Page 6 of Boomer (SEAL Team Tier 1, #7)

"You look like last call at a truck stop diner,” Skull added, “and Junior over there looks fresh as a fucking daisy.”

Hazard joined in, clapping GQ on the shoulder. "You having trouble holding your liquor now, golden boy? Maybe the kid can do it for you."

Breakneck didn’t even glance up. “I don’t hold shit, and I don’t talk about team guys and their private moments.”

Boomer looked at the kid, But Breakneck looked away, something heavy in his eyes.

Kodiak chuckled, picking up his notebook. “Boomer, you throw hands last night or just lose a fight with a tequila bottle?” He studied Breakneck. “What’s with the bruise on his jaw? Did he have to protect your virtue?”

Boomer muttered, “I don't remember. He’s a solid six.”

Preacher sipped his coffee, voice dry. “You’re lucky Ice didn’t see you stagger in. He’d have you scrubbing the cages with a toothbrush.”

Boomer gave a long-suffering sigh. “You all got jokes, but only one of us woke up to toast.”

“Was that burnt toast?” Skull shot back. “Or are you having an extended stroke?”

“Fuck you, Skull. I only like your dog.”

Breakneck, unbothered, replied without looking up, “Smart choice.”

Hazard chimed in, “Boomer and Bones could bond over bad decisions and panting at the wrong moments.”

Preacher raised a brow. “And chewing furniture.”

Skull grinned. “That’s why I crate train both of them.”

The door slammed open with the kind of force that immediately rewound every heartbeat in the room. Iceman stepped in like a storm front, posture rigid, gaze lethal, and very much out of patience.

“If you’re done with the old man jokes and cute love quips,” he said, voice like steel dragging across concrete, “get your asses moving.”

Silence fell. No one moved.

“I will exhaust my boot leg against every one of your asses,” Iceman continued calmly, “until we’re airborne. Move it. Save the commentary for the plane.”

Chairs scraped. All bravado folded like laundry under that tone.

Boomer muttered under his breath to Breakneck, “You think he heard the toast joke?”

“If I disappear mid-op,” Breakneck replied evenly, “avenge me.”

No one laughed this time.

They moved.

Staging Base, Near Incirlik Air Base, Turkey – Sixteen Hours Later

The C-17’s rear ramp cracked open with a hydraulic groan, letting in the stench of jet fuel, dry heat, and the baked concrete of the Turkish tarmac. The blast of sunlight hit them like a slap, too bright, too early, and way too damn loud for men who hadn’t slept in over twenty hours.

Boomer stepped out first, boots hitting the ground with that bone-deep fatigue that lived behind the eyes. The team moved like shadows around him, efficient, quiet, already flipping switches from transit mode to mission prep.

Breakneck looked exactly the same as he had when they left Virginia, calm, controlled, unbothered by time zones or turbulence. He had the eyes of a man who meditated on planes. Boomer hated that about him. He also appreciated the granola bar the kid passed him without a word.

They followed their escort to a sandbagged command tent, the air was cooler, but the atmosphere wasn’t.

The Brits were already there.

SBS uniforms, crisp and neat, were arranged like a minimalist painting, efficient, muted, and deeply judgy as they took in the scruffy, rough-looking Americans dressed in civvies and attitude, facing off like rival wolf packs

One of the smug bastards, tall, broad-shouldered, built like an off-duty knight, with knife-edged cheekbones and dark hair that looked artfully tousled by royal decree, tilted his head, as if considering a painting that had no business hanging on the wall.

His uniform was flawless. His posture said he’d been born in command.

He even smelled like expensive soap and judgment.

And for just a second, something about him caught Boomer off guard.

It wasn’t the accent. It wasn’t the polish.

It was the stillness. That quiet, unflinching kind of confidence Boomer had seen before.

Mike. The wealth, the schooling, the crisp edges, and the hunger beneath it.

The need to matter. Mike had carried that same fire, wrapped in charm and sealed beneath layers of expectation his family never bothered to understand.

They’d grown up side by side in Mariner’s Gap, Georgia, a no-stoplight town Mike’s family practically owned.

Boomer had grease under his nails before he could drive.

Mike’s were always clean as a whistle. He’d stood by him through bullies, fights, class clashes, and never wavered.

They were inseparable, and Mike, in search of his own heart, had given Boomer the one job in the world that made him whole. Mike had died for that.

When his family all but disowned him for becoming a SEAL, Boomer was the only one who understood why,

Boomer blinked. Shoved the memory back down into the box it never stayed in.

Then the guy opened his mouth, his piercing blue eyes focused on Breakneck. “Are you yanks recruiting high school students now?”

Boomer stiffened. Skull nudged Bones and he growled. Hazard glared.

Breakneck didn’t blink. Just looked him over once, slow and clinical, then said, “Don’t worry. I passed puberty and sniper school the same year.”

The Brit smiled, something knife-edged behind it. “How efficient.”

Breakneck returned the smile, cooler, quieter, and somehow far more dangerous . “That’s kind of my thing.”

The room held its breath for a beat, then Skull muttered, “Deadliest babyface in the Navy.”

“With confirmed kills and no bedtime,” Kodiak added.

Boomer leaned in just enough to whisper to the guy, voice low and amused, “He may look like a valedictorian, but he’ll outshoot you before your accent finishes loading.”

The guy smirked. “We’ll see.”