So deeply entrenched in her fierce thought process was she that she spoke before censoring her words.
“I was merely making a vow not to let these assholes make me quit,” she blurted out.
Embarrassed by her impassioned outburst, she ducked her head, her voice more of a mumble now.
“Most people would run home and never leave again,” she said quietly. “I’m not most people and I’m needed here. And other places. Places most people won’t go. But those are the places where the need is the greatest. And just as you have all risked your lives to save me—one person—then so too will I risk my life to help countless others. Your risk won’t be in vain. My life means something. It has purpose. I won’t go quietly, nor will I let those bastards frighten me into sticking my head into the sand and staying at home with Mommy and Daddy like a coward.”
Her tone had grown fiercer with every word until they blazed with heat to match the intensity of her emotions.
The others fell silent, the quiet stretching and blanketing the interior of the vehicle. Some looked down. Others looked away, blindly, out a window or at simply nothing at all. There was tangible discomfort and she frowned, not understanding why. Were they pissed that they were risking their lives for someone who would willingly put herself at risk all over again?
She supposed it did seem as though she were ungrateful and uncaring of the sacrifices they made. They were probably wondering why the hell they were out here in the middle of the desert risking their asses for a woman who didn’t appreciate their efforts or why they didn’t just dump her out and leave her to fend for herself.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” she said in a low voice. “But I can’t turn my back on these people. They have no one to fight for them. No one to aid them. And if I let terrorists sway me from my objective, then they win, regardless of whether I escape or not, whether I live or die.”
She plunged ahead before any could respond, not that a response appeared imminent. They weren’t exactly talkative. They made Hancock seem like a regular conversationalist, and he was a bare-minimum kind of guy at best. But his men? Had even less to say. But perhaps as their leader, they let Hancock do the talking while they did the acting.
“I don’t want to appear ungrateful for what you’ve done—what you’re doing. Nor am I being cavalier about the fact that you risked your lives to rescue me and pull me out. It may appear to you that way, but I can’t possibly explain how much it matters to me that I not be manipulated and coerced through fear or threats.”
Conrad muttered an indecipherable curse beside her, turning so he faced the window and she couldn’t see his eyes or expression. She could swear that her statement had made them all . . . uncomfortable . . . and not for the reasons she’d cited. Copeland, or Cope as his team called him, looked guilty.
She swung her puzzled stare in Hancock’s direction and for once found comfort in the fact that his face was an impenetrable mask, no emotion, opinion or judgment. No agreement or condemnation echoed in his eyes. He just regarded her with that steady gaze, his expression inscrutable as always.