Page 40 of Boomer
Breakneck growled, chest rising like a struck match. “He doesn’t get to talk about her like?—”
“He already did.” Boomer’s voice was low. Lethal. He stepped forward, crowding into Bash’s space. This time Bash retreated. “That tells me everything I need to know.” Bash arched a brow, but Boomer didn’t give him a second to speak. “That’s the wayyouthink, Bash. You don’t know a goddamn thing about me, and you sure as hell don’t know a thing about Taylor if you can talk about her like that.” He tilted his head slightly, voice a fraction softer, but cut with edge. “I can drop a hostile and still take in everything beautiful about her.” Silence fell. Heavy. Uneven. Bash swallowed. Boomer didn’t blink. “So maybe next time you get the itch to insult me, maybe you’ll think about how you’re insulting her.”
Boomer made his breakfast, calm as ever, unconcerned with Bash. He was young, jealous, and part of Boomer couldn’t blame him. Ifhewas losing Taylor to another man, hell, he’d be on edge too.
The room smelled of metal,old sweat, and salt. The table between them was bolted to the floor, its edges worn to a dull sheen by years of restless hands and restless men. The fan above rattled against the ceiling, but it didn’t move the air. Heat pooled thick in the corners, pressed down in layers.
Taylor sat still, expression unreadable, arms folded, ankle crossed over her knee. Across from her, the man sweated through his shirt. Mid-thirties, sun-worn and underfed, an unknown accent coloring his clipped Portuguese. His wrists were cuffed, but loosely. That was intentional. The illusion of comfort could be far more effective than a threat.
Anna stood at the corner of the room, leaning one hip against the wall, arms crossed. Her eyes didn’t blink often, and when they did, they never looked away. Her presence said everything without speaking—I see you. I hear you, and you will not win this.
Taylor had done the preliminaries. The suspect had three aliases, all tied to port runs along the Iberian coast, none verified. His last stop had been Setúbal, two days before the ghost trawler interception. He had ducked port surveillance and was picked up trying to dump his burner phone at a construction site near Almada. Now, he looked tired. Not broken but close.
“You’re not a soldier,” Taylor said softly. “You don’t hold your shoulders like one.”
His eyes flicked toward her, then away. The muscles in his jaw flexed.
“So tell me,” she continued, voice calm, almost clinical. “Why would a man with civilian posture and fake shipping papers be connected to a route flagged by Interpol as a narcotic corridor?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Taylor tilted her head. “You do. You flinched when I saidInterpol.Your right foot twitched when I mentioned Setúbal. But let’s skip the tics.”
She placed a satellite image on the table, grainy, time-stamped, with a thermal overlay. A truck convoy. Inland. Not coastal.
“This,” she said, “was not supposed to be traced. But it was.”
He didn’t look. Not fully. But he glanced. That was enough.
Anna pushed off the wall. “We know the trucks didn’t stop in Portugal. They passed through. Temporary storage only.”
Taylor watched his hands, not his face. They tensed. One knuckle went white.
“Where did they go?” she asked. “Where is the offload?”
“I don’t know.” But his voice cracked on the second word.
Anna stepped forward. “You’re not protecting anyone who will protect you. You get that, right? They will not come for you. They’ll leave you to rot in a Portuguese cell while they reap from your sweat and risk.”
That got him. The flicker. The misstep.
Taylor leaned forward, her voice velvet-edged. “You know what happens when fentanyl moves with heroin through land corridors? You get clean planes, ghost ships, dead children. You’re not just a runner. You’re part of a murder machine. Is that what you want your name on?”
He exhaled, shaky. Then muttered something in Croatian. Taylor’s German ear picked it up, barely, but Anna translated without missing a beat. “Leixões. They were supposed to re-load at Leixões.”
Taylor’s pulse kicked once. Anna locked eyes with her. “That’s our port.”
The man’s head dropped. “No names. They don’t give names. Only codes.”
Taylor pushed back in her chair, slow and steady, gathering the file. “We don’t need names. We have a route.”
As they stepped into the corridor, the door locking behind them with a mechanical hiss, Anna let out a breath that sounded more like steel leaving a forge.
“Damn, you’re good,” she murmured.
Taylor didn’t smile. Not yet. “So are you.” They walked in silence until they reached the end of the hallway. Then Taylor said quietly, “It’s too bad this will be your last op.”
Anna turned, one hand on her hip, the edge of something unspoken softening her eyes. “Yeah. It is.” Anna hesitated, then gave her a crooked smile. “I’m pregnant.”
