Firethorn (Discarded Heroes) by Ronie Kendig Page B

patted his shoulder and, in a hunched run, approached the runway. Staying close, Griffin prepared himself to overpower the pilot of the plane.
    The moon peeked through drifting clouds, accenting the glossy body of a single-engine plane as it rolled into view.
    Griffin anticipated Kacie’s move and darted toward the craft with her.
    “Other side,” she said.
    He whipped around the front, avoiding the pointed steel tip that guarded the propeller. The sleek hull was new, but it was still a single-engine plane. He hated single-engines. He’d been jiggled like Madyar’s homemade butter on one too many flights. At the side, he tugged up the gull-wing door—and froze.
    Kacie sat in the pilot’s seat. Headphones on and pressing buttons. Her eyes darted to him. “What?”
    He glanced to the backseat. Empty. “Where’s the pilot?”
    “You’re looking at her. Now get in or I’ll leave you.”
    Mind tangled, he folded himself into the ultracompact compartment and drew down the door. Before he could fasten the three-point harness, she was taxiing down the runway.
    Even with the divider between their seats, her cool skin brushed his. Frustration wrapped him tightly as he squished his left arm against his side. He rolled his neck and pushed his thoughts to the team and away from the speed as they ramped up to take off.
    Metcalfe holed up in a guerilla camp. No doubt held by someone loyal to Bruzon, whom Metcalfe had taken down. Torture. They would torture the man until he screamed and ratted out his friends.
    Colton. His Recon buddy held by British authorities on charges of terrorism, which was asinine! Where was Piper? And his mother and daughter?
    Aladdin would face a humiliating execution—and no doubt the men holding him would make sure to display the traitor’s body for all to see. A week. He only had a week.
    Max…Max…
Where are you, Frogman?
    Gravity pressed Griffin against the seat. He gripped the leather and clenched his teeth as the plane dipped to the right and—wobbled. “Did we just wobble?”
    “It’s called flying, Mr. Riddell.”
    He pointed to the panel where blue sat on brown. “J–just keep it straight, okay? That should stay straight.” Again he wagged his finger at it. “Straight. Got it?”
    “If I did that, we’d end up in China.” Glowing under the lights of the instrumentation, her smile spiraled out at him and struck him in the chest. “Are we scared of flying?”
    Clicking his tongue, he shook his head, doing his best to regroup his thoughts. And that’s all they were. He wasn’t afraid. He’d faced worse. “You’re crazy. I hop flights all the time.” He roughed a hand over his face. “I just don’t like planes where my shoulder could push the window out.” Her laughter did nothing to ease the irritation seeping into him. His fingers ached as the heated air chased off the icy coldness. “Where are we going?”
    “Private airstrip in Texas. We’ll gear up and head to Afghanistan.”
    “We?”
    Another smile, this time as she read the gauges. “You have something against a woman helping you?”
    “I—I—no—that’s not what I meant.”
    Her laughter bubbled out, so light and infectious it finally dragged a reluctant smile from his own face. She punched a button on her left, then shifted and reached into the back.
    “Hey!” Griffin reached for the stick on his side—only he didn’t know how to fly this thing. “What are you doing? Shouldn’t you be looking out there?” He jabbed a finger at the windshield.
    “Why? So I don’t rear-end a 747?” As she drew her arm back, she brought out a large black bag and dropped it in his lap. “Get changed.”
    He rummaged through it. Pants, a shirt, shoes. He eyed her. Probably had a full dossier on him, which explained how she knew. How was he supposed to change? He couldn’t even stretch out his legs, his shoulder grazed the window and her elbow, and she wanted him to change? “Excuse me while I step