Page 24 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

He clicked again. “Now, here’s where it gets tricky.

Mezzanine’s not on original blueprints. Added in 2017 by a shell corp.

Steel support beams, no seismic anchors, no crossload balancing.

It’s deadweight above dry-lab real estate.

You stack the wrong gear on that platform and it’s a coffin drop.

You breach hot, and the vapor load from that acetyl chloride?

It will ignite into a corrosive gas, and it’ll eat your lungs before you hit the second room. ”

A long breath passed through the room.

Boomer continued, voice level. “We considered demo. Standard charge would cut through the primary door, clean and fast. But with the likelihood of uncontained solvents, possibly even reconstitution underway? That’s too big a gamble.”

He met Taylor’s eyes briefly—just long enough to read the ghost of agreement in them.

“Forge and I recommend mechanical ingress. Slow, controlled, pry tools and thermals. It’s the only way to avoid catalyzing an unknown reaction.

If we absolutely need a charge, I’ll place a shaped micro-blast. One click over standoff, away from air currents.

Low yield. Minimum concussive radius. But mechanical’s the play. ”

Forge leaned forward, adding his clipped British cadence. “It’s slower, but it’s the right call. Safety first. Blast wrong and you’ll be burning lab rats, not bagging traffickers.”

Boomer nodded. “We breach smart. No cowboy shit. Interior sweep will be full masks, sealed gear, fallback route staged.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the room. His tone hardened. “We do this clean, or we don’t do it. Copy?”

The room rippled with affirmatives, gruff, tight, but sure.

Then he handed the clicker back to Taylor, their fingers brushing briefly. Boomer said to Taylor, locking her with his gaze, “We’ve trained for worse. But if anything shifts on entry, I’m calling it. My breach, my call.”

Her nod was small. But her eyes, those eyes , said she trusted him with more than just the charge.

Bash made a noise low in his throat, almost a scoff. Boomer didn’t even look at him. He walked back to his seat like the matter was settled.

Taylor wrapped up the brief. “The ship departs Leix?es in twelve hours. Civilian crew, falsified manifest, flagged twice in Casablanca for proximity anomalies. My guess? It’s the mule, not the prize. We’ll get geared up and?—”

Boomer shifted, something Taylor said registering, voice low but clear. “You said mule, not prize.”

Taylor glanced over, pulling out her cell. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “What if we let it go?”

That sparked murmurs across the room.

Taylor’s brow furrowed. “Let it go?”

Boomer gave the faintest smile, the kind that said he’d already thought it through.

“We dive under. Place an RFID tracker on the hull, low-frequency, passive ping. It won’t broadcast, won’t alert.

Just a tiny shadow under the steel. Undetectable.

We let the ship sail on its merry way, and we track that sucker through wind and waves all the way to its real destination. Mules have a home base.”

Taylor’s gaze sharpened, that quicksilver glint he’d come to recognize flashing in her eyes. “A Trojan freighter. Let them think they got away with it.”

He nodded again. “Follow the current. Backtrack the source.”

Her lips curved, sharp, approving. “That’s a damn good idea. Let me run it up the chain. I’ll let you know if Esteves bites.”

She turned away, already on her phone.

“That mezz,” Breakneck said, looking at Preacher, Bash, and Lock, then his gaze cut to Iceman. “They’ll have high cover. Elevated angle. That’s our risk on breach.”

From across the room, Bash leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, voice dry but lethal. “For sure, mate. If it was me? I’d drop a .50 cal right there. Door sightline. Perfect kill box.”

Iceman nodded once, glancing over at Lockhart. “Exactly. The minute we blow that door, we’re silhouetted. If they’re armed and elevated, we lose the first man in.”

Breakneck rose, grabbed the clicker to the satellite image again, highlighting the door.

“No go on roof insertion,” Preacher said. “Too exposed. Single-level footprint with no rooftop cover. No fast-rope options.”

Lock leaned in. “Means we need two guys as our overwatch. What do we have for buildings in the area, Break?” He brought up an area map.

“There,” Breakneck said. “That building directly across from the warehouse. Those clerestory windows?—”

“You can’t make that shot,” Bash said.

Hazard laughed. “With his eyes closed in a storm.”

Break grinned. “I can make more than one shot. It’ll be a perfect nest. I call dibs.”

Bash’s voice cut again, low and deliberate.

“Kid, you have eyes like an eagle and the angle chops of Einstein. That’s a trajectory I didn’t see.

I’ll take this building. A different but viable line of sight in case we’ve got an obscured target.

You’ll have two sets of eyes watching the mezz while you clear the floor. ”

Iceman gave a short nod. “Copy that. Colonel?”

“We have a sound tactical plan,” Lockhart said. He looked at Taylor, who was still on the phone, her body taut. “Let’s see what MAOC has to say. Esteves is very aggressive.”

Taylor hung up, turned, and faced the room. Her chin was lifted, her tone steady.

“MAOC has green-lit the tracker.”

Colonel Lockhart studied her. “This is a big swing.”

Taylor gave him a bold smile. “Esteves said, and I quote, ‘If that ship slips our noose, it’s your butt on the hook.’”

A dry chuckle rippled through the room.

Bash said, “We’ve got your back, Tay.”

She nodded at him coolly. “So here’s the plan.” She looked at Iceman first. “With your approval, Master Chief, Boomer, and I will execute the dive and place the RFID tag on the hull. Once we’re out of the water, we’ll circle to the port side and ingress through the secondary breach point.”

Boomer gave a small nod. She was already brushing up on breaching methods, and it showed.

Taylor turned the laser pointer to the screen. “Forge will lead the main force on mechanical ingress at the front. Breakneck and Bash will set overwatch on the mezz from opposing angles.

“Wait,” Breakneck said. “You were on the phone. How did you?—”

“I’m always listening, Petty Officer.” Taylor’s voice didn’t waver, and damn if she wasn’t the sexiest damn thang.

“Boomer and I will execute a break-and-rake entry from the rear window, neutralize hostiles, and secure the back quadrant. That minimizes reinforcement flow and gives us a corridor for sweep and extraction.”

Boomer felt it like a damn punch to the chest. Break-and-rake she said confidently, like it wasn’t the first time the term had crossed her lips. Like she’d studied the technique, understood the rhythm, the risk, the kind of breach it took to enter through glass without losing a man or momentum.

Damn, he loved her brain. That precision. That bite. That beautiful, tactical mind in that fire-haired body.

He didn’t let it show. Just gave a small nod, sharp and low. Inside he was already halfway to dropping to one knee and proposing with a pair of bolt cutters.

Freaking woman was speaking his love language and she didn’t even know it.

Iceman said, “Sounds like we’ve got a plan.” His voice was level and low. “Gear check, then stack your z’s. We move at 2100. You’re no good to me if you’re fogged when the breach blows. MAOC will provide interior schematics and thermals up to entry. No inside air readouts, so kit up masks.”

Everyone began filing out of the room, voices low, boots heavy with the weight of what came next. Orders were clear. Assignments locked.

Boomer didn’t move. He waited near the door, shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on one person.

Taylor approached, all cool efficiency and high-command grace, but he caught the flicker, her pulse, just there at her throat, kicking like she wasn’t nearly as composed as she pretended to be.

He leaned down, his voice a soft murmur just for her. “You can break-and-rake me anytime, Kommissar Red.”

Her sharp jab to his ribs stole his breath in a grunt of laughter, the sound low and too damn pleased.

God, he loved this.

Wanted her .

His smile turned dangerous.

Fuck, this woman was going to be under him damn soon.

Not just metaphorically. Not just tactically.

Under him—hands clutching, mouth open, that fire-lit skin arched against his, his dick so deep in her, finding those pressure points, making her crazy with pleasure, fucking her until she cried out his name.

Just like that, she caught his gaze. She saw it. Felt it. That ghost of a thought hit her like a whisper against bone, and now she was the one who looked like she'd taken the jab to the ribs.

Whatever they were heading into next, she already knew they’d make it out. When they did, he was coming for her.

Break looked between them, then muttered under his breath, “Jesus, Boom. You don’t even try. No wonder she’s wrecked.”

Boomer glanced toward Iceman. The master chief gave a single nod, slow and solid, those pale blue eyes full of agreement. He lifted his fist. “Good job, both of you,” he said.

Half an hour later, Boomer ducked into the cage corridor, the sharp scent of oil and sweat rising up like memory.

Solvent. Steel. Salt air was woven into everything.

He liked it better here, quiet and familiar.

No peacocking. No politics. Just the tools that kept him alive and the men who knew how to use them.

Overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting a sterile pall over the room’s mesh lockers and reinforced concrete walls.

He scanned the shelves, mentally double-checking for the dive and breach: tracker casing, strip charge backup, rebreather kit, thermal wraps. Everything prepped and accounted for.

A woman’s voice broke the silence, her German clipped and cold. "Ansel won’t come out of his room. Can you come over and speak to him? Show a united front."