Salty Service Chapter 3

The convertible screeched to a halt at the edge of the dark, pine-scented ridge. Salty hopped out, adjusted his trench coat, and looked back at the two blonde bombshells behind the wheel.

"Hold tight, ladies," Salty purred, giving his hat a cool, single-finger tilt. "A job like this needs special tactical muscle. I’m calling in the Heavy Operations Unit."

Ten minutes later, behind a rusted steel container at the treeline, the Heavy Operations Unit assembled. To anyone else, they looked like a chaotic circus of local legends and total liability risks. To Salty, they were the finest misfits money couldn't buy.

Standing at the front was The Govna, wearing a tweed cap, sipping tea from a chipped porcelain mug, and looking like he personally owned the forest. Beside him stood Dannyboy, bouncing on his toes, checking his watch every three seconds, and muttering rapid-fire tactical advice that nobody asked for. 

Whizzley was twitching in the shadows, adjusting a pair of night-vision goggles that weren't even turned on, while McFinleyyy leaned against a tree trunk, dramatically flipping a silver coin into the air and catching it behind his back with wild, unearned confidence.

And then, towering over them all like a walking mountain in a navy track jacket, was Ye Olde Large Lad.

"Alright, boys, listen up," Salty barked softly, gathering the crew into a tight circle. "Pilot Lucy’s parachute went down half a mile into these woods. 

The Syndicate’s sweep team has set up an ironclad perimeter around an old wooden outpost cabin at the center. They’ve locked down every entrance, and they’re holding the line."

"We go in fast, we go in loud, yeah?" Dannyboy chirped, shadowboxing the cool night air. "I take the left flank, Whizzley takes the right, McFinleyyy creates a distraction with a smoke flare.

"The Govna said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his tea and raising an eyebrow, "we just let the big man do what he does best."

The squad rounded the crest of the hill, slipping through the shadows until they reached the heavy timber perimeter door guarding the Syndicate’s forest fortress. The door was made of reinforced oak, bolted with iron, and locked tight from the inside with thick steel deadbolts.

McFinleyyy pulled out a delicate set of lockpicks with a dramatic flourishes. "Allow me, gentlemen. A delicate touch is required for such vintage craftsmanship—"

Before McFinleyyy could even insert a tension wrench, a shadow fell over the lock.

Ye Olde Large Lad stepped forward, stretching his massive shoulders until his knuckles practically grazed the pine needles. He cracked his neck once to the left, once to the right, and let out a deep, rumble of a exhale.

"I got this," Ye Olde Large growled.

Without waiting for a countdown, Ye Olde Large Lad raised one massive, tree-trunk boot and drove it straight into the center of the iron-reinforced door with the force of a runaway freight train.

BOOM!

The heavy oak didn't just open—it shattered into splintered matchsticks. The deadbolts sheared clean off, the iron hinges flew into the darkness, and the entire wooden frame caved inward with a magnificent, thunderous crash that echoed across the entire valley. A cloud of sawdust and splintered wood exploded into the moonlight.

Inside the compound, three Syndicate guards who had been sitting around a card table froze instantly, one of them dropping his hand of poker cards into his soup.

Through the lingering dust, Ye Olde Large Lad casually brushed a stray wood chip off his shoulder, turned back to the stunned squad, and grunted, "Door was stuck."

"Good warm-up," Salty chuckled, stepping right through the gaping hole in the wall with a dangerous grin. "Alright misfits... let's go find our pilot."