Clay likes going high, being on overwatch. There's something reassuring and satisfying about being able to see trouble coming and eliminate it before it ever has the chance to threaten his brothers.
He stays up in the tower, determined to cover Bravo and Alpha for as long as possible before heading down to meet them so they can all get the hell out of this godforsaken town and send Ashli Mayers back home to her family.
When the time comes to go, Clay does a quick check to make sure all is clear and he isn't going to run into any surprises on the way to the bottom of the tower. Then he starts down the stairs, moving at a fast, controlled clip.
The surprise, when it comes, isn't anything he anticipated. He was looking for tangos; was concerned about meeting up with bullets or explosives. A stair that had crumbled off on one side? He never thought to worry about that.
He's moving from the second step down to the third when his foot drops straight down through empty space, finally landing hard on the fourth step with a crunch that spikes through his ankle. Only a frantic grab at the railing keeps him from taking a header all the way down, which would have been painful and possibly fatal.
Clay is clinging to the railing, panting through the pain in his ankle, when he glances up and spots the trouble coming.
Here near the top of the stairs, he's still high up enough to see most of the town and the desert beyond. To the east, where a squat line of hills poke up from the desolate sand and stone, there's movement, a lot of movement, where there shouldn't be any at all.
Gritting his teeth and using the railing for support, Clay manages to hop back up the stairs to the top, where he settles at the edge of the balcony, resting his HK416 on the low railing and peering through the scope. What he sees freezes his pulse for an instant.
There are probably 30 tangos, they've got RPGs, and they're going to reach Bravo and Alpha before his boys can get to the exfil trucks.
In a matter of seconds, the pieces slot into place in Clay's mind.
His ankle, already swelling in his boot. The unexpected opposition that's about to blindside his brothers. The fact that he's the only one in position to do something about it.
His heart stutters, pounds like a weight in his chest. He takes a few deep breaths and reaches for his radio.
Maybe it was always going to end like this. Maybe it's not the worst way to go out.
(It's just that he doesn't want to go out. Not yet. He has things left to do.)
A broken step. A goddamn broken step.
He's a tier one operator. He's made it through missions no one had any right surviving. He's dodged bullets and RPGs, and he walked away from a helicopter crash ready to kick ass, and now he's going to die because there was a broken step and because, just for an instant, he wasn't paying attention.
"Them the breaks," Sonny's imagined voice says wryly in his mind.
Jason doesn't like it, of course, and tries to order him to come down. Clay expected that. When he tells his team leader about the ankle, though, Hayes does the same mental math Clay did, then comes to the same conclusion. Clay was expecting that, too. You don't get to the position of being able to lead a tier one team unless you're a realist.
The trouble is inbound and moving fast. In a few seconds, shit is going to hit the fan and there won't be time for talking. Whatever needs to be said, it has to be said right now.
Clay swallows around the ache in his throat and says hoarsely, "All call signs … Been an honor. Give 'em hell."
Sonny snarls, "Goddammit, kid," but then immediately cuts off, which is probably Jason's doing.
They don't have time for arguing about this. Clay trusts that Jason understands that.
"Likewise, Bravo Six," Hayes responds, calm and steady. Someone who didn't know him so well probably wouldn't even pick up the hint of emotion in his voice.
Then the tangos are on them, and there's no time for anything but trying to keep his boys alive.
Clay prioritizes the RPGs, trusting Bravo and Alpha to handle the rest. For every tango he drops, another pops up. He keeps shooting, only iron will and years of training keeping his hands steady when he reloads, preventing the adrenaline from taking over.
This is it. Swan song. It has to mean something. He has to make it count.
The tangos will figure out where he is. They might already be on their way. Clay can't take the time to be checking the stairs behind him; he just has to hope that, by the time they make it here, he will have finished doing what needs to be done.
Bravo and Alpha reach the trucks, apparently without taking casualties, and load up. Clay watches them head out, caught between relief and a sort of gut-deep terror that makes him grit his teeth to stop himself from begging, Come back. Please don't leave me.
He starts hearing voices behind him, the faint scuffle of footsteps at the bottom of the stairs, right at the same time that he spots the tango taking aim at his boys with an RPG.
Oh, no you don't. Clay sights in. Slow inhale, slow exhale. Last shot he'll ever take.
His aim is true. The tango goes down. Blows up his own damn truck instead of his target.
Clay wants to laugh in triumph, because Bravo and Alpha will make it out now, and a family will get their daughter back. He also wants to cry. There's not much time for doing either. He draws his Glock, faces the stairs, and waits. No one visible yet, but he can hear them; can make out the faint shape of their voices as they discuss how best to take him down.
"Bravo Six? Clay?" Sonny's soft drawl in his ear is so unexpected that Clay flinches. Then his eyes prickle with tears, because Jesus he's going to miss Sonny. He's going to miss all of them so much. They're his family, a family that he didn't get to have for near long enough.
"Yeah," he says. Can't come up with anything else. Any way to put this into words.
"Look, I-" Sonny cuts off. The grief in his voice lands like a punch to the stomach.
"I know," Clay says. He does. It doesn't have to be said. "I wish-" What does he wish for? To not die right now? To just not have to be alone when he does?
Before he has a chance to figure out how he wants to finish that sentence, something clinks at the top of the stairs, spins toward him.
Grenade.
Clay has just enough time to think Like Adam before the world explodes into noise and fractured light.
He comes back to himself facedown, blinded, ears ringing. Flashbang, he realizes, and scrambles blindly for his Glock; not sure where he'll point it, whether at them or-
A boot grinds his wrist down. He looks up through tears and through the afterimage of light to see a gun butt headed for his face.
Then there's nothing at all.