"If I don't make it homes," Carlos said, trying to keep his voice hard, "You raise a glass to Carlos yo?"

Carlos figured he was going to die here but dying here was better than the long slow death inside the prison. At least, that was what he was telling himself. Pulling the pin with his teeth so he could keep his finger on the shotgun trigger Carlos lobbed the canister. At first it hissed and sizzled. Only when it was in the air, tumbling end over end, did it begin to spew a thick white smoke. Then he did the same again. The grenades bounced and skittered beneath the police cars and began to surround the guards in their smoky embrace.

Finally, he shifted his shotgun to the hand that once held the canisters and then drew his pistol, holding it in one hand, sideways, and peered down the sights as he pulled the trigger. The Vice-9's slide slammed back and forth, resetting the spring and loading the next bullet into the breach on each journey.