Page 9 of Boomer
Sergeant Markham's eyes flashed, and he nodded. “Good observation.”
Breakneck ignored him.
Anna Graham stepped up next. Calm, sharp-eyed, dressed in desert tactical.
“CIA has confirmed the presence of two mid-level facilitators linked to Arkan Holdings network. At this time we have no idea who’s pulling their strings and in for a piece of the Fentanyl pie. We believe they’re using this site as both a smuggling checkpointand an encrypted dead drop node. If recovered, their comms gear may give us upstream access to the financial logistics side.”
She paused, then locked eyes with the team.
“You’re not just chasing bodies. You’re chasing the backbone of their supply chain.” She shifted, then asked, “Any questions?” No one responded. Anna stepped back, expression unreadable.
“You all will load into two Blackhawks, fly to within two clicks of the city, where you’ll be met by the SDF operative who will lead you into the city to the breaching point.” He stepped back. “Wheels up in twenty. Let’s go hunt.”
Raqqa,Syria, Zero Dark Thirty
The wind off the ruined edge of Raqqa stank of scorched metal, sweat, and the sour bite of explosives that had cooked too long in the sun. It was the kind of heat that clung to the throat and settled in the bones even in a pitch-dark city. Sand coated their skin like ground glass, sweat-slicked and itchy beneath armor plates. Across the rubble-laced compound, the SBS moved with the kind of clipped precision that made Boomer's spine twitch. They didn’t talk much, didn’t miss much, and carried themselves like the crown signed their gear personally. There was respect, sure. But there was also history. SEALs and SBS had worked together before, and every time, it felt like a cold war wrapped in body armor, their accents sharp over comms even through the haze of fatigue.
After the meetup with the quiet SDF operative, Iceman turned to the team. “Break overwatch.”
“What?” Bash said with surprise. “That wet-behind-the-ears kid. Captain?”
“My man is the best we have, tempered by experience.”
Ice’s lips thinned. “I’m sure he is, but Break is the best we have, and he’s no kid. He’s an operator with unmatched sniper skills. He’s on overwatch.”
“If that’s the case, then we’ll use our breacher for the assault.”
Iceman looked at Boomer. He didn’t like it, but he nodded. “Boomer, back him up.”
Boomer nodded.
The trip into the city was quick and without incident. When they reached the door to the target, the Brit breacher, Forge, set the charge.
“Hang on,” Boomer said. He crouched beside a concrete wall that had seen better decades. His gloved hand ran along the foundation, fingers mapping out the subtle fracture lines in the structure. Dust puffed up around his boots as he shifted his weight. He didn’t look up when footsteps approached behind him.
“Problem, mate?”
The young SBS breacher with sunburnt cheeks and the kind of confidence that hadn’t been earned yet shifted. Too much jaw tension for a man trying to sound relaxed. The charge was already placed, symmetrical, textbook, clean lines. But Boomer didn’t like it.
His breath caught in the back of his throat, just for a second. The breeze shifted, kicking up the grit beneath his boots, and for a blink, it wasn’t Raqqa. It was Mosul. The air was heavier there. Hotter. Copper in the wind, thick and sour. Mike’s voice yelling something through the comms.Wait, don’t!Then the sound. The kind that takes friends and leaves rubble behind.
He blinked hard.
His voice, when it came, was low. Anchored, his deep Southern drawl edged with iron.
“Yeah, darlin’. That’ll breach your way straight to a war crime.”
The Brit blinked. Boomer rose slowly, never breaking eye contact. “You’re not opening a door,” he said. “You’re leveling the fucking room. That wall carries a third of the building’s weight.”
The guy bristled, defensive now. “I’ve used this config in Mosul. It’ll open clean.”
Boomer didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He juststared. “Mosul didn’t have load-bearing joints like this. You detonate that charge, we’ll be pulling bodies out of plaster, ours and theirs.”
His voice was steady, but inside he felt the heaviness of loss, the pressure behind the ribs, like his lungs wanted to fold in on themselves. It wasn’t just math. It was in a picture on his wall at home.
Dust swirled again, riding a wind that carried tension like static. The SEALs had gone still. Skull shifted, subtly, like he felt the crack in Boomer’s posture. Even the Brits hung back, something unspoken in the air. A charge miscalculated wasn’t just an error. It was a eulogy.
Boomer turned slightly, his voice clipped now. Controlled. “Recheck your load. It’s too powerful.”
