Firethorn (Discarded Heroes)

by Kendig, Ronie

  “Relax, Gunny.” With a cheeky grin, she winked at him. “I promise not to peek.”

  How could the woman infuriate and amuse him at the same time?

  Tugging up his shirt, he angled his body to afford himself enough room. He cinched up the material and hauled it off. He clamped his teeth together and drew out the silky polo and threaded his arms into the holes. “Man, Madyar would beat me.” And if she saw him dropping his pants in front of a woman…

  Kacie glanced at him and frowned.

  He wiggled into the slacks and noticed her staring at him. “What?”

  Was that a blush? “Your records didn’t mention the tattoo.”

  He placed a hand over his heart, as if he could feel the fire of the gryphon burned into his chest even now. “Got that in high school.” When he thought he was a big, bad brother, ready to take over the local gang. As memories of Venus Washington violated open thought, he shoved them back and stuffed his feet into the shoes. He’d put that behind him long ago. No need to dredge it up now. “What about a shaving kit and cologne?”

  She thumbed toward the back. “Right there with your cement parachute.”

  “You got some serious attitude, know what I’m saying?”

  Her lips thinned. A slow, uneasy breath seemed to ripple through her. Without a response, she removed the headphones and dove partially over the backseat.

  Heart in his throat, he grabbed the stick. “What’re you doing? Someone has to fly this thing!”

  “Autopilot,” she grunted as she flopped back down with another, smaller bag.

  Griffin glanced at her—but a flash of her bare midriff as she tugged off her shirt jerked his gaze away. Heat crawled up his neck and into his face as he registered the fact that she was undressing. “Baby Girl, you have no modesty.”

  “You’ve escaped a maximum-security prison, every law-enforcement agency in the nation is on the lookout, and you’re going to gripe about modesty?” Soft angora bathed her torso but did nothing to deflect his piercing comment. Shouldn’t matter. Doesn’t matter. He was a job. An objective. Finish this, get his thick-brained team back together, and she could retire.

  Five years too late. But who was counting?

  “Is this thing…okay?” His eyes glazed as he studied the panel. “This looks new.”

  “It is.” She rifled her fingers through her short hair, kneading the tension from her scalp. “Cost half a million.” Yeah, talk about the equipment, the toys. Keep his mind—and hers—on safer topics. “Compliments of your benefactor.” Her words faltered as she climbed back into the pilot’s seat. Though she’d tried to put syrupy sarcasm into her voice, it didn’t work.

  His dark chocolate eyes came to hers, penetrating. “What’s your name?

  “I already introduced myself.”

  “A psychologist introduced herself to me. What’s your name?”

  “You think I lied?”

  “I know you lied.” He chuckled. “I don’t think you could hold your tongue long enough to listen to a lunatic’s ravings. And I am sure you wouldn’t sit there quietly while one of those hardened criminals decided you’d be their next meal or playmate.”

  She flashed a challenge at him.

  More chuckles. “Go on.”

  He was baiting her. She wouldn’t bite. “In my career I’ve put up with more egotism and testosterone than you could imagine.”

  He held out a hand toward her.

  She furrowed her brow. “What?”

  “Wanted to introduce myself.” He could disarm a nuclear weapon with that smile. “Griffin Riddell. They call me Legend.”

  Dare she do this? Open the portal to her soul that she’d sealed off long ago? Ha! Not likely. Nobody, nowhere, no man…She thought she could trust a man once. Carrick had convinced her he was watching out for her, but in the end…well, that was just it. Everything ended. She wouldn’t betray herself like that. Not again. Stick to the story, the alias. Stay safe. “Kacie Whitcomb.”

  A hissing sigh coiled around her conscience. “I see. Going to be like that, huh?” He nodded slowly, pursing his lips. “It’s all right, Baby Girl. I’ll win your trust.”

  Baby Girl? Something slithered through her stomach, burning. She bit back the harsh retort about not being anyone’s baby or girl. Then again, it always worked to her advantage when men underestimated her.

  Quiet monotony settled into the cabin like an iceberg. The thought pushed her attention to the wings where the automatic deicing seemed to be working. If only she had something that could thaw her life. She was tired of living like this. Tired of…

  Shedding the gloom, she straightened and turned off the autopilot. Over the next twenty minutes, she guided the sleek craft toward the private runway. Without a hitch, they touched down and rolled across the tarmac. Kazi aimed the plane toward the hangar where a Learjet waited. She cut the engine and climbed out.

  The stairs to the jet deployed. A man waved a phone at her. “He’s asking for you.”

  “Thank you.” She strode up the steps, took the phone, and moved into the narrow cabin. Working her way past the first two seats, she settled into the buff leather and pressed the phone to her ear. “Go ahead.”

  “With the chaos at Wallens Ridge that hit the news, I assume you have my man.”

  “Did you doubt?” Her gaze followed Griffin as he ducked to avoid grazing his head. His tall, powerfully built frame devoured the jet’s interior. Muscles bulged as he lowered himself into the seat across from her, the leather seeming to sigh as he eased onto it.

  “Then you’re on schedule.”

  “Would you pay me if I weren’t?” She closed the phone and tossed it on the chair next to Griffin. Tousling her hair, she tried to knead the tension that laced a tight band around her head as the high-pitched scream of the engines ripped through the cabin. Behind her, the door closed, the pressurization sucking at her hearing. She stretched her jaw. With a smirk, she finally met his gaze. “So, this more to your liking? More comfortable?”

  Griffin smoothed a hand over his black tactical pants. “If I don’t have Ripcord boots and an M4, I’m not comfortable.”

  The cabin steward delivered two Styrofoam trays and bottled waters along with a portfolio.

  Griffin looked at the items and then at her. “Dinner and blueprints.”

  “What else for a perfect conclusion to breaking a convicted felon out of a maximum-security prison?” With that, she opened her box, then plucked the fork from the plastic wrap. Only then did she notice something about Griffin had hardened. He’d gone silent. Talking to the man was as useful as trying to extract information from a marble statue. “I hope you like Chinese. I gave the waitstaff the night off.”

  He opened the box of General Tso’s chicken and started eating. Not a word. With his fork, he scooped a pile of rice and stabbed a chunk of chicken. Halfway to his mouth, he paused. He put down the fork, his gaze on the food.

  Kazi slowed in her chewing, monitoring him. Was he having second thoughts?

  The sound of his hand over his stubbled jaw sounded like sandpaper. His brown eyes met hers. “I didn’t do it.”

  She swallowed. “Do what?”

  His jaw muscle popped again. “I did not kill Congressman Jones.” Delectable food steamed up at him. Comfortable, luxurious leather. A change of clothes—he had something besides numbered stripes. The only thing the man needed was a shower. And he shucked it all aside, intent on convincing her of his innocence.

  “I don’t care.” The words caught in her throat. She did care. Although, why she cared she couldn’t fathom. Caring was dangerous. Caring got operatives killed.

  Griffin cocked his head. “You could be sitting across from a violent killer, and you say you don’t care?”

  Swiping her tongue along her teeth, she laid her fork aside and leaned back. Folding her arms, she locked gazes with him. “Mr. Riddell, I’ve been an operative for eleven years. I’ve outsmarted bigger, uglier, meaner men—and women—than you.” She
lifted the bottled water and took a sip. “I think you’re smart enough to know I’m here to help you, so”—she shrugged—“no, I don’t anticipate trouble from you.”

  Kazi resumed eating, hoping he’d do the same. When his gaze drifted out the window as the jet roared into the sky, she tried not to let his wounded expression haunt her. She had enough ghosts of her own. Which is why she kept her heart on ice.

  Staying mission-focused meant staying alive. “I’m sure you’ve guessed that due to time sensitivity, we’re going to extract Azzan Yasir from the Hamas.” Savoring a bit of dinner, she glanced over the photos, diagrams, and intelligence reports. She plucked a couple from the file and handed them across the small table between them. “This is the satellite image of the building where he’s being held.”

  His gaze slowly came back to hers as he took the photo. “Ironic.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “I hate this man.” A snort bobbed his head. “Never thought I’d care whether he was dead or alive.”

  The spark of hope in his eyes filled her with a strange giddiness, but one she had to tamp down. “Our reports are several days old. Since we have boots on the ground, it’s delicate trying to retrieve the information.”

  He hesitated. “What’re you saying? That he’s dead?” His shoulders seemed to swell several inches. “Is Aladdin alive or not?”

  Kazi swallowed, wanting more than anything to tell him his friend was alive. But she couldn’t. Not for certain. “There are no guarantees.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Somewhere over the West Bank

  Forty-five minutes of prebreathing pure O2. Now the plane climbed into the great blue, aiming for a grand thirty-three thousand over hostile territory. Hostile in its own right—a desert laden with IEDs, rocket-propelled grenades, and insurgents. Even in the dark, explosives had a way of finding their targets, but hopefully the high-altitude, low-opening maneuver would give him and Kacie an edge. Despite the risks of HALO jumps, this was the fastest way to insert. Let them descend upon the fools stupid enough to take one of his boys hostage.

  The numbing vibration of the C-130 tickled through Griffin’s free-fall boots. Dressed head to toe now in desert camo, he stared across the cabin at the enigma of a woman. Kacie hadn’t wanted to give him private information. She’d stepped into that harness and his life like a pro. Even had to help him with a tangled strap.

  Face framed by the thick helmet and the oxygen mask that covered her mouth and nose, she sat calmly, eyes on him. Was she plagued by as many questions about him as he was about her? She’d shown no fear as she extricated him from the prison. Dauntless as they sped through the air in the single-engine plane. On the Lear, she’d explained little of the plan, taken a nap, and made the transition from one country to another as if she’d been born to it.

  Who is she? Where did she come from? He hadn’t even questioned whether or not to trust the petite, take-no-mess woman. Her knowledge and assuredness had eliminated his fears before they took root. Olin sent her. Even though she hadn’t named the general, this mission had the earmarks of the general’s stamp of approval.

  He glanced at the digital readout strapped to his wrist. Thirty-thousand feet. The six-minute warning bell rattled through his nerves as the bay door opened. Black night gaped. Earth waited some eight miles below that ebony void. Memories leapt to life. Taking his nephew to a private air school and tandem jumping with the then ten-year-old. They’d done it often in the last five years. The kid had adventure in his blood, to the point of boiling.

  Warmth curled around Griffin’s heart at the thought of Dante.

  “You have to tell him, Griffin. He should know.” Adamancy laced his sister’s words.

  But Dante didn’t need to know. The boy had a good head on his shoulders, a solid home with two parents, loving great-grandparents. And an uncle who would always make sure he had what he needed, even if Griffin had to die to make it happen.

  A hard pat on his shoulder brought him up straight. Swallowing and blinking back his thoughts, Griffin glared up at Kacie, who stood over him with the two-minute warning signal. She’d already disconnected from the oxygen panel and switched to her bailout bottle. The jumpmaster moved into position at the open bay door, and Kacie lumbered toward him and lowered her goggles.

  Quickly, Griffin opened his bailout bottle, took a deep breath, and held it. Smoothly, he disengaged his O2 from the plane’s console. He let out his breath, then inhaled. That first burst of cold air shot through him, proof the bottle worked. He monitored the flow meter. All good.

  The light flashed from red to green. The jumpmaster pushed their gear through the open portal. Another green light sent Kacie sailing into the black. Griffin leapt out behind her. Gravity grabbed and yanked him toward the earth.

  Ecstasy defined in three minutes. Terminal velocity of over two hundred miles an hour!

  Oorah!

  Frigid air seeped around his collar and needled his neck. He thanked the Good Lord that polypropylene undergarments protected against hypoxia and the gloves from frostbite. He checked his altimeter and oxygen. Fifteen thousand. The pressure in his ears grew, and he forced an exaggerated swallow. His ears released and equalized.

  Wind seemed to claw him downward. Kacie stayed almost completely even. The girl had skills. Impressive skills. Although she looked young, there was nothing young about the experience this girl owned.

  Altitude check again. Five thousand. He reached back, fingering the rip cord. Glowing green, Kacie turned her head and gave a thumbs-up. No doubt a smile hid behind that oxygen mask.

  She reached up and back, grabbed the rip cord.

  Griffin did the same. They were in sync. He just hoped it stayed that way or someone would end up dead. And it wouldn’t be him.

  She hit the ground running. Kazi popped open the oxygen mask.

  Thud! Griffin landed to the side.

  She cleared the landing spot and spun around, pulling the nylon canopy down to avoid detection. Once she flattened the chute, she ripped out of the harness. Gaze tracking over the area to make sure they were safe, she stowed the chute, then buried the gear. She scrambled over the still-warm sand to where their conjoined sacks had landed.

  Kazi separated the two rucksacks and unzipped hers. She grabbed two handguns and strapped a Glock onto her right thigh and an HK USP Compact at the small of her back. Threading her arms through the pack, she glanced at Griffin, who stood with his hands on his hips, smiling. Waiting. How had he geared up so fast?

  He tossed her the CamelBak and started walking.

  She hustled to keep up, quickly realizing that now that he had the game plan, the Gunny would probably take charge. But that wasn’t how this worked. She hadn’t told him everything. Never would. Too much information meant someone ended up dead.

  Had he noticed they were five miles too far north?

  “Head south, eight klicks,” he said in a tight, controlled voice. His M4 dangled at his chest from the three-point harness. “Fast and silent.” His last order snuffed the bitter retort dripping off her tongue.

  Plodding across the desert proved difficult even without the weight of competition. Still, who did he think he was to assume command of her mission? She’d anticipated this considering his personality and career, which was why she’d only told him how to get to safety once they landed. She urged herself forward, trying to get a foot ahead of him. But the man navigated the shifting terrain without so much as a grunt. What was he? A sand spider?

  Twenty-two minutes and a mouthful of tiny grains later, she trailed him as he came up on a palm tree. With the celery-colored image swaying against the black, she knelt and dusted off an area around the base. There, the brass ring. She pulled hard.

  The trapdoor groaned and creaked. Griffin assisted, and the thing flew upward, powder-fine dust spraying her face. She coughed and sneezed, then glared at the beefy oaf. So intent on what was in the hold, he didn’t even notice. He took the stairs two at a time.


  She stepped in and closed the door. Darkness devoured them. She shoved up her night-vision goggles and twisted a shoulder lamp on. She took guilty pleasure in the grimace of pain from Griffin, who slapped up his NVGs and glared at her but quickly refocused on two small motorcycles propped against the wall.

  Griffin leaned one toward himself, eyed it, then glanced at her. “No key.”

  Ah, the leather reins thickened in her grasp. She took a slow drag from her CamelBak, turned off her lamp, then flipped back down her night-vision goggles. Who knew if there were weak spots where her shoulder lamp would give them away? Kazi tugged a chain with two keys from under her shirt. “Do you know how to drive one?”

  NVGs down again, Griffin snatched the key from her hand. If she could see his eyes, she’d bet he had them narrowed.

  With a smile at the ire she’d drawn, she nodded. “Follow me.” Straddling the bike, she stuffed the key in the ignition and heard the telltale sigh of grumpiness behind her. She let the bike rip and thrilled at the way she tore down to the end of the narrow, underground passage.

  Guided by the lone light of the bike, she maneuvered through the tunnels, aiming straight for the Hamas-held village. If all went well, they’d grab his guy and get out before the first streaks of dawn hit the sky. Her heart raced as she sped toward one dark end after another. Lambert had put her up to a monumental task. Six missions all in one. And with spec-ops guys who knew their business. Which meant, if they’d been caught, the guys after them had known exactly how to take them down.

  Which begged the question—did the bad guys know how to stop her?

  She cut the engine and let the bike coast toward the exit. At the bottom of the makeshift steps, she eyed the crate. Great, her contact had made good on his deal. She swung a leg over the bike and started toward the wooden box.