Chapter Eight
“Is that your base?” I said a week later, peering out the window of the cockpit at the California countryside below. It was hard to see from up here, especially with all of the trees, but I could make out what appeared to be a single landing strip in the middle of nowhere somewhere below us.
“Yep,” said the pilot, a man named Horace Henderson. “We'll be landing in about five minutes, so just hold on tight.”
I nodded and pulled back from the window, checking the straps on my seat to make sure I was securely strapped in. I didn't really need the straps—super strength and the ability to fly meant that I'd probably be okay in the event of a plane crash—but Horace had insisted that I strap myself in for safety reasons. Besides, I was trying to avoid annoying the INJ too much, a
