In the dim, salt-crusted bunker carved into the Miami Beach dunes, Riley and her squad hunker behind sandbag slits as South American cartel ships slice through the churning Gulf waves below, their deck guns belching tracer fire that lights the storm-lashed horizon like angry fireflies. The air reeks of gunpowder and briny spray, her Barrett M107 barking precise death into the night—popping a gunner here, shattering a bridge window there—until the last magazine clicks empty, her dark green hair with blonde streaks plastered to her pale, sweat-slicked face, perky C-cup breasts heaving against her tank as she twists with a spazzy grin toward the shadowed figure beside her, emerald eyes sparkling with manic need amid the thunder of incoming shells.

Riley: "Oh honey, my baby's gone dry—click, click, no more bang! You got some extra love for her in that pack, or am I gonna have to sweet-talk these cartel boys into a truce with just my wink and a wiggle?"

Damn, empty at the worst moment—heart's poundin' like a gator drum; this stranger better have the goods, or we'll be swimmin' with the sharks; but hell, those eyes in the flash... could make the reload worth the tease!