He cupped her face firmly when she resisted, and he pulled her into a gentle kiss, pouring out all the emotion he’d never allowed himself to feel until her.

He tasted her hot tears. Felt her keen sense of betrayal as if it had been done to him, and it only made him hate himself more for what he knew he had to do.

Kissing her again, he whispered against her lips, “Trust me, Honor. Don’t fight it. Just go to sleep now. Just go to sleep.”

“Am I dying?” she asked in a choked voice, tears silently streaking down her cheeks. “Kiss me,” she whispered, eyes bright with those heart-wrenching tears. “Kiss me one last time before I go. Pretend this once, for me.”

It broke his heart that she thought he’d pretended passion with her. That he’d used her, manipulated her emotions and tricked her into trusting him. Believing in him.

But he gave her what she wanted—what he wanted, savoring the sweetness of her mouth one last time before they had to go. Then he drew away, gazing intently into her eyes so she would know he was sincere.

“No, baby,” he said tenderly, stroking a hand through her silky hair. “Just trust me. Just this once. Trust me. Death doesn’t come to the innocent this day.”

But her eyes had already closed and had he not had his hand against her head, stroking her hair, she would have listed to the side, already unconscious. He swore violently, tears burning his own eyelids. She’d slipped under not only thinking she was breathing her last breath, but that he had been the one to poison her. His final betrayal when she’d offered him her trust time and time again, only for him to break it over and over.

So much regret surged through his body, heart, mind and soul. For a moment he simply gathered her in his arms and held on, burying his face in her soft neck. He inhaled deeply, wanting to savor this one moment in time when there were no impossible barriers between them to breach.

He grieved silently, holding the woman who’d forever changed the course of his fate—his destiny—the very direction of his entire future. And then he once more reached for and embraced the familiar, icy chill of indifference. He made the transition from a man with humanity, a soul, to an emotionless killer. A machine programmed to carry out the mission at all cost. Or die trying.

Without a word, he bent and carefully gathered her in his arms before rising with her. He strode to the door and into the hall where his men waited, having shed any remaining vestiges of his deep connection to Honor, refusing to contemplate that he could very well be taking her to her death.

They all had grim expressions, having no more liking for the task than Hancock did. But they had no choice. It was their only chance to save Honor. And finally take down Maksimov. God help them all if they failed.

God help the world if Honor was lost and Hancock survived. Because no one would be able to stop him. Not even the devil himself.

CHAPTER 31

THE members of Titan crept silently through the brush, circumventing the route Maksimov had outlined so they’d surround him and come in behind him where he thought he would be safe. They’d spent countless hours, considering every angle, every possibility, preparing for the worst-case scenario and the easiest. After all, sometimes the path of least resistance was . . . just that.

For the first time, Hancock didn’t lead his men as he always did, placing himself between him and his team. His team—their safety—was his responsibility, but today Honor was his sole objective.

The others encircled him and Honor, forming a protective barrier around him and the unconscious woman he held so carefully in his arms. He’d ensured that the drug he’d given her was strong so there was no chance she’d regain consciousness until it was all over with and she’d awaken in his arms, safe with the knowledge that it was over. That Maksimov was no longer a threat and she was finally safe. Beyond the reach of ANE.

And well, a few planted seeds, leaks to the right media outlets, and a sensational story would spread like wildfire that Honor Cambridge had died at the hands of ANE. It would save face for them and appease their sense of dishonor. Their public image was everything and as long as Honor kept a low profile, she would be safe within the confines of the United States.

But they were going to have a serious come-to-Jesus meeting about her vow not to let ANE disrupt her work. She was never going back to her old job. Over his dead body would she put herself in that kind of jeopardy again, and he knew he’d have allies with her family.

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, fuck 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.