Page 52 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

After a short respite at Lisbon House, coffee, gauze, reloaded gear, they were back at it going into Phase Three at about 1430. The sea had turned choppy, steel-gray under a gunmetal sky. Wind cut through armor, and fatigue seeped into his bones like cold.

Boomer gripped the RHIB rail as it bucked against the swell. His body was running on instinct, his mind just a low thrum beneath the mission tempo. But he hadn’t shaken what Breakneck said. Taylor’s options were expanding, and when this ended, he had no idea where that would leave them. Or him.

Would he have to make his own hard choices?

Leave the brotherhood?

The thought gutted him. But it wasn’t just about his future anymore. Taylor had a say. She’d earned a thousand futures with what she’d pulled off here. Someone was going to have to compromise. Sacrifice.

He just didn’t know who yet.

When they found the boat, the Neves Fortuna was running sloppy, an FV-class trawler, nets stripped, deck cluttered with sealed crates. Intel marked it as a mobile command vessel for cartel lieutenants. Not transport. Not logistics. Command.

Taylor stood forward near the RHIB’s console, bullhorn in hand.

“Fishing vessel Neves Fortuna , this is MAOC-N enforcement. You are in violation of international maritime law. Cut your engines. Prepare to be boarded. Come to the deck, drop your weapons, and lie face down. Do not move. This is your one and only warning. If you do not comply, we will open fire.”

“I stand by my assessment. That girl is fierce,” Breakneck muttered.

Movement flickered on deck, then gunfire ripped toward them.

The SEALs and SBS returned fire instantly, tracer rounds lighting the dark like angry stars.

Then Anna’s voice cut over comms. “Warden, be advised! The Duarte Veloz ! Coming in fast!”

A former fast-response patrol boat, she was armed, maneuverable, and answering a mayday. A ghost on radar. Now moving hard .

The two ships moved in tandem, the Veloz cutting across their wake to shield the Fortuna’s retreat. Rounds snapped over the water and across the bow. Return fire flared from all three RHIBs, sharp, disciplined.

The battle stretched, a running gunfight on rolling seas as the Fortuna turned tail and ran. Over comms, Boomer heard, “Man down!” Then another chilling call. “Man overboard!” His gut clenched. But there was no time to stop.

“Focus fire on the Duarte Veloz ,” Iceman barked, as the Fortuna disappeared into the fast boat’s wake, fleeing into the horizon. “Boomer! Don’t let that trawler escape!” Ice’s tone was cold and laced with fatigue and command weight.

They breached the Neves Fortuna under suppressing fire from Breakneck and Bash. Three cartel lieutenants were taken alive, two others didn’t make it to the floor.

By the time the Veloz was neutralized, they’d lost nearly an hour and a half.

It was supposed to be fast. Controlled.

It had turned into a goddamn war.

It wasn’t until they motored alongside the other RHIBs that he found out Forge took a round through the shoulder.

Kodiak got him stabilized in the well of the boat, blood soaking the deck.

One of the SBS guys—Liam “Brick” Dray, sharp and mouthy, their medic, wasn’t so lucky.

He’d taken a round and been knocked overboard.

They were launching a search and rescue team to find him.

It was a grim few moments as they were ordered to go after their next target while down two men.

They restocked from a resupply boat and headed to Gaspard’s Fortune , coordinates fed from TOC. But when they got there, she was gone. Taylor pressed her comm, jaw tight. “TOC, no vessel at coordinates. Advise.”

“They were warned,” Anna replied. “They’ve changed course, heading due east, trying for safety in Moroccan waters. This is a SEAL-only interdiction. Black Hawk en route. Helipad confirmed on deck. Prepare to fast-rope.”

“Copy that,” Taylor said, looking at him as the Black Hawk’s blades whirred in the distance. “I’m going with them.”

“What? Taylor?—”

“No arguments. This is my op, and I know how to fast-rope. I’m going.”

Boomer gritted his teeth. Of course she was.

Breakneck looked at him. “Okay, now I’m really impressed.”

At Zero Dark Thirty, leading into day three, still in Phase Three, Breakneck stood in the open maw of the Black Hawk, boots planted on the skids, wind battering every inch of him like it had a grudge.

Salt spray stung his face. Below, the Atlantic boiled steel-gray around the sleek white curves of Gaspard’s Fortune as she carved hard east, bearing down on Moroccan waters and out of reach.

Four levels. A helipad. A pool. Tangos on deck. Two fast boats in rotation like guard dogs.

“That’s a hell of a drop,” GQ muttered. “In the fucking dark.”

“Nah,” Skull said. “It’s not the drop. It’s the landing.”

Breakneck smiled. He didn’t need reassurance. He had geometry, timing, muscle memory, his NVGs, and no fear where this kind of crazy was concerned.

“I've got my scorecard,” Preacher said dryly. “Not sure how fair the German judge will be.”

“Screw difficulty,” Taylor added. “Points if he doesn’t go splat. Gold medal if he stops that boat before it hits red tape. Morocco’s already screaming about sovereignty.”

“Not much of a high bar,” Kodiak muttered. “I’m just counting bones and hoping we keep all of his.”

“Let’s up his odds,” Iceman said, nodding to the deck. “Take out as many as you can.”

Preacher shifted beside him. Breakneck caught the sniper’s inhale, steady, deliberate. That meant someone's death warrant was about to be signed.

Three quick cracks. Two tangos dropped. A third went over the rail. The others scattered.

“Best I can do,” Preacher said.

The pilot’s voice crackled over comms. “One fast boat turning toward us.”

The door gunner stepped in, opened fire. One of the security boats vanished beneath smoke and spray.

“Pilot,” Iceman ordered. “Bring us in close.”

“Roger that. Kid’s full-blown batshit but still drawing a paycheck.”

The Black Hawk banked hard. Breakneck adjusted his cinch, heart thudding, not from nerves. From clarity.

He’d argued for this. Fast-roping was out, too hot, too unstable. The helipad wasn’t secure. But the pool? A six-by-eight carveout in teak decking. Maybe six feet deep. Just enough.

“This is interdiction,” he said over comms. “Breakneck-style.”

“Don’t live up to your callsign,” Hazard snapped. “I’ll revive you just to kill you again.”

“Aw, broski. I feel the love.”

“Target’s speed increasing,” the pilot warned. “Crossing the Moroccan boundary in ninety seconds.”

“Breakneck, you’re green,” Iceman said.

Breakneck jumped.

He knifed into the pool feet-first, boots touching tile. He bent his knees, then exploded out of the water like a goddamn missile, rifle raised, muzzle up.

“Engaging starboard rail!” Full auto. Two tangos dropped as they charged the bridge. A third fled inside. Breakneck moved. Soaked, silent, he crossed the deck and took the glass door like a breacher, weapon-first. Shards exploded. The bridge filled with blood and chaos.

He surged inside, dropped the remaining crew, and grabbed the engine control.

Lever down. Engines dying.

“Bridge secure,” he growled into comms. “Bring the firepower.”

Outside, covering the descent, ropes dropped like snakes.

Boomer hit the deck first, hard and fast, weapon sweeping. GQ, Hazard, Kodiak, Preacher, Iceman, and Skull followed. Bones launched like fury incarnate, MWD teeth bared and ready.

Taylor descended last, precise and deadly.

While she watched their six, the team swept the lower decks fast. Boomer cleaned out the salon with Hazard and GQ, clearing portside cabins while Preacher and Kodiak secured the forward galley. Every room screamed money, marble counters, gold trim, champagne still sweating in crystal.

Up top, Taylor’s voice cut over comms, tight, controlled, laced with urgency.

“Incoming patrol boat! Six boarders—stern rail!”

Boomer’s gut clenched. She was alone topside, covering their exfil path.

“Taylor, hold the line,” Iceman barked. “Help’s on the way.”

“Copy!”

Gunfire cracked above. Then again. Controlled bursts. Hers.

“Boomer, Break, Hazard. Move your asses, take that deck back.”

“On it,” Boomer snapped, already turning, legs burning as he hit the stairwell at a dead run. Break and Hazard on his heels.

The yacht lurched beneath him, the engines still bleeding out.

He hit the top deck like a missile, weapon raised.

Bodies everywhere. Shell casings glinted across the teak like broken teeth.

Blood soaked a towel left on a lounge chair.

Two cartel boarders lay sprawled, one with a hole in his forehead, the other still twitching. Boomer finished him off.

Taylor…Taylor was fighting.

“We’ve got this,” Hazard said, moving like a battering ram, pinning down three tangos who had been shooting at Taylor.

He hit the middle deck stairs at a full sprint, saw her above, reloading, too late. The guy was on her. When he reached the top deck, he ran full out. She was now fighting for her life.

She moved like fire, all feral precision. Dodged a punch, landed a brutal elbow. Her blade flashed, scoring the side of her attacker’s thigh. He grunted, big and fast despite the size, and swung again.

Boomer aimed, but there was no shot. Taylor was in the line.

The tango caught her by the vest, swung her like a rag doll, and slammed her into the glass siding of the upper deck.

Crack .

Boomer flinched. The sound hit his bones.

She dropped but landed in a crouch. Alive. Balanced. Ready.

Goddamn wildcat.

Then the bastard charged, slamming her into the bulkhead, drew back, and punched her full force in the temple.

Her head snapped sideways. She stumbled. Boomer shouted.

“Taylor!”

But he was still too far away.

The man grabbed her by the vest straps and threw her overboard.

He watched her body slam the rail, heard the hollow thud, and then she was gone, flipping backward into the sea.

He shot the bastard in the head before the scream finished forming in his throat. The world muffled. Gunfire. Comm chatter. All of it gone. There was just the place she’d been.

“Taylor’s overboard!” he shouted into comms. “I’m going in!”

Hazard’s voice followed, clipped and sharp. “Boomer, wait?—!”

He was already moving. Gear shedding. Vest unlatched. Rifle dropped. The only thought in his head was get to her before she was gone. Before the ocean swallowed the only woman he’d ever loved.