Bonus Chapter: Operation Groove Sting
It was midnight in Miami.
The beat was heavy. The bodies were moving. And beneath the laser lights of Club Fantasma, something far more illegal than a bad cha-cha was going down.
Interpol intel had flagged the place as a front for La Sombra, a cartel using underground dance battles to smuggle drugs and launder money — hidden in speaker cabinets and tucked inside oversized trophy bases.
So of course, HQ sent in the best.
Sgt. Salty and Sgt. Zinshed.
But not with badges.
Not with warrants.
With waistcoats, velvet trousers, and deep, sultry lunges.
Undercover... in Style
Salty entered first — black mesh shirt, gold chains, hair slicked back like the Riviera wind itself had styled it.
Zinshed followed, chest exposed, leather pants tighter than the budget at the Miami PD.
A woman with neon lipstick grabbed Salty’s arm. “You here to compete, papi?”
Salty didn’t break stride. “We’re here to win... and maybe light a few fires along the way.”
Zinshed smirked. “Mostly hips. Possibly hearts.”
The Crowd Goes Wild
Inside, the dance floor was a ring of sweat, rhythm, and roars.
Twelve crews. One prize.
And a “mystery vault” containing $2 million worth of narcotics meant to disappear during the final round.
The only way in?
Win the crowd. Win the night.
Salty pointed to the DJ. “Drop me something dangerous.”
He hit the floor like thunder.
A slide. A spin.
And then — The Salty Lunge.
The crowd lost it.
Women screamed. Some fainted.
One climbed onstage just to whisper, “Marry me.”
Zinshed followed with a laser-precise moonwalk and a double-finger-pistol dip that made even the cartel's security guards cheer.
The club lit up.
The competition? Over before it started.
Seducing the Informants
Later, in the VIP lounge — velvet booths, champagne towers, and more cleavage than legal paperwork — Salty and Zinshed worked the room.
Every cartel lieutenant seemed paired with a woman — and suddenly, so were the detectives.
One blonde leaned into Salty. “What’s your real name, chico?”
Salty sipped a neon cocktail. “Let’s just say... the law calls me Mister.”
Meanwhile, Zinshed whispered into a redhead’s ear. “You wouldn’t happen to be sitting on evidence, would you?”
Turns out — she was. Literally.
A flash drive tucked into her platform heels.
The blueprint to the entire cartel’s logistics.
The Bust
With the music pulsing and the night peaking, Rico buzzed in their earpieces. “Surprise! You’re surrounded. Every backup unit in a five-mile radius is waiting for your word.”
Salty stood, raised a shot glass, and tapped it lightly.
“To the ladies,” he said. “And to justice... with a beat.”
Then he flipped the table.
Guns drawn. Strobes flared. Zinshed leapt off the DJ booth.
Security scrambled — but backup poured in through the club’s fire exit.
In 3 minutes, it was over.
The vault secured. The drugs seized.
The crowd? Clapping, thinking it was part of the act.
Salty adjusted his shirt, winked at a camera, and whispered,
“Neon justice served, baby.”
The After Party
The next morning, HQ was flooded with fan mail.
Hashtags trended.
#SaltyLunge was back in the top 10.
And Sgt. Salty?
He was on a beach, shirtless, surrounded by some of the same women from the club — now giving very helpful witness statements.
Zinshed grilled burgers on a portable stove.
“Think we’ll ever have a quiet mission again?” he asked.
Salty grinned, lathering on tanning oil. “Not a chance.”
🔖 Hashtags for Blog & Socials
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