him. Damn him straight to hell. Renner knew what he’d been through in Uganda. Knew why he’d left the army. He knew it, and he hadn’t cared. The DOD wanted this woman on American soil whatever it took, whatever the cost to Byron.
He swallowed hard. Hawkins was a soldier to the marrow. He knew how this worked. The sacrifice of the few for the many, but this wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He was willing to give his own life, and some nights when the screaming in his head wouldn’t stop, he prayed it would be his turn to give it. He owed his team that.
But he couldn’t be responsible for someone else’s safety. Not again. Not after Uganda. If Renner had dispatched him to kill the two men on the floor in front of him, he would’ve accepted that gladly, but this... He couldn’t do it.
The petite woman seemed to know his inner turmoil. “Whatever is going through your mind, you can’t leave me here.”
Her hand was so small, so delicate on his arm, but he knew she was fierce.
“You don’t understand. I planned a water exit in a small fishing boat that’s only big enough for one. It’s hours from Tunis to Marsala by water. How long before there are others looking for you? Before they start watching the airports in this region? I only have papers for one.”
“Your Mr. Renner already provided me with documents. I won’t complain about the accommodations.” She looked down for a moment. “Please. My country—”
“I can’t be responsible for you. That’s how people die,” he confessed. He didn’t want to lay himself bare like that to someone he didn’t know, but he’d never see her again. And, for some reason, he needed her to know that he wasn’t leaving her behind to be cruel. It was the only kind thing he could do for her.
“I’ll die or worse if you don’t take me with you.” She cocked her head to the side and one lock of her hair came free from her long braid. “And of course you’re not responsible for me. I’m not a child. But you can help me. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”
“What I do is kill people,” he said, as if that wasn’t clear.
“And for that, I am grateful.” She nodded, wearing an earnest expression.
He scrubbed his hands over his face. She wasn’t giving up; she wasn’t afraid. So why was he? He’d only ever failed one mission before. His last one—and he’d failed because no one came home. Not even their bodies for their families to mourn.
Byron couldn’t help but insert her face into the macabre tableau. The burning, the screaming... Or even her pretty face made stark in death, framed by the black wings of a body bag. God, he was sick. So sick and rotten inside. He couldn’t help her. Help from him was no kind of help at all.
If he left her behind, this fearless princess, it would be Uganda all over again. He kept seeing her beautiful face bloody and beaten.... He’d heard her attacker: I can’t kill you yet, but I can hurt you.
Byron Hawkins supposed there was some decency left in him yet, some goodness that had hidden itself away from the shadow that lurked inside him. The tactician part of his brain said he had to leave her. Their probability of survival was cut in half without a clean escape. But he knew with a certainty that if he left her, there would nothing clean about his escape. His hands would be covered in one more person’s blood.
Only logic told him they might be anyway. By taking her with him, he was accepting responsibility for her. She’d said she wasn’t a child, but she was an innocent, no matter how fast or hard she could punch. He was the one with combat experience; he was the one who’d be making the calls. And he was the one who had to live with her voice in his head if he failed.
Even as he debated with himself, he knew what his answer would be. Dread curled like a poisonous snake in his gut, ready to strike.
* * *
FOR ONE HORRIBLE MOMENT, Damara thought her savior was going to leave her behind. She could see his eyes harden with what must have been resolve; then they were filled with so much pain. Something awful had happened to this man and sliced him so deep there was nothing to cauterize the wound. It was obvious in his every movement, but most especially in the darkness in his eyes. It struck Damara as strangely beautiful.
Yes, he was definitely a killer. He’d snapped Sergio’s neck with the swift and easy brutality of a predator. She hadn’t been lying when she’d said she was grateful—Sergio was her brother’s head security adviser. A pretty title for what amounted to head torturer. She needed this Byron Hawkins to make her escape, and, in doing so, to save her country from Abele.
And she knew there was more to Hawkins than this machine he’d made of himself.
Damara found herself intrigued by him, by his pain. It didn’t hurt that he was handsome and strong. He dwarfed her, a giant, deadly wall of lethal power. What woman wouldn’t find that attractive?
Damara had to remember she wasn’t just a woman. She was a princess. In her heart, there was only room for her people—her country. She understood what it was to live a life in service. She also understood that she’d do whatever was required to get herself out of Tunis.
“It’s ten minutes to the port of La Goulette, but I plan to make it in five. Let’s go.”
Relief flooded her. He would help. She followed him outside and he led her through some well-groomed shrubbery to where he’d hidden a Ducati.
He handed her the single helmet, and she took it gratefully.
“It’s a 1199 Panigale R. Wish I could take it with me,” he said, a certain amount of wistfulness in his voice.
“Did you steal this?” She eyed him.
“What do you think?” He mounted the bike, swinging one long, powerful leg over the side.
She supposed that didn’t matter. Damara had more pressing problems. The seat was tiny, and he dwarfed the machine the same way he dwarfed her. She didn’t think there was any way she was going to fit on the thing, but Damara had said she wasn’t going to complain about accommodations and she wouldn’t break her promise.
Especially not when he could still change his mind and leave her behind.
If she didn’t fly off the back end of the bike. She was very certain that on this bike lay the path to some horrible maiming.
“Don’t be shy now, Princess.”
She’d never heard anyone say princess in that way before. It made her shiver. It wasn’t reverent or at all proper. In fact, it was rather intimate. As if she was his princess to do with as he pleased rather than a head of state he’d been contracted to escort. She wasn’t sure if she liked it or not.
His arm snaked out and wrapped around her waist as he hauled her onto the front of the bike. As he revved the engine, he said, “Hold on.”
She was barely aware of the speed or even the scenery as it melted into swirling colors at the edges of her vision.
The man holding her dominated all her senses.
He was a solid wall against her back—his body was immovable like a marble statue, but he exuded heat like a bonfire.
