Page 5 of Clay

He’d ordered Earl Grey tea from the barista and for a moment she’d had aStar Trekflashback of Picard… “Earl Grey. Hot.” She’d stuffed down the inappropriate laughter and seated herself instead. But all that intensity was unnerving to someone like her, who shot from the hip more often than not.

He finished his cup of tea and pushed to his feet. “We’ll find her. I’ll be in touch.”

Relief washed over her. “What more do you need from me?”

“Text me a picture of Katie and her phone number,” he said as he began to walk to the door, his stride even, sure. Until someone cut in front of him, and he had to jerk out of their way. The move made that seamless gait falter a bit, look awkward in a way he hadn’t until now. He glanced back over his shoulder, met her eyes. Repeated what he’d just said. “I’ll be in touch.”

Then he was gone, and Ivy realized she didn’t even know his name.

~

Clay strode away from the café toward his bike, his ankle throbbing. Even though it had been almost two years since the plane crash that had ended his career, sometimes when he moved unexpectedly, like he just had to avoid the idiot staring down at their phone instead of where they were going, the screws and plates holding everything together rubbed wrong and made his left foot and ankle throb like a sore tooth.

But he had much nicer things to think about than his foot or the crash that had claimed all but him and Jordan.

Ivy Foster was definitely a nicer thought, regardless of what she was asking them to do.

A mane of dark hair held back in a messy, haphazard tail, as if she couldn’t be bothered with doing more than brushing it. A tanned face that said she worked outside just as much as in. Laughing hazel eyes that invited you to share the punchline to a joke she hadn’t yet told.

Then she started talking about her friend and worry pulled that lush mouth better suited for smiling into a concerned frown.

To the outside world she’d likely appear happy, maybe even silly, like nothing could deter or intimidate her. It was in the way she dressed, the flowy, gauzy skirt and emerald-hued tank that exposed toned arms and touchable skin. The clunky earth shoes that showed blue-painted toenails adorned with planets.

He’d known she was an artist, of course. They did their homework before ever meeting with a potential client. What he hadn’t known was that he’d feel the need to hold her, protect her from the world. To chase away the shadows that so obviously didn’t belong in her eyes.

And while holding her and protecting her from the world wasn’t an option, he and the others in SMS could and would take care of the shadows.

It was what they did, what they’d all committed to that fateful day in Callahans. A memory of their toast to Benny echoed in his ears.

They helped people who’d run out of resources, out of time, out of options. Usually their clients were affiliated with the Air Force in some way, just like Ivy. He’d heard Warren describe it as a cross between the old TV shows theA-TeamandLeverageand had to admit the explanation fit what they did to perfection.

SMS had been exactly what each of the team had needed, in one way, shape or form, to move forward. None of them had realized they’d been in a holding pattern, but there it was.

He slid onto his baby, a brand-spanking-new Indian Scout. He’d traded in his old bike a month ago, a crotch rocket more suited to a twenty-something, and this new, matte black beast felt like the perfect transition to a new life.

Because today’s meet with Ivy Foster was his first field assignment with SMS. Until today, he’d been a back-shop guy,making sure the logistics and planning for each job were taken care of. He’d always had a particular talent for seeing where and when things needed to be, even if the big picture hadn’t quite formed yet.

Since SMS had opened their doors almost six months ago they’d helped an Airman who was getting railroaded by his command, mostly by finding the right pro-bono lawyer to take on the kid’s case before fading back into the woodwork. And now that lawyer, Anthony Smith, worked for them as well, when needed. Paid, of course.

There’d been a runaway, the teenage daughter of one of the men Cali currently served with. They’d found her using less-than-legal hacking into the phone company. The kid had made it to Dallas and had no idea what to do but was sure she didn’t want to return to Vegas. They’d sent Warren down to charm her home, and it had worked.

A few other small-time jobs that’d been short and sweet and hadn’t taken much legwork.

None of them were big moneymakers, hell, they hadn’t even taken payment for any of them, but Dev had quashed any mention of compensation, telling the clients instead to send business their way, if someone they knew was at the end of their rope.

SMS was literally designed to lose money. To be a tax write-off for Dev, though Clay wasn’t sure how that worked.

All he knew was that Devin Beck had taken the concept of St. Michael being the patron saint of the Air Force very, very seriously.

Restricting his involvement to helping Dev with planning had been his choice over the first few months, as he helped lay the groundwork needed so that they could perform flawlessly, when push came to shove. His friend had finally pushed him out thedoor, stating in his blunt way that Clay needed to get his ass out into the world to earn his salary.

Dev had been right, as usual. The exhilaration he felt right now was something he hadn’t realized he’d missed after his medical retirement. He’d never feel it again from the back of an airplane; his fear of flying had ensured the end of his Air Force career, but this new track his life had taken was finally starting to make him feel like a true contributor to something bigger than simply earning a paycheck.

He wove through sparse traffic, heading for their HQ a dozen blocks away.

Located between the Strat and Fremont Street, the neighborhood wasn’t the best. Wasn’t the worst either, which ensured that people minded their own business and didn’t particularly care if you came and went. Or what car you drove. Or what company you kept.

It was perfect for St. Michael’s. As was the building, an abandoned church Devin had picked up for a song before real estate in Sin City went through the roof.

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