Chapter 4: Firearms & Powder
A jet engine howled in the distance as Sgt. Salty flicked the ash off his Cuban and stepped onto the tarmac.
The call came from Interpol — an old contact in France who owed Zinshed a favour. Word on the street: Anton Kreiger, international arms dealer, had just landed in Miami under the alias Mikhail Rousseau… and he wasn’t alone.
The intel? Kreiger was moving two shipments:
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Modified NATO-grade weapons — retooled for black-market buyers.
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A lethal new drug cocktail — part meth, part synthetic cocaine, part madness. Street name: “Whiteburn.”
Zinshed zipped up his flight jacket. “When they said ‘double trouble’, I didn’t think they meant explosions and overdoses in one shipment.”
Salty slipped on his shades. “Let’s make it a round trip. Miami to madness — and back.”
The Drop
Warehouse 17 was quiet. Too quiet.
Situated at the edge of the port district, it looked abandoned — broken lights, rusted signage, graffiti scrawled in three different languages.
But Salty saw the signs: fresh tire marks. Mud streaks too clean. Heat signatures flickering just inside the loading bay.
They entered slow.
Inside: crates, stacked and numbered, all marked with military seals… and worse — freezer units humming with tightly packed powder wrapped in neon foil. This wasn’t street-level supply. This was wholesale ruin.
Suddenly: voices. Russian. French. Spanglish.
Then... a clatter. Someone tripped an alarm.
“Showtime,” Zinshed muttered, drawing his custom Glock.
Gunfight in the Dark
The room exploded in gunfire and chaos.
Salty took cover behind a forklift, returned fire in smooth, calculated bursts. Zinshed was already up top, hopping between crates like a cyberpunk ninja, dropping flash pellets.
From the far end, Anton Kreiger emerged — thick beard, silver suit, gold tooth gleaming under the flickering fluorescents. He grinned wide.
“So... the Americans arrive in suits and cologne,” Kreiger growled. “How very... cinematic.”
Salty grinned. “You know me — can’t bust a cartel without looking good doing it.”
They exchanged shots. Sparks flew.
A grenade rolled.
BOOM.
The back wall collapsed — and Kreiger fled through the smoke.
The Speedboat Chase
Out the side dock, a blacked-out speedboat revved.
Kreiger jumped aboard, shouting to his driver. The engine roared to life.
Salty and Zinshed sprinted after them — just in time to jump into a seized Interpol boat parked along the seawall.
“Didn’t know we had a boat licence,” Zinshed muttered, firing up the engine.
Salty smirked. “We don’t.”
The chase was on.
The moon lit the waves in silver. Two boats, slicing through the surf. Kreiger's man opened fire — rounds tore through the air like angry hornets.
Zinshed weaved between buoys. “We get close, I’ll board them.”
“You want the honors?” Salty asked, loading a flare gun.
“I always wanted a Bond moment.”
Boarding Party
Salty fired a flash flare — blinding the rear gunner.
Zinshed leapt — landed hard on the stern, tackling the shooter overboard.
Salty followed, slipping onto the bow with the grace of a panther.
Kreiger swung a crowbar, but Salty ducked — countered with a heavy punch to the gut.
“One-way ticket to solitary,” Salty growled.
Kreiger wheezed, trying to rise — but Zinshed came up from behind, zip-ties in hand.
“Game over, vodka breath.”
Cleanup and Aftermath
Back at HQ, crates were opened under heavy guard.
The weapons? Seized.
The drugs? Incinerated.
The boat? Under impound and already nicknamed “The Salty Submarine” by precinct staff.
Rico appeared with donuts. “You almost sunk a shipping lane, you know.”
Salty shrugged. “Better wet than wired.”
Zinshed held up a photo from Interpol: a new face. Different name. Same network. “Looks like Kreiger was just a piece of the puzzle.”
Salty raised a brow. “Then we’d better pack our bags.”
Rico grinned. “Please say we’re going to Italy. I hear the espresso’s better than the explosions.”
Salty smiled. “We’re going international, boys. The neon never fades.”
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