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“She doesn’t deserve her fate,” Cope said by way of explanation, his expression grim, actual anger brimming in his usually cold, emotionless gaze. “And I don’t like the fact that we’re deceiving her. She’s . . . courageous,” he said, as though struggling to come up with the right word to describe her. “She deserves to be spared. She held off those fuckers for over a week and evaded capture. I don’t know of anyone, much less a woman, who can claim the same. She’s already a fucking national hero, not only to the people here, but in the U.S. as well.”
“Bad mojo,” Mojo said again, making Hancock realize that Mojo’s feelings mirrored Copeland’s own, and that was why he’d uttered the first “Bad mojo.”
Well, fuck. This wasn’t ever a complication he’d encountered with his team. Not once. Not even when they’d forcibly taken Grace from KGI, shooting one of KGI’s men in the process and damn near killing Rio later. And Grace as well. Not when they’d allowed Caldwell to abduct Maren when she was pregnant and vulnerable and keep her under lock and key until Hancock was forced—by his goddamn newly developed conscience—to intercede and blow his mission all to hell to get her out.
“One hero? Or the hundreds of thousands of innocent people who will fall victim to Maksimov if he isn’t taken out for good?” Hancock asked in a challenging tone, reminding his men of their role in the world. Reminding them of their purpose. Their only purpose. Their mission wasn’t to judge, to decide who was worthy or unworthy. Their only job was to rid the world of the predators who preyed on the innocent, which meant that sometimes they were the very ones preying on the innocent in order to achieve their goal.
The dissension in his ranks mirrored his own thoughts too closely—thoughts he’d firmly shoved away, not allowing himself to feel guilt. Or regret. He didn’t like it one goddamn bit, and he had to nip this in the bud before it got out of control and he had mutiny on his hands—something he’d never considered in a million years. His men were too steady. Too solid. Too focused. Just as he was. They followed his lead, never questioning.
Until now.
“I get it,” Cope muttered. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“We don’t have to like it,” Hancock said tightly. “But we do have to do our job. Even at the cost of one innocent. The good of the many—”
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Cope said, impatiently cutting his leader off, again something Hancock’s men never dared to do. “The good of the many takes priority over the good of the one. Team motto. Whatever. But it gets pretty damn old and it’s why, after Maksimov, I’m done.”
“You know we have to go after A New Era,” Hancock said quietly, still holding Honor firmly against his chest.
Looks were exchanged between his team members. Some of acknowledgment. Some of resignation and acceptance. Some indecisive.
“Bad mojo,” Mojo said in a disgruntled voice that clearly reflected his stand. And it wasn’t with the mission or the “greater good.”
“And what then?” Conrad asked, speaking up for the first time. “I’m in. I’m with you. You know that. But when will it be time to stop fighting the good fight and allow others to fight in our stead? There’s always another asshole who needs taking out. After Maksimov, after A New Era, there will be another. There’s always another. When does it end?”
Frustration licked up Hancock’s spine. And the source of the conflict that had arisen amid his men was curled protectively in his arms. One small woman. A very small part of him wished she’d died with the others. Because then he wouldn’t be here, having chased over half the country after her. He wouldn’t be having this ridiculous conversation with his men, whose priorities had never wavered in all the time they’d worked under him. And yet one small woman had done considerable damage to their unity, and that pissed him off.
If she hadn’t survived, things would be a hell of a lot less complicated.
“That has to be your choice,” Hancock said honestly. “You can walk away at any time. No one’s making you stay. Do we need you? Hell, yeah. There’s no one I’d rather have at my back than the five of you. But everyone here would understand if you walked away at any time. After Maksimov, if you—any of you—are ready to hang it up, no one is going to have a single word to say other than good journey. And you’ll always have my gratitude for your service. If you ever have need of me, all it takes is a call. We will always have your back. Once one of us, always one of us. Your retiring doesn’t change a goddamn thing.”
When his men remained silent, Hancock gave them an impatient look they couldn’t misunderstand. Get the vehicle to cover and bed down for the night. They’d wasted enough time already. Time they didn’t have to spare.
Then he simply descended the makeshift steps into the shelter and traveled across the small enclosure to the far corner, where he placed Honor on one of the cots so he and his men would be between her and the entrance. It was the safest place in the small compound.
They were well protected here, surrounded by reinforced walls and ceilings that prevented their heat signatures from penetrating and being detected by someone on the outside using heat-seeking instruments. And unless someone dropped a nuclear bomb on them, it was safe from blasts. Unless they sustained a continuous and heavy attack.
It was a leftover facility from the days when Titan worked under the U.S. government with full permission to carry out their missions using whatever means necessary. They’d been equipped with the best that money could buy. It was risky to come back here, but Titan had long ago been disbanded and only KGI and one lone CIA operative and his black ops team, who reported only to Resnick, the CIA agent, knew with absolute certainty that Hancock and his men were still alive and a definite threat to anyone who crossed their path. There was suspicion, especially among the upper echelons, those who’d had a part in Titan’s creation, that Titan was still operating. Or rather had gone rogue. But only very few knew that they were very much alive—and more dangerous than ever.
