Page 109 of Boomer
“It’s suicide to fuck with the Americans. They have their own special blood oath, but they will come after us full force. Let’s just cut our losses and regroup. We can rebuild.”
“Three attacks,” he said, emphasizing the wordattacks, narrowing his eyes at her, and with fluttering lashes, she backed down. “Coordinated. Simultaneous. I want Hoffman and her family.Gjakmarrja, the blood oath.”
Milena’s eyes flicked to the laptop, where more red dots pulsed. Ships compromised. Safe houses breached. Their operation had been completely dismantled in three days.
“She won’t die easy,” she murmured.
“No,” Dragomir said, voice like gravel ground beneath a boot. “But she will die hard.”
He turned back to the sea as Luka lit a cigarette, the ember casting a faint orange glow over the scars that lined his face.
“Make the call,” Dragomir said. “A day. We don’t have much time.”
The lightsin TOC were dimmed, casting everything in the soft blue glow of backlit monitors. Taylor sat at her station, head pounding with the echo of too many hours and too little recovery. The concussion wasn’t severe, at least, that’s what Kodiak had said, but it hummed inside her skull like a warning bell no one else could hear.
She leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, trying to sift through the debris of what they’d just done.Málaga’s Reachwas down. The intel was still fresh and raw, encrypted drives, ghost ship manifests, thousands of laundered accounts bleeding out through shell companies like severed veins, and all the information the Americans would need about the operation currently being planned for their East Coast. Complete mission success on all fronts.
Minister Duarte Ribeiro had cracked under the pressure, but only just. He’d arrived in chains, smug despite the bruises of a man pulled off his private yacht and handcuffed in front of his crying wife and daughter.
He’d tried to bluster through it. Accused her of overreach. Claimed diplomatic immunity.
But Taylor had met his eyes, calm and cold, and laid it out. “The evidence is ironclad. Multiple transactions funneled into your secret offshore accounts. Financial ties to fentanyl operations across three continents. You can posture, Minister, or you can give me a name.”
That was when his face went pale. Not the pallor of guilt or resignation but ofterror. He’d looked at her as if she were the one who didn’t understand. “No,” he whispered, voice gone thin. “No, you don’t get it. He’ll kill me. My wife. My children.My whole bloodline.”
Then nothing. Just that flat stare, sweat rising on his forehead. He hadn’t said another word. That’s what haunted her now. Not family.Bloodline.
She rubbed her temples, but it didn’t help. The headache was worsening, or maybe it was the gut-deep instinct screaming from inside her bones. The door opened behind her with a softthump. She turned.Boomer.Back from the Málaga’s Reach takedown. He looked wrecked, his uniform stained with salt andgrit, the lines of exhaustion carved into his face. But his eyes…Gott, those eyes. Still steady. Still warm.
He crossed the room in a few steps and reached for her. No words. Just those strong arms and a quiet embrace.
Later, in her room, he showered. She debriefed him quietly while he stood wrapped in a towel, steam curling off his skin.
“He was terrified, Carter. Not of prison. Ofwhowe’re closing in on.”
“Darlin’,” he said, brushing his knuckles down her arm. “We’ve been up for almost three days. It’s time for some sleep before we go back out there.” He reached for her hand. “Come lie down with me.” Boomer just pulled on a pair of sweats, crawled into her bed, and let his body sink. She’d wanted to reach for him, trace her fingers along his jaw, pull him into something quiet and human, but he needed sleep. So, she’d let him be and enjoyed the sheer warmth and presence of this man.
But Taylor couldn’t sleep. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, the echo of Ribeiro’s voice twisting in her mind.He’ll kill my whole bloodline.Not metaphor. Not exaggeration.
This wasn’t politics. It was something older, darker. A code written in blood and fear.
That’s when the word hit her like ice water.Gjakmarrja.Blood for blood. Line for line.
If this washim,if the man behind Arkan Holdings was who she feared, it wouldn’t stop at retaliation. It would be eradication.
A light knock on the door pulled her upright.
Anna.
She looked pale, even under the fluorescents. Her voice was clipped, urgent. “We found something. The warehouse from theAnastazijamanifests. We’re spinning up the teams.”
Boomer stirred at the edge of the bed. Already moving. Already focused. Once Anna was gone, she watched him dress,that focused stillness settling over him like armor. He kissed her softly, thoroughly, murmuring that they were close to the finish line. That scared her, knowing that this was almost over. Then he was gone.
Taylor turned back toward TOC. She barely had time to process the new data coming through, triangulated transactions, shell corp tie-ins, and one unmistakable name. Dragomir “Draža” Milic. The Butcher of Herceg Novi. Once a paramilitary commander during the Bosnian War, now a kingpin in black-market logistics. Ruthless. Calculating. Nationalist to the bone. She’d nearly nailed him twice.
Her stomach turned to stone. “No…no no no…” If he was the head of Arkan Holdings, his sidekicks would be close by. Milena Zoric. The Widow Accountant.Financial architect, logistics controller. A ghost who had once been a forensic auditor before disappearing mid-investigation. Cold, exacting, lethal. Luka Vukovic. The Hyena. Enforcer. Smuggler. Torturer. He used humor like a blade and wore war like a second skin.
Together they were TheZverstvoTriad. Not just power players, but true believers in an old-world blood oath.
