Episode 6: Firearms & Flamenco
Cadiz simmered under the Andalusian sun like a paella pan left unattended. Whitewashed buildings sparkled along the shore. Waves crashed. And Sgt. Salty stepped into La Sombra Roja, a back-alley tapas bar known for its jamón, shady patrons, and bullets occasionally lodged in the wall.
“Nice place,” Zinshed muttered, scanning the room. “Smells like gunpowder and paprika.”
Salty winked. “That’s how I like my women.”
Inside, a flamenco dancer twirled on a wine barrel, red dress flaring, castanets clicking like the sound of an approaching pistol hammer. In the corner, their contact sat: Lucía—a smuggler’s daughter with more curves than the Sierra Nevada and lips like sangria.
Salty adjusted his shirt buttons and approached, all heat and swagger.
“¿Puedo invitarte a unas tapas… o prefieres saltarte la cena?”
(Can I treat you to some tapas… or would you rather skip dinner?)
Lucía smirked. “Solo si tú eres el postre.”
(Only if you’re the dessert.)
Cherry, watching from afar, groaned. “He’s flirting in Spanish again. It’s like watching telenovela porn.”
As they shared garlic prawns and patatas bravas, Lucía leaned in.
“El Diablo Blanco is planning something big,” she whispered. “The warehouse by the docks. Tonight. Weapons. Enough to arm a small war.”
Salty traced her hand. “Gracias, Lucía. You just saved lives.”
She smirked. “Then repay me with yours.”
They kissed—brief but sizzling.
From across the room, Cherry muttered into her comms, “If he gets one more informant pregnant, I swear…”
That night, the team approached the warehouse.
Rico checked his drone footage. “Three trucks, two dozen guards, and a flamenco band?”
Delphine cocked an eyebrow. “Decoy. Or distraction.”
Zinshed loaded his rifle. “Either way, I hate rhythm.”
They moved fast. Cherry and Rico flanked left. Delphine and Zinshed went in high. Salty slipped through shadows like a sexy ghost.
Inside, crates full of stolen NATO weapons were being loaded. El Diablo Blanco stood with a cigar and a smug face.
“¡Sorpresa!” Salty shouted, kicking a barrel into the group like an action movie.
Gunfire erupted.
Zinshed picked off snipers with cold precision. Rico hacked the security feed. Cherry slid across the floor, twin pistols blazing.
Salty tackled El Diablo into a stack of grenades.
“Hola, Diablo. Remember me?”
El Diablo threw a punch. Salty caught it.
“I’ve danced with devils, amigo. You’re just clumsy.”
La Viuda Roja arrived, whip in hand, striking at Delphine like a bullfighter from hell. Their fight was brutal and elegant—fists, heels, headbutts, and hair.
Delphine finally disarmed her with a swift kick and chained her to a forklift.
“Now who’s the widow, bitch?”
The aftermath was chaos.
Weapons confiscated. Enemies cuffed. Fire licking at the edges of the docks. Salty stood on the warehouse roof, watching the sunrise with Lucía.
She clung to his shirt. “You saved me.”
“I had help,” he said, nodding toward his team below.
“But who saves you?” she asked, eyes soft.
Salty grinned. “No one. I’m beyond saving.”
She kissed him, and for a moment, the world paused.
Then Zinshed yelled from below, “Let’s go, Casanova! We’ve got another lead. Ibiza. Human trafficking.”
Salty sighed. “Duty calls. Again.”
Final shot: A flash drive in Salty’s hand. On it—blueprints, names, and a new threat…
“Project Nemesis: Geneva Summit Infiltration.”
Hashtags:
#GlobalViceCadiz #TapasAndTrouble #SaltySeduction #SpanishHeat #WarehouseWar #ElDiabloDown #ViudaDefeated #CherryShootsTwice #ZinshedSharpShooter #LuciaYSalty
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