Page 115 of Boomer
He crouched low near the pool. Another silhouette paced the back patio, eyes in the direction of the barking dog. Boomer tapped his comm. “Back door’s blocked.”
“Copy that,” Bash whispered. “What’s the plan?”
A muffled voice from inside rose in volume. “I’m going to see what’s going on. Give me a minute.” Boomer used the shift in attention to sprint low toward the side of the house. He reached the window, just out of the guard’s line of sight, and looked inside.
Three armed men. One of them yelling at Gretchen.
Her face was bloodied. Her mouth clenched. Alaric was on the floor, bound at the wrists, his face bruised and swollen.
“Where is the brat?” the leader shouted. “Tell me, or your husband gets a bullet to the head.”
He pointed his weapon at Alaric’s skull. Gretchen looked at him. Her mouth tightened. Alaric’s voice rasped out, “Don’t tell them.”
The merc kicked him hard in the ribs. Gretchen flinched.
“Fuck!” the leader snarled in a harsh Russian accent. He turned to one of the others. “Find that fucking kid. Or Draža will have our balls for lunch.”
Boomer’s blood turned to ice. Draža.The Butcher of Herceg Novi. Dragomir Milic.
That war criminal bastard had haunted mission briefs for years. Now Boomer knew exactly why they were here.
It wasn’t about leverage. It was about legacy. A blood oath. The kid was the family’s future. They wouldn’t leave this house without him. Boomer wasn’t going to let them leave at all.
He depressed his comm. “Bash. Knives only. On my mark. I’m going after Ansel first.”
“Copy, mate.” Boomer entered through the back utility door. Quiet. Focused. He moved toward the sunroom. That’s where Ansel had been hiding last time when Boomer came for lunch.He stepped inside. His gut clenched. Ansel’s sculpture was smashed, shards scattered across the floor.
“Ansel?” he called softly. “It’s Boomer. Are you in here?”
Hinges creaked. Then a voice, fragile and trembling. “Boomer? I’m so scared...but I hid.”
Relief surged through him. He pressed his comm. “Bash, I found him. Moving to the Hoffmans’ position.” He crouched as Ansel emerged from a small cabinet and threw his arms around him. Boomer wrapped him up, fierce and silent, every protective instinct firing in his chest. “I want you to stay here. Back in your hiding spot. I’ll be back for you.”
Ansel hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. “That’s what my dad said. He...he never came back.”
Boomer’s jaw flexed. He swallowed down the ache. “I know. But I’m coming back for you. That’s a promise.” Ansel nodded, eyes wide, and crawled back into the cabinet.
Boomer eased the door shut and moved out. Down the hall, he could hear a merc ransacking the master bedroom.
Bash appeared in the hallway, already moving. One hand signal told Boomer that Bash had him. Boomer nodded.
Then he caught movement in the guest room, a shadow crossing the window.
Boomer slipped into the hallway, blade in hand. MK 3. Six and a half inches of steel, serrated edge on the spine. Quiet. Deadly in his hands. The merc stepped into the hall just in front of him. Boomer struck fast, but the man blocked it. Countered. Fought. Fought like a man who knew he was about to die. The elbow landed hard, temple shot. White-hot pain. Stars. But Boomer didn’t drop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.
The fight turned brutal, elbows, knees, dead weight against the wall. The merc kicked and scrambled until Boomer slammed him into the doorframe hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs.
He shoved the blade deep into his gut. Then ripped it upward. The man buckled. Boomer twisted his head, quick and brutal.Snap.
He heard the neck break. So did Gretchen. Her gasp pulled his head around. She was kneeling on the rug, staring at him, frozen. Shocked. Blood down her face. Eyes wide.
He knew how he looked. Fierce. Savage. Deadly.
But she was alive.
Behind her, the merc leader stepped into the room, raising a pistol. Boomer didn’t hesitate. He squeezed the trigger twice, center mass. The man dropped where he stood.
Gretchen sucked in a breath. Then another, finally crumbling into sobbing tears.
