Page 27 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

His boots hit the dock with a dull thud, the weight of the dive pack pressing into his shoulders. Taylor was already there, crouched beside the water’s edge, going over the RFID tag’s casing with the kind of precision that made something twist in his chest.

Not because she was good at it.

But because now he could see her.

The woman beneath the armor. The fire beneath the steel.

“Ready?” she asked without looking up.

“Always,” he said, voice low.

She nodded and stood, then her eyes went to his rig.

She stepped close to him, and he could feel her touch through the neoprene, light, adjusting a strap, but her hands lingered, and his heart squeezed.

He turned his head. Their eyes met. Just for a second.

But something passed between them, something wordless and carved in blood and breath and memory.

“I’ll go in first,” her words came out husky. She cleared her throat. “Tag's on me. You cover the rear.”

“Copy that, Red.”

She didn’t roll her eyes at the nickname this time. Didn’t smirk. Just touched his arm in passing, quick, op-focused. A simple signal of movement.

But his skin lit up where she touched him. He knew that wasn’t about dive protocols.

That was something else.

Something that had started eight hours ago in a quiet room full of tears and breath and trembling hands. Something that hadn't ended.

They slipped into the black water together. Silent. Synchronized. But even as they descended into the deep, Boomer felt it. She was with him. Not just in formation, but in spirit, and that was the most dangerous thing of all.

The sea swallowed them. Cold. Dark. Absolute.

Boomer adjusted his buoyancy as the surface light fractured above him, breaking into a thousand distorted shards.

The only sound was the hush of his rebreather and the distant hum of the port, a low mechanical throb echoing through the hulls around them.

He kept his body streamlined, trailing slightly behind and to the right, just as planned.

Taylor was a shadow ten feet ahead, fins slicing through the black like a whisper. Efficient. Controlled. Her body cut the water with the same sharp purpose she used to cut through bullshit in the field. He’d always admired that about her.

Now he ached for it.

He watched the way she moved, calm but alert. She was operating at a high level, but he knew what it cost her. The storm from earlier still swirled beneath the surface. He could feel it in the slight hitch of her shoulders. The residual grief like a current around them.

Still, she led.

She always fucking led, and he followed with trust for her instincts as much as his own.

They reached the underbelly of the freighter in silence, the steel hull looming above them like the middle of a sleeping beast. Barnacles crusted the midsection.

Rust spiraled across riveted plates. Boomer swept the area with a low-watt beam, keeping the angle tight.

No motion. No patrol boats. No unexpected movement along the pier.

He gave the signal. Clear left .

Taylor responded. Moving in .

She approached the target zone, hovering steady as she drew the RFID tracker from the pouch at her thigh.

Boomer watched her hands, steady, precise.

His chest constricted. She was wearing a full-face mask, but he could still feel the concentration radiating off her, like she was sculpting something fragile into permanence.

Suddenly the water moved, and Boomer turned.

The shadow was swimming slowly, silver glinting as it passed under the moon.

Boomer cataloged the beast the moment he saw it.

Shortfin Mako, juvenile, three and a half feet and sixty pounds.

It swam too close to Taylor, and he simply body blocked it.

It glanced off his shoulder and swam away.

Taylor turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling, and he returned the look.

Not many sharks ventured into harbors; they were deep-sea creatures.

He never worried much about them when diving.

Contrary to the hype of Shark Week, most of them were interested in their normal prey.

This juvenile must have wandered away from the coast.

She resumed the op, pressing the unit flat against the steel, holding it for a beat. It magnetized with a soft click , a sound he couldn’t hear, but could feel all the same.

Tag secured. She gave the confirmation hand signal. Boomer returned it.

Then she drifted slightly. Just a foot. Maybe two. The current pulled her off-axis as she reached for her flashlight to confirm the sync code. Instinct flared. He moved.

His hand wrapped around her wrist. His grip said I’ve got you.

Her eyes flicked to his, and for a moment, time stilled.

The mission didn’t vanish, but something else pressed in. Something quieter . The way she didn’t flinch this time. The way she let him hold her there, weightless in water, tethered not by gear or training but by trust .

He released her slowly. She stayed close. Then they turned, kicking away from the hull together, silent again, the port receding as the mission shifted from covert to kinetic. The next time they breached would be steel and concrete.

They broke the surface together, saltwater streaming down their gear as they clung to the edge of the dock. Boomer pulled off his mask, breath steady, ears tuning to the distant hum of the harbor and the faint thrum of adrenaline still vibrating in his bones.

Taylor tugged her mask loose, pushed her wet hair back with one gloved hand, and shot him a look sideways, half wry, half breathless.

“Jacques Cousteau,” she said, deadpan. “You gonna start narrating our next op in French?”

Boomer huffed a laugh, water running down his cheek. “Only if you promise to keep swimming toward juvenile sharks like you’ve got a death wish.”

She smiled, small, crooked, full of spark. “Didn’t know I was being shadowed by the Shark Whisperer.”

He leaned in just slightly, eyes dark and glinting. “Just trying to keep the wildlife from mistaking you for bait, sugar.”

She bumped her shoulder against his, not hard. But the contact lingered as they climbed the ladder into the shadowed edge of the dock. Boomer glanced once at Taylor. She was dripping salt and shadow, her wetsuit slick against her frame, her eyes already scanning the warehouse in the near distance.

She didn’t look back at him. But she didn’t need to.

She knew he was there. He wanted to remain here for many more moments with her.

For the first time, he let himself think about her softly spoken words inviting him to her family lunch, into the breach with her, into the minefield that was her mother, and that woman held the detonator.

He intended to get it away from her, show Taylor that no one had power over her but herself.

She would be free to make her own choices, and suddenly, achingly, he wanted to be one of those choices.

They hit the shore fast and low, boots sinking into the sludge-slick gravel behind the warehouse.

The loading zone was dark, lit only by a weak security light.

Tall chain-link fencing boxed them in on three sides.

Crates, rusted barrels, a sagging forklift, the forgotten skeletons of a legitimate business long gone to rot.

Boomer moved to cover, scanned, swept.

Nothing yet.

But the air was wrong . Still, dense, and chemical-sour. Like the building was exhaling poison.

He glanced at Taylor. She was already working the zipper on her wetsuit, peeling it down to her hips with the kind of practiced efficiency that said she’d done this a hundred times before and never once thought twice about who might be watching.

But he watched and couldn't look away. The way her fingers moved. The way her hair clung to the side of her neck. The way she drew breath like it mattered.

The low light hit her skin like silver. Her compression shirt clung to her frame, soaked through, outlining the quiet strength in her arms, the lean muscle beneath the curve of her ribs.

Yet, even then, even stripped down to black fabric and tension, there was something delicate about her.

So…feminine…elemental. Sweet fire wrapped in discipline.

A woman who’d let him hold her grief, and now walked beside him like it never happened, except it had, and it lived under her skin now, just like it lived under his.

He turned away before she could catch him looking.

But that image, Taylor, sharp and stripped down to her own truth, lodged deep in his chest. Stayed with a heavy weight on him, stirring something low in his gut. Hunger. Heat. All twisted up with the kind of longing that wasn’t going away.

Like some deep, ancient part of him recognized her as something rare. Something worth shielding. Not because she needed it, but because he wanted to be the man who did.

He rolled his own wetsuit down to his hips, working fast. His chest steamed in the night air, adrenaline tangling in his veins.

Boomer tried to focus on gear, safety checks, the ticking clock in his head.

Tried. It was her , and every damn second he spent near her was becoming harder to survive with his heart intact.

Her voice came, smooth as silk over gravel. “Carter…you can look all you want, mein Hübscher. It’s not like I haven’t already cataloged every single muscle of your back, your chest…and those abs.” She gave a soft, appreciative hum. “Pure masculine perfection.”

Boomer choked on a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

Mein Hübscher.

He knew what the phrase meant, my handsome one , but had never heard it with that low warmth in her voice, like the words had been shaped just for him. His name in her mouth already wrecked him, so personal. Possessive. Hers .

His blood had already started to hum with the force of everything he was trying to hold back. He cleared his throat, tried for neutral, and failed. “Red, you are a piece of work.”

She grinned without apology. “Yeah, well…wait until you see me in action, Boom Boom.”

Boomer shook his head, the smile tugging at his mouth completely involuntary. They finished gearing up without a word, plate carriers on, weapons ready, silencers attached. Taylor checked her comms, then tapped his shoulder. Just once. The brush of her fingers set every nerve inside him alight.

She keyed her mic. “Red team getting into position. Tag planted. No contact.”

Then Breakneck’s voice came through the comms, clean and sharp, “Break here. Overwatch set. Nest is solid. Clear visuals on mezz upper left.”

Bash followed, clipped and dry, “Eyes on high right. No movement. Door is dark.”

Another click . Lockhart, curt and cool, “Main team stacked. Forge on breach. Timer’s ticking.”

He gave her a nod. “Ready?”

“Let’s secure the rear.”

They moved fast.

Low run to the access door.