Page 5 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

He wondered if that made him a stone-cold killer.

He took lives for the good of the team, for his brothers.

The mission was what they were there for, but his brothers were who he protected.

That's why they did what they did...for each other.

He'd never had a nightmare about an op, and he'd never felt regrets.

He didn't know how to handle this because he didn't understand it. So, he did what he thought was right.

Action.

He lunged forward, grabbed Boomer’s flailing limbs, and crushed him down into the mattress, pinning his chest with steady weight.

“You’re having a nightmare, Carter,” he said, voice calm but hard. “It’s not real. Wake up.”

Boomer’s eyes snapped open, wild and glassy, pupils blown wide. He stared at Breakneck for a heartbeat that felt like a fist wrapped around both their throats.

Then he shoved him off. Rolled away. Curled up like he wanted to disappear. His voice cracked apart as he whispered, “I’m okay. Just…go. Please.”

But Breakneck didn’t move. His chest burned. Something inside him, tight and brittle, snapped.

“No, you’re not,” he barked. “Saying it doesn’t make it real. Fuck you, Boomer. I’m not leaving.”

Boomer didn’t look back. Just curled tighter. Breakneck sat down on the edge of the bed, jaw clenched. “You can try to throw me out,” he muttered. “Good luck with that.”

He didn’t care if Boomer never said a word. Didn’t care if he sat there all damn night in silence. What mattered was that someone stayed. He knew what it felt like to break in the dark and have no one show up.

Boomer lay curled in a knot of agony, shoulders shaking with breath he couldn’t seem to catch. He’d gone quiet again, but the silence didn’t feel peaceful. It felt scorched.

He sat there, hands on his knees, and watched a man break from the inside, and he felt it.

That gut-punch ache of helplessness. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. God, he cared .

Boomer looked like he was trapped in some private hell, tortured by ghosts that clawed at him from the inside, and Breakneck’s stomach twisted at the sight of it.

He still didn’t know what to say. What words could possibly reach a place that deep, that dark? He’d never been good at comfort. Only showing up. Only protection.

But something from Meditations rose in his chest, unbidden. Be tolerant with others and strict with yourself. He clenched his jaw. This was what that meant. He wanted to tell Boomer it was okay to hurt. That pain didn’t make him weak. That he didn’t need to pretend with him.

But the words got stuck, like they always did. Too raw. Too big.

So instead, he just waited. A shadow at his brother’s side.

It might be true that he couldn’t understand this kind of pain. But he could damn well refuse to walk away from it.

Boomer surfaced to pressure on his shoulder. A firm grip, shaking him.

“Wake up.” The voice was low. Steady. Not harsh, but commanding .

He blinked against the morning light slicing in through half-closed blinds. Disorientation hit first. Then the headache. Then the heavy weight of regret coiled in his gut.

He squinted up into the face above him. Breakneck. What the hell was the kid doing in his room? Images blurred across his mind, dim lights, tittie bar, a fist flying. Had he fucking punched him? God. He barely remembered. Shame twisted low and hot.

“I said move. We’re being spun up.”

The words filtered through his skull like gravel. Mission. Movement. Orders.

“Shower. Dress. I made you something to eat.” Breakneck’s impatience bled through his tone. “Hurry or we’ll be late. You know how Ice gets.”

Then the pressure was gone, the kid already moving out, efficient as a damn ghost.

Boomer sat up, groggy, somewhere between hungover and still drunk, his stomach roiled. He dragged himself to the bathroom, hit the floor in front of the toilet, and lost what little was left.

Then he showered, fast. Dressed even faster, hands shaking just a little as he pulled on his shirt and zipped up his pants.

He found the toast waiting on the counter. Peanut butter. No bullshit. Simple. Fortifying. So thoughtful. Boomer stared at it for half a second longer than he meant to.

“You’ll make someone a fine wife,” he muttered.

Breakneck didn’t even look up from digging for his keys in his pocket. Just lifted his hand and gave him the finger, casual, fluid, and entirely unbothered.

Boomer snorted and bit into the toast.

No lecture. No judgment.

Just the kid watching his six in the quietest, most stubborn way possible.

Boomer ate as he walked. Breakneck still didn’t say a word about the night before. Didn’t make a show of helping. Just handed him two bottles of water and held the door open.

“If your bladder can’t handle all that water on the ride in, old man, use one.

Carefully. ” Breakneck’s voice was flat, bone-dry.

“If you’re a big man, you’ll leak and piss on my carpets.

I won’t be forgiving.” He paused just long enough to turn the knife.

“If you’re not…you might get it caught inside. I personally don’t have that problem.”

Boomer lifted a middle finger as he passed.

They made it on time. Only because that quiet sniper had stayed. He would never have heard his phone.

Boomer stared out the passenger window as they rolled through the base gates. Still trying to process it.

That fucking tadpole didn’t leave.

Didn’t say a word about it either. Didn’t make it weird.

Boomer wasn’t even sure he’d known who the kid was before last night.

The ready room was dimly lit, the kind of fluorescent buzz that meant no sleep and no excuses. Commander Justin Bartholomew stood at the front, flanked by Anna Graham, their CIA liaison in civilian black, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“Joint op with the Brits is on our agenda,” Bartholomew said without preamble.

“You’re going to Syria,” Anna said flatly.

“We playing DEA again?” Breakneck asked.

Anna nodded.

“Better looking with better weapons and more moxie,” Skull said.

Everyone chuckled.

Iceman’s mouth twitched.

“Fentanyl intelligence from last week’s intercept lines up with a network cell embedded in the industrial zone.

We’re tagging in because their operational pipeline just crossed into our backyard,” he said.

“So, we’re letting our dogs of war off their chains.

” Bartholomew looked at each of them. Eyes sharp. Voice steel.

Hazard crossed his arms and glanced at Iceman. “Who’s running this shindig? We always get tangled up when a foreign military is involved.”

Bartholomew fielded it without hesitation.

“Unified structure. You operate under me until insertion. Once we’re hot, tactical control reverts to Master Chief Snow.

British forces answer to their own command, but mission parameters have already been cross-coordinated.

If it goes off-script, Chris has the final say in my book.

His team. His call. You focus on your role, let command worry about the hierarchy. ”

Hazard nodded with satisfaction. “Works for me.”

Iceman, dry as ever, added, “Don’t worry, Hazard.

If the Brits get clever, I’ll remind them who won the war with a rendition of ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy .’ ” A few chuckles rippled through the room.

“If that doesn’t work,” he continued, “we’ll clasp hands, sing ‘Kumbaya,’ and pray they brought decent tea.

” The laughter deepened, the tension easing just enough to let the team breathe.

Even Bartholomew smiled, then it faded. “This one’s fast. Surgical. High-risk. Loadouts and staging on the tarmac in ninety minutes. Wheels up before sunrise.”

Anna stepped in. “You’ll liaise with JTF-SBS. I’ll be embedded forward to coordinate intelligence feeds. Rules of engagement are tight. We want capture, not corpses.”

Joint Task Force: Special Boat Service. Boomer had run with them once in Afghanistan, back when he was on a different team.

The SBS were Britain’s Tier 1 maritime counterterrorism unit, Royal Navy commandos trained for deniable ops, hostage rescues, and dark-water insertions.

Smart, lethal, and fluent in smug superiority.

His team had been brought in on a joint raid just outside Kandahar.

The Brits were precise, polished, and damn near impossible to read.

It got the job done, but the deconfliction was a knife fight.

Friendly enough in the briefing tent until it was time to breach.

Then it was all clipped accents, quiet judgment, and a barely concealed sense that the Americans were just cowboying their way through.

Cowboying. He’d heard the term used like a slur. As if charging a door with controlled violence and a solid plan was reckless. Funny how the ones who clutched their pearls the hardest never made it to the stack first.

Yeah. This was going to be fun.

She glanced briefly at Boomer, then Breakneck, then back to the team. She knew all about SEALs and their antics. She was married to Oliver “Artful Dodger” Graham.

Bartholomew said, “Pack like you mean business. Expect contact. And do not fuck this up.”

Anna cleared her throat. “This is my last deployment with your guys. Oliver is being patient, but these separations are difficult with him on the West Coast and me here.”

Iceman spoke up. “We’ll miss your expertise, Anna, but we know whoever you choose as your replacement will be top notch. Thanks for everything.”

The guys murmured their thanks as she left the room, wiping at her eyes.

Bartholomew said, “Chris, can I have a word?”

They exited. Skull glanced between Boomer, bleary-eyed and vaguely green, and Breakneck, who looked like he just stepped out of a commercial for clean living.

Boomer braced for the onslaught.

Skull leaned forward, his forearms against the table with that wolfish grin of his. “You and Junior have a night out?”

Boomer groaned. “Jesus, here we go?—”