The second guard was almost finished. Carlos kept up the pressure on the makeshift garrotte he had made of the telephone wire he had appropriated. The guard's face was purpling, drool was spilling out from the corner of his mouth and his arms were pumping with decidedly less vigor. Capable of nothing more than gurgles the guard was completely unable to yell for help. Carlos smirked, his own face red from exertion, his biceps taut with holding the wire tight. He did have some experience recovering money from those that were "in arrears" after all. Such activities involved doling out a little pain.

Once the guard collapsed unconscious, Carlos lowered the man to the ground and then stooped over him to change up his weapon, sliding the nightstick from the guard's belt.

"Sorry homes. Didn't mean to take so long," the young Hispanic replied, "I ain't some super chica ball buster. You got some mad skillz yo. Don't worry though. I got yo back. Which way we going? You want to sneak across the roof or bust through the front gate?"