Chapter 2: Heat on the Pier

 

Chapter 2: Heat on the Pier

Morning in Miami hit like a rum punch to the face—hot, fast, and not asking questions. Sgt. Zinshed rolled out of bed in nothing but silk boxers and a gold chain, stepped over two sleeping models, and answered the buzzing burner phone on the windowsill.

“Zinshed here.”

“Pier 47. Fire. Possible sabotage. Someone wants Vice outta the picture.” Click.

Meanwhile, Sgt. Salty was poolside at the Fontainebleau, sipping green juice and flirting with a swimsuit designer named Tatiana when his phone lit up.

“Duty calls, darling,” he said, kissing her hand and slipping on his shades.

Thirty minutes later, the team regrouped at the smoking ruins of Pier 47. Lila Blaze had her hair up, her expression razor sharp. Kicks Malone had brought coffee and an illegal drone he nicknamed “Lil’ Peep.”

“What’re we lookin’ at?” Zinshed asked, surveying the charred warehouse.

“Explosives, likely remote triggered,” Lila said, crouching by melted crates labeled Del Oro Imports.

Kicks fired up the drone. “This place was loaded with designer knockoffs and suspicious art crates. Someone’s moving heat through fashion.”

Salty kicked open a crate. Inside: gold-plated UZIs, feather boas, and a card that read: “With love – Cassandra Chrome.”

Zinshed froze. “No... not her.”

“Who?” Lila asked.

“Ex-lover. Ex-villain. Current nightmare. Cassandra Chrome used to run fashion cartels in Milan. She’s here now.”

Before they could dig deeper, a vintage Rolls-Royce screeched into the parking lot. Out stepped a tall, statuesque woman in a metallic jumpsuit—Detective Delphine Noir, newly transferred from Paris Vice, sent by Interpol.

“Bonjour, mes cochons,” she purred. “I heard there was a fire and I brought my extinguisher.”

Salty looked her over. “We’re gonna need a lot more than that.”

Zinshed grimaced. “We’ve got a serious problem if Cassandra’s in town. She plays dirty.”

Back at Vice HQ, Captain Steele paced in heels sharper than daggers. “Chrome’s move into Miami could mean a turf war. And turf wars mean chaos.”

“She also means distractions,” Delphine added, glancing at Salty’s open shirt. “Especially for weak men.”

Salty grinned. “Strong enough to catch her last time. And I had less chest hair then.”

Kicks triangulated Cassandra’s latest purchases: yacht fuel, diamonds, and a flamingo-shaped hoverboat. “She’s throwing a party tonight at the Flamingo Mirage Marina. Guest list includes corrupt diplomats and retired models. We crashin’ it?”

“We ain’t RSVP’ing,” Zinshed said. “We’re storming the runway.”

That night, dressed in all-white suits and serious swagger, the team infiltrated the marina. Kicks wore LED cufflinks that scanned for weapons. Lila stunned in a red slit dress with a pistol strapped to her thigh. Delphine wore black lace and disdain.

Inside the yacht club, Cassandra Chrome stood under a giant pink chandelier, surrounded by muscle and martinis.

“Zinshed,” she purred, noticing him first. “Still dressing like a low-budget Bond?”

“Better than you dressing like disco’s worst nightmare,” he shot back.

“I missed your mouth,” she said.

“Missed your bombs.”

Before the tension could explode into bullets, Kicks activated a smoke grenade disguised as a champagne cork. Chaos erupted. Lila flipped over a table and opened fire. Salty grabbed Cassandra, twisting her arm.

But she slipped from his grip, laughing. “Catch me next time, boys!”

She dove off the yacht into a getaway speedboat driven by a shirtless man with neon suspenders.

“Classic Chrome,” Zinshed muttered.

As the fog cleared, Salty caught Lila’s eye. “You good?”

“Better when she’s in cuffs,” Lila growled.

Delphine exhaled coolly. “Well, boys, we have a nemesis now.”

Zinshed smiled grimly. “We always did.”

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