September 20, 1912.

  06:00 Hours–Eastern Industrial District, Caraccass

  The morning fog clung stubbornly to the silent silhouettes of factory chimneys. Inside a disused steel storage warehouse, the scent of rust and machine oil mingled with a tension so thick it was almost palpable.

  Mateo stood before a rough-hewn wooden table, conducting his tenth inspection of the equipment arrayed upon it.

  The items appeared ordinary: a medium-sized wooden tool chest with a worn leather handle, coils of cloth-insulated copper wiring, several glass vacuum tubes nestled in wooden cradles, and a set of Prussi military-grade gauges with delicate needles.

  "Everything looks like standard communications engineering gear," Mateo observed, his voice low yet distinct in the warehouse stillness.

  Beside him, a man in his mid-twenties leaned in for a closer look. His name was Tomas.

  His face was unremarkable—the kind you'd forget five minutes after seeing it. Neatly trimmed brown hair, a simple linen shirt, workman's trousers. But his eyes told a different story; they were the eyes of a man who had seen too much: cold, focused, and faintly hollow.

  "The tool chest has the correct weight," Tomas noted, lifting the box effortlessly. "Consistent with its supposed contents. Nothing to arouse suspicion."

  Mateo opened the chest. The top layer held genuine tools: screwdrivers, pliers, a small hammer, an adjustable wrench. But beneath a false thin wooden panel lay an airtight compartment measuring 15 by 10 by 5 centimeters.

  "The tubes?" Mateo asked.

  Tomas nodded toward the glass tubes that appeared to be radio components. One of them—labeled "Vacuum Amplifier Type G-12"—was different. Its glass was slightly thicker. Inside, instead of filaments or wire grids, was a clear, colorless liquid.

  "Pure chloroform?" Mateo inquired.

  "Chloroform blended with digitalis extract," Tomas replied flatly. "Enough for ten men. This tube connects to a release mechanism here." His finger indicated a section of the chest base that looked like a battery compartment. "Press the hidden button in the handle, the valve opens, vapor escapes through concealed vents in the chest's side. In a closed space like Vargas's office..."

  "It wouldn't take long," Mateo finished.

  "Three breaths. Five seconds to dizziness. Fifteen to unconsciousness. Two minutes until cardiac arrest. To the untrained, the symptoms mimic a heart attack."

  Mateo nodded, displeased yet satisfied with the efficiency. The technology of this era had its limitations, but also its advantages: no standardized gas detection, no reliable physiological screening, and forensic medicine was still crude and inconsistent

  "And the remote trigger mechanism?"

  Tomas picked up one of the cable coils. "Inside this third coil is a small induction receiver. When an electrical signal is sent from a portable transmitter outside the building, current flows, heating a thin wire that melts a wax seal on the tube. The mechanism is simple, reliable. But the range is limited—only 50 meters."

  "The transmitter will be in a service vehicle across the street," Mateo said. "Guarded by two Sombra operatives."

  "And if the signal fails?"

  "You have the manual button on the handle. That's the last resort. Best not to use it—it leaves physical evidence inside the chest."

  Tomas nodded, practicing the motion of picking up the chest, opening it as if to work, his index finger naturally finding a specific part of the handle. The movement was smooth, natural. He had rehearsed it for a week.

  "Your identity?" Mateo asked.

  "Enrique Morales. Senior technician from the Republic Telecommunications Company, government maintenance division. Five years of experience. Home in San Miguel. Wife named Carla, two children." Tomas recited the details without emotion. "ID card, work order, even last month's pay stub—all accounted for."

  "And why are you doing this?"

  Tomas paused, meeting Mateo's gaze. For the first time, a spark of something more than cold professionalism flickered in his eyes. "My older brother, Javier. He was a schoolteacher. Vargas had him arrested for 'teaching revisionist history.' They took him to NLU headquarters. His body was returned a week later. My mother... she was never the same."

  Personal motivation. Always more reliable than money or ideology.

  "Understood," Mateo said. "Remember, this isn't about vengeance. It's a surgical operation. You go in, set up, ensure Vargas is alone in his office, send the signal, then exit. No eye contact. No unnecessary words. You are just a technician doing a job."

  "And if he's not alone?"

  "You delay. Say there's an issue with cabling on the floor below. You'll have a pretext to postpone. But the time window is narrow—only between 13:20 and 13:40, when Vargas is typically alone."

  Tomas nodded again. He had memorized Vargas's schedule for the past week. The man was as regular as clockwork: breakfast at 06:30 at home, arrival at headquarters at 08:00, morning briefing, troop inspection, lunch at 12:00 in the headquarters canteen, then up to his third-floor office by 13:00, where he read reports alone for forty minutes before his afternoon meetings.

  Felix entered the warehouse, bringing a gust of the chilly morning air with him. He wore simple civilian clothes, but his posture remained rigidly military.

  "The service vehicle is ready," Felix reported. "Painted with the telecom company logo. Two drivers—Clara and Leo. They'll park on Bolivar Street, directly opposite the NLU headquarters. We have a surveillance spot already set up on the roof of the adjacent building."

  Mateo nodded. "And the second team?"

  "Four Blindaje members, disguised as municipal water workers, will be clearing a drain at the end of the street. They're each carrying concealed sidearms and one smoke grenade. Enough to provide cover or create a diversion if there's pursuit."

  "Communications?"

  "Portable carbide radios. Limited range, but sufficient for coordination around the headquarters. Codes are established: 'Clear skies' for normal conditions, 'Cloudy' for minor issues, 'Storm' for abort, 'Sunrise' for mission success."

  Mateo checked his silver pocket watch. 06:45. "Enrique needs to arrive at headquarters at 10:00 for a scheduled maintenance appointment. That gives him three hours to inspect systems on the first and second floors before moving to the third floor during Vargas's lunch."

  "The biggest risk is the tool chest inspection at the entrance," Felix said. "NLU guards are notoriously thorough."

  "This chest passed three trial inspections last week," Tomas stated. "Other technicians from our company did routine maintenance. The guards checked, opened, even shook it. The false panel wasn't detected. They're looking for guns, bombs—not a special glass tube among other glass tubes."

  "And if today's guard is different? More meticulous?"

  "We have an emergency work order from the Ministry of the Interior, signed by the deputy minister. It calls for urgent maintenance on 'classified communications systems in the third-floor office.' That should bypass most scrutiny."

  Mateo took a deep breath. The plan was like a clockwork machine with countless moving gears. One tooth breaks, the whole mechanism seizes.

  "Run through the phases again," Mateo ordered.

  Tomas stood straight. "Phase One: I enter headquarters at 10:00, pass inspection. Work on the first floor until 12:30. Phase Two: Move to the third floor at 12:45, begin work in the communications room next to Vargas's office. Phase Three: When Vargas enters his office at 13:00 and is confirmed alone by 13:20, I send the signal from the tool chest. Phase Four: Wait five minutes, confirm no suspicious activity from the office, then exit on the pretext of needing a spare part. Be out of the building before 13:45."

  "And the confirmation signal to the outside team?"

  "As I walk out of the headquarters, I will touch my cap twice if successful. Once if failed or assistance is needed."

  "Good." Mateo looked at him. "Enrique, this isn't about personal hatred. It's about preventing another civil war in the streets of Caraccass. Do you understand?"

  Tomas nodded, but his previously hollow eyes now held a cold resolve. "I understand. But allow me to say this, Master Guerrero. I am doing this for Javier. For my mother. And if it helps prevent others from sharing their fate... that's a bonus."

  Mateo didn't argue. Whatever motivation kept him focused.

  ***

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  09:30 Hours – Bolivar Street, Opposite NLU Headquarters

  A dark blue service vehicle bearing the "Republic Telecommunications" logo was parked in a strategic position. From here, Clara had a clear view of the headquarters entrance through a modified side-view mirror.

  Inside the vehicle, Leo tuned the dial on a carbide radio. A faint static hiss filled the air.

  "Comms check," Leo whispered into a small microphone. "Roof Team, acknowledge."

  On the roof of the three-story office building opposite, a man dressed as a maintenance worker leaned against a chimney, binoculars hidden inside a tool case.

  "Team A receiving. Loud and clear."

  "Team B?"

  Down the street, four men with shovels and municipal uniforms raised a hand without looking toward the vehicle. One gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  "All positions ready," Leo reported.

  Clara, sitting in the passenger seat, monitored the time. "Thirty minutes to go. Are we sure about the morning guard detail?"

  "Intel says Sergeant Garcia is on duty. He's the one on the telecom company's monthly payroll to expedite inspections. He'll be cooperative."

  "Let's hope so," Clara murmured.

  The sun began breaking through the fog, illuminating the rough concrete facade of the NLU headquarters. The building looked like a fortress—small windows, thick walls, heavy steel doors.

  Above the entrance, the NLU emblem was displayed: a sun with two crossed swords behind it. A symbol meant to represent strength and enlightenment, but to many, it was a symbol of terror.

  ***

  09:55 Hours – Front of NLU Headquarters

  Tomas—now fully embodying Enrique Morales—walked with confident, unhurried steps toward the entrance. The tool chest was in his right hand, a leather document bag slung over his left shoulder.

  Two guards in the NLU's distinctive brown uniforms stood at the checkpoint. One was young, his face still unlined. The other was older—Sergeant Garcia, with a thick mustache and eyes that had seen everything.

  "Documents," Garcia said, hand outstretched.

  Enrique gave a friendly nod, set down the tool chest, and rummaged in his bag. He produced the work order with its prominent Ministry of the Interior stamp.

  "Maintenance on third-floor communications systems. Emergency."

  Garcia read the order slowly, his lips moving soundlessly. His eyes narrowed. "Not on the schedule."

  "Direct order from Deputy Minister Ramirez himself," Enrique said, maintaining his pleasant demeanor. "Problem with the secure line to the Palace. Needs fixing before the afternoon conference."

  Garcia regarded him skeptically, then looked at the tool chest. "Open it."

  Enrique opened the chest with practiced ease. Garcia lifted the tool layer, shook the box. His hands felt along the bottom, the sides.

  "What are these tubes for?"

  "Vacuum tubes for the amplifiers. Fragile. Careful with them."

  Garcia nodded, setting the tube containing the toxin down with the others. He barely noticed the difference—just as intended.

  "Alright," Garcia finally sighed. "But keep an eye on him," he told the younger guard. "Our friends on the third floor don't like to be disturbed."

  Enrique gathered his equipment, nodding his thanks. "I'll be quick. Just a routine check."

  He stepped through, followed by the young guard. The heavy steel door clanked shut behind him with a definitive sound.

  ***

  10:15 Hours – Inside the Service Vehicle

  "He's in," the voice from the roof reported over the radio. "The young guard is escorting him to the first floor."

  Clara let out a relieved breath. "Phase One complete."

  Leo checked the time again. "Now we wait. Two and a half hours."

  Time crawled. In the van, they took turns watching the entrance. Little was said. Each was lost in their own thoughts.

  Clara, a former nurse who had served as a medic in the civil war, joined Blindaje because she believed the republic needed President Guerrero to build a system that prevented such atrocities from happening again.

  Leo, a former sergeant who lost faith in the military after witnessing his superiors selling arms to foreign interests on both sides, found a new purpose in protecting something worth protecting.

  On the roof, the spotter—a former sniper retired due to a leg wound—kept watch on the third-floor windows with concealed binoculars.

  Down the street, the "water workers" continued their labor, their shovels hitting stone and earth with a steady, calming rhythm.

  ***

  12:40 Hours – Third Floor, NLU Headquarters

  Enrique worked in the small communications room adjacent to Vargas's office. The space was crowded with racks of radio equipment, a switchboard with copper plugs, and cables snaking across the floor like roots.

  From here, he could hear voices from the next office. Vargas was speaking to someone—a low, angry tone.

  "...cannot continue to ignore my directives! If Guerrero thinks he can buy the people's loyalty with a sack of rice, he is mistaken!"

  Another voice, calmer: "But commander, The Bridge Project is popular. To attack it directly now—"

  "I'm not talking about a direct attack! I'm talking about pressure. Interdict their distribution channels. Arrest 'smugglers' at their posts. Make the program look like a nest of corruption and inefficiency. The people will turn when they see their money being wasted!"

  Enrique filed this information away in his mind. Valuable intelligence. But his focus remained on the mission.

  He checked the wall clock in the room. 12:48. Vargas should be leaving for his brief lunch soon.

  The office next door finally fell silent. Footsteps retreated. Enrique peeked through the slightly ajar door.

  Vargas, walking briskly toward the elevator. Two aides followed.

  It was time. Phase Two.

  Enrique picked up his tool chest, pretending to check wiring in the corridor. He needed to ensure he could access the communications room before Vargas returned and set up his device.

  ***

  13:05 Hours – Inside the Service Van

  "Vargas has exited the building," the voice from the roof reported. "Heading to the canteen in the west wing. Two escorts."

  Clara straightened up. "Phase Two initiating. Enrique should be setting up on the third floor now."

  Leo checked the signal transmitter on his lap—a wooden box the size of a book with a single button and a copper coil. "Transmitter ready. Frequency set."

  "Range?"

  "Less than 40 meters from the van to Vargas's office. Should be sufficient."

  They waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes.

  13:15 Hours – Third Floor, NLU Headquarters

  Enrique had completed his preparations. The toxin tube was connected to the release mechanism. The induction coil was active. Now he only needed to wait.

  He worked near the communications room door, fixing a switchboard cable he had intentionally loosened earlier. From his position, he could see the door to Vargas's office across the hall.

  The elevator groaned. Footsteps.

  Vargas returned, alone. His habit held: after lunch, he would enter his office, lock the door, and read reports for forty minutes without interruption. Not even his aides were to disturb him unless it was an emergency.

  The man entered his office, the door closing. The sound of a lock turning.

  Enrique waited two minutes, ensuring no one else approached. Then he positioned himself in the communications room, right against the wall shared with Vargas's office.

  Thirty centimeters of concrete—enough to muffle sound, but not enough to stop chemical vapor seeping through the hidden ventilation shaft Sombra's intelligence team had mapped out.

  He opened the tool chest, his fingers finding the hidden control panel beneath the thin wooden veneer. A small light glowed green—system active. Now he just needed the precise moment.

  13:22 Hours – Inside the Service Vehicle

  "It's time," Clara whispered.

  Leo placed his hand over the transmitter, finger on the button. "Signal will transmit in three... two... one..."

  He pressed the button.

  No sound. No flash of light. Only a small electrical current flowing through the coil, creating a magnetic field that pulsed through the air, through the concrete walls, to the induction coil inside Enrique's tool chest.

  13:23 Hours – Third Floor, NLU Headquarters

  Enrique felt a near-imperceptible vibration from the tool chest. The green light blinked, then turned red. The mechanism had been triggered.

  He pressed his ear to the wall. No sound. No cry. Only silence.

  Following procedure, he waited five minutes. In those five minutes, the world moved with excruciating slowness. Every second felt like an hour. His own breathing sounded loud in his ears.

  Now.

  Enrique packed up his equipment swiftly, clearing all traces of the specialized mechanism. The now-empty toxin tube went into a hidden compartment in his jacket sleeve—to be disposed of later.

  He picked up the tool chest, opened the communications room door, and walked toward the elevator with calm steps. In the hallway, a clerical officer passed by, giving a brief nod. Enrique returned the nod, continuing on.

  The elevator descended to the first floor. His mind worked rapidly: Touch cap twice on exit. Don't rush. Breathe normally.

  The main doors. The same young guard was there.

  "Finished for today?" the guard asked.

  "For now. Need a special part. Will return tomorrow."

  The guard nodded, opening the door.

  Enrique stepped outside, the midday sun momentarily blinding. He walked a few paces, then—as planned—raised his hand as if adjusting his work cap. Two touches.

  Inside the vehicle, Clara sighed in relief. "Confirmation signal. Two touches."

  ***

  13:45 Hours – The Steel Warehouse

  Mateo and Felix waited in tense silence. The carbide radio on the table emitted only a steady hiss.

  Then, Clara's voice: "The eagle has left the nest. Feathers clean."

  Code for: Phase one of the mission complete, without incident.

  Mateo nodded, but the tension didn't fully dissipate. "Now we wait for confirmation of death. That's the hardest part."

  Felix checked his watch. "Vargas has a 14:30 meeting with battalion commanders. If he doesn't appear, his aide will go looking. That's our moment."

  "Inside team?"

  "One of our people in the second-floor admin section. He'll alert us when there's commotion."

  They waited. Mateo paced the warehouse, his footsteps echoing in the empty space.

  His mind raced through scenarios: If Vargas was found too early, before Felix arrived with the presidential decree... If a doctor suspected poison... If Vargas's loyalists acted faster than anticipated...

  14:25 Hours

  The radio crackled to life again. A different voice this time—calm, measured: "Package is running late. Courier is concerned."

  Code: Vargas hasn't been discovered yet, but his meeting is about to start. Time is running out.

  Felix stood. "I have to move. I have the decree. The Blindaje team is ready at the rally point."

  Mateo nodded. "Remember, seize communications first. Cut all outgoing lines from the headquarters. Then announce the assumption of command."

  "And the target list?"

  "Already distributed to loyal units. They know who to detain."

  Felix looked at Mateo one last time before departing. "May this work. Because if it doesn't, tomorrow Caraccass will burn."

  He turned and left, leaving Mateo alone in the warehouse as it grew darker with the shifting sun.

  Mateo sat on a wooden bench, feeling the weight of the decisions he had made.

  Somewhere in the NLU headquarters, a man lay dead at his desk, perhaps still with a report in his hand. Somewhere else, a boy named Luis was learning to read thanks to The Bridge Project. Somewhere, mothers queued for rice with their yellow cards.

  He had weighed these things on invisible scales and decided that to protect the many, a few must be sacrificed. The logic was cold, rational, but in his chest, it felt like a stone.

  The radio hissed again. This time the voice carried a note of urgency: "Package has been located. Confusion on the third floor."

  The final phase had begun. Now everything depended on Felix, on their preparations, on the courage of the people they had placed in critical positions.

  Mateo closed his eyes, listening to his own heartbeat in the warehouse silence.

  In his first life, he had led charges, orchestrated battles, made decisions that shifted the fate of armies. But there was always movement, action, chaos.

  Waiting like this—still, passive, while the fate of everything was determined by others—this was a different kind of torture. The torture of an architect forced to watch his building erected by other hands, not knowing if the foundation would hold or collapse.

  He opened his eyes, looking at the now-empty tool chest still lying on the table. It was just an ordinary wooden box now. Harmless.

  But hours ago, it had been an assassin's weapon that had ended one life and—he hoped—saved thousands of others.

  Situational ethics, he thought bitterly. Morality that changed with scale. What was called a crime on a small scale became statecraft on a large one.

  But could he still tell the difference? Or had he walked too far down this path, until every decision—giving bread or sending poison—became just a variation of the same calculation?

  The radio crackled again, interrupting his reverie. This time the voice was firm, clear:

  "New eagle has landed. Nest is being secured."

  Felix had entered NLU headquarters. The assumption of command was underway.

  The performance had begun. And Mateo, the director, could now only watch from the wings, hoping all his actors remembered their lines, and that no one fell off the stage before the curtain fell.

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