Chemistry is an interesting subject. It’s like math, and it’s also like a game, a cruel and unusual game where you combine several materials in the hope of making a new material that is useful to you in some way. Of course, just like math, you don’t always get the answer you want in chemistry, and sometimes you get something very counter-intuitive- water is a combination of two gasses, after all. All this goes to say that the Molotov cocktail Hector had thrown upstairs was the work of a master, a carefully concocted combination of chemicals that, when put under enough pressure, could and would burst into a scorching ball of flame 4 feet in diameter. When he pitched the glass bottle up the staircase, Hector had no doubt of its success.

However, when the policeman at the head of the stairwell deftly caught the bottle in his left hand, glanced at it noncommittally, and then threw it back down the stairs, Hector’s painstaking hours writing chemical formulae were entirely wasted and he started to have significant doubts. Because the Molotov cocktail did work.

The noise of glass shattering was drowned out by an incredibly loud WHOOSH. Hector dove to the floor as napalm engulfed the foot of the stairs, blasted him with heat and pain, and lit the unconscious first policeman on fire. Hector’s AK exploded. Sparks flew from electrical equipment everywhere.

A second-degree burn started to form as Hector’s right leg was enveloped by flames. Rolling, he managed to extinguish them before it was too late. As the explosion subsided, the bulky policeman at the foot of the stairs suddenly came awake. With wild eyes, he realized he was on fire and promptly screamed, rolling frantically on the floor. He ended up, hands over his face, in a corner. Apparently he got the majority of the napalm. Hector reached up from the ground where he lay injured. He began to grab one of the metal counters in the room for support, but stopped abruptly, his hand a mere inch away, when he noticed it was glowing slightly from the heat.

His leg still throbbed, but the burns were minor, and they could be ignored. There were more pressing matters at hand- Hector had to get out. This was NOT how things should have been going. Why did that guy have to catch the bottle?

As if summoned by Hector’s thoughts, the wiry, spectacled policeman stepped around the corner, revolver in hand, and fired. Hector barely ducked in time as the projectile grazed his scalp. Hector struck out with his foot and tripped the man, whose subsequent midair shot left a hole in the basement ceiling. Hector rolled on top of the man, pinning him down. As the two wrestled, Hector managed to confiscate the officer’s gun.

With a sickening thump Hector slammed the butt of the gun into the man’s forehead. He’ll have a nice, long sleep, Hector thought as he walked past the other policeman, who was still whimpering in a corner. He yanked open a steel cabinet. Inside was a heavy military-green backpack labeled “Emergency.” He grabbed it. It was, he knew, already full of supplies to last a while. I need to go. Now.

In 5 minutes, Hector was 20 miles away, stirring up dust in his Land Cruiser while heading for a secret rendezvous point that drug dealers used in emergencies. He didn’t know exactly what to do next, but he had to get in contact with Dante and Flores. He needed help.