Page 55 of Boomer
Boomer keyed his mic. “Rear clear for now.”
Taylor stood slowly, reloading, quick and deadly, humming with fury and focus.
His blood surged. Not from adrenaline. Fromknowingher like this.
This wasn’t just chemistry anymore.
They were a goddamnstorm.
Breakneck adjusted his scope,eyes locked on the steel catwalk across the way. “I’ve got a partial. You seeing that shimmer?”
Bash responded, voice showing his focus. “Bit of motion left side. Barrel arc is erratic, and he’s blind-firing now.”
“Frantic,” Break said. “I’d be too. Boomer’s in the building.”
Bash chuckled. He is definitely a threat. Breakneck could hear the subtext. All that posturing in the kitchen had been about Taylor. “We need to end this. Forge and the team are going to get eaten alive at that door.”
Breakneck slid his finger along the trigger guard. “Gunner’s rocking left, pacing his breath. Three… two… now.” Breakneck squeezed off his shot. The gunner flinched sideways. In the next breath, Bash fired before the movement finished. Impact. Headshot. The .50 cal fell silent.
Breakneck exhaled, slow. “That’s called teamwork, Your Majesty.”
Bash his voice low and satisfied. “That’s called finally shutting him up.”
Breakneck cracked a grin. “I think I love you.”
“You’re not my type. But a fist bump isn’t out of the question, you mouthy yank.”
Boomer crouchedlow behind a half-toppled steel drum, the air vibrating with residual shock from the .50 cal finally going silent.
“Gunner’s down,” Bash confirmed. “Front’s yours.”
“Copy,” Lockhart said, tight and urgent. “Team, push now.”
Muffled shouts. The rhythm of a close-quarters fight in full swing.
Boomer checked corners, eyes narrowing at the shadows dancing against the backlit haze of chemical vapor and warehouse dust. Taylor slid up beside him, her fingers brushing his chest, checking he was good, anchoring both of them for half a heartbeat.
He covered her hand briefly with his own.
Then he turned and advanced.
They moved together, clearing the back corridor. Two more hostiles rushed from a side stairwell. Boomer clipped one in the thigh, and Taylor finished him with a controlled burst. The second tried to duck behind a stack of crates, Taylor went left, Boomer flanked right, and their overlapping fire dropped him before he cleared cover.
Boomer swept again. “Clear right.”
Taylor’s voice came calm over comms. “Rear quadrant holding.”
Then he saw it. A flash of motion, a man in dark fatigues, not dressed like the others, masked, gloved, hunched low as he moved across the back of the loading zone. A duffel in one hand. Something else in the other.
Boomer froze. Not a weapon. A trigger box. “Taylor—runner at two o’clock,” he barked. “He’s carrying a det!”
She turned hard, eyes sharp. “Shit.” Boomer had already raised his rifle. No time to warn the others. No time to call it in. The second that bastard's thumb dropped, they were all dead.
The man reached the support column, dropped the bag, and lifted the device.
Boomer fired. Two shots. Center mass. The man collapsed. But as he fell, his arm flailed, hand slapping against the concrete. The trigger deviceclickedagainst the floor. Too late.
Boomer didn’t think. He threw himself toward her, full-body impact, arms wrapping around her just as the floor shook.
