The nearest police car exploded into a pyramid of flame a moment later; the cop hiding behind the vehicle was blown into the air in the midst of the fireball. Hot debris rained in all directions.

This was the robbers' best chance for escape, maybe their only chance. Julio pointed to the right, back the way they had come. Neither the police nor the army could dig them out of the endless nest of rat holes and alleys that comprised the barrio.

"Now!" His two companions broke into a run, while Julio stood and blasted a 3-round burst at the only surviving cop. Luck, finally. The last uniform collapsed behind his protective door, his left temple streaming blood.

Julio poked his head into the blazing sunlight, with the ingrained caution learned from years of hit-and-run missions. His men were thirty yards down the sidewalk, picking up speed as they sprinted for safety. A sudden staccato hammering announced the arrival of the reinforcements.

Three more cruisers burst onto the scene, automatic weapons chattering 9 mm death from the open windows. The two terrorists stumbled and spun to the sidewalk, sliding in their own blood, which poured from a dozen punctures.

Julio dived frantically for the safety of the bank, just eluding a barrage of bullets that chipped away at the doorframe and the brickwork.

A flurry of slamming doors was followed by a moment of silence, presumably while the reinforcements crept into new firing positions.

There would be no opportunity to surrender.

This was the end of the line.

The terrorist leader knew that he had one final task, one final action to make sure that the government remembered this day with horror, as a promise of what was to come until his people were free.