A few hours before the fall of Fort Garand...

  General Alvarez felt cold sweat trickle down his back, despite the biting morning chill in his new office at the Presidential Palace. He stared at the message spread across his mahogany desk—its words simple, yet packed with a threat condensed like dynamite:

  YOUR FAMILY IS IN A SECURE LOCATION. YOUR DECISIONS WILL DETERMINE THEIR COMFORT. -M

  M—from Mateo. Not his father, but that teenage boy. The one whose eyes had seen too much for his age.

  "That little viper," Alvarez murmured, though the words held no real heat. Only a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.

  He lit a match and burned the message in a silver ashtray, watching the paper curl and blacken into ash.

  The phone on his desk buzzed, a harsh mechanical sound in an era where electricity was still a luxury.

  "General? Colonel Vargas is here to report."

  "Send him in."

  Vargas entered with a faint, smug smile on his lips, like a cat who’d just swallowed a canary. His uniform was still that of Mendez’s army, but now bore a red armband—a temporary symbol of his new allegiance.

  "General. The capital is… quiet. For now."

  "And Fort Garand?"

  Vargas shrugged. "They’re holding out. But without support from here…" He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, as if blowing away dust. "A few more hours. Maybe less."

  Alvarez studied him. Vargas was the perfect opportunist—a chameleon changing colors. But in politics like this, the ability to survive was sometimes more valuable than loyalty.

  "Are you certain you’ve chosen the right side, Vargas? Switching allegiances now?"

  "Interim President Mendez…" Vargas hesitated, choosing his words. "He grew paranoid. Saw conspiracies in every shadow. Last week, he ordered the execution of an aide simply for stumbling in his presence—thought it was an assassination attempt." He shook his head. "A sinking ship, General. The smart rats jump first."

  "And we are those rats?"

  "We are the ones who remain breathing," Vargas stated simply. "That is enough."

  Alvarez stood and walked to the window. From here, he could see plumes of smoke rising from several points across Caraccass—the aftermath of last night's fighting. The city resembled a wounded beast, bleeding from a thousand cuts.

  "There are specific orders," Alvarez said without turning.

  "Oh?"

  "Fort Garand. When it falls… there are to be no prisoners."

  A heavy silence fell. Then Vargas let out a low whistle. "All of them? There are still three hundred men."

  "Three hundred men who chose loyalty to a dead regime. Three hundred potential symbols of resistance. Or three hundred witnesses."

  "And President Guerrero? What is his opinion on—"

  "This is not from President Guerrero." Alvarez finally turned. "This is from his son. The one who desires a clean state. No remnants of Mendez."

  Understanding dawned in Vargas’s cunning eyes. "A purge. From the very beginning."

  "From the very beginning," Alvarez confirmed. "And you, Vargas… you have plenty of Mendez blood on your hands. But as long as you remain useful…"

  "I understand, General." Vargas saluted, this time with more sincerity.

  "Good."

  After Vargas left, Alvarez returned to his desk. In the bottom drawer, hidden behind official documents, was a photograph: his wife, his two young daughters. Taken two years ago, before everything became so complicated.

  They were now in "a secure location." Prisoners with luxuries. Hostages with warm blankets.

  Alvarez clutched the photo in his hand, not with anger, but with a profound, soul-deep weariness.

  He had fought in three uprisings, survived two assassination attempts, negotiated with greedy foreign powers.

  But he had never felt so thoroughly outmaneuvered as he did now—by a boy who should have been studying geometry, not geopolitics.

  The phone buzzed again.

  "General? A connection from San Marcos. On behalf of Mateo Guerrero."

  Alvarez took a deep breath and picked up the receiver.

  ***

  In San Marcos, in the back room of the textile shop that now served as my communications hub, I listened to Alvarez’s voice on the other end of the line.

  It was flat, controlled, but with a fine tremor beneath—the fear of a good father.

  "Everything will be done as you’ve requested," he said.

  "Not a request, General. A condition." My voice was calm, as if ordering tea. "Just as your family’s safety is my condition for your cooperation."

  A pause. Then: "They won’t be harmed?"

  "As long as you remain useful, they will be treated as honored guests. Isabella has even been teaching your youngest daughter how to knit." I let the words hang. "But if betrayal occurs…"

  "There will be no betrayal." His voice was firmer now. "My decision is made. Mendez is finished. His rule is a corpse still standing—the stench has reached the heavens."

  "Wise." I glanced at Isabella sitting across from me, her face pale. She disapproved of these methods. "The report on Fort Garand?"

  "Vargas will handle it. There will be no survivors."

  "Make certain of it. And ensure my father never hears the specifics."

  "President Guerrero is busy preparing his victory speech. He won’t see what happens behind the curtain."

  "Good." I paused. "General… this isn’t personal. It’s business. The nation requires cleansing. And you require your family. A symbiosis."

  "Symbiosis," he repeated, the word bitter. "Yes. Like maggots."

  "Like roots and soil. One gives life, the other gives stability."

  He sighed. "Do you never doubt, young man? That all this blood… might be too much?"

  I looked at Isabella. Her eyes pleaded. But I answered calmly. "Mendez killed far more. And he would have kept killing if we stopped halfway. A tumor must be cut out entirely, General. Even if it means cutting away some healthy flesh."

  "A fine metaphor. But this isn’t a metaphor. This is a slaughter."

  "It is prevention." My voice hardened slightly. "Every man left alive in Fort Garand is a seed for future rebellion. Every freed Mendez officer is a conspiracy waiting to happen. I will not take that risk. The nation cannot take that risk."

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  Another pause. Then: "It will be done."

  "Report when it is finished." I set the phone down.

  Isabella rose and walked to the small window covered with burlap. "Three hundred men, Mateo. They surrendered. We heard the reports."

  "They surrendered because they were defeated, not because their allegiance had changed." I stood and joined her at the window. "If we set them free, within a year they would form the core of a new rebellion. Led by someone like Rivas."

  "You don't know that."

  "But I know the probability. And in politics, probability is everything." I placed a hand on her shoulder. She flinched. "Sometimes, to build something new, you must burn the old down to its roots."

  "And when does the burning end? When do we become like Mendez—killing on suspicion, on probability?"

  I had no answer. Because in my heart, I was asking the same question.

  ***

  At Fort Garand, the morning mist had been replaced by the haze of gunpowder and pulverized concrete.

  Luis Rivas sat slumped against a cracked wall, hand pressed to the wound in his shoulder. Blood had seeped through the makeshift bandage, a dark red stain against the black of his uniform.

  He heard vehicles approaching. Not the rebel assault trucks. Command vehicles. And walking ahead of them, with a confident stride, was Colonel Vargas.

  The remaining Black Eagles—perhaps a hundred and fifty, many wounded—watched him approach. Their weapons were lowered, but close at hand.

  Vargas stopped ten feet from Rivas. "Captain."

  "Colonel." Rivas didn’t stand. Didn’t salute. "Come to view the wreckage?"

  "Come to offer… a resolution." Vargas’s gaze swept the area, taking in every face, every wound. "The Mendez government has fallen. Caraccass is taken. This war is over."

  "The war may be over. But we are still here."

  "And that is the problem." Vargas took out a cigarette, lighting it with deliberate care. "You and your men, you are symbols. Symbols of loyalty to a dead regime. Symbols of potential resistance."

  Rivas let out a short, pained laugh. "So you’re here to kill symbols?"

  "I’m here to offer a choice." Vargas blew a smoke ring into the still air. "Option one: a military tribunal. Treason. The firing squad. Option two…" He paused, locking eyes with Rivas. "On-site execution. Swift. Together. No circus trial."

  The soldiers around them shifted uneasily. A few hands drifted back toward their rifles.

  Rivas studied Vargas for a long moment. "This comes from above?"

  "From the very top. From someone who wants a clean state. No remnants."

  "Guerrero? The new president?"

  Vargas offered a thin smile. "The president is busy being the good man. This is from… the architect behind the curtain."

  Rivas nodded, as if something had finally clicked into place. "The son. The voice on the radio."

  "The voice that now commands silence." Vargas dropped his cigarette and crushed it. "So. Your choice?"

  Rivas looked at his men. Miguel stood nearby, the young face filled with a fear and a dawning comprehension that had come too soon.

  "The wounded," Rivas said. "The ones who can no longer fight. Them as well?"

  "All of them," Vargas said softly. "Except perhaps a few who could be… useful. Like that young sergeant beside you. He seems… malleable."

  Miguel shuddered. "I won’t—"

  "Quiet, 023," Rivas cut him off. Then, to Vargas: "If I choose the second option… it’s quick. No torture. No games."

  "Of course," Vargas promised.

  "And their families? They won’t be harassed?"

  "The families will be told they died in battle. Heroes. Not traitors."

  Rivas laughed again, this time more bitter. "A final kindness."

  "Basic humanity." Vargas shrugged. "Even in matters like this, there is an etiquette."

  Rivas pushed himself up slowly, using the wall for support. He faced his men, a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes watching him, waiting.

  "Soldiers!" His voice was cracked but still carried authority. "We have fulfilled our oath. We have fought well. Our mission is complete."

  Some faces showed relief. Others, confusion.

  "But war… war doesn’t always end with victory or defeat. Sometimes it ends with… cleansing." He took a breath. "Colonel Vargas here offers two choices. A tribunal that will disgrace us and our families. Or… a swift end here. Together."

  A terrible silence descended. Then, an older soldier—Number 011, a former miner—stepped forward.

  "Captain. I… I have a wife. A small child."

  "And they will remember you as a hero," Rivas said. "If we choose the second option."

  The soldier nodded, tears cutting tracks through the dust on his face. "Swift, yes?"

  "Swift," Rivas promised.

  There was no panic.

  Only acceptance—like prisoners who already know the date of their execution and have finally stopped hoping.

  The world did not change, time did not slow.

  So they simply stood there. Silent.

  That was how things were.

  Only Miguel still swam against the current.

  He turned, his voice fractured by something that had been dying for a long time.

  “Captain… but why?”

  There was no answer.

  Not because of secrecy.

  But because there was none.

  Vargas stepped closer. "It’s time."

  Rivas nodded. Then, with a final act of dignity, he straightened his tattered uniform and brushed the dust from the badge on his chest.

  "For the Black Eagles," he said, his voice now clear and strong.

  "For the Black Eagles," echoed a hundred and fifty voices.

  Vargas gave a signal. His men—a mix of regular army and his own loyalists—stepped forward, rifles raised.

  No one closed their eyes. They faced each other, shooter and soon-to-be-shot, in a silence more terrible than any scream.

  Rivas looked toward Caraccass in the distance, the city he had defended, which had now forgotten him. Then his gaze found Miguel.

  "Live well, 023. That is my final order."

  Vargas raised his hand.

  BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

  ***

  Several days later.

  In Caraccass, the battle reached its brutal crescendo.

  The Presidential Palace was not a single building but a complex of walls and strongholds. And Mendez, cornered like a rat, had turned it into a final, snarling nest of defiance.

  Major Felix—now promoted to Colonel for his valor at Fort Garand—led the frontal assault.

  But this was no open-field battle. This was room-to-room, corridor-to-corridor butchery.

  "Grenade!" he yelled, and a soldier lobbed one through a ground-floor window.

  BOOM!

  An explosion, then gunfire. Always the same.

  Mendez’s remaining forces were no longer a regular army. They were fanatics, hired thugs, men with too much blood on their hands to hope for mercy.

  And they fought like the damned.

  In the Plaza before the palace, the rebels’ first armored vehicle—a gift from Prussi, operated by former railroad mechanics—lumbered forward with a metallic groan.

  From a palace balcony, a Rifle grenade fired.

  BOOM!

  The vehicle shuddered to a halt, its cannon tilting uselessly. The crew stumbled out, burning, taking a few steps like human torches before collapsing.

  "Take out that shooter!" Felix roared.

  But the balcony was high, protected. And from every window, every rooftop, fire rained down.

  RATATATATAT!

  This was no longer a battle. It was a slaughter.

  Bang!

  Beside Felix, a young soldier—no more than seventeen—was shot in the throat.

  Blood sprayed, slicking the plaza stones. He tried to speak, but only produced red bubbles.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Felix fired at the window the shot came from, not knowing if he hit anything. He dragged the young soldier back, even though he knew it was too late.

  Over the field radio, reports crackled in:

  "West block secured! Heavy casualties!"

  "Sniper team on the Sun Temple roof silenced!"

  "They’re using civilians as human shields on the east wing!"

  And always, in the background, the thunder of rebel artillery pounding the palace walls. The walls were cracking, but slowly. Too slowly.

  Felix looked up at the palace tower. There, Mendez’s sword-and-fist flag still flew, though tattered by shrapnel.

  He thought of Fort Garand. Of the execution he knew had occurred but could not stop. Of Rivas and his men choosing a quick death over a slow disgrace.

  Then he thought of his own children, safe in a village far from here.

  And he prayed—to anything that might be listening—that they would never know what their father had done to build the nation they would inherit.

  "Colonel!" a sergeant ran up to him. "A tunnel! We found a tunnel under the plaza! It leads into the palace!"

  This was it. The opening. The back door.

  "Gather our best team," Felix ordered. "We end this from the inside."

  ***

  In San Marcos, I received a telegram from Alvarez.

  FORT CLEANSED. NO SURVIVORS EXCEPT ONE MALLEABLE ASSET. -A

  I burned the telegram. Its ashes joined the others in the tray.

  One survivor? If he’s useful, fine. If not… that can be rectified.

  Isabella entered the room, her face pale. "Your father is asking about Fort Garand. He heard there were prisoners."

  "Tell him all were killed in the final assault. It’s technically true." I held her gaze. "Say nothing more."

  "When do the lies end, Mateo?"

  "When the nation is secure. When no threats remain." I stood. "You want a stable country for Eleanor, don’t you? For her children?"

  "At this price?" Her eyes glistened. "With mass executions? With threats against families?"

  "Yes." My answer was simple. "If it is necessary."

  She left, and I was alone with the ashes and my decisions.

  The phone buzzed. This time from Caraccass. Alvarez again.

  "The palace battle," his voice was breathless, gunfire echoing behind him. "They’re holding like demons. We’re losing too many."

  "And Mendez?"

  "Still inside. But there’s a development—Felix found a tunnel. He’s leading a team in."

  I considered this. A tunnel meant close-quarters combat. Chaos. And in chaos, many things could happen.

  "Ensure Mendez does not escape. Alive or dead, but preferably dead."

  "And if he surrenders? If he wants to negotiate?"

  "There is no negotiation." My voice was iron. "He dies. Understood?"

  A pause. Then a short reply. "Understood."

  "And General Alvarez…"

  "Yes?"

  "When this is over… your family will be returned. Unharmed. And you will have a position in the new government. For as long as you remain useful."

  He sighed, a sound carrying the weight of burdens too heavy for any one man’s shoulders. "I understand."

  After the call ended, I walked to the window. Outside, San Marcos lived on as usual—vendors hawked wares, children chased each other, life continued.

  Somewhere in Caraccass, men died in a plaza and in corridors. Somewhere at Fort Garand, a hundred and fifty bodies grew cold. Somewhere in this war-torn nation.

  And somewhere inside me, something that was once soft had hardened into stone—a stone that could either be the foundation of a new state, or the headstone for my old soul.

  The phone buzzed a third time. I picked it up.

  "Connection from the palace tunnel," the operator said. "It’s Colonel Felix. He says… he has eyes on Mendez."

  I gripped the receiver tighter. "Put him through."

  And on the other end, through static and the rumble of distant explosions, came Felix’s voice, broken but clear:

  "...in the sub-level… he has hostages… he says he wants to speak to… to the Voice… he wants to speak to you, Mateo…"

  I froze. Mendez. Knew about me. Wanted to talk.

  "Felix," I said, my voice calm despite the hammering of my heart. "Don’t let him—"

  BOOM!

  A deafening explosion on the other end, loud even through the phone. Then the line went dead.

  I stood there, receiver in hand, listening to the empty hum.

  In Caraccass, the battle for the palace reached its climax.

  And somewhere in the darkness of a tunnel, Mendez was waiting for me.

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