Page 46 of Boomer

He met Taylor’s eyes briefly—just long enough to read the ghost of agreement in them.

“Forge and I recommend mechanical ingress. Slow, controlled, pry tools and thermals. It’s the only way to avoid catalyzing an unknown reaction. If we absolutely need a charge, I’ll place a shaped micro-blast. One click over standoff, away from air currents. Low yield. Minimum concussive radius. But mechanical’s the play.”

Forge leaned forward, adding his clipped British cadence. “It’s slower, but it’s the right call. Safety first. Blast wrong and you’ll be burning lab rats, not bagging traffickers.”

Boomer nodded. “We breach smart. No cowboy shit. Interior sweep will be full masks, sealed gear, fallback route staged.”

He paused, eyes sweeping the room. His tone hardened. “We do this clean, or we don’t do it. Copy?”

The room rippled with affirmatives, gruff, tight, but sure.

Then he handed the clicker back to Taylor, their fingers brushing briefly. Boomer said to Taylor, locking her with his gaze, “We’ve trained for worse. But if anything shifts on entry, I’m calling it. My breach, my call.”

Her nod was small. But her eyes, thoseeyes, said she trusted him with more than just the charge.

Bash made a noise low in his throat, almost a scoff. Boomer didn’t even look at him. He walked back to his seat like the matter was settled.

Taylor wrapped up the brief. “The ship departs Leixões in twelve hours. Civilian crew, falsified manifest, flagged twice in Casablanca for proximity anomalies. My guess? It’s the mule, not the prize. We’ll get geared up and?—”

Boomer shifted, something Taylor said registering, voice low but clear. “You said mule, not prize.”

Taylor glanced over, pulling out her cell. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “What if we let it go?”

That sparked murmurs across the room.

Taylor’s brow furrowed. “Let it go?”

Boomer gave the faintest smile, the kind that said he’d already thought it through. “We dive under. Place an RFID tracker on the hull, low-frequency, passive ping. It won’t broadcast, won’t alert. Just a tiny shadow under the steel. Undetectable. We let the ship sail on its merry way, and we track that sucker through wind and waves all the way to its real destination. Mules have a home base.”

Taylor’s gaze sharpened, that quicksilver glint he’d come to recognize flashing in her eyes. “A Trojan freighter. Let them think they got away with it.”

He nodded again. “Follow the current. Backtrack the source.”

Her lips curved, sharp, approving. “That’s a damn good idea. Let me run it up the chain. I’ll let you know if Esteves bites.”

She turned away, already on her phone.

“That mezz,” Breakneck said, looking at Preacher, Bash, and Lock, then his gaze cut to Iceman. “They’ll have high cover. Elevated angle. That’s our risk on breach.”

From across the room, Bash leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, voice dry but lethal. “For sure, mate. If itwas me? I’d drop a .50 cal right there. Door sightline. Perfect kill box.”

Iceman nodded once, glancing over at Lockhart. “Exactly. The minute we blow that door, we’re silhouetted. If they’re armed and elevated, we lose the first man in.”

Breakneck rose, grabbed the clicker to the satellite image again, highlighting the door.

“No go on roof insertion,” Preacher said. “Too exposed. Single-level footprint with no rooftop cover. No fast-rope options.”

Lock leaned in. “Means we need two guys as our overwatch. What do we have for buildings in the area, Break?” He brought up an area map.

“There,” Breakneck said. “That building directly across from the warehouse. Those clerestory windows?—”

“You can’t make that shot,” Bash said.

Hazard laughed. “With his eyes closed in a storm.”

Break grinned. “I can make more than one shot. It’ll be a perfect nest. I call dibs.”