Chapter 1: Welcome to Miami, Baby
The sun glistened off the hood of a candy-red Lamborghini Diablo as Sgt. Salty leaned against it in mirrored aviators, a half-smirk tugging at his lips. Miami wasn’t ready.
Beside him, Sgt. Zinshed adjusted his silk shirt—buttons open down to his chest, revealing a tattoo of a flaming panther wrapped around a pair of handcuffs. “You think these new rookies can handle the heat, Salty?”
Salty lit a Cuban cigar, puffed, and gave a slow nod toward the police academy gates. “If they can handle this weather, our driving, and the ladies... maybe.”
Two figures emerged from the academy: one was Officer Lila Blaze, a Latina knockout with fierce eyes and legs that didn’t quit. Her badge glinted from her waist, holstered next to twin chrome pistols. The other was Officer Kenny ‘Kicks’ Malone, a tech wiz and part-time DJ with frosted tips and a swagger that screamed 80s revival.
“We're your new partners,” Lila said, hands on hips. “And we don’t need babysitting.”
Zinshed whistled. “Damn right you don’t. Welcome to the vice squad.”
Before they could exchange more pleasantries, dispatch crackled over the radio: “All units, be advised—black Ferrari fleeing the marina, suspected drug kingpin ‘El Jaguar’ behind the wheel. Armed and dangerous.”
“Perfect first date,” Salty grinned, hopping into the Lambo.
“Shotgun!” Zinshed called, vaulting over the hood.
Lila and Kicks jumped into their own ride—a bulletproof pink Corvette retrofitted with AI voice commands and neon underglow. “Let’s show ‘em what Vice does best,” Lila said.
The chase was on.
Downtown Miami blurred into streaks of color and steel as they raced through traffic. Salty weaved between cars like a dancer, shades still on, never spilling the espresso in his cup holder. Zinshed fired a tracking dart from the passenger seat, clipping the Ferrari’s tail just as El Jaguar swerved onto Ocean Drive.
“We got him tagged!” Zinshed barked.
Kicks hacked the streetlights, turning them green for their path and red for everyone else. “I call it techno-karma, baby!”
Meanwhile, Lila locked onto the Ferrari and opened fire with rubber rounds, popping a rear tire. “El Jaguar’s about to learn why you don’t run from Vice.”
The kingpin's Ferrari crashed through a beachside juice bar and spun out in the sand. Salty and Zinshed skidded to a stop, doors flying open. Guns drawn, they surrounded the dazed suspect.
“Game over, Jaguar,” Salty said, flicking his cigar to the ground.
“You’re under arrest for being a cliché,” Zinshed added.
Back at headquarters—an art deco dream in pastel pinks and blues—Captain Roxy Steele stood with arms folded. Her long legs were rivaled only by her reputation for cracking down on crime... and bad fashion.
“Well done, team,” she said, eyes lingering on Lila and Salty. “But I expect reports, not love letters.”
Salty raised an eyebrow at Lila. “She jealous, or just sassy?”
Lila smirked. “Both. And I write in cursive.”
That night, the four officers met at a rooftop club pulsing with synth beats. Zinshed hit the dance floor with two models while Kicks flirted with a bartender who looked like she moonlighted as a Bond girl.
Salty and Lila stood at the edge, overlooking the neon-drenched city. “You always catch bad guys and flirt on the same day?” she asked.
“Only when they’re this pretty,” he replied.
Their kiss was brief but electric, like Miami lightning—hot, fast, and promising more.
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