Chapter 4: Chopper, Chases, and Chocolate Thunder
Miami’s skies were gold-drenched as Vice HQ welcomed two fresh recruits. Sgt. Zinshed stood at the top of the steps like a game-show host with a badge.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our newest crime-fighting duo: Officer Rico ‘Chocolate Thunder’ Valentine and Officer Cherry Blaze—Lila’s little sister and just as dangerous.”
Cherry stepped out in mirrored shades and red leather pants, cracking gum like it owed her money. Rico followed, shirtless under a tactical vest, muscles glistening like a promise.
Captain Steele raised an eyebrow. “Try not to burn the place down… unless it’s part of the mission.”
Inside the locker room, Salty took one look at Rico and muttered, “Well, there goes my sexiest man title.”
“Not yet,” Rico winked.
Before flirting turned into a Flex-Off, Kicks burst in with bad news.
“We’ve got movement on Cassandra Chrome’s last buyer: a man called ‘El Flamenco.’ Drug lord. Art smuggler. Apparently also the owner of six exotic flamingos and a private helicopter made entirely of rose gold.”
Zinshed grimaced. “Flamenco’s real name is Barry. He used to sell churros at the beach before going full Bond villain.”
Lila loaded her Glock. “Let’s go pop his piñata.”
The squad headed to the marina, where El Flamenco’s yacht—The Pink Menace—waited like a floating nightclub. Rico, now wearing nothing but board shorts and boots, revved up a jet ski.
“Anyone coming with me?”
Cherry hopped on the back. “I don’t hold on unless you earn it.”
He gunned it so hard she squealed and nearly smiled.
Meanwhile, Salty and Zinshed soared overhead in the Vice chopper with Delphine Noir at the controls. She flew like she danced: fast, low, and with perfect eyeliner.
“Three minutes to target,” she said, lipstick flawless. “Try not to fall out again, Zinshed.”
“That was one time,” he muttered. “And technically I jumped.”
On the ground, Kicks hacked Flamenco’s security cam feed from a taco truck disguised as a surveillance van. “He’s on the helipad! Rose gold chopper just booted up!”
“Then we’re goin’ in hot,” Salty radioed.
The team launched in perfect synch: Rico and Cherry skimming waves, Lila kicking down doors, Zinshed rappelling from the chopper, and Salty parachuting in slow motion while flames erupted behind him.
Inside the yacht’s penthouse, Flamenco posed with a diamond-encrusted flamethrower and a parrot wearing Gucci.
“Vice!” he screamed. “This is my flamingo kingdom!”
Salty tackled him into a velvet sofa while Zinshed wrestled the flamethrower away. “You need therapy, Barry!”
Outside, Rico and Cherry cornered guards in a jet-ski duel. She flipped off hers midair, landed on a bad guy’s shoulders, and used her lipstick taser with dramatic flair.
“Guess you weren’t ready for this jelly,” she quipped.
After the smoke cleared and the yacht was secure, Delphine landed the chopper and walked over, heels echoing.
“Well,” she said, “we saved Miami again.”
Kicks chewed on a Twizzler. “And nobody died… except that one flamingo. Sorry.”
Back at HQ, the squad relaxed by the rooftop pool. Salty raised a glass. “To new blood, old enemies, and the best damn team south of Daytona.”
Cherry clinked glasses with Rico. “And to sparks.”
He smirked. “Literal or romantic?”
She leaned in. “Let’s start with literal.”
They kissed. Fireworks exploded in the distance—probably illegal, definitely Miami.
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