Page 8 of Boomer
They followed their escort to a sandbagged command tent, the air was cooler, but the atmosphere wasn’t.
The Brits were already there.
SBS uniforms, crisp and neat, were arranged like a minimalist painting, efficient, muted, and deeply judgy as they took in the scruffy, rough-looking Americans dressed in civvies and attitude, facing off like rival wolf packs
One of the smug bastards, tall, broad-shouldered, built like an off-duty knight, with knife-edged cheekbones and dark hairthat looked artfully tousled by royal decree, tilted his head, as if considering a painting that had no business hanging on the wall. His uniform was flawless. His posture said he’d been born in command. He even smelled like expensive soap and judgment.
And for just a second, something about him caught Boomer off guard.
It wasn’t the accent. It wasn’t the polish.
It was the stillness. That quiet, unflinching kind of confidence Boomer had seen before.
Mike. The wealth, the schooling, the crisp edges, and the hunger beneath it. The need to matter. Mike had carried that same fire, wrapped in charm and sealed beneath layers of expectation his family never bothered to understand. They’d grown up side by side in Mariner’s Gap, Georgia, a no-stoplight town Mike’s family practically owned. Boomer had grease under his nails before he could drive. Mike’s were always clean as a whistle. He’d stood by him through bullies, fights, class clashes, and never wavered. They were inseparable, and Mike, in search of his own heart, had given Boomer the one job in the world that made him whole. Mike had died for that.
When his family all but disowned him for becoming a SEAL, Boomer was the only one who understood why,
Boomer blinked. Shoved the memory back down into the box it never stayed in.
Then the guy opened his mouth, his piercing blue eyes focused on Breakneck. “Are you yanks recruiting high school students now?”
Boomer stiffened. Skull nudged Bones and he growled. Hazard glared.
Breakneck didn’t blink. Just looked him over once, slow and clinical, then said, “Don’t worry. I passed puberty and sniper school the same year.”
The Brit smiled, something knife-edged behind it. “How efficient.”
Breakneck returned the smile, cooler, quieter, and somehowfar more dangerous. “That’s kind of my thing.”
The room held its breath for a beat, then Skull muttered, “Deadliest babyface in the Navy.”
“With confirmed kills and no bedtime,” Kodiak added.
Boomer leaned in just enough to whisper to the guy, voice low and amused, “He may look like a valedictorian, but he’ll outshoot you before your accent finishes loading.”
The guy smirked. “We’ll see.”
2
The Brits had already driftedoff toward their own quarters. “Assholes,” Boomer muttered, throwing off the similarity between his best friend and the Brit.
Breakneck was unreadable. Skull nodded. Boomer rubbed a hand over his face and felt the weight of no sleep, no food, and too much restraint.
Iceman said, “Keep your heads in the game.” He pointed to the matte-black convoy pulling up behind him, low-profile transports, tinted, all business. His eyes swept the team like a laser. “We move in eight hours.” They filed into the vehicles without protest.
Boomer slid into the back seat of the second SUV, eyes half-closed, shoulders already sagging. Breakneck dropped in next to him, unbothered as always, knees tucked tight to avoid cramping the others. Skull and Hazard crammed into the row behind them, Kodiak up front, already dozing against the glass.
The convoy pulled away from the tarmac in silence, the weight of the mission already settling on their shoulders like dust. Whatever was waiting across the border could wait for now.
For the next eight hours, survival looked like showers, protein, and blackout curtains.
After a good, solid sleep, they were roused and immediately geared up. All black with black accessories, their version of the little black dress to crash drug smuggler parties. They were transported to a secure staging site, a forward NATO/JSOC outpost where they gathered for the mission brief.
Commander Bartholomew stood at the head of the briefing table, sleeves rolled, voice clipped as he introduced the British SBS team. “Captain Alistair ‘Lock’ Lockhart, Sergeant Benedict ‘Bash’ Markham, sniper, Sergeant Liam ‘Brick’ Dray, combat medic, Warrant Officer James ‘Ash’ Keene, comms, Sergeant Graeme Slade, heavy weapons, and their breacher CPO Hugh ‘Forge’ Ward.” Then he introduced the SEALs one by one. “This is a coordinated strike on a suspected HVT stronghold operating inside Raqqa’s industrial zone. Our objective is to capture intel and disrupt fentanyl precursor smuggling being funneled through Syria into Western Europe.”
He tapped the satellite map. “The compound sits in Sector 4B, three sides reinforced with blast walls, elevated towers on the corners. Internal security is unknown.”
“That grain silo to the north offers elevation for overwatch,” Breakneck said.
