Darkest Before Dawn

But from whom? Had word spread of her survival? Did the U.S. government care enough about one lowly relief worker to risk some of their finest men, or worse, starting an unofficial war with A New Era? Or had her story reached the media and swept across the world in sensationalistic style, forcing the United States to act? And God, what must her family be enduring? She wanted to asked Hancock if there was a way they could be contacted. Just to let them know she was alive. But no, that would be cruel. She wasn’t out of the woods yet, and to give them false hope only for her to end up dead after all would be terrible for them.

She wanted answers, but these men were as tightlipped as they came. Hancock didn’t even answer her more innocuous questions without making it a federal issue. As if her fate wasn’t something she had a right to know.

Anger blazed through her veins all over again at his domineering, asshole demeanor. But was she doing just as he’d insinuated? No, he hadn’t insinuated anything. He’d very bluntly told her she was looking a gift horse in the mouth. A good bedside demeanor was purely optional. If they got her out of the country and on her way back home, they could all be flaming assholes for all she cared.

“How badly are you hurting?”

Hancock’s soft question startled her, breaking the silence that had descended in the interior of the off-road vehicle. She couldn’t help but swing her head toward him in surprise, wondering if she’d imagined the question. Or the actual . . . concern . . . in his voice. Surely she’d imagined that part at least.

Turning so fast made her promptly regret doing so. Pain speared through her head and suddenly black dots swam in her vision, her surroundings growing dim, fading almost to black.

Hancock swore and then suddenly she found herself eased downward, her head coming to rest gently on Hancock’s lap. The other man lifted her legs and positioned them across his lap so that she lay between the two men.

“You didn’t tell me you had a head injury. Just the knee injury,” Hancock said grimly.

Already his fingers were delving into her hair and she tensed, expecting him to be rough. But he was extremely gentle as he felt along her scalp.

“I didn’t know,” she managed to slur out. “How could I have known? I was in shock after the attack and then desperate to form a plan to escape—and survive. The only injury that registered was to my knee. It made walking . . . difficult.”

“I can imagine,” Hancock said dryly. “It’s still very swollen, aggravated, no doubt, by all that walking.”

His fingers glanced over a spot and she immediately cried out, blackness and nausea engulfing her.

“There it is,” he said in his calm, unaffected tone. “You have quite a bump there. A concussion, likely.”

“I haven’t died yet,” she said in a sour tone. “If it were that serious, I would have keeled over by now.”

She heard a noise that sounded like a laugh, but Hancock neither smiled nor laughed, so it was obviously her delirium making its presence known.

“No, you aren’t going to die, but you do need to rest so you can properly recover.”

She started to snort but realized that would just hurt too much. “Kind of hard to rest and relax when you’re running for your life.”

The man holding her feet in his lap handed Hancock something that looked suspiciously like a syringe. Three of them. When had he gotten them and where? She hadn’t detected movement, but then she wasn’t all that coherent at the moment.

Fear gripped her and she reached up to stay the man’s hand just as Hancock’s hand closed around the syringes.

“What are those and what are you planning to do?” she asked fearfully.

“You need to calm yourself, Honor. You have enough stress without adding to it with unnecessary worry. I’m merely giving you an injection of antibiotics and pain medicine so it will take the edge off your pain and allow you to rest properly.”

“I gave myself an injection of antibiotics before I escaped the clinic,” she said. “And I took pills with me and I’ve been taking them three times a day ever since.”

“Smart girl. You think well on your feet.”

Was that a compliment? From Hancock the unfeeling, arrogant asshole? Maybe she was more screwed up than she initially thought, because now she was imagining things that simply weren’t there.

“However, you have cuts and scrapes in dozens of places that are all susceptible to crippling infection—a complication we certainly don’t need right now. And that knee is still pretty nasty-looking and is still swollen to twice its normal size. So in addition to the antibiotics and pain medicine, I’m also giving you a shot of steroids to help with the inflammation. I have a Medrol dose pack that you’ll start taking tonight and continue for the next five days. You should start feeling relief as soon as tomorrow.”

“We won’t be to where we’re going for five days?” she asked in alarm.

Panic skittered its way up her spine. Five days seemed an eternity. The days spent evading the murderers stalking her every move had been endless. She’d hoped . . . She’d assumed that now that she had help that they would be to safety in a short time. The idea of being exposed for so long scared her. They were a group of seven including herself, and she’d be of no help to Hancock and his men in a firefight. And they were up against an untold number of crazed militants who would never stand down until their objective was achieved. Capturing her.