Page 2 of Clay

Clay Andrews took a swig of iced tea and leaned against the mahogany bar, giving his hinky foot a rest.

Callahans was hopping this afternoon, as workers got off shift at nearby Nellis Air Force Base and stopped in for a beer and late afternoon snack.

That wasn’t why he and the others were here.

No, the six of them--Cali, Devin, Jordan, Tate, Warren and Clay--had just left Benny’s funeral. Raising a glass to their friend at the bar they’d frequented after their therapy sessions had seemed the right thing to do.

It’d been a long time since he’d seen any of them, since they'd completed the Air Force-mandated therapy group sessions that had literally saved his life and introduced him to the strongest people he’d ever met.

Honestly, he thought he’d left them behind and hadn’t been that broken up about it. After all, why keep dwelling on the C-17crash that’d landed him in therapy had claimed his best friend and almost taken his foot and his life.

But if there was one thing, one person, that’d bring him willingly back into the fold, it was Benny. Goofy, wisecracking Benny, who’d been the very best of all of them.

So here he was. At a bar he’d avoided since medically retiring from the Air Force. Saying hello to a family he hadn’t even known he wanted to see, and goodbye to the man who’d been their heart.

Cali elbowed him companionably. “Thinking big, deep thoughts, Grandpa?”

“Nope,” he said. “Not a thought in my pretty little head.”

His call sign—Grandpa—had been given to him one day at the beginning of his career because of his manners and the fact he didn’t drink. It had come out in therapy, though Cali was the only one of the group who’d called him that.

Seeing her brought back more than sadness. It brought back the crash in vivid detail. She and Benny had been his guardian angels that day. The only reason he was still alive. “You still jumping out of helicopters?”

She shook her head. “Not for the last few months. Getting too old for it, so I’m training youngsters now.”

As one of the Air Force’s few female pararescue operators, Cali had been recruiting material from day one. She was pretty, if a bit hard-edged, but then again, pararescue wasn’t for the weak of heart or will. Her hair, which she’d worn short a year ago, had grown long and now brushed her shoulders in a regulation-length bob.

He grunted in response to her career shift. He wished he’d been given an option like that. But it’d been a choice between a desk job or medical retirement. It wasn’t his ankle; he still could have done the job as a loadmaster with the injury. He simplycouldn’t handle being at altitude again. He, one of the best loadmasters in the business, was afraid of flying.

He’d taken the retirement option and gone to work for a freight company once he could move without too much of a limp.

The rest of the gang ranged along the bar, unconsciously falling into the spots they’d held before. When all of them were active duty and hurting more than any one person, any group, should. When this was the place they came after every group session to bitch about their therapist and life in general.

Jordan, the cop who’d been securing their cargo when the plane was shot down. The tiny Latina was with the Las Vegas Metro Police Department now, had separated almost immediately after returning and being debriefed. He’d never known what the cargo had been, only that she and the other Phoenix Raven SecFo Airman had quite literally been guarding it with their lives. Jordan had made it out of the aircraft that day, leaving her dead partner behind, just like he’d left Dylan.

Devin, the civilian intelligence analyst who’d sent them directly into the path of insurgents who’d used a RPG to take them down. They all knew it wasn’t his fault, but it’d taken a long time for him to accept that. He’d been rich as sin before being hired by the Air Force as a civilian, and now he was even wealthier, after selling a video game to a larger developer for a fortune. He’d never have to work again. Hell, he probably hadn’t had to work in the first place.

Warren, who already had a pretty girl engaged in laughter as he told an outlandish story that was probably half true. He was almost too handsome for his own good and used it to good effect. He’d been there that day, but as an add-on to the rescue mission, someone they’d grabbed because he had the right security clearance and could man a door gun. As TACP—Tactical Air Control Party—he’d been massively overqualified for the job, having seen more shit than most SEALs.

Like Warren, quiet, intense Tate had been in the control center when everything went down. A munitions specialist by trade, he’d been on loan to the Army contingent on base and had been prepping for a joint mission. He’d been yanked into the rescue as Warren’s complement on the other helo door. His history was even more storied than Warren’s, and he’d lost a lot of friends during a siege that’d ended up becoming a movie a decade later. He’d also been the one to free Clay from the wreckage that fateful day.

Missing was Benny’s laughter, a quiet humor that’d derailed more than one hot-headed exchange in the shitty beige conference room their sessions had been held in.

Clay’s gut burned in anger all over again. Fucking texting and driving.

Their moral compass, their center, had been taken by a twenty-something who’d never known war, had never seen poverty. Would likely never see the inside of a jail cell.

The unfairness of it, the fucking indignity, was what ate at him more than anything. Seeing Benny’s twin sister Beth try to maintain her composure had reminded him too much of everything they’d gone through together. The very uncomfortable ways they’d grown, the secrets all of them still held tight like a lover.

He looked down the bar at the people who’d become a family of sorts and felt a slight pang when he realized he’d missed them. He’d lost Dylan in the crash, and this group had filled the gaping hole in his life. A brotherhood he hadn’t been able to replicate since. It wasn’t the same, but their shared trauma had bound them together as nothing else could.

Dev cleared his throat, got their attention. “I reserved the party room,” he said, indicating a set of stairs that led to a private room. “We need to talk.”

That didn’t sound disturbing at all, Clay thought as Dev asked the bartender to transfer everything to his tab and bring another round upstairs, including his earlier request.

She trailed them up the stairs carrying a tray with five beers and a glass of iced tea, the most expensive bourbon they had on the bar, along with lowball glasses, a bucket of ice and orange peels.

While Clay was thankful for the free drink, he wasn’t sure he liked the fact Dev was being secretive and, quite frankly, dictatorial.

---