Page 2 of Boomer
Then came the blast.
Boomer had been half a foot to the left. Just half a foot. The fire should have taken him, but Mike moved first. Always did. That’s who he was.
Boomer still remembered the heat, the punch of concussive force, the scream that never made it past his throat. But the worst part wasn’t the noise. It was the silence after. The part where Mike didn’t get up. Where the one man who made him feel like he was worth saving was gone.
And just like that, his past came roaring back. That same sick knowing that had followed him since the day he broke his arm at twelve and waited twenty minutes for help. That belief no one ever said aloud but branded deep anyway.Don’t cry. Don’t need. Handle it.If you fall, no one’s coming.
Mike’s death didn’t just hurt. It confirmed what Boomer had always feared that the people who see you, the ones who stay, they go anyway. You’re never worth enough to keep.
After that, the world slipped sideways. His marriage cracked. He pulled away from the team. Not because he didn’t love them. He did. Too much. BUD/S had taught him a different story about never leaving a man behind, so he took himself out of the equation. He was the liability, and he couldn’t face that.
Boomer had told himself he was done with closeness, that he’d learned the hard way what happened when you let people in. He thought transferring out had been the smart move, distance from Mike, from that blast, from the pain that chewed through his insides every time he closed his eyes.
Iceman’s team had proven that no good deed goes unpunished. Boomer hadn’t just landed in a new unit—he’d been dragged straight into a brotherhood that refused to let him fall. They didn’t just carry him. Theyliftedhim.
And somehow, in the middle of all the noise and pushback and stubborn pride, he’d found the kind of support he didn’t even know he needed.
He closed the door and went into the building, down the hall, and keyed in his code into the door pad. Inside, he walked to his cage, unable to stop the fullness in his throat.
He couldn’t leave now. They needed him. They needed a breacher who got them in clean and got them out alive. His chest swelled with something he didn’t have a name for, and when Kelly “Breakneck” Gatlin wandered into the cages all bright-eyed and grinning, Boomer had to turn away, jaw clenched tight against the burn in his throat.
“Hey, Boom Boom. What you doin’?” the kid asked, voice all warmth. He heard him unlock his cage.
Boomer growled back, “Trying to find some peace and quiet.” Before he could stop himself, realize that taking out his anger and frustration on Breakneck was petty and unfair, the words came out of his mouth. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Breakneck paused, the silence stretching just long enough to sting. “Need to clean my gear. CO pulled me away to commend me for that last op,” he said, quieter now. Boomer heard the door open, couldn’t make himself look, not at that kid who reminded him too much of himself. “I’ll do it later. See you around.”
The second the door shut, regret landed hard in his gut. Boomer yanked his gear out and started scrubbing, metal, canvas, ceramic, anything to scrape the guilt from his bones. He thought of Lisbon. Of Taylor. Of the way everything good always seemed one step out of reach. He couldn’t have her. He’d fantasized walking that Happily Ever After Mile with her. The way she’d look up at him, the way Rose looked at Ice. That little smile she’d give him in private, when the rest of the world faded out. He’d imagined kissing her like they had time. Like he’d earned time.
But the mission came. And he went. Second chance? Gone. Traded for duty.
He clenched his fists, jaw tight, heart burning. He was tired of watching everything good slip through his fingers. Ti red of doing the right thing and still ending up alone.
He went to leave, then realized Breakneck had forgotten to lock his cage. He swore softly about young idiots, but when he touched the door, he paused. Thoughts of that Colombia op came back to him. They were fucking screwed. Pinned down, their overwatch compromised. But Breakneck had taken out two tangos chasing him with nothing but a knife, sprinted back to the field, and gave them the cover they needed to win that fight.
No wonder their CO had compliments. Breakneck was one of the most gifted tactical snipers and youngest doorkickers he’d ever seen. Boomer’s jaw clenched and he pulled the door open. He hauled Breakneck’s gear out and cleaned every piece, even the sniper rifle that the kid protected like a family member. Anapology in action. Then he placed it all back in the kid's cage, just as he would have done.
Boomer had snapped at him,but Breakneck didn’t give a damn. Guys got grouchy sometimes. No biggie, and he would have let it go. But that last deployment? Something had been off with Boomer. Subtle, but there. A darker current under the jokes and smirks. Breakneck had been watching his six a little more closely ever since.
Now Boomer was talking through a clenched jaw, his shoulders tighter than barbed wire around a bruised heart. Maybe that meant he was triggered, because he hadn’t lost it since England. Not since GQ knocked some sense into him.
Breakneck thought about texting Skull or Preacher. Maybe Kodiak. But he didn’t want to risk it. Iceman didn’t tolerate anything that might blow back on the team, and Breakneck wasn’t about to light that fuse unless Boomer truly lost it. Sometimes a man just needed to let off steam. Sometimes a brother needed to let him.
So, when Boomer left the base and drove toward the city, Breakneck followed. No questions. No commentary. Just insurance.
Boomer pulled up outsideThe Pink Pistol—of course it had a name like that—and disappeared inside without looking back. Breakneck waited in the truck for an hour. He hated strip clubs. Hated what they turned women into, what they let men excuse. He never drank in places like this. Never gave them his cash.
But this wasn’t about the club.
This was about Boomer.
So, he got out, locked his door, and headed in.
The lighting was trash. All red neon and desperation. The bass thumped like a migraine with rhythm. Women twirled on poles with glossy eyes and exhausted smiles. Men shouted over the music, beer bottles to lips, dollars in hand.
Breakneck scanned the room until he spotted him. Boomer, hunched at the bar, staring up at a dancer like he couldn’t decide if he was hypnotized or just hollow.
Breakneck started forward.
