Squeak, squeak~
Two transport trucks barreled into the headquarters factory of Francisco Transport Mining Company in the suburbs of Mexico City, smashing the barriers to pieces.
Security guards rushed out of the guardhouse, babbling incomprehensibly, their dark skin glistening and a strong body odor wafting about—clearly Indians.
They held rubber batons in their hands.
The truck doors swung open, and over twenty armed militants jumped out, wearing balaclava-style helmets and working in perfect sync. Two of them crouched in firing positions, left hands pressing down on their rifle stocks—tat, tat… tatatat!
They sprayed bullets toward the Indians' heads, sending them screaming and diving to the ground, head down, pleading for mercy.
That brief rush forward already made them feel they had earned their paychecks today.
The rest of the militants charged up the building, spurning the slow elevators and sprinting up the stairs—ten floors in under thirty seconds?
