Page 28 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

Boomer pressed his back against the wall, the coarse concrete cool against his spine.

He glanced at Taylor. She gave him a nod, unslinging the breaching tool from her back—a collapsible fiberglass pole with a window rake and punch on either end.

She handed him a flash-bang, then gestured to the window, her fingers brushing his wrist.

Just a touch.

But he felt it. The same way he felt her presence behind every breath.

They were different now.

Eight hours ago, she’d shattered in his arms. Now she was steel again, but he knew what was beneath that forged shell. Knew because she’d shown him. Somehow, that made her even stronger.

Boomer turned to the wall, weapon slung as he stepped up into position. Taylor braced beside him, rifle up to cover him. She gave a final nod.

He pulled the long break-and-rake tool from his back, a long shaft with a handle on one end, and on the other a serrated edge with a hook to remove blinds, but in this case, there were none. Boomer keyed the mic, voice low. “Secondary ingress set on your mark.”

Over comms, Forge's voice crackled. “Stack’s set.”

“Copy,” Iceman said. “Execute, execute, execute.”

Boom !

The front door erupted.

Gunfire shattered the quiet.

Comms exploded as he broke the glass in rapid strikes, one to fracture, one to rake, one to clear. The sound was sharp but covered by the noise up front and contained in the metal rib of the alley.

Forge’s voice came, terse and controlled. “Contact front. Multiple tangos! Heavy fire, upper catwalk.”

Breakneck calm, cool, composed said, “They’re using shadow cover—can’t get a clean bead?—”

Bash chimed in, “There’s your .50 cal. Right where I said. Muzzle flashes from behind crate stack, mezz high!”

Boomer dropped the tool, reached up, pulled himself through the opening in a fluid motion, rolled, and landed on the interior platform.

His rifle swept the room, dark shapes, and crates.

They entered into darkness, but his NVGs illuminated everything.

The area was open, fed by several doors, one leading to the front and the main team.

Immediately the air shifted, hotter, heavier. The stench of acetone, cleaning solvent, plastic resin. Somewhere nearby, something hissed .

They moved as one, clearing corners, marking movement zones, checking for traps. Everything was still.

Boomer’s blood snapped cold at the deep thud-thud-thud of the .50 caliber cutting through the air, shredding everything in its wake. He had confidence in not only his team but the Brits and both their leaders. This fight was going to be over fast.

Dust danced above them. A second later, the front team’s comms went wild with ricochet alerts and fallback signals.

He keyed his mic, voice sharp. “Rear team in.”

Iceman responded, “Copy. Mezz is hot. Gunner’s using elevation. No eyes.” The gun discharged over and over, the sound deafening. “Break. Bash. We need that gunner down, now.”

Breakneck voice hadn’t moved an octave, the kid was so cool under pressure. “Trying. No clear silhouette, just muzzle flare.”

Taylor gestured forward with the flat of her hand, her eyes like steel blue glass, shadows moving fast between shelving units.

Reinforcements.

Boomer clicked his mic. “Rear team engaged. Hostile movement near the compression vats. Multiple.”

Taylor swung around a pillar. “Covering right!”

The first wave came hard.

Three men, armed with short-barrel SMGs, rushed through a side corridor, eyes focused, killers looking for them.

Boomer dropped the first with a double tap to center mass. The second fired blind, bullets sparking off the wall behind them. Taylor ducked, rolled, and came up firing. Her shot took the man in the throat. He dropped like a sack.

The third tried to run. Taylor didn’t hesitate. She hit him in the back of the knee, dropped him, and ended it with a clean shot to the head.

Efficient. Devastating. His .

Comms flared.

Boomer crouched behind a rusted metal drum as more fire lit up from deeper inside, short bursts, chaotic shouts. Someone screamed. More footsteps, heavier this time, moving their way.

“Ice, do you read?” he said into comms.

“Main force is in. Forge is up. We’re pinned.”

Boomer’s voice cut low. “Rear entry is compromised. We’re handling hostiles, trying to move toward your position. At least eight. Maybe more.”

“Copy,” Iceman said. “You hold that line.”

A flash of movement, another man popped from behind a pallet. Boomer fired, caught him in the shoulder. Taylor followed up and dropped him clean.

He glanced at her. She was crouched beside him, breathing hard, sweat trailing down her temple, eyes blazing like war had lit her from within. They were the fucking line.

Boomer shifted position as bodies fell, eyes already on the next threat. Taylor was at his six, now, rifle tucked tight, her breathing quick but measured. There was blood on her cheek, someone else’s, and she didn’t seem to notice.

Movement.

Three more hostiles spilled from a stairwell to their left, coordinated this time. Better gear. Heavier boots. Chest rigs loaded. Flank team. Not today.

“Left push,” Boomer murmured into comms, not for Taylor, she was already turning.

One tango broke off toward the crate corridor, and Boomer moved to intercept.

Taylor dropped to a knee and laid suppression fire with short, efficient bursts.

One of the men tripped over a crate and caught two in the gut from her rifle.

The second tried to duck under the shelving, but Boomer met him halfway, driving the butt of his weapon into the man’s throat and finishing with a clean shot under the chin.

Taylor pivoted behind him like she’d read his mind, spinning low to tag another coming up behind Boomer’s right flank.

Three down. Another ducked behind the generator. Boomer looked left. Taylor was already moving. They didn’t speak. Didn’t signal. She just knew .

He surged right, drawing fire.

Taylor moved silently and fast, coming in at the shooter’s blind side, switching to sidearm mid-step, and putting two in his chest from ten feet out.

Boomer keyed his mic. “Rear clear for now.”

Taylor stood slowly, reloading, quick and deadly, humming with fury and focus.

His blood surged. Not from adrenaline. From knowing her like this.

This wasn’t just chemistry anymore.

They were a goddamn storm .

Breakneck adjusted his scope, eyes locked on the steel catwalk across the way. “I’ve got a partial. You seeing that shimmer?”

Bash responded, voice showing his focus. “Bit of motion left side. Barrel arc is erratic, and he’s blind-firing now.”

“Frantic,” Break said. “I’d be too. Boomer’s in the building.”

Bash chuckled. He is definitely a threat. Breakneck could hear the subtext. All that posturing in the kitchen had been about Taylor. “We need to end this. Forge and the team are going to get eaten alive at that door.”

Breakneck slid his finger along the trigger guard. “Gunner’s rocking left, pacing his breath. Three… two… now.” Breakneck squeezed off his shot. The gunner flinched sideways. In the next breath, Bash fired before the movement finished. Impact. Headshot. The .50 cal fell silent.

Breakneck exhaled, slow. “That’s called teamwork, Your Majesty.”

Bash his voice low and satisfied. “That’s called finally shutting him up.”

Breakneck cracked a grin. “I think I love you.”

“You’re not my type. But a fist bump isn’t out of the question, you mouthy yank.”

Boomer crouched low behind a half-toppled steel drum, the air vibrating with residual shock from the .50 cal finally going silent.

“Gunner’s down,” Bash confirmed. “Front’s yours.”

“Copy,” Lockhart said, tight and urgent. “Team, push now.”

Muffled shouts. The rhythm of a close-quarters fight in full swing.

Boomer checked corners, eyes narrowing at the shadows dancing against the backlit haze of chemical vapor and warehouse dust. Taylor slid up beside him, her fingers brushing his chest, checking he was good, anchoring both of them for half a heartbeat.

He covered her hand briefly with his own.

Then he turned and advanced.

They moved together, clearing the back corridor.

Two more hostiles rushed from a side stairwell.

Boomer clipped one in the thigh, and Taylor finished him with a controlled burst. The second tried to duck behind a stack of crates, Taylor went left, Boomer flanked right, and their overlapping fire dropped him before he cleared cover.

Boomer swept again. “Clear right.”

Taylor’s voice came calm over comms. “Rear quadrant holding.”

Then he saw it. A flash of motion, a man in dark fatigues, not dressed like the others, masked, gloved, hunched low as he moved across the back of the loading zone. A duffel in one hand. Something else in the other.

Boomer froze. Not a weapon. A trigger box. “Taylor—runner at two o’clock,” he barked. “He’s carrying a det!”

She turned hard, eyes sharp. “Shit.” Boomer had already raised his rifle. No time to warn the others. No time to call it in. The second that bastard's thumb dropped, they were all dead.

The man reached the support column, dropped the bag, and lifted the device.

Boomer fired. Two shots. Center mass. The man collapsed. But as he fell, his arm flailed, hand slapping against the concrete. The trigger device clicked against the floor. Too late.

Boomer didn’t think. He threw himself toward her, full-body impact, arms wrapping around her just as the floor shook.

The explosion ripped through the structure behind them, closer, sharper, more surgical than the flash charge up front. The concussion blasted outward. A fireball blossomed for only a second before being sucked inward, drawing smoke and metal fragments like the breath of something dying.

Boomer felt the heat sear past him, then the shockwave slammed into his back.

Everything went white .

“Boomer. Boomer, do you copy? Christ! Boomer, respond!” Breakneck’s voice ripped through the ringing in his ears.