SCARS OF SILENCE (The Brave Delta Force Division #6)
1. Clay
Clay
Clay stood in the doorway of the last room, weapon raised, breathing slow and even as he swept the corners one final time.
Dust floated through thin strips of morning light, cutting between broken boards. The air smelled stale. Old concrete. Burned wiring. Abandoned too long.
Nothing moved.
No threats.
No footsteps.
No breathing except his own.
“Clear,” he said quietly.
His voice barely echoed before Lucas answered through comms.
“Clear.”
Then Miles.
“Clear.”
Good.
Clay lowered his weapon slightly but kept scanning anyway. Habit. Repetition. Discipline.
That was what kept men alive.
Not luck.
Not instincts.
Not hope.
Habit.
Boots scraped behind him.
“You’re slow today,” Miles muttered as he stepped into the doorway.
Clay didn’t turn immediately. His eyes tracked the room one more time before settling on the hall beyond it.
“I’m thorough.”
“You’re stiff.”
That made him look over.
Miles leaned casually against the frame, rifle hanging low, expression annoyingly entertained.
Clay shifted slightly.
Pain tugged sharply through his ribs.
Hot.
Fast.
Gone.
“I feel fine.”
“Yeah?” Lucas cut in over comms. “Because from here it looks like you’re favoring your left side.”
Clay rolled his shoulder once, testing the movement.
Another quick stab under the ribs.
Manageable.
“I’m good.”
Silence.
Then Miles snorted softly.
“Man, if I had a dollar for every time you said that—”
“Focus,” Clay said flatly.
The word came harder than he intended.
Miles’ grin faded just slightly.
The team fell quiet again after that. Professional. Efficient.
They moved through the next section of the compound in practiced formation.
Clear room.
Check corners.
Advance.
Everything exactly how it should be.
Except something about it felt…
Off.
Not the mission.
Him.
Clay tightened his jaw as they moved down another corridor lined with cracked concrete and hanging wires.
He ignored it.
Ignored the ache in his side.
Ignored the exhaustion sitting heavier in his bones lately.
Ignored the restless edge that hadn’t left him in weeks.
Because thinking about it wouldn’t change anything.
The mission wrapped quickly after that.
Too quickly.
Soon they were back in the truck heading toward the Brave base, tires humming against rough pavement while desert heat shimmered outside the windows.
Routine.
Another operation done.
Another successful sweep.
Clay leaned back against the seat, forearms resting loosely across his chest.
The movement pulled at his ribs again.
He ignored that too.
Outside, the sun dipped lower across the horizon, throwing streaks of orange across the glass.
And somehow—
His mind drifted anyway.
Her.
Hannah.
The last time he’d seen her.
Standing across that medical bay with fire in her eyes and frustration tightening her voice.
“You’re not ready.”
His jaw flexed.
He could still hear it.
Still see the way she’d crossed her arms like she was trying not to shake him.
The anger underneath it.
The concern underneath that.
He’d walked out before he had to deal with either one.
Probably for the best.
Except the thought sat wrong in his chest now.
Heavy.
Unfinished.
“You gonna keep pretending that didn’t get to you?” Miles asked suddenly from across the truck.
Clay blinked once.
“What?”
“That whole doctor ripping you apart situation.”
Lucas huffed a laugh from the front seat.
Clay looked out the window again.
The fading sunlight blurred across the glass.
“Wasn’t personal.”
Miles let out a low whistle.
“Man, that’s where you’re wrong.”
Yeah.
Maybe.
Lucas glanced back over his shoulder slightly.
“You ever talk to her after that?”
“No.”
“You going to?”
“No.”
Too fast.
The truck fell quiet again except for the low growl of the engine.
Then Miles muttered under his breath—
“Yeah… that’s not gonna last.”
Clay didn’t answer.
Because somewhere deep down—
He already knew that too.