12:41 a.m. – Bourbon Street, New Orleans
Ryan sprinted down the moonlit street, the stolen suitcase thudding against his hip with every frantic step. Behind him, Larsen's hired goons fumbled through the crowds, knocking over tourists, jazz musicians, and one unfortunate man holding three beignets.
Ryan ducked under a street vendor's umbrella, narrowly dodging a flying churro.
"Apologies, citizen!" he gasped as he vaulted over a cart full of glow sticks.
He weaved through a group of college kids singing Sweet Caroline at top volume, narrowly missing a rogue air horn blast that nearly blew out his eardrum.
New Orleans Rule #37: Midnight is never just "quiet."
Ryan yanked his phone from his pocket, fingers flying as he sent a quick text to himself:
Note to self: Never, EVER trust candy factories or inflatable crawfish again.
He shoved the phone away just as Larsen's men closed in.
Thinking fast, Ryan dove into an alley—and straight into a bachelorette party.
Dozens of women in matching pink sashes and feather boas gasped.
One, clearly the ringleader, shrieked, "OH MY GOD, HE'S FROM THE STRIPPER SERVICE!"
Ryan froze. "No! I'm—well, technically I'm—"
Too late.
They mobbed him.
Feather boas. Glitter. Flash photography. A tiara ended up on his head.
Ryan struggled free, sparkling like a failed craft project, and barreled down another side street.
"This," he muttered, brushing glitter from his mouth, "is why ONYX CORE doesn't issue pink tactical gear."
He ducked into a parking garage, heart hammering. He needed a plan. An actual, real plan.
What he had instead was:
1.A suitcase full of national secrets.
2.Zero backup.
3.Enough glitter to qualify for a second bachelorette party.
Good odds.
He spotted an old, rusty motorcycle chained up near a support column. The keys dangled from the ignition like a cosmic joke.
Ryan grinned.
"God bless negligent scooter renters."
He snapped the chain with a well-placed kick, hopped on, and gunned the engine.
The bike roared to life—startling a trio of pigeons into violent liftoff—and Ryan blasted out of the parking garage like a caffeinated rodeo clown.
Behind him, Larsen's men poured into the street, shouting and waving guns.
Ahead of him, the open road.
And somewhere, beyond the chaos and glitter-storm he left behind, was home.
Back at the Bruce House – 1:15 a.m.
Inside the cozy suburban house, chaos was brewing of a very different flavor.
Faith and Holly, in their ultimate act of nighttime rebellion, had used duct tape and imagination to build an entire "booby-trap obstacle course" through the living room.
Tripwires. Glitter bombs. Nerf gun ambushes.
Because "Operation: Defend the Couch" was officially underway.
Emily, blissfully unaware, sipped her tea and reread the same page of her novel five times without realizing it. Something tugged at the back of her mind.
Ryan.
Where was Ryan?
Why did the street outside just sound like someone drove a motorcycle through a kazoo parade?
She frowned, closing her book.
Something wasn't right.
And deep inside her, the reporter instincts—the ones she'd buried under bedtime stories and bake sales—began to stir.
Back on the Road
Ryan whipped around a corner, the suitcase strapped awkwardly to his back, his stolen motorcycle groaning with the effort.
He muttered under his breath, "One man. One mission. Absolutely no plan."
And somehow, impossibly... he smiled.
Because for Ryan Bruce, aka Veltrix, aka Dad Extraordinaire—
This was the easy part.
[TO BE CONTINUED…]