It was one of the few times Hancock had left Honor’s side, but he’d ensured she’d sleep in his absence, and Bristow’s men knew the consequences of trespassing. Hancock had made it very clear that no one was to be granted access to Honor’s private quarters, using her injuries as an excuse.
Bristow was impatient. Excited and edgy, like someone who’d found a treasure worth more than all the gold and jewels in the world. His anticipation was thick in the air when he was in the room and it was why Hancock avoided him for the most part. Bristow’s sickness of the soul—the foul stench that always emanated from him—was difficult for Hancock to handle without it overwhelming his senses. He felt ill, smothered by so much evil that he could barely breathe. It was suffocating him, like someone who was severely claustrophobic, and Hancock was anything but that. He could remain motionless in a cramped space a man of his size should never be able to fit into for days, weeks when necessary, waiting for that one opportunity. A rare window in which only one with ultimate patience would ever get to take down an elusive mark.
Bristow wanted to send word to Maksimov immediately, but Hancock warned him that if Maksimov knew of the woman before they were ready, he wouldn’t sit back and wait as Bristow was currently doing. He’d come after Honor and he’d lay waste to anyone in the path of his quarry.
Hancock had made it very clear that Honor must heal before they arranged to deliver her to Maksimov and that it had to be on their—Hancock’s—terms or they would lose any bargaining power they currently possessed. The only thing keeping Bristow alive was the fact that Maksimov didn’t know where Honor was, and he made certain that Bristow realized just how dangerous and powerful a man like Maksimov was.
Bristow was dangerous and held much power in his own right, but Hancock made certain that Bristow feared Maksimov and rightly so. He spoke of Maksimov in a tone that Bristow couldn’t possibly mistake, and Bristow had gone pale listening to Hancock’s matter-of-fact recitation of just what Maksimov would do to achieve his means. Life and death meant nothing to a man such as Maksimov, who didn’t just consider himself invincible. He truly thought he was immortal. A god among mere men, able to come and go as he pleased. A bringer of death and destruction, and he was unstoppable.
That kind of thinking nearly made it so in Maksimov’s case. He was a cagey bastard, unlike others who’d come before him wearing that same shield of invincibility, convinced that no one could get to him, who had fucked up. They all did at some point. But so far Maksimov displayed no sign of carelessness. No sign that he took for granted what he thought himself to be. Indestructible.
Though he thought it, was utterly convinced of it, he still was careful to keep a tightly woven net of security around him, removing anyone he considered a threat to his cause. He was judge and executioner, and no one received a fair trial with Maksimov. If Maksimov even thought one was disloyal, had betrayed him or simply didn’t have the will to do what Maksimov demanded, then he was discarded with all the care Maksimov reserved for disposing trash.
That kind of fear bought him a lot of loyalty. It bought him men who’d rather take certain death than face Maksimov after failing to carry out a mission. He bred relentless, desperate soldiers who’d die carrying out Maksimov’s orders, sometimes by their own hand if they failed. It was a preferable fate to facing Maksimov and having to tell the dictator they had failed. Maksimov had no tolerance for failure. He didn’t accept it in himself and he sure as hell didn’t accept it from those who worked for him.
In all the years Hancock had hunted him, he’d found no weakness in Maksimov he could exploit. Not a single chink in his armor. The man cared for nothing other than himself. It was damn hard to get close to a man in order to be able to exploit his weaknesses when it appeared he had none.