Page 1 of Clay

Beginnings...

This really wasn’t how Clay Andrews had envisioned dying.

Piercing, agonizing pain screamed through his body as he tried to shift his position, and his vision grayed for precious seconds. When he came back to himself nothing had changed. He was still pinned by a massive strut in the crumpled cargo bay of the C-17 aircraft that had been shot out of the clear blue sky of the Syrian desert.

His best friend Dylan’s dead eyes still stared at him from across the smoldering ruins.

He couldn’t even turn away from that gaze, physically, and he felt something inside fracture at the knowledge he’d never talk to the man he’d loved like a brother again.

And when the insurgents showed up to finish the job, he’d take the easiest, most simple way out by using his issued sidearm. Because there was no fucking way he was going to be taken prisoner.

The cargo they'd literally risked their lives for was still tied down, although one of the crates had broken open and a bunch of small boxes was scattered around, looking almost like whatyou'd put an engagement ring in. He wondered what the hell was so important that they'd all died for it. The two pilots, the two cops guarding the pallet, and him and Dylan. A small crew, but an elite one, to be sure. Dead for a bunch of tiny little boxes.

He felt the lowwhomp, whomp, whompreverb of chopper blades before he actually heard them and when it became clear the aircraft was heading directly for him he tightened his grip on the M-9. He had fifteen rounds and would save the last for himself.

In a perfect world it would be someone coming to rescue them, but he'd heard the pilots as they'd tried to land the crippled craft, almost blown in half by a RPG. They were heading for their destination. A forward operating base that wasn't supposed to exist, in a country that they weren't supposed to be flying over.

The likelihood that there'd be anyone at the FOB who could chopper in for them was slim to none. But the Syrian government? That was another thing altogether. Insurgents may have shot them down, but the governing elite definitely had choppers.

The plane had almost broken in two upon impact, and he could see glimpses of a crystal-clear sky and dun-colored sand. An improbable, fluffy white cloud drifted past his view through the gap in the fuselage, and the sound of the inbound choppers was almost obscured by the harsh sound of his own breathing.

He really hadn't imagined cashing it in like this, he thought again, and brought his pistol to bear as the choppers landed hot, kicking up a sandstorm that pelted the skin of the plane and swept inside, scraping at his skin and making his eyes water. He would have coughed if it hadn’t potentially meant giving away his position. Not that it truly mattered, but his training had been so ingrained it was instinctual.

He heard the shouted "Friendlies" in a woman's voice and his heart skipped a beat, but he kept the M-9 trained on theshouldn't-be-there gaping maw in the fuselage. Then a blonde woman in tactical gear poked her head through the hole, just long enough for him to see her, but not long enough to make her a target. Jesus, it was an actual American. Or maybe an allied partner. He didn't give a fuck.

"I'm here," he croaked, his mouth as dry as the sand outside. "I'm alive."

"Perimeter secure," a muffled voice shouted, and Clay would have wept if pain hadn't jolted through him with enough force to make him scream.

"Got a survivor," he heard the woman shout in a very, very American accent, and then she was pushing through the wreckage.

"Over here," Clay whispered, everything in him starting to shut down now that help had arrived.

"I've got you, beautiful," the woman was at his side now. "Benny, what have you got?" she hollered.

"Four DOAs, one unconscious but decent vitals," was the shouted answer.

"Delta inbound," another voice yelled outside. A giant of a man shouldered through the gap, the tactical gear making him look as big as a mountain. Another guy followed him, a beard shadowing his face, his hair way past regulation length.

Clay laughed, a bit hysterically, because going hyper-aware like that had to mean he was starting to swirl down the drain.

"Lyons, make yourself useful," the woman said. "Can you lift that beam?"

He moved to the huge piece of metal without a word and lifted it with a screech.

Agony speared through Clay and he screamed, then blessed darkness crawled over him, shutting out the pain.

When Clay came to again, they were in the belly of a Pave Hawk, hauling ass across the desert. The woman was by hisside, muttering medical sounding stuff under her breath. The giant and the scruffy guy sat in the door-gunner positions, their weapons scanning the desert as it sped beneath them. By his side was one of the cops who'd been on board the flight. She was unconscious, her only visible injury a gash over her right eye. He'd have sworn everyone was dead but him. He'd been wrong.

Dylan's body was nowhere in sight, and Clay wondered if there'd be a body for his parents to bury when and if it ever made it stateside.

And then whatever the blonde angel was pushing into his IV made the world go warm and fuzzy, and he knew no more.

Chapter One

Eighteen months later…

Thank God it was over.

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