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.