Chapter 8: Glitter, Guns & a Double Cross
Miami’s skyline shimmered under a velvet sky as the Vice Charity Gala kicked off in the rooftop ballroom of the Opal Tower. Inside, the elite mingled with the beautiful, everyone dressed like they were auditioning for a Bond film.
Sgt. Salty adjusted his bowtie in the mirror. “You think anyone will notice if I go shirtless under this?”
Lila smacked him lightly with a clutch purse. “Try it and I’ll cuff you. For real.”
Zinshed and Delphine arrived together, looking devastating in black-on-black tux and a gown with a thigh slit that threatened to break laws of physics. Cherry and Rico followed—she in a fiery crimson gown, he in a white tux that screamed “I wrestle alligators recreationally.”
“This is Vice’s biggest PR night,” Captain Steele reminded them as she entered, glowing in a sleek silver dress. “Mingle. Smile. No weapons unless someone tries to kill you. Which, let’s be honest, is likely.”
The squad split up, charm on full display.
Salty and Lila sipped martinis by the balcony, her heels brushing against his leg under the table.
“You know,” Lila said, eyes twinkling, “we’ve gone from car chases to galas. What’s next? Brunch and adoption?”
Salty smirked. “Only if the dog’s as sexy as you.”
Meanwhile, Cherry worked the room like a movie star, leaving a trail of smitten billionaires and dazed tech bros.
“Do I know you?” asked a hedge fund guy in loafers.
“You wish you did,” Cherry shot back, snatching a shrimp cocktail from his plate.
Delphine spotted something off. “Zinshed,” she whispered. “That waiter… he’s not sweating. Everyone else is sweating.”
Zinshed nodded. “Undercover. Eyes on him.”
But before they could make a move, the lights went out.
A single spotlight flared.
“Good evening, Vice Squad,” came a smooth, mocking voice.
The ballroom doors slammed shut.
Out stepped Victor Kane, a disgraced former Vice detective presumed dead, now alive and looking annoyingly smug in a crimson velvet jacket.
“I always said this department was rotten,” he purred. “Tonight, I wipe the slate clean—with fireworks.”
Gasps. People screamed. Hidden guards pulled guns. Explosives lit up on the security monitors.
“You faked your death?” Steele growled.
“And you faked caring,” he shot back. “Tonight, we blow the corrupt and the clueless sky high.”
The squad sprang into action.
Zinshed tackled a goon into the champagne tower. Cherry flipped a table and used it as cover, yelling, “Rico! Bass boost something!”
Rico, ever ready, grabbed a mic. “Time for some sabotage samba!”
Electronic beats pulsed as he rerouted the sound system into a disorienting sub-bass wave. Guests dropped to the floor clutching their ears—except the squad, who’d trained in weirder conditions.
Salty and Lila chased Victor through the ballroom kitchens. Ducking behind carts, dodging flames.
“Why, Victor?” Salty shouted.
“You never listened,” Victor snarled. “Justice needs chaos.”
They cornered him near the rooftop edge. Victor pulled a gun—Lila pulled hers faster.
“Drop it,” she warned.
He smiled. “You really think this city’s clean?”
A shot rang out—not from Lila. From Delphine.
Victor’s gun clattered.
The team secured the bombs. Cuffed the rogue ex-cop. The gala resumed, now with slightly fewer billionaires and much more scandal.
Back at HQ, Steele addressed the team.
“Victor was our mentor once. You all remember. But people break. He cracked. You didn’t.”
Rico handed out Cuban sandwiches. “We stop bombs, we save cities… we eat well.”
Salty raised a soda can. “To the squad.”
Everyone toasted.
Later that night, as the moon glowed and the city held its breath, Zinshed stood alone on the balcony with Delphine.
“You didn’t hesitate,” he said.
“I’d do it again,” she whispered.
They didn’t kiss. Not yet. But their fingers found each other, slow and certain.
Meanwhile, in Salty’s apartment, Lila walked out of the shower wrapped in a towel.
“Shirtless gala guy,” she teased.
“Guilty,” he said, kissing her shoulder.
The war wasn’t over.
But tonight, they’d won.
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