Again, a truth. Because they were winging it and with Honor once more slipping beyond A New Era’s grasp, the terrorists would be more enraged than ever. They’d thought that victory was finally theirs after tracking her to the village and surrounding it, lying in wait to apprehend her.
As unpredictable as they were, and with the true extent of their reach and many of their allies secret and as of yet unknown, Hancock wasn’t fool enough to think that because he’d gotten Honor safely from the village, it would be a simple matter of leaving the area. Her pursuers would know she had help, and they’d put two and two together and realize that Hancock and his men were the only logical source of that aid. It would take only minimal investigation to realize that Hancock and his men weren’t who they’d appeared to be—members of A New Era contributing to the search for the American woman. They were now targets just as Honor was.
“How far is this journey to this place you’ll let me know when we get to?”
She was sounding more pissed by the minute, and edgy sarcasm laced her every word.
He reached down and pulled her carefully onto the seat between him and Mojo. She likely hadn’t gotten a good look at the member of his team on her other side or she would have been scared out of her mind.
Mojo was . . . He was the epitome of what Titan had sought and wanted to create at its inception. Already battle hardened and suffering what the shrinks all called post-traumatic stress disorder, he was an unfeeling, fighting machine. He rarely spoke. His moniker had been given to him because his trademark comment for everything was either “Good mojo” or “Bad mojo.” Given their line of work, it was rare they’d ever heard “Good mojo.”
He was big and scary-looking, mostly bald with a light layer of bristly short-cropped hair. It was only close up that you could even see he had hair. Scars lined his face and his nose had been broken numerous times. His eyes were flat and cold, the kind that made religious people cross themselves and utter a quick prayer.
But no, she’d obviously gotten a look at him already because she glared up at him, not a hint of fear or revulsion in her features as Mojo helped pull her up between him and Hancock.
“Now you want to help me,” she muttered.
To Hancock’s astonishment, Mojo almost smiled. Almost. It was the closest the man had ever come to anything remotely resembling a smile.
His teeth flashed. “Good mojo.”
“Whatever,” Honor said under her breath. “Hey!” she said, slapping at Hancock’s hand when it delved underneath her robe. He slid his palm up her leg, pushing the material with it. “What are you doing?”
“I need to take a look at your injury,” Hancock said, ignoring her indignation.
“You’re just avoiding my question,” she accused.
“What question would that be?” he asked in the same disinterested tone that suggested she was an inconvenience.
“All of them?” she snapped. “But we’ll start with how long will it take to get to this mysterious place you’re taking me?”
Her tone was frigid, but her eyes flashed and he realized that the few photos he’d been provided of her hadn’t accurately portrayed her true character any more than the rundown of her personal data.
She looked sweet, innocent, benign and meek in the photos. Like a na?ve do-gooder with the idea she was going to save the world but who had no idea of the reality of the situations she put herself in.
But in reality, she was anything but sweet or meek. There was a seething cauldron of fire simmering just below the na?ve-looking features. And her will was strong, as evidenced by the fact that after surviving the attack, she’d run, and not recklessly with no plan or intelligence. She was cool under pressure, and she thought quick on her feet. It wouldn’t do for Hancock to ever relax his guard around her. If he gave her too much of a reason to distrust him and his intentions—as she had every reason to—she wouldn’t hesitate to bolt, and he didn’t have time to spend another week running her to ground. This time he might not get to her before A New Era did.