Page 30 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

Taylor told him he couldn't hide from her. She wasn’t reacting to him for what he did, but for who he was, the man he was beneath it. Was he that man?Was he not only enough, but was he exactly who she needed? Was he?

A deep, soul-cracking fear consumed him…that if someone saw him fully, the boy under the tree, the man from the garage who couldn’t fix his marriage, the one who still flinched at night when he was alone, they'd walk. Maybe loneliness was all he deserved.

He looked at her, worn out, bloodied, and still convinced he’d never seen anything more devastating than this woman, spine straight, mouth soft, eyes fire-bright with emotion she hadn’t named yet. Maybe didn’t have to.

He gave her the ghost of a smile. “Copy that, Red.”

But something wasn’t right.

Boomer sat still, but his mind was moving.

The chaos around him blurred at the edges, shouts, triage, movement but his focus narrowed, hyper-tuned to the rhythm of the aftermath.

Something was off . The pattern didn’t hold.

Too many moving pieces, too many accounted for, and one that wasn’t.

His internal clock, calibrated to sync and sequence, ticked loud in his chest. Bash .

He hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t heard him, and a man like Bash didn’t fade quietly.

Boomer’s breathing changed before his body did, every instinct sharpening like a line of tension under his skin. “Where the fuck is Bash?” he asked, his voice suddenly sharp. Kodiak looked up, confused.

He didn’t ask permission. He rose, fast, fluid, precise, dislodging Kodiak’s hands as if detaching from a charge that no longer held priority.

Smoke shifted in the distance, curling like a lie.

“Where is he ?” Boomer’s gut twisted. He didn’t need proof.

He knew . Someone had been left behind. In his world, you didn’t leave anyone in the blast zone. Not if you could still walk.

He turned toward the wreckage as the wind shifted, and smoke peeled away from the rear loading dock like a veil. His heart thudded hard and fast, slamming against his ribs like it was trying to warn him.

The building was still alive with heat. Flames crackled deep inside. Metal groaned, and someone was missing.

The world was thick.

Not just with smoke, but with heat and noise and confusion.

Bash coughed hard, curled in on himself near the west wall, one hand dragging along a scorched support beam as he tried to move.

The exit had been clear, or so he thought.

He’d been backing Breakneck’s reckless charge into the building as they pulled out anyone they got their hands on.

Then he’d charged back in, got disoriented. His knee buckled, and he’d gone down.

Soot clung to his skin, plastered with sweat. He couldn’t see. Could barely breathe. His helmet was gone, and every breath scraped like broken glass. His throat burned.

Bloody hell.

He’d tried to call out, twice. No comms. His mic was gone. Crushed, maybe.

He dragged himself forward, gasping, but the world was narrowing fast. The debris near the loading dock shifted. Something massive moved in the haze. He blinked through watering eyes, vision swimming.

A shape emerged, broad shoulders, square jaw, fury etched into every inch of soot-covered skin.

Boomer… fucking Boomer, smoke-blackened and scowling, eyes burning like battlefield fire. The big man dropped to one knee beside him, grabbed a fistful of Bash’s vest, and leaned in close. “Not on my watch, Markham,” Boomer growled.

That was the last thing Bash heard before he blacked out.

Suddenly, the world came back in stages, hot, raw, and entirely unwelcome. He coughed, breathing in clean air.

His throat felt like someone had taken a cheese grater to it. Smoke burned behind his eyes, and his chest ached like it had been caved in and patched with barbed wire. There was noise everywhere, boots thudding, radios crackling, someone shouting for more O2, and then, suddenly, laughter .

That couldn't be good.

He groaned, shifted, felt gravel bite into his spine. Something cold pressed against his face, a mask? Yes. Oxygen. The relief of it flooding his lungs was heavenly.

A shadow loomed.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” a voice drawled, smug and far too delighted. “We were about to vote on who had to do mouth-to-mouth.”

Bash blinked. Everything blurred, then sharpened, Breakneck’s grinning face hovering over him like a victorious hyena.

He coughed, throat sandpaper-rough. “Who… won?”

“Boom Boom was up,” Breakneck said, voice dripping with mock gravity. “Let me tell you, he was looking deeply conflicted.”

Bash turned his head and immediately regretted it. The world spun.

Boomer stood off to the side, arms crossed, looking like he’d just walked out of The Iliad . Soot-smeared, blood-striped, completely unbothered.

“I was going to use the tactical tongue method,” he said without so much as a twitch.

Bash groaned and threw an arm over his face. “Just let the smoke take me next time.”

Breakneck snorted.

Then, of course, Taylor walked by. Humiliation demanded an audience.

She wasn’t unmoved by the humor, but she said seriously, “I’m so thankful you’re okay.” She leaned down. “Be careful. You might come to love these guys.” Damn if her words didn’t resonate.

Breakneck lost it.

Boomer didn’t smile, but his eyebrows lifted, barely. “You gonna tell anyone I carried you out,” he asked, “or should I start writing the eulogy now?”

Bash didn’t move.

“You’re all insufferable,” he muttered.

From somewhere behind them, Preacher’s calm voice floated in, “Yet we breathe life into you.”

Bash didn’t reply.

Mostly because he was busy plotting Breakneck’s slow and artfully inconvenient revenge.

But also…because a part of him, small and traitorous, was still stuck on the image of Boomer walking through fire to get to him, and he didn’t know what the hell to do with that.

Taylor was waiting, arms crossed, her eyes narrowed. She stepped close, adjusted the last strap on his vest, and said it low but not low enough , “You just can’t do it, can you, mein Hübscher Sprengmeister ?”

Boomer froze.

Behind him, Breakneck coughed into his hand. “What was that?”

Hazard blinked. “Did she just call you...spicy sausage?”

GQ was already pulling out his phone. “Hold on. I got this. German translator app.”

Preacher chuckled. “Oh, brother. You are never hearing the end of this.”

Boomer sighed. Loudly. “I swear to God,” he muttered, “if one of you makes it your damn ringtone…”

Breakneck grinned. “Too late.”

Taylor gave Boomer one last look, a little glint in her eye, then turned and walked off, calm, composed, lethal in black tactical gear and no doubt fully aware of the chaos she’d just left in her wake.

Boomer was still watching her go, jaw tight, chest tighter when Skull leaned in, arms crossed, deadpan as a gravestone.

Bones gave Boomer the equivalent look of deep doggie sympathy.

“ Sprengmeister ,” he muttered, loud enough for the others to hear.

“Is that code for your dick?” He helpfully added a vague, vertical hand motion.

Boomer didn’t look at him. “Don’t.”

Skull raised his brows. “What? It’s a legit question.”

Breakneck snorted hard enough to choke. “Jesus, Skull.”

Preacher, serene as ever, tilted his head. “I think it means explosives expert.”

Skull grinned. “So…yeah. His dick.”

Kodiak’s eyes twinkled, arms folded across his chest. “You get sprung, Boom Boom?”

Breakneck groaned and rubbed a hand down his face. “God, why are you all like this?”

Skull grinned. “He’s our Sprengmeister now. We’re just trying to understand what exactly she’s detonating.”

GQ chimed in from the side. “He did come out of that blast zone looking like a man who’d been…compromised.”

Boomer exhaled through his nose and glared at no one in particular. “I hate all of you.”

Preacher, unbothered, offered serenely, “You realize we’re getting this embroidered on your duffel now, right?”

Breakneck added, “The comms callsign? Probably getting updated.”

Hazard pretended to depress his comm. “ Sprengmeister actual, this is Explosive Lust Team One, over.”

Skull laughed softly. “Boom Boom, prepare to breach.”

“Just pretend you didn’t hear it.”

Hazard walked by, deadpan. “Nah. Not when your girlfriend calls you ‘my handsome bomb god’ in front of witnesses.”

Boomer closed his eyes. “This is never gonna die, is it?”

GQ was already texting. “Nope. Group chat’s renamed.”

Boomer just looked skyward. “Fuckers, every last one of you.”