“Jet’s already running. We need to load and go. We aren’t completely out of the no-fly zone and these assholes have heat-seeking missiles that could take us out.”

Hancock nodded his acknowledgment and then began gently extricating himself from around Honor, moving slowly so he didn’t wake her from her drug-induced slumber.

“Prep another syringe,” Hancock directed his second. “Just in case she rouses midflight. I want her out until she’s in a bedroom and doesn’t waken thinking she’s in immediate danger.”

It had already been said. It was unnecessary for Hancock to explain himself again. It wasn’t something he ever did. Or had. Until now. It felt too much like he was justifying his actions, his decisions. Defending them. And that really pissed him off.

Conrad’s eyes flickered, the only outward sign of the man’s dislike for the mission, but he didn’t argue. He merely nodded and dragged the med kit from the back as Hancock crawled over Honor to get out.

He waved off Copeland’s offer to help get Honor from the vehicle. Honor was Hancock’s responsibility. His alone. His men were already unsettled, their usually unquestionable resolve faltering. He wouldn’t place them in the position of feeling they contributed more to Honor’s fate. That sin was for him and him alone to bear for all time.

There would be no atonement. No grace for one such as he. He’d been unsalvageable long before this—Honor—but even if he’d had any shot at redemption, this would have sealed his eternal damnation. Hell was too good for someone who’d lived his life shedding the blood of others and sacrificing innocents for the fucking greater good.

How could he even face his family after this? How could he look the man he considered a father in the eyes? Face his brothers. And Eden. An angel with more compassion and goodness in her soul than any other person he’d ever known. Except . . . Honor. Somehow his betrayal of Honor seemed to be as unforgivable as if he’d sacrificed Eden. He’d dropped the guise of justice and his pursuit of Maksimov, not once but twice, to save other innocents. So why not Honor?

If he were truly honest, he would admit to himself, to his men, that this being their last chance was bullshit. There was always another opportunity given time and patience. But patience was what he was fast running out of. His resolve to end it now had less to do with it being his only shot and a lot more to do with the fact that Hancock was weary and he wanted out.

His selfishness would cost Honor . . . everything. Because he was consumed with guilt, an emotion he’d thought he’d become immune to long ago, and he could no longer continue this empty, soulless existence. It was a choice, not between bringing Maksimov to swift justice or not, but between himself and Honor. Her life so Hancock could complete his final mission and walk away to live a half-life with no meaning, color or purpose.

He would exist. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He could end it all and simply kill himself, but that was too easy and he didn’t deserve final peace. He deserved to wake each morning and look in the mirror at the man who’d fucked over a beautiful, selfless woman just so he could stand down and not allow the ever-encroaching blackness that spread like an evil stain over his soul to erase the last vestiges of humanity he possessed.

Reverently, as though he carried a precious treasure, he cradled Honor in his arms and boarded the small jet. He continued past the three rows of seats at the front of the plane to the back, where there was a sitting lounge that held a small sofa and two leather armchairs.

Using his shoulder, he brushed open the door at the rear of the plane and entered the tiny bedroom that housed a double bed with barely enough room on either side of it to squeeze between it and the walls.

Hefting her slight weight so that he could free one of his hands, he pulled the covers back and positioned one of the pillows so he could lay Honor down in comfort.

He eased her onto the mattress and gently lowered her head until it met the pillow. He tensed when she stirred briefly and then let out his breath when she merely emitted a sigh and snuggled deeper into the pillow.

He started to pull the covers up over her body but hesitated, knowing he needed to check her wound while she was still sedated and make sure the stitches had held and she wasn’t bleeding. He would do all of that once they were in the air. For now, he eased his large body onto the edge. He cursed when he bumped his head into the wall as he took his boots off. It took careful maneuvering to accomplish the task in the very narrow parameters of the bedroom.

Hancock’s head immediately came up, his eyes sharp. There had been no knock on the door, but he knew immediately when it opened, even as soundlessly as it had been done.

Conrad didn’t say anything. He never even looked Honor’s way. In fact, it appeared he made a very concerted effort not to let her into his line of sight, his face cold and unreadable, his eyes black, those of the killer they all were as he simply held out the syringe Hancock had requested.

Hancock took it from his man’s hand and Conrad simply turned and walked out, his gaze never once moving in Honor’s direction.

Hancock curled his fingers around the syringe, hating himself a little more with every breath. He’d never liked himself, but he would have never thought he hated himself until . . . now. He knew his job was brutal. That to others he was a heartless monster. Machine, not human. He had never hated himself because he knew that what he did was necessary. And righteous.

But now?

Self-loathing permeated every heartbeat. Because there was nothing righteous about sending an innocent woman to hell, no matter how many lives it saved in the process.

CHAPTER 15

HANCOCK only lightly dozed, not allowing himself to fall fully into sleep. Somehow, Honor had once more sought out his body and was curled into him like a kitten. His shirt was tightly fisted in her hands even in sleep, as if she were holding on to the only solid thing in her life.

Even her legs were entwined with his, and she rested on her uninjured side and her head was nestled not on the pillow he’d settled her on, but on his shoulder. He could feel the light puffs of her breath blow warmly over his neck, and he marveled at how something so innocent and benign could feel so . . . good.

Just holding her felt good. Right. As if she belonged there. Under his protection.

He slammed the door on that thought so swiftly that he nearly flinched. He wasn’t her protector. But the fleeting thought had given him savage, albeit brief, satisfaction. He couldn’t remember feeling something so good. He didn’t have a lot of experience with good. Bad he could handle. Could process and compartmentalize it. Good? Not so much. That brief flash had been nearly intoxicating as for a moment he’d contemplated being the good guy. The knight in shining armor Honor seemed to consider him. And that was dangerous. No, not dangerous. Deadly. Because he could easily become addicted to an emotion denied to him until those few seconds ago.

He didn’t have many more hours to endure and remain focused until . . .

He closed his eyes, shocked by the pain that splintered through his heart at what was to come. Something that felt suspiciously like . . . sorrow . . . filtered sluggishly through his veins, creeping into his heart, filling it with an unfamiliar pain.

He was blessedly distracted from the direction of his thoughts, and the danger they posed, when Honor stirred restlessly against him. He could feel her every movement, knew that she was gradually climbing through the fog of the sedative, feeling her way to awareness.