Page 111 of Boomer
False.
Everything here wasfalse.
His gaze swept over the crates again. Too uniform. Too untouched. Like props. Like camouflage.
His boots thudded over to the far wall, passing a line of pallets and forklift tire marks. He stopped at a smooth, whitewashed section, out of place amid the chipped cinderblock surrounding it.
Something was off.
He stepped back. Shifted his weight. Knocked the butt of his rifle against the wall.
Hollow.
Boomer stared at it for half a beat. Then wound up and slammed the stock into it, once, twice, until the panel buckled and cracked.
The drywall gave way, and from the rupture came acascade, soft, heavy, endless.
Money.
Stacks of it. Band after band of crisp currency spilling out. Black-banded bricks sliding over one another. Unmarked, packed into hidden shelves that most likely ran the entire length of the building. Layer after layer of crisp, perfect bills.
“Holy shit,” Hazard muttered behind him.
Preacher came over, eyes going wide. “How much?”
Boomer looked at the space, at the depth, the height, the way the false walls probably ran all the way around the perimeter, but it was the boy genius who answered.
“From the view in my scope, the size of the warehouse, billions.” Breakneck exhaled through comms. “Well, shit.”
Boomer stepped back, staring at the breach, heart pounding now not with adrenaline but with understanding. “It’s not a lab,” he said flatly. “It’s the stash house.”
A vault,built into a warehouse. A camouflaged warehouse no one defended, hiding in plain sight.
Breakneck’s voice shouted through the comms. “Movement on the perimeter. Armed, black tacticals, autos, precise, heading your way. You’re in their kill zone. Get off the fucking X.”
“Move,” Iceman ordered, and they all ran for the opening in front of them.
Gunfire cracked the moment they moved from inside the building.
“Engaging,” Breakneck said. “Take cover to your right. Concrete wall. Vehicles.”
Breakneck’s fire pinned the forward-moving tangos, dropping several before they realized they were caught in a sniper’s scope.
Gunfire cracked like thunder.
The warehouse lit with muzzle flashes as the first wave of attackers opened up, precision, autos, black tacticals spilling into the perimeter like a dark tide.
Boomer dove right, shoulder slamming behind the thick concrete column, weapon up.
“Engaging,” Breakneck called over comms, rounds already slicing from his sniper perch. “Forward tangos pinned. Taking them as they stack.”
Rounds pinged off steel. The entire structure shuddered with ricochets.
Boomer fired three controlled bursts, took down two targets near the gate.
Then Taylor’s voice slammed through the comms, sharp, frantic, raw. “TOC is under attack! Intel suggests multiple targets—HQ, your position!”More shots cracked across the open concrete. “Boomer!” Her voice trembled. “No time to explain why, but my family is in danger. Please…go to them. Save them.”
Boomer’s breath caught in his throat. His trigger finger froze mid-squeeze. He keyed up. “But—you?—”
