Page 7 of Boomer
Boomer braced for the onslaught.
Skull leaned forward, his forearms against the table with that wolfish grin of his. “You and Junior have a night out?”
Boomer groaned. “Jesus, here we go?—”
"You look like last call at a truck stop diner,” Skull added, “and Junior over there looks fresh as a fucking daisy.”
Hazard joined in, clapping GQ on the shoulder. "You having trouble holding your liquor now, golden boy? Maybe the kid can do it for you."
Breakneck didn’t even glance up. “I don’t hold shit, and I don’t talk about team guys and their private moments.”
Boomer looked at the kid, But Breakneck looked away, something heavy in his eyes.
Kodiak chuckled, picking up his notebook. “Boomer, you throw hands last night or just lose a fight with a tequila bottle?”He studied Breakneck. “What’s with the bruise on his jaw? Did he have to protect your virtue?”
Boomer muttered, “I don't remember. He’s a solid six.”
Preacher sipped his coffee, voice dry. “You’re lucky Ice didn’t see you stagger in. He’d have you scrubbing the cages with a toothbrush.”
Boomer gave a long-suffering sigh. “You all got jokes, but only one of us woke up to toast.”
“Was that burnt toast?” Skull shot back. “Or are you having an extended stroke?”
“Fuck you, Skull. I only like your dog.”
Breakneck, unbothered, replied without looking up, “Smart choice.”
Hazard chimed in, “Boomer and Bones could bond over bad decisions and panting at the wrong moments.”
Preacher raised a brow. “And chewing furniture.”
Skull grinned. “That’s why I crate train both of them.”
The door slammed open with the kind of force that immediately rewound every heartbeat in the room. Iceman stepped in like a storm front, posture rigid, gaze lethal, and very much out of patience.
“If you’re done with the old man jokes and cute love quips,” he said, voice like steel dragging across concrete, “get your asses moving.”
Silence fell. No one moved.
“I will exhaust my boot leg against every one of your asses,” Iceman continued calmly, “until we’re airborne. Move it. Save the commentary for the plane.”
Chairs scraped. All bravado folded like laundry under that tone.
Boomer muttered under his breath to Breakneck, “You think he heard the toast joke?”
“If I disappear mid-op,” Breakneck replied evenly, “avenge me.”
No one laughed this time.
They moved.
Staging Base,Near Incirlik Air Base, Turkey – Sixteen Hours Later
The C-17’s rear ramp cracked open with a hydraulic groan, letting in the stench of jet fuel, dry heat, and the baked concrete of the Turkish tarmac. The blast of sunlight hit them like a slap, too bright, too early, and way too damn loud for men who hadn’t slept in over twenty hours.
Boomer stepped out first, boots hitting the ground with that bone-deep fatigue that lived behind the eyes. The team moved like shadows around him, efficient, quiet, already flipping switches from transit mode to mission prep.
Breakneck looked exactly the same as he had when they left Virginia, calm, controlled, unbothered by time zones or turbulence. He had the eyes of a man who meditated on planes. Boomer hated that about him. He also appreciated the granola bar the kid passed him without a word.
