Sgt. Salty & Sgt. Zinshed: Neon Wheels – Chapter 1: The Delivery
The Miami heat wasn’t the only thing burning up the tarmac that morning.
Sgt. Salty adjusted his aviators with one hand and tugged his linen blazer with the other, casually stepping out of the precinct. His boots hit the pavement with swagger, echoing across the front steps of the Metro Task Force HQ.
Next to him, Sgt. Zinshed was already leaning against the wall, sipping a frozen espresso from a cup that definitely didn’t meet regulations. His mullet caught the sun just right — a perfect 1980s halo of trouble.
“You ready for this?” Zinshed asked, glancing at his partner.
Salty nodded. “Been ready since they signed the papers. Our new ride’s in.”
The Supercar
The dealership was located in a part of town where chrome reflections glimmered off every window, and the scent of petrol mixed with sea air. They’d been assigned a vehicle upgrade after closing the Montez Cartel case — and let’s just say the Commissioner wanted to make a statement.
And that statement came in the form of a custom Jaguar F-Type SVR — midnight black, V8 growl, gullwing doors, and enough onboard tech to rival NASA.
As the cover slid off the car, both men stood in silence.
The engine purred. The sun caught the curve of the hood just right. A small crowd had gathered, all pulled in by the kind of noise that said, “Get out of the way, crime, because here come the good guys.”
Zinshed let out a low whistle. “That’s not a car. That’s a mobile jaw-dropper.”
Salty opened the door, ran a hand along the leather interior, and smirked. “This baby doesn’t chase suspects. She invites them to surrender.”
The Briefing
Back at HQ, the briefing room felt smaller than usual, probably because everyone was still buzzing over the new wheels. Lt. Ramirez handed them the latest file — a string of cyber-heists along the coast, and the prime suspect? Rico “Signal” Diaz, a data-runner who hacked banks while rollerblading along the beach.
“We’re not chasing mules anymore,” Ramirez said, tapping the folder. “This guy’s high-speed, high-style, and ten steps ahead of everyone else.”
“Sounds like our kind of trouble,” Zinshed muttered, flipping the folder open. “Think he’ll go quietly?”
Salty grinned. “Not if we do our job right.”
The Stakeout (and Soundtrack)
By sunset, they were parked along Ocean Drive, neon lights flickering over the hood of the Jaguar. Salsa music played from a beach bar. People danced in the streets. The city pulsed with life, and in the middle of it all — Salty and Zinshed watched and waited.
“He’s late,” Zinshed said, drumming his fingers on the dash.
“He’s a showman. He wants an audience,” Salty replied. “Trust me. When he shows, we’ll know.”
Just then, a blur of silver streaked across the boulevard — a man in mirrored sunglasses, wearing a metallic windbreaker, skating like his life depended on it… and trailing a hacked signal behind him on a portable device strapped to his back.
Zinshed sat up. “That’s our guy.”
Salty flipped the switch. The Jag roared to life.
To Be Continued...
Neon wheels. High stakes. Two detectives in linen suits and too much attitude.
The chase was on.
And trust us — the real heat hadn’t even started yet.
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