Page 55 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

When they returned to the compound. He found her in TOC.

She hadn’t slept in days. Her hair was scraped back, eyes heavy with fatigue.

But she stood tall. Steady. Her voice like cut glass when she reported to Esteves.

When the British liaison stepped up and offered her the floor and the French rep handed her a folder and called her Commissioner Hoffman with the kind of deference Boomer didn’t think was possible from someone that senior, it was clear she was going to get everything she’d worked for.

All of it.

Hell, this op alone would put her in line for a NATO cross-departmental leadership position. She’d be untouchable. Elevated.

He’d never been prouder. Never more certain she was about to outgrow him and maybe leave him behind. That thought settled in his chest like a slow explosion. No fire. Just ache. He told himself it didn’t matter. That loving her meant letting her rise.

That if all he ever got was this moment, this mission, this fight fought shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath, he could live with it.

He didn’t know if it was true.

But he whispered it to himself anyway.

Then he turned back toward the team. Toward the next ghost still waiting to be hunted. Toward the breach.

If nothing else, he could still follow her into the fire and keep the monsters from taking her under.

The Adriatic was still black at this hour, glassed out and indifferent.

Dragomir “Dra?a” Mili? stood barefoot on the edge of the pier, cigarette in one hand, a tumbler of rakija in the other, the warmth bleeding through his fingers like oil.

Behind him, the stone villa loomed over the sea, lights out, dogs still asleep.

But he didn’t sleep. He never did when the tide was turning, and in the last twenty-four hours, someone was ghosting his ghost ships.

He gritted his teeth. MAOC-N. The thorn in his side, and the source of all those thorns he knew quite well. Had tagged her and watched her.

A red dot blinked on the encrypted laptop balanced on the weathered outdoor table behind him. Signal lost. The Anastazija.

Dragomir’s lips flattened. He inhaled slowly, no emotion in it, no surprise.

"How long?" he asked without turning.

Milena’s voice carried through the open glass. "Six minutes. Then silence."

She stepped onto the terrace, her silhouette framed in silk and smoke, eyes sharp and already calculating.

“They burned it?” he asked, still watching the horizon.

“I’d say boarded, then taken. The task force at work. Brits. US Navy SEALs, and MAOC-N dogs.”

Dragomir's jaw shifted, like a stone moved under the sea.

“ Zajebali su nas. ” They’ve fucked us.

“Not yet,” Milena said. “But they’re close. Our warehouse stash house is vulnerable. If the CIA is any good, and they are, the coordinates to it are within the task force’s grasp.”

He turned finally, setting the tumbler down, grinding the cigarette out on the armrest of the wooden chair.

“ Black Warden went first, a strategic move to take out our watchdog, then the Santa Merida , and Severina’s Ghost .

” He had plans for that human cargo. Now he would have to do some explaining to some very bad, very impatient people.

“ Tarnów Sky , Vila Nova Dawn , Laurel Blight .” That was all their production ships.

“The Neves Fortuna was boarded, and the Duarte Veloz was blown out of the water, his wolves neutralized. They took the Gaspard , and you know that Portuguese bastard will talk to save his own skin. Marseille Dawn is gone. Now Anastazija .” His voice dropped, low and cold.

“They’re not chasing shadows. They’re hunting. ”

Melina gasped. “Dra?a… Málaga’s Reach .” She looked up at him. “That ship, if taken intact…it will lead directly to us.” Milena said quietly, “You know who it is.”

Of course he did.

MAOC-N. This had the mark of a particular woman.

Taylor Hoffman.

The German BKA detective. The one who had slipped through their fingers more than once, had outmaneuvered Luka’s men in Berlin, had shut down the Antwerp node with nothing but a keyboard and a search warrant.

Now she was embedded with the Special Operations Task Force—commanding it, if the intel was correct.

She was clever. She was disciplined, and she had just cost them over thirty million euros in clean flow.

Dragomir turned to face the shadows of the villa behind him.

“I want her,” he said. “Here. We’ll make an example of her for all the world to see.”

Milena didn’t flinch. “That will escalate things.”

“They’ve already escalated. We are not a syndicate to be peeled apart like garlic skin. If we allow this, we invite collapse. Fear keeps our borders strong.”

A new voice emerged from the darkness behind them. Leather boots. Military straight posture. A man who never smiled. Luka Vukovi?.

Fresh from the docks in Durres, the scent of sea and cordite still clinging to him like perfume.

“You want her ass here?” Luka asked, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll take care of it myself.”

Dragomir shook his head. “No. Not you. You’re visible. We’re going to need your hands clean when the next shipments launch from Thessaloniki. We outsource this.”

“To who?” Milena asked.

Dragomir reached for the folder on the table. Flipped it open.

Zvezda Vektor.A Russian private military contractor, former Spetsnaz. Based in Crimea. Ghost-funded. Known for two things: extraction and annihilation. Deniable. Disavowed. Untraceable.

“They owe me three favors,” Dragomir said.

Luka’s grin was slow and mean. “You’re cashing in?”

“I am.”

Milena arched one brow. “We send them where?”

Dragomir listed it off like coordinates etched into memory.

“Their Lisbon House—her base of operations, The MAOC-N headquarters—her chain of command, and the warehouse assault site. We get the cash out before they discover our Achilles Heel, and if anyone tries to stop us…they’ll regret it. ” He smiled, and Melina's eyes widened.

“It’s suicide to fuck with the Americans. They have their own special blood oath, but they will come after us full force. Let’s just cut our losses and regroup. We can rebuild.”

“Three attacks,” he said, emphasizing the word attacks , narrowing his eyes at her, and with fluttering lashes, she backed down. “Coordinated. Simultaneous. I want Hoffman and her family. Gjakmarrja , the blood oath.”

Milena’s eyes flicked to the laptop, where more red dots pulsed. Ships compromised. Safe houses breached. Their operation had been completely dismantled in three days.

“She won’t die easy,” she murmured.

“No,” Dragomir said, voice like gravel ground beneath a boot. “But she will die hard.”

He turned back to the sea as Luka lit a cigarette, the ember casting a faint orange glow over the scars that lined his face.

“Make the call,” Dragomir said. “A day. We don’t have much time.”

The lights in TOC were dimmed, casting everything in the soft blue glow of backlit monitors.

Taylor sat at her station, head pounding with the echo of too many hours and too little recovery.

The concussion wasn’t severe, at least, that’s what Kodiak had said, but it hummed inside her skull like a warning bell no one else could hear.

She leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, trying to sift through the debris of what they’d just done.

Málaga’s Reach was down. The intel was still fresh and raw, encrypted drives, ghost ship manifests, thousands of laundered accounts bleeding out through shell companies like severed veins, and all the information the Americans would need about the operation currently being planned for their East Coast. Complete mission success on all fronts.

Minister Duarte Ribeiro had cracked under the pressure, but only just. He’d arrived in chains, smug despite the bruises of a man pulled off his private yacht and handcuffed in front of his crying wife and daughter.

He’d tried to bluster through it. Accused her of overreach. Claimed diplomatic immunity.

But Taylor had met his eyes, calm and cold, and laid it out. “The evidence is ironclad. Multiple transactions funneled into your secret offshore accounts. Financial ties to fentanyl operations across three continents. You can posture, Minister, or you can give me a name.”

That was when his face went pale. Not the pallor of guilt or resignation but of terror . He’d looked at her as if she were the one who didn’t understand. “No,” he whispered, voice gone thin. “No, you don’t get it. He’ll kill me. My wife. My children. My whole bloodline. ”

Then nothing. Just that flat stare, sweat rising on his forehead. He hadn’t said another word. That’s what haunted her now. Not family. Bloodline.

She rubbed her temples, but it didn’t help.

The headache was worsening, or maybe it was the gut-deep instinct screaming from inside her bones.

The door opened behind her with a soft thump .

She turned. Boomer. Back from the Málaga’s Reach takedown.

He looked wrecked, his uniform stained with salt and grit, the lines of exhaustion carved into his face.

But his eyes… Gott , those eyes. Still steady. Still warm.

He crossed the room in a few steps and reached for her. No words. Just those strong arms and a quiet embrace.

Later, in her room, he showered. She debriefed him quietly while he stood wrapped in a towel, steam curling off his skin.

“He was terrified, Carter. Not of prison. Of who we’re closing in on.”

“Darlin’,” he said, brushing his knuckles down her arm.

“We’ve been up for almost three days. It’s time for some sleep before we go back out there.

” He reached for her hand. “Come lie down with me.” Boomer just pulled on a pair of sweats, crawled into her bed, and let his body sink.

She’d wanted to reach for him, trace her fingers along his jaw, pull him into something quiet and human, but he needed sleep.

So, she’d let him be and enjoyed the sheer warmth and presence of this man.

But Taylor couldn’t sleep. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, the echo of Ribeiro’s voice twisting in her mind. He’ll kill my whole bloodline. Not metaphor. Not exaggeration.

This wasn’t politics. It was something older, darker. A code written in blood and fear.

That’s when the word hit her like ice water. Gjakmarrja. Blood for blood. Line for line.

If this was him, if the man behind Arkan Holdings was who she feared, it wouldn’t stop at retaliation. It would be eradication.

A light knock on the door pulled her upright.

Anna.

She looked pale, even under the fluorescents. Her voice was clipped, urgent. “We found something. The warehouse from the Anastazija manifests. We’re spinning up the teams.”

Boomer stirred at the edge of the bed. Already moving.

Already focused. Once Anna was gone, she watched him dress, that focused stillness settling over him like armor.

He kissed her softly, thoroughly, murmuring that they were close to the finish line.

That scared her, knowing that this was almost over. Then he was gone.

Taylor turned back toward TOC. She barely had time to process the new data coming through, triangulated transactions, shell corp tie-ins, and one unmistakable name.

Dragomir “Dra?a” Mili?. The Butcher of Herceg Novi.

Once a paramilitary commander during the Bosnian War, now a kingpin in black-market logistics.

Ruthless. Calculating. Nationalist to the bone. She’d nearly nailed him twice.

Her stomach turned to stone. “No…no no no…” If he was the head of Arkan Holdings, his sidekicks would be close by.

Milena Zoric. The Widow Accountant. Financial architect, logistics controller.

A ghost who had once been a forensic auditor before disappearing mid-investigation.

Cold, exacting, lethal. Luka Vukovi?. The Hyena.

Enforcer. Smuggler. Torturer. He used humor like a blade and wore war like a second skin.

Together they were The Zverstvo Triad. Not just power players, but true believers in an old-world blood oath.

Taylor bolted from her chair. Ansel . Her parents. The liaisons and their families. The entire MAOC chain of command. Everyone .

They would all be targets, and then the world exploded. The sound tore through her before her body could catch up, metal shrieking, stone cracking, the gate blown clean off its hinges. She staggered to her feet, head spinning.

The last thought before darkness tilted into motion was that she had to save her family, and there was only one man she could trust .