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The heat wave continues.
It's 109 degrees in Los Angeles.
As drought-ridden Los Angeles
swelters in agonising heat,
drug lords wage warfare in the streets.
Yet another open conflict...
Oh, fuck this! Get me out of here!
We're in a war zone, Dave: two motorcycle
officers horribly wounded in a crossfire,
the police seemingly unable to rescue them
in spite of several desperate, heroic attempts.
It's completely out of control down here.
My beautiful cantina, everything
I own, they shot it to pieces.
My microwave,
my automatic steamer, my grill...
You fucking pendejos!
Fuck you!
Tony Pope, live with Hard Core,
on the scene and in your face.
It's like Dante's hell:
Smoke, fire, oppressive heat,
as Colombian and Jamaican drug fiends
again transform LA into a slaughterhouse.
Who the hell's in charge down here?
The cops? Uh-uh.
They're outmanned,
outgunned and incompetent.
Mr Mayor,
on vacation in your home in Lake Tahoe,
get off your butt, get down
here and declare martial law!
OK, don't keep me in suspense, Danny boy!
It has not been a nice day!
Two motors pulled over a truck, stumbled
right in the middle of a narc stakeout.
You know, ten Colombians
and Scorpios armed to fuck all.
They're trying to get
in their headquarters.
We're keeping them pinned down,
but those officers are bleeding to death.
Fuck! They're dying, man.
Where the hell
is Special Weapons?
They're still tied up in that shootout
in San Pedro with the Jamaicans.
They shot down a chopper.
Mills and Johnson won't last much longer.
We need an assault vehicle to go get 'em.
I'm gonna chat with these assholes.
- When I give the signal, give me some cover!
- Got it!
Too small.
Come on! Come on!
Get 'em out of here! Now!
Get 'em out! Get 'em out!
- !Vmonos!
- !Vmonos!
Hey, assholes!
Mike, are you OK?
- Yeah. Let's get the rest.
- We can't. Orders from Chief Heinemann.
He says surround building and wait.
- Wait for what?
- I don't know!
Some bullshit special unit.
The feds, the DEA.
If we let those bastards get dug in now,
we'll have to level the building!
- Hijo de puta.
- No, es para mi.
Come and get it. El Scorpio is ready.
- Sarge, any of your people in the building?
- No.
Let's go.
Lieutenant, can't let you in.
Heinemann's on his way.
Heinemann can kiss my sweet ass! Come on!
Goddamn it. Go with him.
Three, two, one...
Get back.
Next door over.
Take this room!
First floor, officer down. We need backup.
I said hold it!
Now, lay your guns down.
You can walk down or fly, it's your choice.
I said put it down, asshole!
- Let's do it now!
- Take it easy.
Damn, it's hot.
Must be losing it.
Spread out. Secure the roof.
Just take it easy. I'm right here.
All clear. All clear on the site.
Oh, Danny boy.
I gotta get down from here.
OK, search the roof.
Check every floor. Maybe someone else...
Seal it off. No one leaves.
Danny, get me off this damn roof.
- You get the rest of them?
- Somebody beat us to it.
Oh, shit.
- What happened to El Scorpio?
- He's out front having lunch.
What the hell is this?
I don't know.
They've been cut to pieces.
- Must be the Jamaicans.
- Their style, but where the hell did they go?
OK, nobody gets in here
until Forensic arrives. Nobody.
OK, you know the drill.
Up there.
He must have been killed out here,
and then someone...
That's about 35, 40 feet.
No rope, no ladder.
The guy weighs about 190, 195 pounds.
You couldn't carry him up there.
Deputy Chief Heinemann's downstairs.
He wants you out of the building now.
Son of a bitch.
What the fuck is going on?
This is not good, Mike. Not good at all.
- I want a real name on this joker, OK?
- You got it.
Phil, this is


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