Almost done!
All the tidbits and loose dangling ends bouncing around my head, are tied up!
Emma looked across the lawn to the hammock where Clay still slept. So, that explained the blanket despite the warm evening. It wasn't a weighted blanket, just a lap-sized fleece, but if a simple piece of cloth gave him that much comfort, helped him sleep, she would never deny him, should he ever ask her for one.
"That ain't what did it." Eric argued.
Emma had no idea what 'it' was, but everyone else did because there was laughter and high-fives and back-slapping all around and Lisa tweaked – tweaked – Jason's nose.
"I think it's time we wrap this party up." Jason said hastily.
"Oh no." Emma protested. "Did Clay ever learn to call you by name?"
She'd heard Clay call him Boss, Bravo One, Chief, refer to him as her dad...but by name? She frowned, no, she didn't think so.
"Learn?" Lisa shook her head. "It's a matter of feeling comfortable, and yeah, he did."
"Well?" Emma demanded when no one ventured forth the name. "Don't leave me hanging."
"Jason." Her dad answered.
"That's it?" She said doubtfully.
"Not too many ways to say my name." Jason got up to trash the ice cream container.
"But not that time." Eric said. "Was the job in Sinai."
It was growing late, going on 2 a.m., the ice cream was gone, the supply of beer depleted. Of course, Jason had more, but his guys were driving home, so yeah, everyone was cut off.
Clay had probably slept off his binder by now, would wake with a headache, dry mouth, cotton for a tongue, but he'd be alright. Not like Bravo was in danger of being spun up and sent out. Nope, they were grounded to home base until further notice, running drills, training other platoons, filming training videos in mock missions.
And didn't Delta and Charlie just love their rotation being shortened a week, probably for the summer. Eh. Tough shit.
"What'sa matter Boss?" Trent teased. "Yeah, calling you out dude." He clinked bottles with Brock, both finished the last of their beer. "That mission was fucked up from the moment we landed." Ray bristled, but Trent waved him down. "Yeah, you were fucking stupid, but you didn't do anything wrong, move on."
"Well," Sonny hedged. "He did, but...I mean, so'd I...we knew better, it was Clay."
"I'd say, that was the night you all accepted you had a kid with a talent for finding trouble, getting hurt, being sick." Eric finished his beer. "Coffee?" Lisa nodded, got up, went to make a pot. "A kid that would do anything if it meant saving the life of someone he cared about."
"If only he had more sense."
"If only he thought about his own safety first."
"If only he had as much empathy for people as he does animals."
***Clay's officially 'adopted' by Bravo***
Ray glanced around, snapped his gaze back to the team medic, that all-to-common dreaded feeling settling into the pit of his stomach. Trent was pale, repeatedly licked his lips, stared at the floor.
"What?" Ray demanded. He worked hard to keep his voice even and steady, keep his nervousness at bay.
"That's a lot of blood." Brock said uneasily, picking up the vibe from Trent that maybe it was too much blood.
"Too much." Trent managed, swallowed hard. "No one survived losing that much blood."
"But...possible, right?" Sonny disagreed weakly.
Trent shook his head.
"People, uh...defy odds all the time." Brock ventured. People = Clay. The kid had an astounding ability to heal quickly and avoid serious injury. "Right?" He added hopefully.
Trent shook his head.
"We don't know if it's Spenser's." Ray said briskly. "Pull it together, we gotta roll."
"We know someone is dead." Sonny snapped. "Give us a minute."
"It could be more than one person's blood, right Trent?" Ray prompted. "Trent? Right?"
"Right." But he wasn't convincing.
"Where's the body?" Brock looked around. There was no trail of blood suggesting someone had been dragged away.
"Chopped up. Dismembered." Trent finally looked away from the puddle of life sustaining red liquid on the floor. "And not long ago."
That didn't exactly make sense to anyone, but no one could bring themselves to ask for a more detailed explanation.
"How long," Ray pushed. "Is not long ago?"
Trent shrugged. "Five minutes."
Sonny whistled. "So, whoever did this, is still close?"
"We find them, chop off fingers, toes, wait a bit, feet and hands." Brock looked at Trent. "How long 'til they bleed out?"
"Would be a painful death." Sonny agreed. "What say you, Trent? Could you cauterize a vein or two? Prolong their suffering?"
"No. One. Is. Chopping. Up. Anyone." Ray bit out. "Let's move before we lose the trail." Good Lord, what was wrong with his men?
Trent slung his rifle around, hoisted his medical bag so that he wore it like a backpack, looked his 2IC in the eye, didn't blink. "I find this," he nodded to the puddle - pool - on the floor. "Was Clay, nothing you say is going to matter." He paused, then added in a tone everyone knew better than to fuck with, "Ray."
And he turned and walked away, crossed the floor, exited the room, the building.
"What he said." Brock snapped his fingers and Cerberus bounded ahead of Trent to take the lead.
"Don't look at me." Sonny raised one hand, the other supported his heavy automatic weapon. "I'm with them."
"There was a time, you wanted to strangle Spenser." Ray began, shook his head. "Just last month, I had to come between the two of you when you goaded him into throwing a punch."
Sonny gave his team leader on this mission - Jason had gone another direction with members from their support team - a sheepish, shit-eating grin, hoisted his gun for a better grip. "Kid packs a wallop."
"He busted your lip. He pulled his punch or you would have lost a tooth."
Sonny laughed. "Half the teeth in my mouth are implants."
Ray gave his next in command his best 'you better behave' look. "Seriously Sonny, what gives? Trent's talking torture, Brock - Brock! - is calmly discussing murder."
Sonny, uncharacteristically, was quiet, looked away.
"Sonny? It was separate corners, when did that change?"
Sonny pursed his lips, drew them back over his teeth, shook his head, adjusted his hat. "Reckon, membe, it had something to do 'bout when we took him to that clinic couple-o-days ago."
Ray nodded, oh, that. Yeah, he remembered that debacle.
He and Sonny had been with Clay in the field, no one had been badly injured, but Sonny had required x-rays and Clay had needed stitches, so Ray had taken both to the local hospital.
Trent would later refer to it as a 'facility for every incompetent idiot who flunked out of med school in Mexico', because oh, he hadn't been happy.
He, Brock and Jason had been on the other side of town, Bravo split into two teams. They hadn't returned to base until after Ray had brought Sonny and Clay back. They'd come in, wet, muddy, dirty, tired and hungry, Trent had taken one look at Clay and Jason had had to get between the medic and Ray.
Trent hadn't wanted to hear anything Ray had to say. He'd been livid Ray had trusted the local hacks with any of Bravo. It was well known how much he distrusted third-world/foreign medical practices and yet Ray had gone ahead and not only taken Clay in, but had allowed him to be treated and left him alone.
Ray grimaced, rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't expected Trent's reaction and he sure as hell hadn't expected Clay to get sick from stitches but sick, he had got. Whew! Bravo had been totally unprepared for the reaction Clay had thrown to the medication the quack had given Clay after stitching him up.
And Ray hadn't been able to tell Trent what that had been. They had nearly come to blows.
Jason had had to get between them again and while Jason had been talking Trent down, Sonny had kicked the cot to wake Clay up and prove Trent was over-reacting. Clay hadn't moved. Irritated, Sonny had upended the cot, dumped Clay on the floor. Clay hadn't moved.
That had pissed Brock off, made Cerberus growl at Sonny, which prompted Sonny to snap at Brock who had told Sonny to go the fuck away.
Jason had decided it was best to remove Ray and Sonny, ordered Trent to 'see to the kid' and taken them to eat. Brock had stayed with Trent.
An hour later, Trent had come through the door of the mess tent and demanded to know whether or not Ray had bothered to stay with Clay while the doctor had seen him.
Ray had said no.
Trent had flung his plate of dessert.
Ray had got to his feet.
Trent had demanded whether or not Ray had stayed with Sonny.
Ray had admitted he had, until he'd been taken for x-rays.
Trent then asked why, when Clay had the worse injuries, Ray had chosen Sonny.
Ray had asked if Tent was questioning his leadership.
Trent had said yes.
Ray had told Trent he was out of line.
Trent had asked what Ray's problem was with the kid.
Ray had told Trent to stand down.
Trent hadn't.
Jason had gotten involved - again.
Trent had asked what, if any, medication the quack had given the kid.
Ray didn't know.
Trent had asked what Clay had hurt his leg on.
Ray couldn't tell him.
Trent had told him to find somewhere else to sleep.
Ray had told him Trent didn't have the authority to make him.
Trent had left.
When they'd returned to barracks; Trent, Brock, Clay and Cerberus were gone.
Jason had found them in Eric's quarters, ordered their return.
Eric had said to let them be, sent Jason on his way.
Trent hadn't spoken to him since.
Brock wouldn't even stay in the same room with him or Sonny.
"We cudda kilt 'im." Sonny drawled, laying his accent on thick to ease the tension.
Ray gave a half-hearted chuckle. "Wasn't that bad."
But yeah, maybe it had been.
After he, Sonny and Jason had left to go get something to eat, Trent and Brock had picked Clay up from the floor and Trent had discovered the stitches in his leg. He'd known Ray had let some quack at the kid but Ray hadn't said anything about stitches and he'd been rightly pissed that neither Sonny nor Ray had told him about it before they went to eat.
The wound was infected, red, swollen, oozing puss and clear, as well as yellow and green, fluids. Apparently, the wound hadn't been stitched properly, hadn't been cleaned or checked for debris, the proper thread hadn't been used nor had it been sanitized. The quack had simply stuck a needle through skin, pulled the thread tight; hadn't cared how deep he'd poked - evident by some stitches being deep, others barely beneath the surface of the skin, some not even in skin, others threaded through skin that hadn't required stitches, part of the wound left completely unstitched.
He and Brock had taken Clay to the infirmary on base, hadn't been happy with the medical staff, had cut the stitches out himself, properly cleaned the wound, removed dirt and threads from his pants, ensured there was no damage to muscle or tendons - which, hadn't even occurred to Ray - and stapled the wound closed, applied proper antiseptic ointment, wrapped his leg and taken him to Blackburn's quarters before confronting Ray in the mess tent.
But by then, even though it had only been a few hours, the damage had been done. Trent had been stunned infection had set in so fast, livid the kid hadn't received the proper care, angry Ray hadn't called or told him, pissed Ray had simply left the kid on the floor and gone to eat knowing he'd been hurt.
Trent could - and did - hold a grudge. He'd known he'd be up all night with Clay, hadn't wanted to be around Ray, hadn't taken the kid back to their barracks. The fact Blackburn was willing to let them stay with him and had gone against Jason's command, had upset Jason and an upset Jason always put Sonny on edge and the night had been a shit-show.
"You and I remember that night differently." Sonny hiked the heavy gun once more and began to trail after Brock and Trent.
Ray fell in step next to him.
He and Jason had insisted Trent return Clay to their quarters but with Blackburn on Trent's side, there was had been no way to make him. Clay had been a shaking, trembling, mess, thrashing about uneasily in the throes of a fever that didn't want to respond to any medication Trent felt comfortable giving him.
Neither Ray or Sonny were able to confirm what, if any, pain medication the doctor had given the kid. Clay had been alone when the doctor had stitched him up and since Ray had been in charge and had ordered him to submit, he had.
And Clay had been in no condition to tell Trent anything.
Trent and Brock, along with Eric, had spent the night watching Clay sleep, fight through delirium, Trent reluctant to give him anything he hadn't had before. His leg with the stitches in his calf, had ballooned up from knee to heel and he hadn't taken to being kept on his stomach so Trent could keep the stitches clean, ice applied and the wound bathed in cool water.
He'd fought them all night to roll over.
He'd fought them to be allowed to hold his leg.
He'd fought them to itch the stitches.
When insensible, Clay – clung. He wanted to be with someone, would hold tight to a shirt or pants leg, had to have something to hold. Trent hadn't fought him, let the kid crawl into Brock's lap. As long as Clay stayed on either his left side or belly, Trent didn't care what he did.
Eric hadn't teased or made fun or ordered them to return Clay to the infirmary. He'd given up his much more comfortable bed then the cots they'd been given, obediently fetched liquid Tylenol, juice, ice, soft cloths, blankets, whatever Trent had asked for, patiently helped the medic do what needed to be done to keep the infection in check, bring the fever down, make the kid comfortable.
When Ray and Sonny had finally made their way to Eric's quarters, Eric had opened the door, a towel over his shoulder, a plastic bottle with a pop-up top in his hand, an ice pack stuffed under one arm, chewing on a pretzel stick, demanding to know what they wanted.
Jason had said to let them in.
Otherwise, Ray was confident Eric would have ordered them to be on his way.
When Ray had questioned why Jason was sprawled on his back in Eric's bunk, Clay on his belly across Jason's lap, Eric had laughed, Trent and Brock had ignored him.
Eric had later told them, when Jason had come to his quarters to demand he send Clay back to Bravo's barracks, Clay's whining, whimpering, and mummering had ceased, he'd said 'Jace' and reached out for Bravo One. Jason had capitulated to damp bangs hanging in feverish blue eyes faster than a junkie shot up his next hit.
Two days later Clay, on his feet with no memory of that night, and Ray, suffering guilt and regret, had erupted into an argument. Clay, not knowing why but feeling the heavy air of discontent among the team was because of something he'd done or let happen, had blown up.
"I'm gonna slap some sense into you." Ray threatened, hands curling into fists.
Whoa!
Trent stepped forward, but Jason beat him to it, separated the two snipers.
"You?" Clay sneered. "Gonna need help, old man."
"Okay, that's enough!" Jason yelled. "Separate corners! Clay, time for a nap, you're cranky. Ray, outside."
"He started it!" Clay shot back.
"GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Jason roared.
Clay didn't move, weighed his choices, wavered over his decision. Jason waited, was going to give him another three seconds then have Brock and Trent drag him there.
Clay went on his own.
Jason grabbed Ray by the shoulder, dragged him outside, threw him against the wall of the building, let him go.
"What the hell was that?" Jason demanded.
"That cocky little prick….." Ray began hotly.
"What's the matter with you? Jesus Ray! Why do you edge him on?"
"Why do I….me? Wait! Just wait a sec!" Ray threw his hands up, moved away from the wall. "Are you taking his side?"
"His side? What is this, the playground?"
"Jay, brother, come on! You let him get away with too much shit."
"Ray, deal with it. Whatever this is, for the good of the team, get over it."
Another day later, Clay showing no signs of injury despite the infected stitches and with Trent's approval, they continued their mission.
Ray sighed, shook the memories off, picked up his pace. Sonny was carrying a heavier load than him, the gun and its ammo not at all light, and here was Ray, lagging behind.
Somehow, someway, the kid had gotten under their skin, wormed his way close. Probably had something to do with the way he sought comfort when 'whacked', 'not with it', 'under the influence', 'sick and hurt' and never remembered it. Call it whatever the hell you wanted, the cocky, arrogant, mouthy little twerp had even won Sonny over.
Ray stopped, looked around, turned in a circle, saw and sensed nothing, resumed trailing Sonny. One thing he knew, despite his disagreement with Brock and Trent not five minutes ago, if they found a bag of body parts and among them was a blonde-haired scalp - because according to Trent, though how, Ray didn't know, someone had been violently murdered - this mountain side would be leveled, and the village the trail was leading them to, would become a parking lot.
Sonny, for all his bluster and bravo, had a weak stomach and if he were to come across body parts; a hand, eyes, a head without a face, severed fingers, genitals…he'd be puking in the bushes.
If for any reason, any of those body parts were identified as Clay Spenser, Trent would have to sedate the gun-toting Texan.
Up head, Cerberus erupted into a frenzy. Barking, not growling, so he wasn't attacking. He'd found something and it wasn't explosives.
Ray ran smack into Sonny's back. He huffed, straightened his boonie hat, stepped sideways, stood side-by-side with Sonny who stared straight ahead.
And there it was. Tossed to the side, off the path, half way down the hill, the bag that likely contained the body that had been chopped up.
So, Trent had been right. Insurgents or pirates or terrorists or whoever took hostages, filmed their capture and their death, had struck again and their 'how-the-hell-do-we-always-lose him' rookie might not be missing any more.
Brock called the dog who returned to his side, sat at his feet. He held Trent's backpack and rifle, gave him a firm hand from firm footing on firm ground as the medic went over the hill, and began to slip and slide his way down to the bag, let go.
Sonny looked ready to hurl or howl. Ray knew the hurly-burly man would be on his knees, bellowing in his grief if Trent confirmed what they all feared.
Ray swallowed, tried to speak, found his throat dry, the words stuck. Opening a bag and expecting to find grisly contents was bad enough, knowing the contents could very well be the man you called brother was enough to send the most sane, stable person over the edge.
Ray was going to puke, he knew it, stepped away from Sonny. God, please don't let Trent pull anything from the bag and hold it up, dangle it…if he did, Ray was pretty sure his spleen would make an appearance, be a pink, bloody splat on the ground at his feet.
Were spleen's pink?
He remained motionless, silent. Sonny was close, Brock and Cerberus nearby. Even the dog stared at Trent, waited.
Ray thought that odd, the dog should have either been frenzied or relaxed - he knew Clay's scent - but he was neither, he was anxious. Maybe he was picking up on Brock's mood.
Trent pulled his knife, cut the strings on the cloth bag, took a deep breath, pulled it open. He used a stick to poke inside, remained kneeling on his knees, finally sat back, tossed the stick, looked up the hill.
Ray was fairly sure he hadn't found Spenser inside the bag, if the medic had, he'd be doubled up on the ground, holding his stomach…..
"Woof!" Cerberus got to his feet.
"Not him." Trent got to his feet, drank some water.
"You sure?" Ray managed to get out as bile worked its way into his mouth.
Trent took a step, staggered, reached out for the nearest tree to support his weight. "Body is a black man."
"Just one body?" Brock asked, knees giving out.
"Just one…" Trent swallowed hard, moved behind the tree, was soon out of sight.
Ray supposed there were people in the world who would get their jollies out of seeing a dead body. There was that movie in the 80's about kids hiking out to see one. He supposed there were even people who would take delight seeing a bag full of body parts, remove them, play with them, but not Bravo. Never Trent.
He turned, moved off into the bushes, left Sonny to do….whatever.
Brock sat down hard, his stomach a knot. Relief the body wasn't their kids was short-lived because it meant, if they didn't find their missing teammate soon – like, 20 to 30 minutes soon – the next bag would indeed contain their blonde-haired, blue-eyed pain in the ass.
He looked up, breathing deep and heavy, struggled to keep his stomach settled. No one was in sight, he couldn't even hear them, but he knew they were close.
"Woof!" Cerberus padded away, waited, started forward again. "Woof!"
"Guys!" Brock surged to his feet. "Guys! We gotta go! Cerb has a scent."
()()()
Clay blinked, but try as he might, he could not move his head. He could see what was in his immediate line of vision from one eye, his head held flat on the ground from the pressure of a foot. He guessed, had he been able to move his head, he would be able to see out of both eyes, but since he was immobile, his left eye was a green blur and his right eye could only see booted feet.
He was quite familiar with those boots. He had their tread imprinted on his cheek, neck, shoulder, back, side and belly. He'd been stepped on, stomped, held to the ground and kicked by those boots numerous times.
Luckily, other than bruises, a couple sore spots, slight swelling, no damage had been done. No ribs were broken, he had no severe pain in his belly, no skin had been split open and the stitches in his leg remained untouched.
The three men who had captured him weren't exactly brutal – they didn't attempt to break bones or beat him unconscious – but they didn't show him any compassion either.
Well, crap.
The pace set by the captors was not unsustainable, but even without sun, the heat had worn him out. He was grateful the men weren't on horseback, forcing him to jog to keep up.
They didn't speak English, but that was okay, he spoke Spanish and he understood everything they said. He'd heard them discuss a camp of extremists who were recording the torture and murder of a man, felt a pang – not because of the man's demise, but because his team would believe it was him. And aw hell, his team probably thought he was held by that group...what if Bravo was following the wrong trail?
If he hadn't been taken hostage by the extremists group Bravo was in country searching for, who had taken him, and why?
His shoulder ached dully. It wasn't dislocated, but it protested the position his arms were tied in. It had previously been injured on a hike, aggravated in the fight that had led to his capture after he'd given up when a gun had been held to the temple of a child that had, thankfully, been left behind.
He knew he was dehydrating; they hadn't given him any water. The air was dead, made breathing hard, the oppressive, dense heat made him sweat. He laid still and sweat trickled down his back, pooled above the waist of his jeans, matted his hair.
The beatings, the fight, the heat, the long walk, the lack of water had all taken its toll. He was limp and listless and if they wanted him on his feet and moving, they'd have to drag him.
His mind wandered, he drifted in and out of lucidness. Time passed, how much, he didn't know. He hallucinated, dreamed, was dazed and confused when his arms, tied painfully tight behind his back, were grabbed and he was hauled to his feet.
His rest of was over.
He had trouble keeping his feet, felt himself slump. He was given a good shake, told to stand up and move, slapped hard upside the back of his head when he couldn't obey. His ear was grabbed, held, twisted. He yelped. Much harder and his ear would detach….it only took 8 pounds of pressure to rip off an ear.
He was ordered to remain silent, threatened with a gag. He didn't want that, he could barely breathe now, so he bit his lip and stifled any moan or groan of discomfort that tried to escape his abused, too-dry throat.
His knees buckled, he sagged, the attempt to hold him up by tight, punishing grips on both arms, failed and he crumpled back to the ground. They attempted to drag him but that didn't last, he was simply too heavy. So, they left him in a crumpled heap on the ground while they discussed what to do.
Cerberus stopped, pricked his ears, responded to the yelp of pain only he heard. He was off like a shot, Brock picked up his pace in a failed attempt to keep up with the canine. The dog handler didn't worry, whatever Cerb was after, couldn't be far away and when he found it, the dog would either bark in happy greeting or attack and all Brock would have to do is follow the sounds of screams, growls and snapping teeth.
His arms useless, his shoulder screaming, his vision - despite how many times he blinked - blurred, Clay used his feet to dig for purchase to push himself up on his hip...he'd just managed to sit up when a brown blur flew over his head - he instinctively ducked - and attacked the closest man to Clay, taking him down in a growling fury, tugging, ripping, shredding.
Screams erupted and the other two men first scurried away, then searched for sticks to beat the dog off their companion. They never had a chance to use what they found. One minute they were standing, yelling, waving...the next, they were each missing half their heads.
"Clay?"
He was grabbed, held, hugged, the touch firm and comforting, not bruising and hard. Hands felt him up and down; pat, pet and pat-pat. Someone spoke softly, told him he as okay, he was safe, he'd feel better soon. The ropes were cut from his hands, his wrists were massages, rubbed. He was hugged again, held close, passed from one set of arms to another until finally, he was pushed away, set aside and Trent was again, feeling him up and down and over.
His head was held, water was poured over his head, offered to him in small sips. His shirt was shoved up, the fly on his jeans opened, hands went in and around his zipper. He didn't fight, obediently lifted his hips, allowed their removal. He was felt up from his ears to his toes, fingers lingered on the bandage around his calf, but it was left alone.
Brock and Sonny made sure the two men were indeed dead before Brock called off the dog. Cerberus was reluctant to let go but eventually, he responded, came to heel.
"He's alive." Sonny stated, toeing the bleeding man in the hip. "Arm's still attached. Who's a good boy?" He tossed Cerberus a treat made of carrots and green beans. "Well deserved, my furry, four-legged little man."
Brock shook his head, wiped the dog down, checked him for injuries, gave him water.
"Trent? What we got?" Sonny asked. "Shut up." He gave the injured man a harder kick. "What you bawling for? Still got your arm." He glanced at the two dead men. "And your head." And he would remain alive because Mandy would have a lot of questions for him.
The name and touch familiar, Clay nuzzled his cheek against the hand than held his chin, felt safe.
"Gimme a minute." Trent was flashing a flashlight in Clay's eyes. "Show me your tongue."
Clay's eyes blinked against the light, his gaze drifted around and his eyes widened when he saw Sonny. He licked his lips, accepted the offer of water, turned to see who held the bottle….saw it was Brock and immediately reached for him.
"He okay?" Ray asked, juggled Clay, savored the heavy weight against his chest. "Sonny, call Blackburn, tell him we got him." He wasn't able to wait any longer for Trent to talk to him. "Trent, talk to us."
"Hey, we've got you." Brock said quietly, clasping and holding Clay's hand. "Just Trent man-handling you, you're good." Had Clay reached to come to him, he would have taken him, but he didn't attempt to move from Ray's lap.
"Stick your tongue out." Trent said again. "Clay?"
"Uh." Clay didn't respond. "Ow." He showed Trent his tongue. "Ow."
"Yeah, I know." Trent pushed him onto his side, swabbed his hip, stabbed him with a needle. Clay took shots better when they were injected into a larger muscle. The injection of a needle into his arm made it so sore, he couldn't move it without pain for a day or two - a symptom Trent had never encountered on any other living person before. "You'll feel better in a minute."
"Any ribs broken?" Ray asked.
"No." He palpated Clay's belly, pressed, poked, prodded, kneaded. "No signs of internal bleeding, he's just gonna be sore."
"Let's get him outta here." Sonny said. "Helo's on its way."
"Can he walk?" Ray asked.
"Not a chance I'm gonna make him." Trent retorted.
"Nothing broken, I've got him." Sonny handed his gun to Brock, squatted down. "Come here kid, up and over. No kicking me."
Ray pushed Clay forward until he was sitting up. He protested with a groan but his teammates weren't sure if it was because it hurt to move or because he didn't want to leave Ray's lap.
"Watch his shoulder, left." Trent advised. "He's touchy about it."
Ray didn't know how Trent knew that, but he didn't ask.
"Woof!" Cerberus started towards the clearing the helo coming to get them would likely land in. Most likely, he could hear it, knew what it was and what it meant.
"I….want….a…." Clay began. "Hot….ow."
"Yup," Sonny took the kid's arm, easily ducked and hoisted Clay onto his shoulder, stood up on his own. "Taking you for a shower. Lead the way Brock."
Ray fell into step beside Trent. "Kid okay?"
"Yup."
"Are you?"
Trent missed a step.
"Opening that bag..." Ray paused. "Even if we didn't have reason to believe Clay..." He slung an arm across Trent's shoulders. "Couldn't have been easy."
No, poking through a bag of chopped up body parts and organs and intestines was indeed, not easy.
"Just...thanks." Ray said sincerely. "For...uh, doing it."
Trent shrugged, hunched his shoulders. Ray moved his hand to squeeze Trent's neck, massaged gently.
"Hear the helo." Trent said, accepted the comforting touch, allowed it to remain as they followed their teammates to the exfil location.
One more chapter and this one is all wrapped up! Thanks for sticking with me.
