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

The Brits had already drifted off toward their own quarters. “Assholes,” Boomer muttered, throwing off the similarity between his best friend and the Brit.

Breakneck was unreadable. Skull nodded. Boomer rubbed a hand over his face and felt the weight of no sleep, no food, and too much restraint.

Iceman said, “Keep your heads in the game.” He pointed to the matte-black convoy pulling up behind him, low-profile transports, tinted, all business. His eyes swept the team like a laser. “We move in eight hours.” They filed into the vehicles without protest.

Boomer slid into the back seat of the second SUV, eyes half-closed, shoulders already sagging.

Breakneck dropped in next to him, unbothered as always, knees tucked tight to avoid cramping the others.

Skull and Hazard crammed into the row behind them, Kodiak up front, already dozing against the glass.

The convoy pulled away from the tarmac in silence, the weight of the mission already settling on their shoulders like dust. Whatever was waiting across the border could wait for now.

For the next eight hours, survival looked like showers, protein, and blackout curtains.

After a good, solid sleep, they were roused and immediately geared up. All black with black accessories, their version of the little black dress to crash drug smuggler parties. They were transported to a secure staging site, a forward NATO/JSOC outpost where they gathered for the mission brief.

Commander Bartholomew stood at the head of the briefing table, sleeves rolled, voice clipped as he introduced the British SBS team.

“Captain Alistair ‘Lock’ Lockhart, Sergeant Benedict ‘Bash’ Markham, sniper, Sergeant Liam ‘Brick’ Dray, combat medic, Warrant Officer James ‘Ash’ Keene, comms, Sergeant Graeme Slade, heavy weapons, and their breacher CPO Hugh ‘Forge’ Ward.” Then he introduced the SEALs one by one.

“This is a coordinated strike on a suspected HVT stronghold operating inside Raqqa’s industrial zone.

Our objective is to capture intel and disrupt fentanyl precursor smuggling being funneled through Syria into Western Europe. ”

He tapped the satellite map. “The compound sits in Sector 4B, three sides reinforced with blast walls, elevated towers on the corners. Internal security is unknown.”

“That grain silo to the north offers elevation for overwatch,” Breakneck said.

Sergeant Markham's eyes flashed, and he nodded. “Good observation.”

Breakneck ignored him.

Anna Graham stepped up next. Calm, sharp-eyed, dressed in desert tactical.

“CIA has confirmed the presence of two mid-level facilitators linked to Arkan Holdings network. At this time we have no idea who’s pulling their strings and in for a piece of the Fentanyl pie.

We believe they’re using this site as both a smuggling checkpoint and an encrypted dead drop node.

If recovered, their comms gear may give us upstream access to the financial logistics side. ”

She paused, then locked eyes with the team.

“You’re not just chasing bodies. You’re chasing the backbone of their supply chain.” She shifted, then asked, “Any questions?” No one responded. Anna stepped back, expression unreadable.

“You all will load into two Blackhawks, fly to within two clicks of the city, where you’ll be met by the SDF operative who will lead you into the city to the breaching point.” He stepped back. “Wheels up in twenty. Let’s go hunt.”

Raqqa, Syria, Zero Dark Thirty

The wind off the ruined edge of Raqqa stank of scorched metal, sweat, and the sour bite of explosives that had cooked too long in the sun.

It was the kind of heat that clung to the throat and settled in the bones even in a pitch-dark city.

Sand coated their skin like ground glass, sweat-slicked and itchy beneath armor plates.

Across the rubble-laced compound, the SBS moved with the kind of clipped precision that made Boomer's spine twitch. They didn’t talk much, didn’t miss much, and carried themselves like the crown signed their gear personally.

There was respect, sure. But there was also history.

SEALs and SBS had worked together before, and every time, it felt like a cold war wrapped in body armor, their accents sharp over comms even through the haze of fatigue.

After the meetup with the quiet SDF operative, Iceman turned to the team. “Break overwatch.”

“What?” Bash said with surprise. “That wet-behind-the-ears kid. Captain?”

“My man is the best we have, tempered by experience.”

Ice’s lips thinned. “I’m sure he is, but Break is the best we have, and he’s no kid. He’s an operator with unmatched sniper skills. He’s on overwatch.”

“If that’s the case, then we’ll use our breacher for the assault.”

Iceman looked at Boomer. He didn’t like it, but he nodded. “Boomer, back him up.”

Boomer nodded.

The trip into the city was quick and without incident. When they reached the door to the target, the Brit breacher, Forge, set the charge.

“Hang on,” Boomer said. He crouched beside a concrete wall that had seen better decades.

His gloved hand ran along the foundation, fingers mapping out the subtle fracture lines in the structure.

Dust puffed up around his boots as he shifted his weight.

He didn’t look up when footsteps approached behind him.

“Problem, mate?”

The young SBS breacher with sunburnt cheeks and the kind of confidence that hadn’t been earned yet shifted. Too much jaw tension for a man trying to sound relaxed. The charge was already placed, symmetrical, textbook, clean lines. But Boomer didn’t like it.

His breath caught in the back of his throat, just for a second.

The breeze shifted, kicking up the grit beneath his boots, and for a blink, it wasn’t Raqqa.

It was Mosul. The air was heavier there.

Hotter. Copper in the wind, thick and sour.

Mike’s voice yelling something through the comms. Wait, don’t!

Then the sound. The kind that takes friends and leaves rubble behind.

He blinked hard.

His voice, when it came, was low. Anchored, his deep Southern drawl edged with iron.

“Yeah, darlin’. That’ll breach your way straight to a war crime.”

The Brit blinked. Boomer rose slowly, never breaking eye contact. “You’re not opening a door,” he said. “You’re leveling the fucking room. That wall carries a third of the building’s weight.”

The guy bristled, defensive now. “I’ve used this config in Mosul. It’ll open clean.”

Boomer didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just stared . “Mosul didn’t have load-bearing joints like this. You detonate that charge, we’ll be pulling bodies out of plaster, ours and theirs.”

His voice was steady, but inside he felt the heaviness of loss, the pressure behind the ribs, like his lungs wanted to fold in on themselves. It wasn’t just math. It was in a picture on his wall at home.

Dust swirled again, riding a wind that carried tension like static. The SEALs had gone still. Skull shifted, subtly, like he felt the crack in Boomer’s posture. Even the Brits hung back, something unspoken in the air. A charge miscalculated wasn’t just an error. It was a eulogy.

Boomer turned slightly, his voice clipped now. Controlled. “Recheck your load. It’s too powerful.”

“It’s fine,” the Brit insisted. “Let’s stack before our bosses get involved.”

Boomer didn’t argue. He just reached back, grabbed Skull’s sleeve, shoving him and the whole team back toward the street. His heart was beating too hard. Skull gave him a glance, eyes narrowing. Hazard and GQ exchanged glances. Kodiak nodded, while Preacher frowned. No one questioned his expertise.

That was when Iceman walked over, calm as a blade sheathed in bone.

“What’s the problem?” he asked, eyes unreadable behind the mirrored wrap of his eye protection.

Boomer met his gaze, never wavering. “Boss,” he said, steady as death. “Cank the op. This rig’s a tombstone.”

Iceman didn’t ask for proof. He looked once at the charge, once at Boomer, and nodded.

“Everyone back. Finley, reset it.”

“Boomer,” Kodiak asked.

“I’m fine,” he said. But his hands tightened into fists.

For most of the mission, the SBS captain, tall, clipped, all starch and silent calculation, had tolerated the way Iceman called the tempo. Maybe it was experience. Maybe it was pragmatism. Maybe it was just tactical goodwill.

The second he used that Southern gravel to tell one of his men they were about to kill everyone in the building, the captain stepped forward, voice cool but lined with ice. “With all due respect, Chief, my operator?—”

Iceman cut him off without raising his voice. “Is about to body bag us all, including anyone who’s in the building. We’re not breaching until my man says we are. We’re pulling back.”

“You don’t have the authority to unilaterally make that decision.”

“I’m not unilaterally making a decision. You want to breach, go ahead. We’re pulling back.”

“This is preposterous.”

Iceman responded with a clenched jaw in a rare show of anger, his mouth compressing in disgust. The team tensed.

Boomer watched, but he knew better not to interrupt.

“On my team, I listen to the man whose job it is to get us through the door,” he said, his voice low, menacing, and ruthlessly controlled.

His boss was so damn intimidating when he was in this kind of mood.

“I’m in charge here. I’m responsible for countless lives, including my team.

We don’t have an issue with you, but I make the decisions for my team.

” His voice, coldly impassive, had the captain stiffening.

“I’m assuming, sir , that you care about your men.

” His voice heated a bit into a fierce, cutting tone.

He then straightened and set his hands on his hips, his brows lifting, his pale eyes cold as ice. “The decision is yours.”

“Iceman. What is the holdup?”

Iceman turned away from him, keyed his comms. “A discussion about breaching. Working the problem.”