Sgt. Salty & Sgt. Zinshed: Neon Wheels – Chapter 2: The Chase
The Jaguar tore through Ocean Drive like a panther in heat.
The neon glow of club signs and beachside cafés blurred into streaks of pink, aqua, and gold. The engine snarled with each gear shift, echoing between palm-lined buildings. Tourists turned and stared, their cocktails forgotten.
Zinshed gripped the dash. “Remind me again — did we calibrate the speed limiter?”
Salty cracked a grin, shifting into fifth. “Limiters are for rookies.”
Ahead, Rico “Signal” Diaz weaved through traffic like he was born in cyberspace. His skates glided over pavement with the grace of a ballerina — if ballerinas wore chrome windbreakers and carried encrypted drives strapped to their backs.
“We got one shot,” Salty said. “Get close enough and I’ll pin him between us and that sandwich cart.”
Zinshed nodded, already pulling out the badge and flashing it through the windscreen. Not that Diaz would notice. The man was in his own world, music blasting through his cyber-shades, legs pumping, street lights dancing off his mirrored lenses.
They hit Collins Avenue and traffic tightened.
Salty didn’t brake — he zig-zagged, carving past an ice cream van, then launched the Jaguar up onto a cycle lane. Beachgoers scattered, a man dropped a burrito, someone shouted, “Wicked car, bro!”
Pinch Point
Zinshed leaned out the window. “Rico! This is your final warning! Slow down or we make you part of the sidewalk!”
Diaz turned his head — smirking. Then he flipped them off and kicked into a sprint, skating across a makeshift ramp and leaping over a line of scooters.
“He did not just do that,” Zinshed muttered.
“Oh, he did,” Salty replied, hitting the siren.
Blaring noise cut through the Miami night like a blade. The Jaguar roared again, launching off the edge of the ramp just behind Diaz.
Two wheels airborne. Heart rate spiking.
They landed with a crunch and a spin — and skidded into a stop just ahead of Diaz’s path.
He looked up too late.
BAM — his skate clipped the curb, and he spun, tumbling into a vendor’s umbrella stand. The stand folded like a deck chair, and Signal landed in a mess of beach towels and spilled lemonade.
Interrogation — Beachside Style
Back at the precinct’s rooftop café (because Salty doesn’t do cold steel interview rooms), Diaz sat slumped in a sun chair, ice pack on his shoulder.
Salty poured himself a ginger ale. “Nice pirouette back there. You nearly took out three tourists and a Yorkshire terrier.”
Zinshed leaned against the wall. “You’ve got two options, Rico. You can keep skating until someone less friendly than us catches you… or you can tell us what you know.”
Diaz looked up through scratched lenses. “You’re wasting your time. You think I was freelancing? I’ve been contracted. Big syndicate. Digital black market. Stuff even you can’t trace.”
Salty raised an eyebrow. “Try us.”
The hacker paused. Then grinned.
“Alright,” he said. “But I want immunity… and free doughnuts.”
Zinshed sighed. “You’re getting stale bagels at best.”
Diaz shrugged. “Then I’ll just sit here and heal my bruises.”
Salty handed him the ginger ale. “Welcome to the team, Rico. You just got upgraded from ‘annoying beach punk’ to Confidential Informant.”
Neon Intel
Later that night, back at their apartment over the garage, the team gathered around a glowing screen. Rico had decrypted the drive he was carrying — a full database of client transactions tied to an underground auction happening in three nights’ time.
Art. Data. Tech. Stolen identities. Even... state-level passwords.
“This is big,” Zinshed muttered. “Too big.”
Salty nodded. “And they think it’s all under the radar. But now we’ve got a man on the inside.”
Rico raised his ginger ale. “I want code names. I’m thinking... Ghost Panther.”
Zinshed didn’t blink. “You get ‘Skate Rat.’ That’s generous.”
Rico pouted. “Fine. But I’m picking the playlist for the stakeout.”
Salty leaned back, smiled at the city skyline, and took a sip. “Gentlemen... it’s going to be one neon-fuelled weekend.”
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