26.
WALT Phosgene gas, I think.
HANK Yeah, exactly. One whiff'll kill you. That's why the moon suits.
Walt nods, watches the entry team take position at the door.
INT. TARGET HOUSE - KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS To call this a shithole would be an insult to shitholes everywhere. There's filthy clothes, overflowing garbage, rotting pizza boxes dating to the Clinton administration••• along with stacked cannisters of plumber's lye and Coleman stove fuel. A rambling, Rube Goldberg lab of hoses and buckets stands out against the knotty pine panelling. A Mexican man, EMILIO, sits at the kitchen table, listening to headphones -- oblivious to the o.s. BANGING at the door. He's got an enormous mound of RED POWDER in front of him, and an even bigger pile of MATCHBOOKS on the floor. He scrapes off the striker strips and collects the powder. This is a source of red phosphorus for meth production. BOOOM! The front door busts open. Feds pour in, pointing guns and breathing through their masks like Darth Vader. Emilio nearly pisses himself. He starts to run for it, but doesn't get far. The agents hold him down, cuff him. EXT. TARGET HOUSE - MORNING Hank, Gomez and Walt wait in the Ford. The RADIO crackles. AGENT (RADIO V.O.) House is clear. We've got one suspect in custody. HANK Copy that. The suspect••• might he be of the Latin persuasion? AGENT (RADIO V.O.) Si, Senor. Hank triumphantly puts a hand out. Gomez grumbles and pays him his twenty.
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