2
Boomer had seen a lot of ugly things in his life. War zones. Dead brothers. His best friend bleeding out under his hands. Hell, he’d even seen himself at his worst, half-drunk, grief-stupid, punching at shadows and calling it coping.
But he had never, not once, seen Kelly Gatlin like this.
Not the quiet kid who’d shown up to Tier 1 with that valedictorian face and those lethal hands. Not the sniper who moved like a ghost, spoke only when necessary, and steadied all of them by sheer, stubborn presence. Not the operator who cleaned his rifle with the care most men reserved for the people they loved.
This was… someone else. Someone Boomer didn’t recognize. Someone who terrified him in a way he hadn’t felt since Mike died.
Breakneck staggered backward, chest heaving, eyes blown wide and empty in the same breath, like whatever part of him that made him Kelly had slipped its moorings and drifted out to sea.
Christ. Boomer stepped into his space before Break could sway again. He grabbed Breakneck’s vest with both hands, grounding him, forcing eye contact. “Kid,” he said quietly. But the word felt wrong. Break wasn’t a kid. Not tonight. He was a weapon with the safety off.
Boomer felt the tremor in him, small, violent, uncontrolled. Like adrenaline gone toxic.
Like the body still fighting even after the mind had tapped out.
“Break,” Boomer murmured, tightening his grip. “Hey. Look at me.”
Those gray eyes flicked up, unfocused. Pain lived there. Behind it was fear.
Boomer’s stomach turned. He’d worn that look once. The night he’d walked into a bar with blood on his knuckles and Mike’s name in his throat. The night he’d pushed past every line he swore he’d never cross. He’d walked up to this edge before, and Breakneck had been the one to haul him back.
Boomer swallowed hard.
“Come on,” he said, lowering his voice even more. “We’re done here.” Breakneck didn’t argue. Didn’t curse. Didn’t even look at the wheezing man he’d nearly killed.
He just let Boomer turn him, guide him, steer him through the bar like a man stumbling through the aftermath of his own explosion.
The crowd parted fast, not for him. For Break.
The women stopped whispering. The men stopped breathing. Even the bartender went still.
Boomer kept one hand fisted in Breakneck’s vest the whole way out. Outside, the night hit them, cold, sharp, ruthless. Breakneck sucked in a breath like he’d been underwater too long. Boomer didn’t let go. “You with me?” he asked. Breakneck blinked. Slow. Lost.
His voice came out rough as sandpaper and slurred. “I don’t… I don’t know.”
Boomer’s heart cracked straight down the middle. “Okay,” he murmured. “That’s okay. I’ve got you.” He did what Breakneck had done for him once. He put Break’s arm over his shoulder and took the weight, steady and unapologetic. Breakneck didn’t fight it. He just sagged. Like the adrenaline drain had finally caught him. Like the truth he’d been outrunning had caught him harder.
Boomer opened the truck door, guided him inside, shut it gently like he was handling explosives. Then he walked over to Break’s Harley and pushed it, opened the bed of his truck and ran it up the ramp, strapped it down.
When he rounded to the driver’s side, he paused, hand braced against the metal, breath caught in his throat. He’d never been scared like this for Break. Concerned? Sure. Annoyed? Constantly. Proud? Every damned day. But scared? No.
Boomer slid into the seat and turned to the man beside him. Breakneck stared ahead, eyes fixed, jaw clenched, hands shaking where they rested on his thighs.
Boomer reached across and set a steady hand on his shoulder. “We’re going home,” he said softly. “You’re not going through this alone.”
Breakneck didn’t say a word. But the breath he released was nothing short of broken.
The engine rumbled to life beneath Boomer’s hands, low and steady, but inside the cab the silence was a different kind of noise entirely, tight, suffocating, like the air had gone brittle.
Breakneck sat slumped against the passenger door, head tipped back, eyes fixed on nothing. His chest rose in short, uneven pulls. If Boomer didn’t know better, he’d think the kid had been sucker-punched.
Christ. Maybe he had been.
Boomer flicked a glance over. The streetlight outside strobed across Breakneck’s face, sharp cheekbones, clenched jaw, pupils blown wide. But it was his stillness that twisted something deep inside Boomer. Break wasn’t a still man. He was controlled, focused, precise, but never like this.
This was… hollow. The same hollow Boomer had walked around with after Mike.
