Page 113 of Boomer
One long arc of fury.
Everything slowed, and his sharply focused gaze tracked each head as he slid past,bam. The first glass panel shattered,and the first tango went down.Bam. His sidearm discharged, the bullet hurtling from the muzzle, the rack sliding backward, ejecting the empty casing. As the slide returned forward, it chambered the next round.Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.Another panel in splinters. Number two dropped.Bam, pausebam, pausebamas three more glass panels broke and tumbled, followed by three more bodies.
He landed at the end of the table, breath sharp, and his legs braced. Still deadly. Still calm. Like John fucking Wick, if Wick had sniper quals and a better jawline.
Silence.
“Bloody hell, kid,” one of the SBS operators said from the doorway.
A soft gasp sounded behind him.
Break turned.
Three women and one man. Their faces were tight with fear, but their eyes were clear andalive. One woman with amazing blue eyes looked at him like he’d hung the goddamn moon.
That was better than any medal.
He keyed up, voice like gravel. “HQ secure. Civilians alive. Threat neutralized.”
Lockhart’s voice came through fast. “Copy. Ground team inbound. Hold perimeter. Good work.”
Break smiled at her, then spun his sidearm in a series of smooth, twirling motions before holstering it like a damn outlaw.Yeah. Eat your heart out, Wyatt Earp.
He took one more glance at the shaken group, hearts still beating because he’d moved fast enough. Shot clean enough.
Then he crouched beside the dark-haired woman nearest him.
“Can I offer you a hand out of here?” he asked, voice gruff.
She reached for him like he was gravity. Then the blue-eyed beauty said, “I’m not sure I can walk without help.”
Break smiled at her, and he reached out. “Absolutely, ma’am. I have two strong arms.”
The compound was collapsingaround her.
Gunfire crackled through the hallways, and the thud of boots over concrete told her the breach was imminent.
Taylor grabbed the nearest comm tech by the vest. “Go. Get everyone to the safe room. Use the south corridor. Move!”
She turned, firing two warning shots down the hallway where movement flickered past the corner. Someone screamed. Someone else shouted that the perimeter was gone.
She had no time.
The compound’s safe room was built for these exact situations. Reinforced. Blast-resistant. It would hold.
If they made it.
Taylor sprinted past a file room, her head pounding, her body aching from bruises suffered in her last fight with these bastards. Grabbing a terrified analyst by the wrist, she shoved him toward the hallway. Three more staffers followed, limping, one bleeding. They made it to the safe room door. One of the guards was already swiping clearance.
“Get them inside. Now.”
“Detective Hoffman—” the guard started, but she was already turning back, her gut clenching as she took in all the faces. Not everyone.
Anna.
She spun back into the smoke-filled corridor and found her near the server room, braced against the wall, a Glock in her hand, blood seeping from her shoulder, a dead tango at her feet. “Taylor,” Anna rasped.
Taylor didn’t hesitate. She ducked under Anna’s good arm, pulled it over her shoulder, and half-dragged her toward the hallway.
