The two men stared at each other, each daring his enemy to make the first move- and, subsequently, to be punched full of lead. Hector’s grip was one of iron- very sweaty iron- on his rifle. The policeman didn’t seem to be fazed by Hector’s steel barrel of death- yet Hector was most certainly fazed by the officer’s three steel barrels of death.

I know I can hit him. I know I can. I can shoot first, and then…

Hector prepared himself for the shot that would leave his ears ringing and a dead body on his staircase. His trigger finger itched.

And then the second policeman stepped around the upstairs corner, deftly drawing a weapon.

Hector released his grip on the trigger. Change of plans.

“Drop the gun, Hector Domini- or else!” the first policeman cautioned in the deep tone from earlier. “Slow and steady! No sudden movements, you know?”

Hector’s mind raced as he tried to think of a way out. He couldn’t risk a firefight with the police, but he also couldn’t let them put him in prison. Suddenly, an idea struck him. He lowered the rifle slowly and placed it on the ground, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Smart move, Hector,” the first policeman said, approaching him cautiously. Hector raised his hands. The policeman at the top of the stairs- a snooty, spectacled man who, if not for his badge and body armor, could have been mistaken for a toothpaste salesman- kept a mean-looking revolver trained on his chest.

“Very good.” The first man gave him a smug smirk. “Looks like you ain’t a fighter after all, eh?”

In response, Hector kicked the policeman’s temple, hard, and the man dropped. In a smooth motion, he ducked back around the corner of the stairway just as the second officer sent an enraged shout, along with a pair of .45 hollow-point rounds, down into the basement. Glass shattered as the bullets hit a rack of test tubes. Hector’s hand found his rifle’s grip and his index finger found the trigger as he readied himself. With the gun in one hand, he grabbed the vial of fern-drug and the small glass terrarium he had been cultivating the rest of the plant in. He stuffed them in a backpack hanging on a hook and then peeked around the corner of the stairs.

A second later, his head was back behind safety and a new hole was in his wall. The knocked-out policeman started to stir. This needs to end, now. Where are some hand grenades when you need them?! Hector glanced hurriedly at his shelf of weapons. Shotguns, knives, pistols… and two small, corked green-glass bottles holding inside them a dubious substance. Plastered across the bottles were labels that read “Molotov Cocktail- Do Not Drink.” Perfect. He lunged for one of the bottles and grabbed it by the neck. Turning, he flung it upstairs with all his might and plugged his ears. The second policeman was about to have a pretty… hot time.

And then-