Page 21 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

Boomer headed for the fridge, still reeling from what she’d said to him in the doorway.

His dick was hard, and he was having a hard time trying to maintain that cool head thing he was espousing this morning.

No one had ever called him a devastating bastard.

Jesus. He was fucked, goatfucked, and screwed ten ways to Sunday. “Oh, yeah. What a surprise.”

“I heard Taylor almost died yesterday on your watch.”

Breakneck came into the room, and he stiffened, looking at Boomer. “What kind fucking hot air are you spewing now, fish and chips?”

Boomer barked out a laugh and met Breakneck’s eyes. “There was a pirate who had a bead on her. He’s dead.”

Bash stepped into Boomer’s personal space, his attempt at intimidation was pathetic.

He got his British panties in a twist over the way Taylor had touched him, spoke to him.

Yet, against his will, Mike filled up his head.

The man had died for him and guilt clawed at him.

What if he’d been wrong and Taylor had been shot…

“You know, for a man from a country we whooped several times, you got a lotta opinions.”

“Several?”

“History lesson, mate. We sent y’all packin’ once in redcoats, and again in 1812. Third time’s just showin’ off.”

“We fought the Nazis alone. You lot only joined when it got personal. We were already bleeding.”

“We were bleeding, too.”

“After Pearl. Took a surprise attack to wake you,” Bash scoffed.

Boomer’s drawl went low and flat, the kind that didn’t rise in anger but pressed down like weight on a loaded trigger.

He stepped in close, voice steady as a sermon, dangerous as detcord.

“Then we fought the rest of that damn war on three fronts, Europe, Africa, the Pacific, while protecting that little isle you live on. So maybe don’t bring history into it unless you’re ready to count every grave we dug so your flag could still fly. ”

Bash didn’t smile this time. He didn’t say anything at all.

“Don’t stand in front of the breacher, Bash. Common sense and cover your ass are the watchwords,” Boomer said.

Breakneck chuckled.

Bash started out of the room. “CQC is basic shit, Colonel Sanders. You were sloppy and inattentive. What were you looking at? Taylor’s ass or tits?”

Boomer’s hand shot out, stopping Breakneck mid-lunge, flat palm to his chest.

“Don’t.”

Breakneck growled, chest rising like a struck match. “He doesn’t get to talk about her like?—”

“He already did.” Boomer’s voice was low.

Lethal. He stepped forward, crowding into Bash’s space.

This time Bash retreated. “That tells me everything I need to know.” Bash arched a brow, but Boomer didn’t give him a second to speak.

“That’s the way you think, Bash. You don’t know a goddamn thing about me, and you sure as hell don’t know a thing about Taylor if you can talk about her like that.

” He tilted his head slightly, voice a fraction softer, but cut with edge.

“I can drop a hostile and still take in everything beautiful about her.” Silence fell.

Heavy. Uneven. Bash swallowed. Boomer didn’t blink.

“So maybe next time you get the itch to insult me, maybe you’ll think about how you’re insulting her. ”

Boomer made his breakfast, calm as ever, unconcerned with Bash. He was young, jealous, and part of Boomer couldn’t blame him. If he was losing Taylor to another man, hell, he’d be on edge too.

The room smelled of metal, old sweat, and salt.

The table between them was bolted to the floor, its edges worn to a dull sheen by years of restless hands and restless men.

The fan above rattled against the ceiling, but it didn’t move the air.

Heat pooled thick in the corners, pressed down in layers.

Taylor sat still, expression unreadable, arms folded, ankle crossed over her knee.

Across from her, the man sweated through his shirt.

Mid-thirties, sun-worn and underfed, an unknown accent coloring his clipped Portuguese.

His wrists were cuffed, but loosely. That was intentional.

The illusion of comfort could be far more effective than a threat.

Anna stood at the corner of the room, leaning one hip against the wall, arms crossed. Her eyes didn’t blink often, and when they did, they never looked away. Her presence said everything without speaking— I see you. I hear you, and you will not win this.

Taylor had done the preliminaries. The suspect had three aliases, all tied to port runs along the Iberian coast, none verified.

His last stop had been Setúbal, two days before the ghost trawler interception.

He had ducked port surveillance and was picked up trying to dump his burner phone at a construction site near Almada.

Now, he looked tired. Not broken but close.

“You’re not a soldier,” Taylor said softly. “You don’t hold your shoulders like one.”

His eyes flicked toward her, then away. The muscles in his jaw flexed.

“So tell me,” she continued, voice calm, almost clinical. “Why would a man with civilian posture and fake shipping papers be connected to a route flagged by Interpol as a narcotic corridor?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Taylor tilted her head. “You do. You flinched when I said Interpol. Your right foot twitched when I mentioned Setúbal. But let’s skip the tics.”

She placed a satellite image on the table, grainy, time-stamped, with a thermal overlay. A truck convoy. Inland. Not coastal.

“This,” she said, “was not supposed to be traced. But it was.”

He didn’t look. Not fully. But he glanced. That was enough.

Anna pushed off the wall. “We know the trucks didn’t stop in Portugal. They passed through. Temporary storage only.”

Taylor watched his hands, not his face. They tensed. One knuckle went white.

“Where did they go?” she asked. “Where is the offload?”

“I don’t know.” But his voice cracked on the second word.

Anna stepped forward. “You’re not protecting anyone who will protect you. You get that, right? They will not come for you. They’ll leave you to rot in a Portuguese cell while they reap from your sweat and risk.”

That got him. The flicker. The misstep.

Taylor leaned forward, her voice velvet-edged. “You know what happens when fentanyl moves with heroin through land corridors? You get clean planes, ghost ships, dead children. You’re not just a runner. You’re part of a murder machine. Is that what you want your name on?”

He exhaled, shaky. Then muttered something in Croatian. Taylor’s German ear picked it up, barely, but Anna translated without missing a beat. “Leix?es. They were supposed to re-load at Leix?es.”

Taylor’s pulse kicked once. Anna locked eyes with her. “That’s our port.”

The man’s head dropped. “No names. They don’t give names. Only codes.”

Taylor pushed back in her chair, slow and steady, gathering the file. “We don’t need names. We have a route.”

As they stepped into the corridor, the door locking behind them with a mechanical hiss, Anna let out a breath that sounded more like steel leaving a forge.

“Damn, you’re good,” she murmured.

Taylor didn’t smile. Not yet. “So are you.” They walked in silence until they reached the end of the hallway. Then Taylor said quietly, “It’s too bad this will be your last op.”

Anna turned, one hand on her hip, the edge of something unspoken softening her eyes. “Yeah. It is.” Anna hesitated, then gave her a crooked smile. “I’m pregnant.”

Taylor blinked. The word sat heavy and bright in the air.

“I haven’t told anyone yet. But I can’t wait to start a family. Oliver’s already picking out names.”

Taylor’s voice came quiet. “Dodger.”

Anna laughed once, low and wry. “Yeah. My Artful Dodger. Fast Lane had no idea what they signed up for.”

Taylor’s breath caught in her throat, half a laugh, half awe. “You’re going to be incredible.”

Anna smiled, and this time, it reached her eyes. “So will you. When the time’s right.”

She touched Taylor’s arm, quick, sincere, then started to turn away.

“Let’s convene a briefing in twenty. I want everyone updated. We move on this before it disappears again.”

Taylor paused in the doorway, gave a single nod. “You got it.”

Then she was gone, her silhouette vanishing down the corridor with the quiet grace of a woman who had just dismantled a man and was learning his network in under an hour and was about to go build a life.

Taylor lingered there, one hand on the cold steel of the doorframe, the other tightening around the file she still held. The hallway smelled of dust and institutional cleaner. Familiar. Lifeless.

A breath escaped her, slower than she intended.

Pregnant.

The word felt foreign in this place. Too tender for cement walls and high-security locks.

A flicker of something sharp and elusive twisted through her chest, regret , maybe. Or something worse. Something older.

Watching Anna walk away, strong and sure, with that kind of quiet joy lighting her from the inside, struck something deeper than she was prepared for. A family. A life. She had never let herself want those things. Not really.

She turned and headed for the main hall, heels echoing with clipped precision, but the thoughts kept following her like a shadow she hadn’t meant to cast.

Boomer. The name came unbidden. Not as a callsign, not as an asset or operator.

Carter.

She could still feel the phantom memory of his body beneath her hands, the heat of him, the control, the way he steadied her even when the world was slipping sideways. He had carved out space in her without even trying. Now, maddeningly, irrevocably, he lived there.

What if he stayed?

What if that deep, steady presence was hers for more than an op? More than adrenaline and need and fleeting hours between missions?

A child. The image came like a spark, too fast, too bright. A boy with Boomer’s eyes. A girl with her steel and his wild heart.

Taylor clenched her jaw. Dammit.

She wasn’t supposed to think like that.

Career had been drummed into her since she was old enough to spell ambition. Love was a pipe dream. Passion burned out, and what was left was duty, efficiency, and perhaps, if she was lucky, a man like her father, supportive, steady, emotionally present in theory.

But no backbone. No fire. No Boomer .

She imagined it, coming home to someone like that. No arguments, no late-night desire, no deep gravity pulling her in with one look. Just mild approval, tidy compromise, and a quiet decay of self over years.

How empty that sounded.

Worse…how empty it felt.

She turned the corner and caught sight of the glass doors leading to the training pad, where a crowd had begun to gather. The sound of Lockhart’s voice carried faintly, followed by Iceman’s razor-edged calm.

Taylor exhaled and squared her shoulders.

Time to get back to work.

But her heartbeat said something else, and it sounded a lot like his name.