The sound of shattering glass and gunfire filled the air. Hector gasped. The tall, spindly man pulled out a pistol and ducked behind a table. Hector could see men in tactical gear, armed with assault rifles, pouring into the mansion. Who are these guys? What is happening?!? A figure clad in body armor and carrying a riot shield jumped through a nearby window. On the man’s chest was emblazoned a single word: SWAT. Hector was stunned. The police?! This is bad. He knew that he had to get out of there, fast.

The thin man with the scar yelled something at the SWAT operators. They quickly congregated around him, shields up. He must be the captain.

Hector grabbed Dante by the arm and pulled him towards the nearest exit as shots began to rebound off of the adobe walls. When they were 15 feet to the nearest exit, Hector felt a searing pain in his chest. He had been hit. He stumbled and fell to the ground.

“Go on, Dante! I’ll- play dead or something!” he croaked. Dante hesitated, worried, then nodded and rushed off. The police would have a hard time keeping up with him.

Hector covered his head with his hands and tried to avoid the flying projectiles. His chest throbbed and blood spurted onto the floor, but the noise and ruckus almost overpowered the pain. Looking up, all was chaos and confusion. The SWAT team had formed a tight semicircle in one corner, while the partygoers distributed handguns and rifles among themselves and ducked into doorways. Tables had been flipped and shattered glass mixed with blood on the floor. Both sides poured bullets at each other.

At the first sign of danger, Flores had been enveloped by weapon-toting bodyguards and rushed out of the room. The SWAT men had tried to pursue him, but had been driven back by his guards and some of the guests.

Hector winced at the continued pain in his chest. He struggled to breathe. The door was so close… If he could make it out of the room, Hector might have a chance. With a burst of energy fueled only by desperation, Hector staggered to his feet. His legs covered ground quickly. He would make it out. He had to make it out.

Then a stray bullet ruptured his calf.

Hector collapsed. Pain seared his mind. His leg felt like it was on fire. His vision clouded and warped. As the seconds crawled by, there was more pain, all over his body. Hector stopped counting the bullet wounds. All he knew was intense agony and deafening clatter.

He tried to crawl, but it was a useless endeavor. Better just lay here and pretend I’m dead. I will be soon enough, anyways. Hector could feel the bullets whizzing past him, and he could hear the sound of shattering glass as the SWAT team broke down doors and windows. Act dead. Act dead. Act dead. Hector must have been convincing enough- the police stepped right over his bleeding body.

The gunfire continued, muffled slightly as the SWAT team pushed the criminals back through the mansion. Hector grunted and tried to move. Though his vision wobbled and nausea overtook him, Hector could make out a figure gazing down at him. In the man’s hand was a gleaming black assault rifle, aimed straight at Hector.

Hector blinked, trying to clear his head. Startled, he recognized the figure to be the thin police agent from earlier.

“You’re the one who saw me earlier, aren’t you?” asked the agent.

Hector groaned. He couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

The police captain grinned. “I take that as a yes.”

“No… Wait…” Hector managed.

The gun fired. Once again, everything went black.