Page 101 of Boomer
She’d built the plan. Carried it. Fought for it. She’d challenged brass, calculated every contingency, and pulled a damn multinational task force together like it was routine.
She hadn’t just led this op. She’d owned it and yeah, he was impressed as hell.
Breakneck nudged Boomer’s arm. “Your girl is fierce, Boomie. I like the hell out of her. She gets her hands dirty with the rest of us.”
Boomer let out a breath but didn’t answer.
After a short respite at Lisbon House, coffee, gauze, reloaded gear, they were back at it going into Phase Three at about 1430.The sea had turned choppy, steel-gray under a gunmetal sky. Wind cut through armor, and fatigue seeped into his bones like cold.
Boomer gripped the RHIB rail as it bucked against the swell. His body was running on instinct, his mind just a low thrum beneath the mission tempo. But he hadn’t shaken what Breakneck said. Taylor’s options were expanding, and when this ended, he had no idea where that would leave them. Or him.
Would he have to make his own hard choices?
Leave the brotherhood?
The thought gutted him. But it wasn’t just about his future anymore. Taylor had a say. She’d earned a thousand futures with what she’d pulled off here. Someone was going to have to compromise. Sacrifice.
He just didn’t know who yet.
When they found the boat, theNeves Fortunawas running sloppy, an FV-class trawler, nets stripped, deck cluttered with sealed crates. Intel marked it as a mobile command vessel for cartel lieutenants. Not transport. Not logistics. Command.
Taylor stood forward near the RHIB’s console, bullhorn in hand. “Fishing vesselNeves Fortuna, this is MAOC-N enforcement. You are in violation of international maritime law. Cut your engines. Prepare to be boarded. Come to the deck, drop your weapons, and lie face down. Do not move. This is your one and only warning. If you do not comply, we will open fire.”
“I stand by my assessment. That girl is fierce,” Breakneck muttered. Movement flickered on deck, then gunfire ripped toward them. The SEALs and SBS returned fire instantly, tracer rounds lighting the dark like angry stars. Then Anna’s voice cut over comms. “Warden, be advised! TheDuarte Veloz! Coming in fast!”
A former fast-response patrol boat, she was armed, maneuverable, and answering a mayday. A ghost on radar. Now movinghard.
The two ships moved in tandem, theVelozcutting across their wake to shield theFortuna’sretreat. Rounds snapped over the water and across the bow. Return fire flared from all three RHIBs, sharp, disciplined.
The battle stretched, a running gunfight on rolling seas as theFortunaturned tail and ran. Over comms, Boomer heard, “Man down!” Then another chilling call. “Man overboard!” His gut clenched. But there was no time to stop.
“Focus fire on theDuarte Veloz,” Iceman barked, as theFortunadisappeared into the fast boat’s wake, fleeing into the horizon. “Boomer! Don’t let that trawler escape!” Ice’s tone was cold and laced with fatigue and command weight.
They breached theNeves Fortunaunder suppressing fire from Breakneck and Bash. Three cartel lieutenants were taken alive, two others didn’t make it to the floor.
By the time theVelozwas neutralized, they’d lost nearly an hour and a half.
It was supposed to be fast. Controlled.
It had turned into a goddamn war.
It wasn’t until they motored alongside the other RHIBs that he found out Forge took a round through the shoulder. Kodiak got him stabilized in the well of the boat, blood soaking the deck. One of the SBS guys—Liam “Brick” Dray, sharp and mouthy, their medic, wasn’t so lucky. He’d taken a round and been knocked overboard. They were launching a search and rescue team to find him. It was a grim few moments as they were ordered to go after their next target while down two men.
They restocked from a resupply boat and headed toGaspard’s Fortune, coordinates fed from TOC. But when theygot there, she was gone. Taylor pressed her comm, jaw tight. “TOC, no vessel at coordinates. Advise.”
“They were warned,” Anna replied. “They’ve changed course, heading due east, trying for safety in Moroccan waters. This is a SEAL-only interdiction. Black Hawk en route. Helipad confirmed on deck. Prepare to fast-rope.”
“Copy that,” Taylor said, looking at him as the Black Hawk’s blades whirred in the distance. “I’m going with them.”
“What? Taylor?—”
“No arguments. This is my op, and I know how to fast-rope. I’m going.”
Boomer gritted his teeth. Of course she was.
Breakneck looked at him. “Okay, now I’m really impressed.”
At Zero Dark Thirty,leading into day three, still in Phase Three, Breakneck stood in the open maw of the Black Hawk, boots planted on the skids, wind battering every inch of him like it had a grudge. Salt spray stung his face. Below, the Atlantic boiled steel-gray around the sleek white curves ofGaspard’s Fortuneas she carved hard east, bearing down on Moroccan waters and out of reach.
