It was through the stories of her survival and escape retold, the reverence and respect already ingrained within their hearts—their pride in one fierce American warrior woman, as they’d labeled her—that Hancock felt as though he’d truly gotten to know the real Honor Cambridge. No longer was he guided by the sterile, peripheral intel he’d been provided giving him a rundown of her life, her training and how long she’d tirelessly and selflessly devoted herself to the needs of others in an area few would dare to venture into. The true heart of her and her motivation had been revealed to him by those who knew her, or knew of her. She was believed by many to be an angel sent from Allah. A courageous angel of vengeance who fearlessly ventured into places avoided by most sane people, who simply didn’t care about the horrific suffering of those who lived their entire lives here and certainly wouldn’t risk their lives to offer compassion and try to make their lives a little easier. To give them a single moment of peace when such a thing was alien and unknown to them.

Hell, even the U.S. military stayed out of the areas A New Era had a foothold in, not wanting to start a bloody war and sacrifice countless American soldiers in a battle that could never be won. If they weren’t able to rid the world of the ever-growing army, they would fail. If they annihilated the lot of them, the terrorists would be held up as martyrs, inspiring others to revenge, which would give them victory even from the grave.

It was inevitable, of course. When the fanatical group felt they were powerful enough to turn their focus on U.S. holdings—and it was only a matter of time—then the United States would have no choice but to retaliate. And it wouldn’t be an easy or swift war. It would be fought over years with no clear victor ever being declared no matter what propaganda was circulated.

He’d expected Honor to be a terrified damsel in distress, throwing herself hysterically into his protection once she discovered he was American and that he was getting her out of the country. And she had been afraid. No sane person wouldn’t be in her situation. But she’d kept it together and had refused to give in to the overwhelming panic and despair she had to be feeling.

She was hurt and exhausted. He’d seen the remains of the relief center and he was astounded that she’d survived, much less been able to flee and remain one step ahead of ruthless killers hunting her for days—a group that had endless resources and whose reach extended well beyond the borders of this country.

This was a tough woman. A fighter. He could feel regret that one such as she would have to be sacrificed for the greater good, but not so much that it would deter him from his ultimate goal of bringing Maksimov down. And now, seeing the horrific trail of death and terror that followed A New Era’s every move, Hancock knew that he couldn’t stop at just Maksimov, as he’d decided some time ago. This group had to be dismantled. Destroyed before their power became such that they were unstoppable.

He inwardly grimaced because he wasn’t a liar, and he hadn’t lied to her in so many words. Only because he hadn’t offered her much in the way of words at all. He couldn’t see her as human. An innocent. Someone who deserved saving because her life meant something and the world would lose one of the good. Because if he allowed himself those dangerous emotions, they’d interfere with vengeance for hundreds of thousands who had no other to carry out justice for them. Not to mention the ones who would follow. Who hadn’t yet fallen victim to the brand of violence Maksimov sold—and inspired—on a daily basis. Those were the faceless people he allowed to infiltrate his conscience and take permanent root. Not a single woman—a martyr to his cause. He wouldn’t turn his back on the masses when so many others had—and would continue to do so.

He hadn’t promised this woman ultimate salvation or even that he’d get her safely home. All he’d told her was one simple truth. That he wasn’t going to allow her to be captured by A New Era. He’d said nothing further, leaving her to decipher what she would of the one promise he had made her. A promise he would absolutely keep. Or die trying.

And when the time came to . . . betray . . . her, he wouldn’t lie to her then either. He had to prevent the scowl from forming on his face at the idea that he was betraying anyone. It wasn’t betrayal to save the majority at the cost of one single person, woman or man. That kind of thinking was what had fucked up the last two opportunities he’d had to take Maksimov out for good, and he’d be damned if it would happen again. He wasn’t a goddamn hero. He was the face and bringer of justice. Nothing more.

She would know that her fate meant something, though. That her life meant something—everything. Whether it gave her solace or not, he couldn’t control, but he wouldn’t allow her to think that her death was yet another senseless, meaningless statistic. And he would, as tribute to her bravery and sacrifice, send word to her family, letting them know their daughter, their sister, hadn’t died for nothing. She would, if Hancock’s plan was executed and carried out successfully, save too many innocent lives to count.

When Honor still looked expectantly at him, her eyes narrowing at his prolonged silence, he remembered that she’d asked, or rather demanded, to know who he was. He supposed she deserved that at least. And it would give credence to the idea that he and his men had been sent to extricate her, though he wouldn’t actively cultivate that lie. What conclusions she drew were of her own making.

“I’m Hancock,” he said simply. “And the men surrounding you are my team. They’re highly skilled. The best. They won’t let any harm come to you as we journey to a safer place.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she studied him intently. She didn’t like his vagueness, and furthermore she knew he was holding something back. In addition to being tenacious and extremely courageous, she had a sharp, intelligent mind and she was adept at reading people.

He sighed inwardly. It was never easy. He wanted to have no respect or admiration for this woman. He didn’t want to feel anything at all. It would have been far better if she had been a hysterical, mindless, incompetent twit. He could summon disdain and annoyance for such a person. But he respected a fighting spirit. Bravery in the face of overwhelming terror. And the refusal to back down even when confronting insurmountable obstacles. These were traits he not only admired but had actively cultivated in all the men serving him. It had been ingrained in him, first by his foster parents, and later by the man who’d been Titan’s first leader. Rio. The man who’d trained Hancock and taught him the necessary skills to be the ultimate fighting—and thinking—machine. Because battles were won not by brute force alone, but by strategy and the ability to correctly assess the enemy. By pushing detrimental emotion aside and feeling nothing at all. By becoming more machine than man.

“Just where is this ‘safe place’?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’ll let you know when we get there.”

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.