Page 48 of Boomer
Break looked between them, then muttered under his breath, “Jesus, Boom. You don’t even try. No wonder she’s wrecked.”
Boomer glanced toward Iceman. The master chief gave a single nod, slow and solid, those pale blue eyes full of agreement. He lifted his fist. “Good job, both of you,” he said.
Half an hour later, Boomer ducked into the cage corridor, the sharp scent of oil and sweat rising up like memory. Solvent. Steel. Salt air was woven into everything. He liked it better here, quiet and familiar. No peacocking. No politics. Just the tools that kept him alive and the men who knew how to use them.
Overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting a sterile pall over the room’s mesh lockers and reinforced concrete walls.
He scanned the shelves, mentally double-checking for the dive and breach: tracker casing, strip charge backup, rebreather kit, thermal wraps. Everything prepped and accounted for.
A woman’s voice broke the silence, her German clipped and cold. "Ansel won’t come out of his room. Can you come over and speak to him? Show a united front."
8
Boomer shifted,leaned, and looked through the mesh. Taylor sat cross-legged on the floor, her sidearm in pieces before her, methodically cleaning each component with exacting care. Her phone was on the bench behind her. Apparently, on speaker. He’d lost track of her after the briefing when Forge pulled him aside to go over the schematics again. This was where she’d gone to gear check as well. Of course, she had.
Taylor froze for half a second, then resumed brushing oil along the recoil spring. “Why won’t he come out?”
"He wants to participate in this art contest his teacher suggested. We don’t need him following in his father’s footsteps. He’ll be focusing his studies on science." She exhaled sharply through her nose.
“Mom, Emil lost his way because you wouldn’t listen to his heart’s desire. You made him feel like his art didn’t matter. That broke him as a child. You can’t do this to Ansel. He needs that connection.”
Boomer, across the cage corridor, stopped mid-stride. He wasn’t trying to listen. He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. ButTaylor’s voice wasn’t cold the way it was in briefings. It cracked. Just a little. He looked up, posture stilling.
"There’s no room for sentimentality here," her mother said flatly. "We know what’s best for our grandchild." Taylor’s hands slowed. Her mouth parted, breath stuttering.
“I think I know better.”
"Do you?" The scoff was audible. "How are you going to care for him? On your own? You have no support. Not even a boyfriend. What man wants the burden of a seven-year-old boy?"
Boomer flinched. That sentence didn’t just land. It detonated. Echoed inside the cavern of his chest like a charge gone wrong. He stared at Taylor, saw the tension lock into her spine, the way she didn’t even look up. Just kept wiping the slide of her pistol in even strokes like it was the only thing holding her together.
“That is so short-sighted.” Her voice was quiet now. Tighter. “I met someone, and we’re...connecting.” Boomer’s gut twisted. Not at her words. But at what came next.
“What? Connecting?” She blew out a disgusted breath. “Your father and I didn’t connect. We are partners, and I make the decisions.”
“Doesn’t love mean anything to you, Mom?”
The silence scraped.
"Love?" The word came next, heavy with disdain. "That’s for romance novels and fools. Love is tolerating each other’s flaws, aligning schedules, staying the course. You think a man who kicks down doors for a living will support your career? You’ll be the one making sacrifices."
Boomer’s jaw locked. His breath burned in his chest. He should look away. Should give her privacy. But the words were knives, and they were cutting through a girl he was starting to care about in a way he hadn’t let himself in years.
"Never let a man dictate where you go with your career. That’s career suicide. Now stop this nonsense. We’ll see you for lunch on Saturday."
The call disconnected. The room fell into silence, except for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the subtle squeak of Taylor’s cloth against metal. Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders had risen nearly to her ears. She set the cloth down slowly, placed the pieces of the weapon in perfect order. With quick, efficient movements, she assembled the Glock, stowed it in her gun case, rose, and set it into her cage. She turned and rushed out of the room, the door slamming behind her.
There was no way he was letting her go, no way he was going to stand making sure she was all right. He started after her, his boots echoing in the hall. He saw her back as she turned the corner, and he was in just enough time to catch her door behind her as she entered her room.
“Taylor,” he whispered.
She whirled. The look on her face he couldn’t define. A kind of regal, rigidly contained expression, as if she had been wounded so deeply, there was no healing from it.
He knew that look. He’d seen it in the mirror. It made his chest ache just to look at her. As though there was an enormous energy built up in her, she met his gaze, her shoulders square, her chin up. When she spoke, her voice was shaky with emotion. “Boomer please…I can’t talk to you right now,” she said, as if trying to hold everything in.
“I didn’t come here to talk. I overheard the phone conversation. I didn’t mean to, but I don’t want to leave you like this.”
She let out a soft sound, her whole body thrumming with tension as she swallowed and spoke again. “You heard? Oh,Gott.”
