This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

At a lesser-used entrance in Shenandoah National Park, four motorcycles pull up to the entrance booth. A forest ranger in uniform steps out to greet them.

“Sorry, but motorcycles are not permitted at this entrance. Y’all need to go around to the main entrance on Jasper Road.”

The bikers start to turn their bikes around. Then they stop.

They turn back and gun their engines, storming the gate. One biker pulls a handgun with a silencer and shoots the ranger twice in the chest. He drops.

The motorcycles roar past the entrance booth and disappear off-road into the woods.

The pilots, both women as they remove their flight helmets, open the crate. Inside: bricks of heroin, wrapped and stacked with precision.

The sound of motorcycle engines approaches through the trees.

The four motorcyclists arrive at the clearing, parking in a loose circle around the crate. They pull handheld devices from their packs, GPS trackers showing the beacon location.

No one speaks. It’s choreographed, rehearsed.

The pilots unload the heroin bricks. The motorcyclists pack them into saddlebags mounted on the bikes. Once the transfer is complete, the pilots strip off their flight suits, revealing cycling gear underneath. They pull on helmets and get on the backs of two of the bikes.

Now they look like regular touring bikers, nothing suspicious.

The four motorcycles fire up and head back through the woods toward a different exit.

The four motorcycles roll out of the park through a different entrance. It’s all casual, unhurried. They merge onto the main road and disappear into traffic.

State trooper cars and park ranger SUVs are posted at the entrance, lights rolling. Crime scene tape cordons off the booth.

Josh and Max step out of a FAST Team vehicle. Renee, Gabriela, and Ajay drive past the blockade after flashing their IDs, heading deeper into the park.

Max and Josh flash their badges to the troopers at the perimeter and walk past. Jack is already there, inspecting the body covered with a tarp.

“Any DNA or prints?”

“No. We’re not going to find anything. This was surgical.”

Josh crouches near the body, jaw tight. “Poor son of a bitch.”

Deeper in the park, Gabriela, Renee, and Ajay reach the clearing. Their beacon device flashes, indicating the signal source. The crate sits in the center of the clearing, parachute draped across nearby branches.

The crate is empty.

Renee pulls a walkie-talkie from her belt. “We found the crate from Batumi. Nothing inside. We can dust for prints, but why bother? Very pro.”

She looks around the clearing and sees tire tracks from motorcycles, boot prints, but nothing that will lead anywhere.

“Whoever planned this, knew what they were doing.”

…continued in Chapter 10…

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“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2026

New episodes arrive every Saturday

Subscribe so you don’t miss what comes next.

This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

Share

Renee and Max sit at one end of the conference table in the sterile DEA briefing room. Jack stands at the other end, holding a thick file. He slams it on the table—the sound echoes in the quiet space. He looks at them both, then focuses on Renee.

“An RPG on a public road? An unauthorized search? Are you fucking kidding me? Just who the hell do you think you are?”

“We just knocked on his door. He was the one who ran—”

“Can it, Monaco. You are on thin ice here.”

“Did we get anything useful?”

Jack tosses the file on the table in front of them. His expression is dark.

“Take a look.”

Renee opens the file. Her eyes scan the first page: passport, visa records, phone logs. She looks up.

“Has this been verified?”

“Of course its been verified”

Renee reads aloud, voice flat. “Says here, Bobby’s real name is Alexei Dudnik, son to Russian diplomat Isaak Dudnik. He’s been running around the States using a fake identity for years. We have traced calls on his phone to Yuri and to Vaclav. There are about a dozen other calls that we traced to a compound in Batumi. He has priors. He’s trying to avoid deportation for almost beating a man to death when he was nineteen.”

Max leans forward. “So we get to put him away—”

“NO! He has diplomatic immunity because of his father. Jesus!”

Jack heads toward the door.

“Get your team ready. We’re running a special patrol insertion and extraction at the compound in Batumi.”

Jack walks out of the conference room, and the door clicks shut behind him.

Silence returned, but it wasn’t empty now; it had the dense, humming quality of a generator spooling up. Renee and Max looked at each other again, and the look wasn’t the same as before.

Mission mode. Renee slides the file toward Max so they can split pages without overlap. Max uncaps a pen, the tip ticking once against the margin before it stills. She is already building the checklist in her head: notify the team; passports; med kit restock; comms; flight window. Max scans the call log again, eyes catching on the pattern of repeats in the ladder of numbers to Batumi. The sunbeam on the table has shifted; their shadows stretch long and line up with the pin on the map.

They don’t say anything more. They don’t need to. The work has already started.

A black Russian diplomatic vehicle with blacked-out windows rolls into an airplane hangar on a remote section of the airfield. Floodlights cast harsh shadows across the concrete floor. Inside the hangar, a small Russian plane waits, engines idling.

A Russian military police officer steps out of the front seat and opens the rear doors.

Bobby—Alexei Dudnik—steps out, still wearing damaged civilian clothes from the chase but moving with the confidence of someone untouchable now. He rushes up the jet stairs without looking back and disappears inside the aircraft.

The engines spool up. The plane taxis out into the darkness.

In the center of a darkened operations room, at a base of operations in central Europe, a three-dimensional holographic rendering of Earth hovers above the briefing table. The image rotates slowly, then zooms in rapidly—continent to country to city level. The city is labeled as BATUMI, GEORGIA.

A digital arrow points to a compound in the hillside overlooking the Black Sea. The hologram shows gates, a main house, and glowing heat signatures representing armed personnel on the ground inside the compound.

Jack stands at the head of the table. The FAST Team surrounds it, all wearing full combat gear—tactical vests, weapons slung, faces grim. This is the Team in full, pre-mission briefing mode.

“The intel from the Alexei Dudnik arrest has confirmed a target we’ve been watching for months.”

Jack spins the hologram with a gesture.

“Our objective today is to capture operatives of the syndicate in Batumi, Georgia. We are tracking election hacking financed through drug operations.”

He points to various locations on the 3D map, illustrating tactical positions.

“You will fly in low to the hills outside Batumi. This will be a flying suit jump to avoid radar. We have high confidence that they have Russian Government backing and equipment. Any questions?”

No one speaks. The silence is heavy, loaded with anticipation.

“Good luck.”

Inside the cargo bay of a V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft, red light bathes everything in crimson. The engines roar. Max stands near the open rear ramp, visor down on his helmet, obscuring his face like the rest of the jumpers. Wind screams past the opening.

He communicates through the headset built into his helmet.

“Team, final checks!”

Renee and the FAST Team stand ready to jump, spaced along the ramp. Their silk skydiving suits have extra webbing connecting arms to legs—wingsuit modifications that let them glide like flying squirrels, covering longer distances and moving through the air with precision.

They systematically pull off all identifying patches from their uniforms—unit insignias, flag patches, name tapes. Everything goes into a metal box secured to a shelf in the cargo hold. No traces. Deniable.

Max inspects a large metal crate strapped near the ramp—a high-tech GPS device visible on top, small propellers mounted on the sides.

“All clear!”

The team pushes the crate out. It tumbles into the open sky. A parachute deploys immediately, and the propellers fire up, guiding the crate toward the designated drop zone in the mountains below.

One by one, the FAST Team jumps. They fall away from the helicopter, then spread their arms and legs. The fabric wings catch air. They bank and turn toward the crate parachuting down ahead of them.

Renee deploys her parachute as she approaches the hillside, dropping fast into a clearing surrounded by dense forest. She hits the ground, rolls, and collapses the chute. The rest of the team lands nearby in quick succession—practiced, efficient.

The GPS crate floats in and lands a few yards behind them with a muted thud. Josh moves to it immediately, pops the latches, and reveals a small arsenal inside—additional weapons, explosives, surveillance gear.

“We don’t have much time.”

“Grab and go!”

They rush to the case and arm themselves quickly, checking magazines, securing gear to tactical vests.

Max taps his watch. “In and out fifteen minutes, on my mark.”

They synchronize their watches.

“Three, two, one, mark!”

The timers start counting down.

They split into teams and advance toward the compound through the forest. The mission clock is running.

The FAST Team advances through the tree line toward the compound. Max takes up a sniper position on elevated ground, training his rifle on the perimeter guards below. Renee stays in a command position, slightly back from the front lines, observing through binoculars.

Josh moves along the compound wall with Gabriela covering his flank. He rigs shaped charges to breach points, working quickly and silently. Gabriela scans the area, weapon ready.

Ajay joins Renee and deploys a micro-drone—a small quadcopter that fits in the palm of his hand. He activates it with a controller, and the drone lifts silently into the air.

The camera feed shows guards at various posts around the perimeter. A van is parked in front of the main building. Two men load wooden crates into the back of the van. The operation looks routine, unhurried.

Suddenly, the drone feed flickers. Static. The image freezes, then cuts to black.

The drone falls from the sky, landing near the foot of one of the perimeter guards inside the compound.

Nothing happens for a moment. Then the guard notices something odd on the ground at his feet. He bends down, picks up the small device, and examines it.

Realization dawns. He pulls a whistle from his vest and blows it hard—three sharp blasts that echo across the compound.

The entire compound goes on alert. Men pour out of the main building, weapons raised, taking defensive positions.

Renee signals Josh immediately. “Breech the wall. Now!”

Josh hits the detonator. Explosions tear through the compound wall in two locations, opening massive gaps. Debris and dust billow outward.

Two guards on the perimeter wall start to respond, turning toward the breaches.

Back in his sniper porition, Max aims his scope. Two quick shots, suppressed. Both guards drop silently.

in the Compound exterior areas, the men loading crates by the van finish their work and secure the rear doors. A heavy machine gun emplacement suddenly erupts from a concealed position, laying down withering fire across multiple angles. The FAST Team dives for cover as rounds chew up the ground around them.

Renee keys her radio. “Mozart, do your thing!”

Max shifts his aim carefully, compensating for wind and distance. The machine gun nest is partially protected, with only small windows of opportunity.

“Almost have it.”

He exhales slowly. Squeezes.

The shot connects. The machine gunner slumps. The weapon goes silent.

“Got it.”

The van’s engine roars to life. It peels out, heading toward the compound’s rear exit at high speed, leaving a cloud of dust.

Renee keys her radio again. “Thundercloud, Mad Dog, secure a vehicle for pursuit.”

Ajay sprints toward a Mercedes Sprinter van parked near the main building. Gabriela lays down suppressive fire, rounds sparking off walls and forcing guards into cover.

Ajay yanks open the driver’s door and jumps in. The engine turns over immediately. Gabriela rushes to the passenger side and yanks Ajay out of the driver’s seat as she climbs in.

“You drive like my grandma. I got this.”

They slow slightly as they approach the blown-out compound entrance. Josh sprints from cover and dives through the open side door, rolling inside as Gabriela floors it.

The Sprinter tears off toward the hillside road.

** I think we break it here! - It will be too long for the email if we go all the way * *

The enemy van speeds down a winding mountain road, pulling away. Gunfire erupts periodically from the side windows, aimed back at the pursuing Mercedes.

Inside the van, the FAST Team assesses options at high speed. The road curves sharply ahead.

“We better not lose them!”

Ajay pulls a device from his pack—a tracker with a magnetic mount.

“We need to get close enough to put a tracker on them!”

Max grabs it from Ajay. He attaches it to the end of his rifle like a grenade launcher attachment. He moves to the side door and smashes out the window with the butt of his weapon, glass exploding outward.

“Keep it steady, Mad Dog. I need a clean shot!”

“You got it!”

Gabriela closes the distance, expertly handling the Sprinter on the mountain switchbacks. Max takes aim out the shattered window, compensating for the vehicle’s movement.

He fires. The tracker device launches and magnetically clamps onto the side of the enemy van with a metallic thunk.

Immediately, machine gun fire erupts from the enemy van. Bullets riddle the side of the Mercedes. Gabriela swerves hard to avoid being hit, tires screaming.

“You have a signal, Thundercloud?”

Ajay looks down at his monitor. A clean blip appears on the screen, tracking perfectly.

“Got ‘em!”

“Pull back a bit.”

Gabriela eases off the gas slightly, letting the enemy van gain distance and move out of effective firing range.

Both vans barrel into the city at high speed. It’s midday—busy. A festival is underway in the town square. The streets are crowded with pedestrians, bikes weaving through traffic, cars double-parked. Merchants have set up stalls on the sidewalks. Music plays from loudspeakers.

The enemy van doesn’t slow. It nearly clips several pedestrians, bounces off parked cars along the narrow street, and crashes through a section of the marketplace. Debris flies everywhere—fruit stands explode, awnings collapse, people scatter and scream.

The FAST Team’s Sprinter follows at a more controlled pace, trying to minimize civilian casualties but keeping visual contact.

The enemy van suddenly turns down a side street, accelerating hard. It heads toward the edge of the city, away from the festival chaos.

Gabriela follows, engine roaring.

The enemy van approaches the side guard gate of a small municipal airport at the edge of Batumi. Without slowing, it crashes straight through the flimsy gate, sending the barrier flying.

The FAST Team’s Sprinter rushes through the broken security gate seconds later, following onto the tarmac access road.

Ahead on the runway, a cargo plane—rear loading ramp open—lumbers forward, beginning its takeoff roll.

The enemy van races toward it, closing the gap. As the plane accelerates, the van drives straight up the loading ramp and disappears inside.

The ramp door begins to close. The plane continues accelerating.

“Cut them off!”

“I got you, fuckers!”

Gabriela guns the engine, pushing the Sprinter to maximum speed. She races alongside the plane, neck and neck, trying to get in front before it reaches takeoff velocity.

The pilots in the cockpit glance out the window, seeing the FAST Team vehicle keeping pace.

The Sprinter almost reaches the nose of the plane. Then the aircraft rotates, nose lifting. The landing gear leaves the ground. The plane climbs into the sky.

Gabriela realizes they’re running out of runway fast.

“Shit! Hold on!”

She spins the wheel hard. The Sprinter goes into a controlled spin, tires smoking, and screeches to a halt just meters from the end of the tarmac.

The FAST Team jumps out, taking defensive positions around the vehicle, weapons up.

In the distance, several local police cars approach, sirens wailing, lights flashing.

“Call for AWACS to track that plane!”

Ajay keys his headset. “AWAC Alfa 773, this is Tango 4 Romeo. Bird is in flight with tracker.”

The team quickly strips off outer packs and gear, revealing evacuation harnesses underneath. They secure them in place with practiced efficiency.

A voice crackles over the radio. “Roger that, Tango 4 Romeo.”

The local police vehicles are getting closer—maybe thirty seconds out.

“Echo-774, this is Tango 4 Romeo, we need an immediate special patrol extraction at new coordinates, latitude 41.6069 and longitude 41.6134.”

Command responds immediately. “Roger! Prepare for SPIE lift evac.”

Josh pulls a special packet from his gear—a self-inflating balloon with an attached SPIE lift line. He yanks the cord. The balloon inflates rapidly and launches into the air, lifting a thick rope connector high above them.

“Roger...” Ajay looks to the team. “We gotta go! We’re about ninety seconds out for evac.”

Over the pilot’s shoulder through the cockpit window, the balloon and line are visible rising into the sky against the blue horizon.

The pilot speaks into his radio. “Tango 4 Romeo, we are on approach...”

The FAST Team members hook carabiners from their harnesses to D-rings on the SPIE rope. A second safety line attaches to a backup D-ring above the first. They double-check connections.

Gabriela looks at Josh, anxiety clear in her voice. “I hate this. Isn’t there another way?”

“Nothing new on game day.”

The team secures the final connections. Everyone’s clipped in, standing in a line along the rope.

The helicopter swoops in fast and low. A hook extends from the belly of the aircraft. It catches the attachment point on the balloon line with precision.

The helicopter immediately lifts vertically, pulling the line taut.

The FAST Team is yanked into the air, dangling beneath the helicopter like ornaments on a string. They swing clear of obstructions as the helicopter climbs rapidly, carrying them away.

Below, local police vehicles screech to a halt around the abandoned Sprinter van. Officers pour out, weapons drawn, but there’s nothing to shoot at. The FAST Team is already hundreds of feet in the air, disappearing toward the coastline.

The flashing lights shrink into the distance as the helicopter banks out over the Black Sea.

The FAST Team sits in metal chairs bolted to the deck of the aircraft carrier’s mission briefing room. The mood is sour. They’re still in tactical gear, faces showing exhaustion and frustration.

Renee and Jack stand at the front near a projection screen showing the compound in Batumi—now just satellite imagery and thermal scans.

“That was bigger than drugs.”

“How the hell did those guys have that kind of stand-by plane at the airport?”

“They scrambled my drone with a geofence. That is top-level, encrypted technology. Military grade shit.”

Jack steps forward, taking control. “The plane moved into Russian airspace.”

“How is that possible? Did they fly under Russian radar levels? Did we lose them?”

“We’re waiting for the GPS tracker to be detected. We can only get so close with AWACS before they scramble MiGs.”

Gabriela stands abruptly, bouncing with pent-up energy. “What’s really going on here?”

“Yeah, that should’ve been a point on our board.”

Jack raises a hand, settling the room. “We have AWACS units off the coast doing regular surveillance. Let’s see what the monitoring gives us. In the meantime, hit your racks. We will fly back to HQ at 0600.”

They file out of the mission room, shoulders slumped, leaving Renee and Jack alone.

A cargo plane cruises at 32, 000 feet through a clear sky, peaceful and unremarkable, a blazing red horizon above and fluffy clouds below.

Then a fighter jet screams out of nowhere and slides up next to the cockpit, close enough to see the pilot’s helmet.

Inside the cargo plane’s cockpit, two pilots exchange glances. The radio crackles to life.

“Charlie Alpha Heavy, you are to stay on my wing and land at Peterson Air Force Base. Comply.”

The pilot signals to the co-pilot with a nod. The co-pilot unbuckles and heads toward the back of the plane.

The fighter pilot’s voice comes again, sharper. “Charlie Alpha, this is your last—”

“We will comply.”

The pilot sets the autopilot and arms a device mounted to the instrument panel. A light shifts from red to green.

In the cargo bay, the co-pilot moves quickly. He opens the cargo bay door and the wind screams into the interior. He prepares to release a large crate from the cargo netting, freeing the straps.

Both pilots cling to the sides of the crate, holding tight to the cargo netting as it slides toward the open door. The crate tips and falls free, tumbling into open air.

The fighter jet stays with the cargo plane, unaware the pilots have abandoned it.

Inside the fighter jet cockpit, a blip appears on the radar. The pilot looks over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of the deployed parachute in the distance.

“They dropped something from their cargo hold. I’m relaying the coordinates now.”

He turns his attention back to the cargo plane. He watches it make a steep bank and veer off course, ignoring commands.

“Charlie Alpha, you are deviating from course. We will fire if you do not—”

The cargo plane explodes in midair. A massive fireball blooms against the blue sky.

Below, the two pilots jump clear from the crate’s cargo netting. They free-fall, the crate’s parachute deployed above them. Moments later, they deploy their own parachutes, drifting down toward wooded terrain.

Jack hustles through the door into the FAST Team operations center—a nerve center of video walls and communication stations, each manned by operators wearing headsets. Ajay is already at a station, coordinating.

Jack takes his position in the elevated command area at the rear, overlooking the entire floor.

“Something dropped?”

“Yankee Foxtrot, repeat that last transmission.”

The fighter pilot’s voice comes through the speakers. “Aircraft exploded, repeat, exploded. Three chutes deployed.”

“Do we have a fixed position?”

“I’m getting the coordinates transmitted into the system right now. Coming on screen.”

A digital map appears on the main display, zooming in rapidly. It highlights an area over what appears to be a national park—heavy forest, remote.

Jack grabs a radio handset. “Yankee Foxtrot, maintain a surveillance perimeter of four miles. Let us know if any retrieval aircraft are spotted in the vicinity.”

“Roger that, Alfa Base.”

Jack turns to Ajay. “It’s about an hour out. Thundercloud, scramble the team.”

Ajay makes the call.

…to be continued in Chapter 9…

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“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2026

New episodes arrive every Saturday

Subscribe so you don’t miss what comes next.

This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

Share Groove Jet Media

Renee drives. Max sits in the passenger seat, phone in hand, reading a message. The highway stretches ahead, late afternoon sun slanting through the windshield.

“Looks like it was fairly pure stuff. The lab said it looked a lot like the stuff we have been tracking out of Afghanistan.”

“Maybe if we bust him now that he seems to be nothing more than a two-bit pusher. And we scare him into giving us some updated information on who is moving the product in town now.”

“This is NOT the day this scumbag was planning on.”

The SUV turns off the highway, heading into a wooded neighborhood subdivision—older homes set back from the road, trees crowding close. The kind of place where neighbors mind their own business.

Renee pulls up on the street a couple doors down from Bobby’s house. Max points ahead through the windshield.

“Just up there.”

“We need some answers from this guy.”

They step out of the vehicle, boots crunching on the cracked pavement. Doors close with muted thuds. They approach the front of Bobby’s house casually—no lights, no backup, just two agents following up on a lead.

They reach the front door. Max knocks. They wait.

Inside Bobby’s bathroom, Bobby is at the sink when the knock echoes through the house. He pulls back the curtain slightly and looks out the bathroom window.

He sees Renee and Max standing at his front door. He notices Max’s holstered weapon and badge on his belt.

“Shit.”

Bobby backs away from the window, then bolts from the bathroom into the next room.

“The fucking cops are here!”

The other guys in the house scramble—grabbing guns, following Bobby through the interior toward the garage.

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Outside, an engine revs loud from inside the garage. Renee’s head snaps toward the sound.

“Hang on, I hear something—” She listens. “Stand by...”

She creeps over to the garage window, weapon drawn, peering through the grimy glass.

A massive crash—the garage door explodes outward in a shower of splinters and twisted metal. A Ford F-350 pickup truck blasts through the back of the garage and into the neighbor’s backyard, fishtailing wildly across the lawn.

The truck plows through an above-ground jacuzzi, sending water and debris flying, then crashes through a fence and disappears onto the next street over.

Renee and Max are caught flat-footed.

“Cut through that back yard!”

“What?!”

“Just do it!”

Renee guns the SUV through several backyards in quick succession—taking out fences, clotheslines, a kids’ swing set—tires churning up grass and dirt as they chase a parallel course to intercept.

They burst through a final fence line and skid onto the next street over, tires smoking. Ahead, the F-350 barrels down the road.

The passenger in the pickup opens the back window on the cab and starts firing at Renee and Max. Bullets whiz past, sparking off the pavement.

“We have to contain this. Call for backup!”

Max pulls out his mobile phone, dials 911 while bullets crack the air around them.

“911, this is DEA F.A.S.T. Agent 1783452. We are in a high-speed pursuit of a suspect eastbound on Route 471 at River Junction, requesting backup.”

Renee floors it, riding up on the truck’s bumper. Max grabs the roof handle as she takes a sharp corner. The SUV’s suspension groans.

“Get up on their bumper!”

“Are you crazy?!”

“Go!!”

Renee closes the gap. Max leans out her window and opens fire on the truck, aiming for the tires. Rounds spark off the tailgate.

Inside Bobby’s truck, he ducks bullets, swerving wildly. The truck is all over the road. He holds his gun out the window and fires blindly backward.

Ty—the passenger, one of Bobby’s dealing crew—follows his lead, leaning out and spraying rounds.

Bobby spots two police cruisers blocking the road ahead.

“Shit!”

He turns to Ty. “Get the RPG!”

Ty fumbles in the back seat, then pulls out an RPG launcher. He stands up through the sunroof, balancing against the frame as the truck bounces.

Max sees the weapon come up. His eyes widen. He yells into the phone, “They’ve got an RPG!! Get those officers clear of the road!!”

Down the road, the police scramble into the ditches just as Ty fires. The RPG streaks low, trailing smoke. It connects with the front of one police cruiser—a massive fireball erupts, flipping the vehicle backward into the second cruiser. Both explode in a rolling bloom of flame.

Bobby rams through the burning wreckage, metal screeching, and blows past the dazed officers stumbling from the ditches.

“Yeahhhhh, motherfuckers!!!!”

Inside Renee’s SUV, Max leans into the back, finds a shotgun and road flares. He grabs two flares and grins, returning to the front seat.

“What are you going to do with those?!”

“Pull up next to their driver side. Go!”

Renee floors it past the burning wreckage, closes the gap. She pulls up alongside the truck. Max stands through the sunroof, shotgun in one hand, flares in the other.

Ty sees him emerge and starts to raise his weapon.

Before Ty can fire, Max ditches the shotgun, slams both road flares on the roof of the SUV, igniting them in bright red flame. Ty’s eyes go wide.

Max hurls both flares at him. They bounce off Ty’s chest and tumble into the truck’s cab.

Ty squeals, trying to bat them away. Renee drops back as Max dives into the SUV.

The flares bounce into the front seat next to Bobby. He panics.

“Shit!!!”

He swerves hard, loses control. The pickup buries itself into a ditch at the side of the road, nose-first, airbags deploying with explosive force.

Bobby struggles to open his door—jammed. He crawls out the passenger side, stumbling.

Renee and Max screech to a halt across the street, using the SUV as cover. They exit, weapons drawn. Bullets whiz past as Bobby fires from behind the wrecked truck.

Police cruisers catch up, sirens wailing, and stop on the perimeter, forming a loose blockade.

Max lays down heavy suppressive fire on the driver’s side. Ty stands up in the truck bed and starts spraying bullets wildly.

Renee takes careful aim. She squeezes the trigger. The round catches Ty in the head. He drops instantly.

Bobby—all alone now, surrounded by police and federal agents—throws his gun out into the open.

“Okay, Okay!!”

Max rushes up, slams Bobby to the ground, knee in his back.

“All clear!”

Renee approaches carefully, weapon still raised. She nods. “Nice work.”

Max holds Bobby and looks at the chaos all around them. “What a mess.”

Renee pulls out her cell phone. “I better call Jack.”

Two police officers move in, cuff Bobby, and stuff him into a waiting cruiser.

… To Be Continued in Chapter 8.

“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2026

New episodes arrive every Saturday

Subscribe so you don’t miss what comes next.

This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

The gym occupies what was once a ballroom in the presidential residence, quite opulent even in its repurposing. Marble floors, vaulted ceilings, gold leaf trim on the crown molding. But the space now holds modern equipment: weight racks, a boxing ring, cardio machines arranged with military precision.

A strong, good-looking man works out alone at the center of it all. His aides stand nearby with paperwork, towels, mobile phones, and waiting. The Russian President, Simonov Olegovich, sees Vaclav approach and stops mid-rep, setting down the barbell.

Vaclav crosses the polished floor, boots echoing. He speaks in Russian, voice formal. “Mr. President.”

“Demetri, I want to let you know that all your good work is not unnoticed. I will present you to the Cabinet to take over Yuri’s position. You have long proven yourself to be a loyal and valuable ally to me.”

“I am honored, Mr. President. Even though Secretary Andropovich was ruthlessly murdered by the Americans, all of our operations are still running smoothly. We can even increase our attacks in the next cycle.”

“Let’s keep it that way. The American people are feeble and easily manipulated by their media. It’s merely a bonus that their own medical system has made many of them opioid addicts. And this funds our other agenda, making it much easier to move everything forward.”

“Mr. President, your efforts to elevate our beloved country to a position of respect will soon be recognized by the entire world.”

“For all our sakes, let us hope that to be true.”

Vaclav receives the letters of office in a leather-bound case from an aide. The surrounding dignitaries step forward, congratulating him with handshakes and formal nods. He turns toward the assembled aides and lifts the case slightly in acknowledgment like its a gesture for the cameras that aren’t there but might as well be.

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“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2025

This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

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Renee and Max hit the bathroom door together, throwing it open. Inside the cramped space with cracked tile, one working bulb, graffiti on the stall doors, is a full-on fight between Bobby and Gabriela. Both are in bad shape, but Gabriela’s getting the worst of it. Blood on her lip. Her movements are getting slower.

The other two guys push Gabriela around between them like a game. Not a fair fight.

Gabriela swings at Bobby, but he moves aside and slams her head into the stall door. She falls to the floor, semiconscious. Renee moves in fast at Bobby.

Max takes on the other two guys, driving them back against the sinks.

“Hey!”

Bobby whips around.

Renee cold-clocks him across the face. She follows it up with a knee to the chin. Bobby’s head snaps back.

Max slams both of the shady characters into a stall and shuts the door, wedging it with his boot.

Then two local police officers in uniform burst into the back area, weapons drawn. The chaos freezes.

“Alright. Everybody, freeze! Hands where I can see them.”

The melee stops. Everyone’s hands go up.

“We are DEA! I am reaching for my badge.”

Max slowly pulls out his badge. The officers’ postures relax slightly.

“These two are with me. We are taking these assholes with us.”

“No, you’re not. This is a bar fight in our jurisdiction. We will take them down to the holding cell. We can sort it out there.”

Bobby writhes in pain on the floor. The cops start to cuff him. Renee helps Gabriela to her feet.

“You okay?”

Gabriela checks herself. She’s shaken, bloody, struggling for balance. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

Gabriela realizes Renee came to her rescue. Something shifts in her expression.

“I’m... Thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“No. Don’t... Let’s just get out of here.”

Before they exit, Renee spots Bobby’s wallet on the floor. She picks it up, pulls out the driver’s license, and snaps a photo of it on her phone. She also notices a couple of packets that have fallen from Bobby’s pocket, two plastic pouches filled with white powder. She grabs them as well and pockets them.

Gabriela and Renee make their way back to the main bar area, Max following. They’re bruised, disheveled. Gabriela slumps into a barstool. Max joins them.

“What the hell just happened?”

Gabriela signals the bartender. “Hey! Can I get some ice over here?!”

The bartender nods and fetches some ice wrapped in a towel.

“An asshole got out of line. But we handled it. Right?”

“That was no ordinary asshole. That shit bag was from Darfur. He killed Deuce.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“We need a warrant. Bring him in for questioning.”

Renee rubs her head, grimacing. Max and Renee look at each other for a moment.

“You okay?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“You’re still as tough as ever.”

“We should get going.”

Renee stands and stumbles a bit, catching herself on the bar. The adrenaline is wearing off, and everything hurts.

“I’ll drive.”

Renee stops, pulls out the two packets from her pocket, and hands them to Max.

“Here. The asshole was carrying these. Drop it by the lab tomorrow?”

Max pockets the packets and nods. They head toward the exit.

Hours later, in the sterile fluorescent glow of the local police station, Max, Renee, and Gabriela approach the front desk. The shift sergeant sits behind bulletproof glass, typing at a computer. This late shift is quiet, bureaucratic, tired.

Renee hands him a folded piece of paper through the slot. “We have a transfer order. You have a couple guys in custody. You picked them up at a bar fight a couple hours ago.”

The desk sergeant takes the papers, reviews them with the careful deliberation of someone who’s worked this desk too long. He types into his terminal, eyes scanning the screen. His expression shifts to confusion, then something like concern.

“Are you sure about this?”

Gabriela leans forward, voice sharp. “Of course we are. What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well, according to my screen, they were released. Orders came from someone pretty high up. I don’t have details. I do know they are not here now. Happened really quickly.”

“What do you mean? They’re not here?”

“Like I said, we got an order to release them. You can talk to the captain, if you want.”

The three of them exchange looks. Something’s wrong. Very wrong.

“Yes. Let me talk to your Captain.”

The sergeant picks up his phone and dials an extension. The team stands there in the harsh light of the station lobby, processing what this means. Bobby, a Russian operative who killed Deuce, caught red-handed in a bar fight with drugs in his pocket, was released within hours by someone with enough pull to override DEA jurisdiction.

The implications hang heavy in the air.

…to be continued in Chapter 6…

“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2025

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This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

The FAST Team training facility sits forty miles outside D.C. on former military land There are several acres of scrubland transformed into a full mock-up of an Afghan village. Mud-brick facades rise against the tree line. Narrow alleys wind between structures. Strategic choke points have been built into every intersection. It’s as close to Kandahar as you can get without leaving Virginia.

Midday sun beats down on the course. The FAST Team moves through the village replica in tactical formation, all wearing sensors and laser attachments mounted on their weapons. MILES gear, Multiple Integrated Laser Engagement System, turns the training exercise into something close to real.

Dust hangs in the air from their movements. The crack of blank rounds echoes off the plywood structures.

An SUV pulls up at the edge of the course, tires crunching gravel. The engine cuts. Jack and Renee step out.

Everybody stops. Weapons lower. Heads turn.

Gabriela pulls off her tactical goggles, squinting against the sun. “I can’t believe what I’m seeing.”

Max walks toward them, boots scuffing dirt. “Hello stranger. What are you doing here?”

Jack steps forward, all business. “You have a new assignment. Wrangler has been reactivated and gets the squad back. Details were just finalized in D.C.”

The team has mixed reactions. Josh grins. Ajay nods slowly. Gabriela’s jaw tightens.

“That’s bullshit. Max has been running point on this operation for months now. We are synced and psyched. I vote no.”

“You don’t get a vote. This is not a democracy, Mad Dog.”

Josh and Ajay head over, arms open. They pull Renee into a hug, gear clanking.

“Glad you’re back. About time.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t the same. What took so long? You one hundred percent?”

Max stands back, watching. Renee catches his eye across the group.

“Little stiff, but I’ll manage.” She looks directly at Max. “What about you? Are you okay with this?”

“You know how I feel about you.”

Gabriela steps closer, voice sharp. “Max, you’re gonna just let them take your command?”

“It’s not my command. I’m a sharpshooter running ops, doing my job. Exactly like you need to do.” He pauses. “What’s the mission?”

Jack answers. “You’ll all get a full briefing in a few days. It’s gonna be a special assignment. Right now, we need to let Wrangler get back up to speed.”

Gabriela spins toward Renee, eyes hard. “You damn well better be up to speed. I’m NOT running into some hot zone and getting smoked cause you’re not on your A-game!”

She turns and walks away, taking position on the far side of the group.

The training course instructor—a weathered operator in his forties wearing a tactical vest and ball cap—steps into the center of the group, clipboard in hand. He brings the attention back to business.

“Okay, Wrangler, top of the course. Target is a mosque. Intel says Taliban fighters are getting a shipment. Objective is to seize the shipment and take prisoners.”

Gabriela stares at Renee from across the group.

The instructor continues. “Do not forget the rules of simulated engagement. Your weapons will fire blank full loads. Each laser transmitter will mimic the effective range of the weapon on which it is used. When a person is hit, the digital readout will determine if you are wounded or killed.”

Renee takes her position at the front of the course. The rest of the team falls in behind her, spacing themselves properly. Weapons come up.

“The enemy simulation opponents are already deployed on the course.” He raises a whistle to his lips. “Go!”

Renee sprints toward the first position of cover—a half-collapsed wall fifty meters ahead. She reaches it, drops behind it, weapon up.

She swings around the corner, scanning forward. Behind her, two opposing force members pop up from concealment. They fire. The laser sensors on Renee’s vest register hits. She’s rusty and slow on the turn, missing the threat assessment.

The rest of the team pushes forward without her.

The digital display on the instructor’s monitor flashes red: KILL.

He blows the whistle. “Aaannd... wasted. That has to be a record low score, Wrangler.” He raises his voice to the whole team. “Let’s go back to one!”

The team halts. Groans ripple through the group. Renee jogs back toward the start line, breathing hard. Gabriela rushes back fast and passes her without a word.

“Wrangler, do any drills at all? You’re so soft now.”

Renee steps up her pace, legs burning. Max and Ajay catch up to her, flanking.

Later that evening, Renee and Max find themselves at a dive bar twenty minutes from base. It’s one of the last true dives in the area that hasn’t been gentrified out of existence. Inside, dim lighting barely illuminates the scarred wooden bar top. Neon beer signs buzz on the walls, casting alternating red and blue glows across the room. A jukebox plays something low and forgettable in the corner. The smell of stale beer and fried food hangs thick in the air.

Renee sits at the bar with Max, nursing a drink. A few other patrons are scattered along the bar, keeping to themselves. Regulars know better than to try and make conversation. Max sees the tiredness in Renee’s eyes. Every one of them has been there.

“Rough day?”

“Some days I wish I could just escape, you know? Go somewhere incredible. Or, I dunno... maybe help people or something. Work for the U.N. in Darfur... Just something that matters.”

Max smiles. “What we do does matter. I knew you were a badass with a good heart when I met you. Not a bad idea... maybe my soul could use a bit of that too.”

There go those wheels turning in Renee’s head again.

“I know... It’s been a long day.”

Gabriela walks into the bar through the front entrance. She spots Renee and Max at the bar. Their eyes meet for a moment. Gabriela immediately turns away and disappears around the corner toward the back hallway.

“What’s up with Mad Dog?”

“She has always been a bit pissy.”

“Why is she pissed at me?”

“You got hurt. She’ll warm up one of these years.”

They both chuckle.

“Ya think?”

Gabriela pushes through the narrow doorway into the back hallway, a cramped corridor with scuffed walls and a flickering fluorescent tube that casts everything in sickly white-green. The noise from the main bar muffles to a dull throb. The air smells like disinfectant, failing to cover something worse.

Blocking the path to the bathroom: Bobby, late twenties, hanging out with two shady characters. They’re leaning against the wall, talking low.

“Hey, I gotta get to the head.”

Bobby and the thugs don’t move at first.

Gabriela rocks back and forth, a little desperate. “Come on, man, let me squeeze by.”

She locks eyes with Bobby as she waits. There’s something there. Recognition flickers, on his side too.

He speaks with a thick Russian accent. “Fine. Don’t piss your pants, little girl.”

Gabriela squeezes past him in the narrow hallway, shoulder brushing his. His face haunts her. It’s familiar. She can’t quite place it.

Bobby and his buddies head down the hallway toward the bar. Gabriela stops, turns, and watches them go. She tries to place that face...

Bobby shuffles down the hall with a distinct limp.

It clicks. Gabriela realizes who he is.

“Darfur! You motherfuck—”

She rushes down the hall, boots pounding tile, charges Bobby from behind, and jumps on him. Bobby and his guys don’t back down. They turn, ready, spreading out in the narrow space.

“How about my boys take you outside and show you a good time, bitch?”

In one swift move, Gabriela latches onto Bobby’s hand, folds it back, then drops him to his knees. Pain shoots across his face.

“In your wet dreams, douchebag. How about you and your little boys go home and blow each other?”

Gabriela steps over Bobby. She looks back at the two shady characters. They jump into the fight and rush her, grabbing her arms. They heave her backward, shoulders slamming through the bathroom door. It bangs open, and she stumbles inside, catching herself against a sink.

Back at the bar, Renee is mid-conversation with Max, laptops and case files spread between their drinks. The comfortable din of the bar surrounds them—low music, the clink of glasses, the murmur of other patrons keeping to themselves.

A bar customer bursts out of the back hallway, eyes wild.

“FIGHT! Two guys are beating up a girl in the bathroom!”

Renee and Max are on their feet instantly, chairs scraping. They rush down the hallway toward the commotion.

….. Continued in Chapter 5….

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“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2026

New episodes arrive every Saturday

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Thanks for reading Groove Jet Media! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and continue with the storyFAST TEAM is a serialized novel published weekly on Substack—structured like a season of television, but written sentence by sentence for the page. It follows a highly trained DEA FAST team (Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Team,) operating in the grey spaces between law enforcement and warfare.

This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

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Jack stands by a bank of elevators in the lobby, reading a file on his iPad. The chime sounds, and an elevator door slides open. Renee steps out.

He looks up and smiles.

“I’m here for one job. Just to finish this one operation. That’s it.”

He’s still smiling. “If you say so.”

“And I want some intel on the hit at my father’s compound on the border.”

Jack nods and hands her the iPad. She takes it, starts flipping through bullet points of the briefing, eyes scanning quickly.

“Understood. Walk with me.”

They walk through a sea of cubicle rows toward the back of the floor. There’s urgency in their pace, not running but purposeful; threading between desks where analysts sit hunched over monitors.

Just before they reach the conference room, a woman intercepts them. Wendy Cartwright, fifties, sharp-eyed, wearing the kind of tailored suit that announces authority. Assistant Director of Homeland Security. Jack opens his mouth to make introductions.

She doesn’t give him the chance.

“We don’t have a lot of time, so I’ll be blunt. We’re temporarily reinstating you for specific undercover ops, but this is by no means permanent.”

Renee meets her gaze. “Likewise.”

Cartwright doesn’t look pleased. “I was against the idea, but you’re apparently the one that some people think can pull this off effectively.”

Renee looks confused. “I don’t understand.”

Cartwright glances down at a file on her tablet, scrolling with one finger. “Who shot you?”

“I could not ID the shooter.”

“Ballistics ran a report on the bullet they pulled from your shoulder. It wasn’t from a Kalashnikov rifle. It came from a brand new Heckler & Koch MP5. They’re issued to German Special Forces. Don’t you find that strange?”

“What are you talking about?”

Jack cuts in before the exchange escalates. “The briefing is about to start.”

Cartwright motions toward the door. “In here.”

She leads the way into the conference room.

The conference room fills up with various agents seated around the table and along the walls, all focused on Jack standing at the front. A projection screen displays surveillance imagery behind him.

A photo of several tough-looking men at the edge of a poppy field fills the screen. Jack uses a laser pointer to single out one of them, the thin, grey-bearded man that locked eyes with Renee, wearing fatigues.

“The man in this photo is Vaclav. He is a former Soviet Military and now a cabinet attaché. He’s been operating inside Afghan territory for several years with these men.”

The display changes to a Taliban drug operation in Afghanistan. Another man appears in this photo. It’s Yuri, the one who died in the alley.

“Until the attacks nine months ago, Vaclav worked for Yuri, and they ran a modest drug smuggling operation to Europe and Asia.”

The screen changes again, showing the blown-out mosque from Kandahar, all its rubble, smoke, and devastation.

“Two hundred kilos of Yuri’s heroin were tracked to a small village in Kandahar province nine months ago. We nearly had him, but somehow he surprised us. We all know the losses we took.”

Jack changes the display to more pictures of the mosque. Everyone in the room looks at Renee.

He turns on the lights.

“Agent Monaco is the expert on Vaclav. She’ll be taking point on this.”

Renee shifts in her seat, uncomfortable under the weight of their stares.

“This is much bigger than before. Their sphere of influence is way beyond just drug smuggling.”

Cartwright picks up the briefing. “The drugs are merely a funding source. Our government sanctions have forced the Russians into new financing models. These funds are likely behind the election hacking, cyber terrorism, and funding war efforts and economic disruption globally.”

Jack continues. “We want to activate the Black Diamond unit.”

“They will be operating outside the normal scope of operations and crossing over into other jurisdictions. We have approval from the Attorney General on this.”

Jack scans the room. “Are there any questions?”

Silence.

“Good. That will be all.”

Chairs scrape. The agents file out, leaving Renee and Jack alone in the conference room. The projection screen still glows behind him, frozen on the image of the mosque.

“I’m not sure about this, Jack. There’s gotta be someone else.”

“We have suspicions that someone on your team is compromised.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Jack cuts her off. “You’ll meet up with the team tomorrow. Feel them out for yourself.”

Renee sits with that, processing. Jack doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and walks out, leaving her alone with the ghosts on the screen.

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… To be continued in Chapter 4. ..

“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2026

This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

Begin at Chapter 1 read forward, and let the story build…

The street outside the cabin is lined with cars and trucks parked at awkward angles along the shoulder. People walk to and from the house, many carrying pans or containers of food. Their faces are solemn, voices low.

A black SUV pulls up and parks on the side of the road.

Jack Darcy steps out, carrying a bag and some flowers. He walks through the yard, falling in behind a couple heading toward the entrance, and follows them inside.

The main room is full of people. Flowers cover nearly every surface. Plates of food are spread across the center table: casseroles, salads, bread, and desserts brought by neighbors and friends. People eat quietly, talk in hushed tones, mill about with the careful awkwardness of who they all are, mourners.

Renee stands in the back of the room talking with a couple. They lean in close, clearly consoling her. She hugs them, holds on perhaps a moment longer than usual.

Jack makes his way through the crowd toward her. He gets very close before she notices him.

He hands her the bag and the flowers. She places the flowers near the others already arranged on a side table, then looks in the bag.

“Traditionally, people just bring food.”

She pulls a bottle of brown liquor out.

“Sorry. I don’t really know what to do in these types of situations.”

“Well, thanks for showing up, Jack. It means a lot...”

A moment of awkward silence as Renee drifts off, eyes unfocused. Jack looks around the room full of friends and neighbors gathered at the cabin to support Rene. He finally breaks the silence.

“Can we go somewhere and talk? Alone.”

“I have a lot of people here from the funeral.”

“Please? I promise this won’t take long.”

Renee leads Jack to a door across the room. They step through into the den and she closes it behind them.

The den is quieter, insulated from the murmur of voices outside. Renee grabs two glasses, sits on the couch, opens the bottle, and pours two glasses of whiskey.

“Why are you here, Jack?”

Jack walks to the mantle, studying the photos arranged there. Several show him and another man, both in their late twenties, younger versions of themselves. He picks up one of the frames.

The photo shows a younger Jack, Renee as a young girl bundled in winter gear, and the same man, Renee’s father, all on skis, mountain peaks rising behind them.

“I remember this day...”

He turns to Renee, still holding the picture.

“What’d you used to say? Old times are just that, old.”

He places the picture back on the mantle carefully.

“I was lucky to call him a friend. I see so much of him in you. He would be proud of you. You know that, right?”

“Somehow, I doubt the doctor that he was would get it. He was a healer. Clearly, I didn’t take after him at all. He left the military for better things. An act of war got him anyway...”

Jack picks up another photo, and his demeanor shifts. The warmth drains from his expression. He’s all business now.

“We have actionable intel that Yuri’s operation is smuggling heroin into the States. We’re going to need your help on this one.”

“Yuri’s dead. I saw him on the ground.”

“Vaclav walks out of the same meeting room and conveniently escapes. At the same time, Yuri dies...” He pauses, letting it land. “I can get you reinstated.”

Renee stands abruptly, agitated. “I’m not sure I want to come back.”

“You know more about Vaclav than anyone.”

Renee moves around the room, restless, processing. “I don’t think I ever was. I don’t sleep at night...”

“We need you on this one. You know his tendencies. You know how he thinks. It’s time to fix this so you can sleep again.”

“I got agents killed. People with families! Deuce!”

Jack reaches out and places his hand on hers.

“That hit on your father’s compound at the Polish-Ukraine border was Russian.”

Renee pulls back abruptly from his touch, not having it. She moves across the room and stares at the window. She doesn’t know what to say to Jack.

“Don’t say no. Just think about it. There’s a briefing in three days in Washington. You have another chance to get these guys.”

Jack turns and walks out the back door, leaving her standing alone in the den.

…to be continued in Chapter 3…

“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2025.

Dawn breaks pale and colorless over the blown-out mosque, nestled among a row of buildings in various states of decay. The air hangs still and silent.

Then shadows dart into the alley beside the mosque, one, then another, then more.

Figures crouch in the narrow space, assault rifles and shotguns gripped tight, full military body armor strapped across their chests. They are a FAST Team, an elite DEA unit, operating deep in hostile territory.

A woman kneels behind a half-crumbled wall across from the mosque. Renee Monaco, late twenties, fit and sharp-eyed, carries a cold determination in her expression. Call sign: Wrangler. Team leader.

Beside her, Gabriela Fernandez: Mad Dog. Compact and tightly wound, eyes scanning the target.

Ajay Chandra completes the forward group: Thundercloud. Communications expert, Eastern Indian, calm under pressure.

Renee’s voice comes low through her headset. “Wait for my signal.”

She motions to Ajay.

“Get confirmation the target’s in there.”

“I’m on it.”

Ajay moves stealthily toward a hole in the mosque’s lower wall, keeping low, weapon ready. He reaches the breach point and crouches below the window line, pulling a small snake-like camera from his pack. He feeds it through the gap in the stone, angling the lens inside.

The screen in his hand shows a dozen Taliban fighters. A man with a grey beard gives orders. The rest of the room remains hidden from his angle.

“Their backs are to me...” He strains to adjust the camera. “I count ten, eleven... twelve black hats, Wrangler.”

“Is our Ace of Spades with them? Do you see Yuri?”

“I can’t tell. It’s possible. Has to be.”

Renee keys her headset. “Command, we have a visual.”

A kilometer away, on a potholed road at the edge of the district, a mobile command center has claimed the cracked pavement. Dust still hangs in the air from the convoy’s arrival. Jack Darcy stands at a makeshift table covered in maps and equipment, one hand pressed to his headset. Fifty-two, fit, handsome in a weathered way.

Renee’s voice crackles through. “Hector Bravo, should we proceed?”

Jack leans toward the microphone mounted on the table. “Negative. Can you confirm we have Yuri?”

Higher up the slope, overlooking the village from a rocky outcrop three hundred meters north, two agents lie prone in full camouflage. Scopes trained downward through the haze. Max Kelly: Mozart. The squad’s sharpshooter, adjusts his position slightly. Beside him, Josh Moore: Boomer. A fit African American bomb expert, scans with binoculars.

Max speaks into his headset. “What’s going on? I can’t see a thing from here.”

Back in the alley behind the mosque, Renee’s jaw tightens. She looks anxious. Annoyed. She keys her mic. “Mozart, I’m sure it’s him.”

Jack’s voice comes back firm over the radio. “Hold your position, Wrangler. We need confirmation, or this mission is a bust.”

Renee points to Gabriela and Ajay, motioning for them to keep their eyes on the door. Hand signals indicate she’s moving around the corner. She shifts low along the wall, weapon up, moving toward a better vantage.

Inside the mosque’s dim interior, visible only through Ajay’s camera feed, the Taliban fighters work quickly, stuffing duffel bags with small packages. Shafts of dusty light fall through the damaged ceiling. Then a Russian brings in a suitcase and opens it on a broken table, revealing stacks of cash.

A satellite phone rings. Another Russian man answers, listens without speaking. Thin, grey-bearded, mid-to-late forties, wearing Russian fatigues. Demetri Vaclav.

He speaks in Russian. “It’s Moscow.”

Yuri, weathered, late fifties, in an overcoat and clearly in charge, motions to him. “What do they want?”

“Confirmation.”

“Go handle it.”

Vaclav walks away from the group, boots crunching on debris, and exits through a side door into the daylight.

Renee has pressed herself against the outer wall near a different entrance, satellite phone in her hands. She presses the end call button and stuffs it into her pack.

Vaclav steps into the alley. Morning sun catches the dust motes between them. He turns and stares directly at her.

She returns the stare, nods and lets him go.

Vaclav puts the phone away and starts slowly down the side alley, boots scraping stone. Two red laser dots appear on the back of his jacket. He stops, turns toward the hillside where the dots originate.

Through Max’s rifle scope up on the hillside, Vaclav stands centered in the crosshairs, the magnified image showing every crease in his fatigues.

Max’s finger rests on the trigger guard. “I got eyes on grey beard. I can take him out.”

Renee’s voice comes through his earpiece. “No. We will tip the rest of them off. Stand down, Mozart.”

Max exhales slowly and swings his weapon back toward the mosque entrance.

Below, Ajay has repositioned at the mosque wall, peering through the camera feed into the main room. His expression changes.

“Wrangler, they’re gone!”

Renee presses her back against the wall. “Thundercloud, repeat that.”

“Wrangler, I’m telling you, they were just there!”

At the command center, Jack’s hand tightens on the radio handset. “Damn it, Wrangler! Wait for backup.”

He snaps his fingers at another FAST Team member nearby, Dylan Campbell: Deuce. Late twenties and good-looking in a cocky way, leaning against one of the vehicles.

“Deuce, move out. Go cover her ass.”

“Roger. Let’s go, trench monkeys! Time to get in the game!”

Dylan grabs a few more team members. They scramble into a vehicle and tear off toward the mosque, dust plume rising behind them.

Back in the alley, Renee, Gabriela, and Ajay move forward in tactical formation toward the mosque entrance. The building looms ahead, silent now.

“Take the mosque! Move!”

Jack’s voice barks over the radio. “Wrangler, I’m giving you a direct order to stand down!”

Renee just keeps moving steadily toward the entrance.

Ajay and Gabriela reach the mosque door first, weapons raised. Renee comes up behind them.

“Check your corners!”

Renee signals four more agents who’ve caught up from the rear. “Take it!”

They storm through the entrance. Gabriela and Ajay cover the rear flanks, sweeping. One of the agents’ boot crossing the threshold catches a tripwire.

The explosion is massive. Cascading. Obliterating.

What remains of the mosque erupts in fire and debris. The concussive wave throws Renee backward off her feet, over a low wall, into a pile of rubble twenty feet away.

Up on the hillside, Max and Josh see the fireball bloom in the center of the village, smoke mushrooming upward. Josh scrambles out of his hide position.

“They were right where that went off! We gotta go get them.”

“Stay put, we are covering their sixes! Deuce can handle it.”

Josh ignores him, already crawling out of position. “That’s a PR man, a PR, personnel recovery, Mozart. Maybe even a CASEVAC”

Max keys his headset. “Looks like a total Charlie Foxtrot at Ground Zero. Wrangler? Mad Dog? What’s your situation? Do you need a Band-Aid?”

Nothing on the radio.

“Time to un-ass ourselves and get into the hot zone.”

Josh takes off in a sprint down the slope.

“Dammit, Boomer...”

Max abandons his position and follows, rifle bouncing against his chest.

Near the smoking ruins of the mosque, Renee, Ajay, and Gabriela pull themselves from the rubble. Dust coats their faces. Knocked around, bruised, ears ringing, but not critically hurt.

“Let’s pull back!”

They run down the side street, firing at Taliban attackers emerging from buildings as they retreat. Renee catches movement, it’s Yuri, running down an alley to the east.

“I’ve got eyes on Yuri! Cover me!”

She breaks off, sprinting after him. Ajay and Gabriela slide into defensive positions at the corner, laying down suppressing fire.

Yuri disappears around a building ahead.

In the narrow alley between two collapsed structures, an unidentified figure lies wait in shadow. Yuri rounds the corner at full sprint, glancing back over his shoulder.

A shot cracks. He stumbles and collapses as he falls.

A moment later, Renee comes around the same corner, weapon raised. She sees Yuri sprawled on the ground ten meters ahead.

Too late. A bullet punches through her shoulder. Pain explodes white-hot. She goes down hard, vision swimming.

Back at the intersection where Ajay and Gabriela hold position, Ajay watches through his scope as Renee spins and goes down. The rumble of engines, Dylan’s vehicle, screeches to a halt nearby, and ten heavily armed agents spill out. Dylan sprints toward Renee’s position.

“Wrangler!”

He reaches her, drops to one knee, checking her wound. Blood soaks through her gear. She’s dazed but conscious.

“I’m okay.”

Ajay starts to respond. “Let’s get the hell out of—”

An RPG streaks in from a rooftop and slams into the center of the group. The blast wave rolls outward. Gunfire erupts from multiple positions. Chaos.

“Son of a bitch!”

Ajay grabs his sat phone, fingers moving fast. “Command, this is Thundercloud. We’re taking heavy fire. We’re going to need immediate extraction. Wrangler is down. Repeat, Wrangler is down.”

Josh’s voice comes through, distant, breathless. “Roger that. Hang tight, the cavalry is coming!”

Russian soldiers materialize from doorways and alleys with tactical precision—not Taliban, but. Russians—moving on their position with brutal efficiency. They cut down most of the outlying team members in seconds and close in on Renee, Gabriela, Ajay, and Dylan.

The team drags Renee behind a crumbled wall and fires back, rounds sparking off stone. They’re outnumbered. The Russians have them surrounded, closing the net. The team looks to Renee, waiting.

She nods.

They toss their weapons out into the open, hands raised. Ajay’s satellite phone crackles weakly at his side.

Jack’s voice, urgent: “Thundercloud, do you copy? Help is on the way.”

Silence.

Hours later, in the Maruf mountain range northwest of the village, the captured FAST Team trudges along a narrow switchback trail carved into the mountainside. Russian soldiers flank them front and rear, weapons ready. Dylan and Ajay support Renee between them as they climb the rocky path. Burlap sacks cover all their heads, the rough fabric stinking of diesel and dirt.

“Wrangler, how you holding up?”

Renee turns her covered head toward Ajay’s voice. “I’m gonna pass out in a minute.”

The Russian leader barks in his native tongue, voice harsh. “No talking!”

He jabs the barrel of his AK-47 into Renee’s gut. “Move!” She winces in pain.

They continue upward into the mountains, boots slipping on loose stone.

Max and Josh have been tracking the column for the last hour, staying parallel on higher ground. They crouch now behind a cluster of boulders overlooking the trail below. Max peers through his scope, counting hostiles and friendlies.

“I count eight of them. We need to hit them fast. From the left, I got one, two, four, and six.”

Josh raises his binoculars, scanning the formation. “Roger that. I’ll take the rest.”

He splits off, scrambling up to a higher vantage point thirty meters upslope. Max adjusts his breathing, lines up his sight picture.

Max keys his headset, barely a whisper. “Now.”

Two shots crack in quick succession. Max fires, then Josh. Two Russians drop cleanly. The rest dive for cover, shouting, scanning for the shooters.

Down on the trail, the hostages yank off their hoods as bullets whiz past. They scatter, diving for rocks and low ground.

Max and Josh abandon their positions and sprint down into the canyon, closing distance to extract the team.

Josh’s eyes track the cliff walls towering on either side. “I don’t like this, Max. We’re sitting ducks in here.”

“I know—”

One of the Russian soldiers, crouched behind a boulder, takes careful aim at the fleeing hostages. He fires a controlled burst. The rounds hit Dylan in the head. He crumples instantly, dead before even gravity finishes with him.

Gabriela screams and lunges for a weapon from one of the fallen Russians. She swings it up, fires at the soldier who killed Dylan. The round clips his leg. He goes down. Their eyes lock across the chaos.

Higher up, hidden among the rocks, a Taliban fighter, drawn by the gunfire, spots the Americans. He sights carefully and squeezes off a round.

Gabriela is lining up her second shot when the Taliban bullet strikes her weapon, tearing it from her grip.

Max sweeps his scope, hunting for the new shooter. Suddenly, there are more. Taliban reinforcements pour down from the ridge line. Renee stumbles, legs giving out. She collapses. Max pivots and starts firing upslope.

“Mad Dog, get her out of here! I’ll cover you!”

Gabriela doesn’t hesitate. She hooks her arms under Renee’s shoulders and drags her toward cover. The rest of the FAST Team grabs weapons from the dead Russians and joins the firefight.

Then the sound of rotors and a helicopter crests the ridge behind them. It banks hard and strafes the Taliban positions with devastating accuracy, cutting them down in seconds.

Inside the helicopter’s troop bay, Jack sits strapped in beside the pilot and door gunner, eyes locked on the chaos below through the open door. Dust, gunfire, bodies.

He speaks into his headset, calm and clear. “We got you. Head to the clearing for extraction. Hector Bravo, out!”

….to be continued…

FAST TEAM is a serialized novel published weekly on Substack—structured like a season of television, but written sentence by sentence for the page. It follows a highly trained DEA FAST team (Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Team,) operating in the grey spaces between law enforcement and warfare.

This is an ordered story. It’s built to be read from the beginning.

“FAST TEAM” is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2025

You are not reading those.

You are reading an action novel built from that lineage—the feature, the pilot, the season plan—rewritten deliberately for the page and released in a controlled sequence here on Substack.

The original film script project was created by Brian Kalata and Eric Hooge.

Later, Rick Shaughnessy joined Brian to develop the television pilot and series outline phase of the project.

This is the thread where that work will be continued and appear in book form.

This part of the newsletter is the book thread: a dedicated run where the story appears in order, week by week. If you want essays about process or other projects, those live on the main Groove Jet Media Substack. Here, the focus is the novel itself.

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What you’re stepping into

This is:

• An action novel in episodes, following a highly trained DEA FAST team

• Structured like a season of television, but revised sentence by sentence as a book

• Published as a weekly novelization, delivered to you by email and readable on the web or in the app

You can approach it simply as story—characters, missions, consequences—or you can also read it as an experiment in adaptation.

How this thread works

• The Fast Team thread is ordered. Start at Episode 1 and move forward.

• Each post is a chapter‑length episode: it has its own shape, but it is also one movement in a larger design.

• The release schedule is weekly:

  • A new episode arrives once each weekend,

  • So you have time to read, think, and carry the story in your head between installments.

Process, commentary, and other Groove Jet Media projects live on the main page.

What is FAST Team?

In the DEA’s arsenal of counter-narcotics personnel, the Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Teams stand apart. They’re not regular agents. They’re tactical operators trained like special forces, deployed globally to eliminate narcotics kingpins and terrorist leaders using advanced weapons and open-ended legal frameworks that exist in the grey spaces between law enforcement and warfare.

This is the story of one such team. Seven operators. One mission that will test every bond they’ve forged—in places where their work doesn’t make headlines and their sacrifices go unrecorded.

The Experiment:

We adapted this from a feature screenplay and TV pilot, translating what worked visually on screen into something that works on the page. Act breaks, scene rhythm, how information lands—it’s all deliberate.

How to read it:

We’re releasing one episode per week, in order. Start with Episode 1 – and read straight through.

You can treat it purely as a novel if you want—just follow the story. Or, if you’re curious about the craft underneath, notice where the act breaks land, or how we’ve replaced visual moments with interior beats that work in prose.

Either way: this is designed as a guided reading experience, not a random pile of posts. The weekly release gives you time to sit with each episode, the way a series unfolds.

Why do it this way?

Because novels and shows think about time differently.

A TV episode is built around ad breaks, act-outs, and the clock.

A novel is built around attention, interiority, and how long you’re willing to stay with a moment.

Fast Team tries to keep the engineered rhythm of a season, while taking seriously what prose can do:

slowing a decision, tightening a sentence, dropping you deeper inside a character’s head in the middle of an operation.

You are invited in as an early reader not just of the story, but of the form.

Where to begin

Begin here:

• Chapter 1 → introduces you to Renee and the rest of the Black Diamonds- the FAST team she commands, in the middle of an, in the middle of a mission in Afghanistan.

• Go in Chapter order in this thread. The navigation is built so you always know where you are in the run.

Subscribe, start at the top of the season, and read forward.

The novel—and the experiment—start with our Prologue before - to set you up with the story and so get oriented - then the action begins - in Chapter 1 - We hope you enjoy the ride!

Fast Team …. Prolougue

In the Drug Enforcement Administration’s arsenal of counter-narcotics personnel, the Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Teams stand apart.

FAST units provide immediate tactical responses to emerging threats around the globe. Using training methods reserved for the nation’s special forces, FAST units can rapidly deploy and bring to bear enormous firepower and tactical skill to eliminate or apprehend narcotics kingpins or terrorist leaders.

Although designated as drug enforcement officers, FAST team jobs involve using advanced weapons, strategies and technologies within an open-ended legal framework to remove potential threats to the United States.

This is the story of one such team.

Seven operators. One mission that will test every bond they’ve forged.

In the grey spaces between law enforcement and warfare, their work doesn’t make headlines. Their sacrifices go unrecorded. But the consequences of what they do—and what they’re willing to risk for each other—ripple outward in ways the world will never trace back to them.

This is where it all changed….

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"FAST TEAM" is Written by Brian S. Kalata and Rick Shaughnessy. Based on the screenplay by Brian S. Kalata & Eric Hooge and the teleplay by Brian S. Kalata & Rick Shaughnessy. Copyright 2025