Page 4 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

He went to leave, then realized Breakneck had forgotten to lock his cage.

He swore softly about young idiots, but when he touched the door, he paused.

Thoughts of that Colombia op came back to him.

They were fucking screwed. Pinned down, their overwatch compromised.

But Breakneck had taken out two tangos chasing him with nothing but a knife, sprinted back to the field, and gave them the cover they needed to win that fight.

No wonder their CO had compliments. Breakneck was one of the most gifted tactical snipers and youngest doorkickers he’d ever seen.

Boomer’s jaw clenched and he pulled the door open.

He hauled Breakneck’s gear out and cleaned every piece, even the sniper rifle that the kid protected like a family member.

An apology in action. Then he placed it all back in the kid's cage, just as he would have done.

Boomer had snapped at him, but Breakneck didn’t give a damn.

Guys got grouchy sometimes. No biggie, and he would have let it go.

But that last deployment? Something had been off with Boomer.

Subtle, but there. A darker current under the jokes and smirks.

Breakneck had been watching his six a little more closely ever since.

Now Boomer was talking through a clenched jaw, his shoulders tighter than barbed wire around a bruised heart. Maybe that meant he was triggered, because he hadn’t lost it since England. Not since GQ knocked some sense into him.

Breakneck thought about texting Skull or Preacher.

Maybe Kodiak. But he didn’t want to risk it.

Iceman didn’t tolerate anything that might blow back on the team, and Breakneck wasn’t about to light that fuse unless Boomer truly lost it.

Sometimes a man just needed to let off steam. Sometimes a brother needed to let him.

So, when Boomer left the base and drove toward the city, Breakneck followed. No questions. No commentary. Just insurance.

Boomer pulled up outside The Pink Pistol —of course it had a name like that—and disappeared inside without looking back.

Breakneck waited in the truck for an hour.

He hated strip clubs. Hated what they turned women into, what they let men excuse.

He never drank in places like this. Never gave them his cash.

But this wasn’t about the club.

This was about Boomer.

So, he got out, locked his door, and headed in.

The lighting was trash. All red neon and desperation. The bass thumped like a migraine with rhythm. Women twirled on poles with glossy eyes and exhausted smiles. Men shouted over the music, beer bottles to lips, dollars in hand.

Breakneck scanned the room until he spotted him. Boomer, hunched at the bar, staring up at a dancer like he couldn’t decide if he was hypnotized or just hollow.

Breakneck started forward.

“Hey, kid.”

He stopped. Looked down. A hand had fisted the waistband of his jeans.

“You gotta be eighteen to be in here. Beat it.”

He turned and found a bouncer looking him over with a grin that said I’ve bounced prettier punks for less.

Breakneck gave him a tight smile. He shifted his six-two frame and narrowed his eyes. “I’m twenty-five. I work for Uncle Sam killing terrorists. Let go of me before I show you how I do that.”

The bouncer released him fast, palms up.

“Whoa, all right, even if you’re lying, that earns your entry. Go on.”

Breakneck kept moving, but another obstacle stepped into his path, a woman, hips cocked and smile fixed like she’d practiced it in the mirror a hundred times.

She was wearing a silver thong, platform heels tall enough to violate OSHA standards, and a halter top made of chains and rhinestones that did nothing to hide her luminous skin or the glitter in her cleavage.

Her heels clicked against the sticky floor like she owned it, sparkle catching the red neon as she moved.

Her perfume hit him before her voice did, sweet, cheap, and aggressively floral.

When her gaze landed on him, something in her expression shifted. Her rehearsed script went out the window.

She blinked once, hard, like she had to reset her focus.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, eyes dragging up his chest to his face.

“You’re gorgeous. Like, actual trouble. Those eyes.

..those eyes shouldn’t be legal.” Her gaze lingered, hunger creeping in.

“You’re like a Calvin Klein ad made a baby with a gladiator.

” Then softer, like she forgot she was selling something, “Are you even real?” She reached for his arm, like touching him might answer the question.

He got that a lot. The black hair. The blue eyes. The lean, earned-every-day, muscled frame that made strangers forget their drinks mid-sip.

But the boyish face? That’s what really threw them. Like God had gift-wrapped a man’s heart and a soldier’s rage in the body of some teenage fantasy.

She let out a breath. “Come in the back. I’ll give you whatever you want. No charge.”

Breakneck stared at her, aware of the intelligence, the substance that spoke to him, gently peeling her hand from his arm, clasping it, and bringing it to his chest. He stepped in close, and her breath caught.

“You should be thinking about what you want.” He held her eyes.

“You don’t belong in here, and potential can only be expanded if you expand.

I’m sure you need a paycheck, but there are ways to get the fuck out of here.

You deserve that.” She blinked several times, her expression stunned. “Pen.”

“What?”

“Pen, babe. Writing implement.”

“Oh.” She grabbed the one off her tray. He cupped her hand and wrote his number on her palm.

“Call me. We’ll talk about ways out of here.” He glanced back at Boomer. “My buddy needs me.” He turned to go, paused, met her eyes again, voice low and smooth. “I’m looking forward to seeing you without the mask.” He softened his expression. “I’m not a slave to my dick by the way, so no pressure.”

Her brows rose. “Who the hell are you?”

“A decent human being…” His eyes went over her. “Mostly.” He smiled. “If you want to turn me on, wear something demure.” All that skin. All that practiced provocation didn’t impress him.

Give him a buttoned-up librarian with her blouse fastened to the collar and glasses she pushed up with one finger. Hair in a knot. Voice calm, maybe even a little bossy.

That did it for him.

Prim and proper didn’t hide anything; it just promised secrets. Promised layers. Promised that the real show didn’t start until the door was locked and the lights were low.

Yeah, he’d have a boner for days with a woman like that.

The bait for his cash was selling the mystery, but she'd already given everything away.

Then he turned and saw what he’d feared.

Boomer was already in it, chest squared, words flying, one fist clenched, the other guy matching his posture with drunken bravado. The moment before ignition.

Breakneck surged forward, faster than the beat of the bass.

Boomer’s punch launched wide and wild, and Breakneck moved into the path like a shadow, absorbing the blow with a twist of his chin. It clipped him, enough to light up his vision with stars, but he took the brunt on the roll.

Boomer blinked, staggered.

“Goddammit, Kelly. Where the hell did you come from?”

Breakneck winced, rubbing his jaw. “The place where you need me to be, brother.”

Twenty minutes later, Boomer didn’t say much on the ride home.

Just leaned against the passenger-side window like the glass was the only thing holding him up.

Breakneck parked out front, helped him inside, got him water and ibuprofen.

Helped him strip off his boots. Boomer mumbled something that might’ve been thanks.

Breakneck got him to the bed, dragged the blanket over him.

He could’ve left.

Didn’t.

He dropped onto the couch and stared into the dark. He didn’t turn on the TV. Didn’t scroll his phone. Just…sat. Listening to the silence creak around the apartment like grief with nowhere to go.

His mind wandered, like it always did when things got too still.

He remembered the sound of his mother’s crying. The way it echoed down the hallway on quiet nights. She thought he didn’t hear. Or didn’t understand. She always wiped her eyes and told him everything was okay.

He might have been young, but he wasn’t blind.

He was seven when his dad died and would have welcomed a chance to talk about it.

But she thought she was protecting him from the reality of death, and all she was doing was making it harder to understand how to grieve.

All he wanted was for someone to tell the truth.

That it hurt. That it was unfair. That it was okay to be angry, to feel like someone had ripped the center out of his world and left a hollow that nothing could fill.

But instead, his mom gave him tight smiles that never touched her eyes and lies like lullabies.

And so he’d learned early, pain is private. Feelings are fuel. Discipline is the only thing that doesn’t lie to you.

He found Stoicism at sixteen, in a battered library copy of Meditations . Read it three times before he could even grow a real beard. Then came Seneca. Then Epictetus.

Control your response. Accept what is. Do the right thing, even when it hurts.

It made sense.

Unlike grief.

A sound shattered the quiet, muffled shouting. Then thrashing. The unmistakable groan of mattress springs under struggle.

Breakneck was up in a breath. He crossed to the bedroom door, paused, then pushed it open.

Boomer was fighting the air, tangled in sheets, sweat glistening across his back. His voice fractured into unintelligible words, pleading and broken.

He was aware men carried stuff from the battlefield. He carried stuff too. He remembered every face he’d put in his crosshairs. Every breath he’d ended. But it never came back to haunt him.