetrate a bulletproof vest, while he didn’t feel like the bullet had penetrated his skin, it damn sure felt like he’d broken some ribs. Or something vital. It was like being hit by a pitchfork from hell. Apropos, since soon he’d be at the gates of hell. The gates would be flung wide and he’d be welcomed like a lost child or an escaped sinner who’d been judged and found guilty several lifetimes ago.
For so long, he’d embraced the notion that he’d lost all semblance of humanity and was the emotionless ice man everyone thought him to be. Because it meant never feeling remorse. It meant never feeling loss so devastating that it threatened to consume him and eat at his soul until there was nothing left. Anything at all was worth not feeling that. He knew that now, because he felt it all now. And it was worse than any mortal bullet wound would ever be. The world faded to black around him and a single tear trickled from the corner of his eye over his temple to disappear into his hair.