Page 10 of Boomer

“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 hiships, 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.”

A beat of silence across the frequency. Then TOC came back, “Copy.”

The SBS captain said nothing. “Let me see that charge.”

He walked over and examined it, then the wall. His face went white. But the air around him crackled.

Iceman turned to Boomer. “Re-engineer that charge. Let me know when you’re done.”

No one spoke as Boomer moved back toward the wall. The tools came out one by one, quiet, deliberate. He stripped the overpowered charge with care, like a surgeon reclaiming a body from a butcher's mistake. The new rig was lighter, precise. It wouldn’t be flashy. It would besurgical.

Ten minutes later, the charge whispered the wall open. No roar. No collapse.

Inside, two children huddled behind a fallen desk, eyes wide, limbs shaking.

Boomer lowered his weapon and didn’t speak. There was nothing to say.

Behind him, the Brit exhaled hard. Not a word. Just understanding. Maybe even something close to shame.

Later, as the compound cleared and the sun burned lower on the horizon, a senior SBS operative stepped up beside him. The man’s kit was worn, his jaw grim, but his tone held a trace of dry civility.

"You always this charming?"

Boomer didn’t look at him. "Only when someone’s about to get my team killed."