Page 112 of Boomer
“I can take care of myself,” she snapped, but her voice wavered. “Ansel—”It broke. Just like that. “My mom and dad are helpless. Please.”
That one word,please, split something open in his chest.
Every face around him turned, jaws tight, expressions grim. They all felt it—what lived inside Boomer. Innocents in danger.That was the line none of them would ever ignore. It wasn’t just duty.It wasn’t orders or mission parameters.
It was tied to theirhumanity,a sacred instinct to stand between darkness and the defenseless. To be the warrior who met evil head-on. Who dealt death to protect life. To shield what wasprecious.
It was something older. Truer. A fire in their bones that saidnot on our watch.
Every man there wanted to go.
Iceman didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. His boss was the kind of leader who thought fast and strategically on the fly. “Lockhart,” he barked. “You, two of your guys. Skull and Bones. You’re going to HQ.” He looked up toward the sniper nest. “Break, get your ass down here. You’re with Lockhart.”
“Copy that, boss. On my way,” Break answered, already moving.
Iceman turned to Hazard. “You, GQ, and you two.” He motioned to two SBS operators.
“Secure this warehouse. Eliminate any stragglers. If they send reinforcements, I want this place held. We’ll send morepeople your way.” He slammed a fresh mag home, chambered it with a sharpsnick. “Preacher. Kodiak. Juggernaut”—he tagged the last SBS guy—“you’re with me. We hit TOC hard and fast.” Then Iceman turned to Boomer. Grabbed his vest. Locked eyes. “You get your ass to Taylor’s family. Do whatever it takes.”
Boomer nodded, already shifting into motion, but Bash’s voice cut in.
“I’m going with him.” No hesitation. Just grit.
Iceman held his stare for one beat, then nodded. “I thought you’d say that. Move your asses.”
Breakneck moved like smoke.He dropped from the third-story fire escape as the first volley of shots rang out near the HQ’s main entrance, short, brutal bursts. Suppressed. Tactical. They weren’t dealing with run-of-the-mill mercs. These guys were former Spetsnaz.He’d bet his life on it.
The bastards were already inside.
“Lockhart,” he called through comms. “They’re in the west wing. Second floor. Moving fast.”
“Copy. We’re breaching north stairwell now.”
Break’s boots barely touched the ground before he was sprinting across the rear lot, rifle raised, pulse low. The back door was still cracked. Entry point confirmed.
He didn’t wait.
The hallway inside was dim and hot, lined with blown light fixtures and the stink of cordite and synthetic fibers burning. Screams echoed deeper in, short, panicked. Civilian. Staff.
He ran toward the screams.
One target came around the corner in full black tactical. Break dropped him with a suppressed shot to the head, and another one to make it final. No hesitation.
He pushed forward, clearing rooms, his mind operating on two tracks: kill the intruders, find the non-combatants. One hand took lives. The other protected them. That was the line he never crossed.
Two liaisons were pinned behind an overturned desk in the communications suite. One bleeding from a thigh wound, the other clutching a radio like it was holy.
“Go,” he told them. “Follow the wall. Don’t stop. You’ve got ten seconds of me.”
They went and he covered, laying down suppressive fire that made the hallway a death corridor for anything that moved.
Then he was on the stairs, taking them two at a time, shouldering through smoke and the buzz of fire alarms. He heard shouting on the second floor, glass breaking, then the unmistakable thud of someone hitting a wall.
He reached the top landing. The conference room. Frosted glass walls framing the room. He could see blurred movement, figures huddled inside. Four people, unarmed, pressed against the far side. A door slammed open from the other entrance.
Break didn’t stop. He kicked the door open, fired two shots mid-stride, but when a third entered, his rifle clicked empty. Like a gunslinger at twelve o’clock high, he drew his sidearm in a blast of speed, took him out with a perfect zero head shot.
Tangos were stacked behind that frosted glass wall. The angles were wrong to take them out cleanly. “Get down,” he shouted as he took a running start, landed on the massive oak table, and slid full length along it as he fired.
