CHAPTER 119: CAZADORES

"It’s me, Domingo! Stop shooting!" shouted Ortega, his voice hoarse but forceful as a precise hail of bullets poured from the makeshift barricades of broken furniture, driftwood, and chunks of stone debris.

It was supposed to be the weakest point of the presidencia compound—a wide, vacant lot, rarely used and often ignored. Just an open space where townsfolk once stored lumber or carts. In contrast, all other approaches to the building were tight alleys that could be held by just two or three determined men.

But the former Cazadores who were tasked to defend it made it impenetrable. All those who wanted to assail it would have to cross a ten-meter open space—that was the town street—and be sitting ducks to the trained marksmanship of the former Spanish infantrymen.

If we had grenades, it would have been doable. But we only had rifles, and the only way to take it was to sacrifice a couple or more recruits—a sacrifice I was not willing to make.

The firing continued, aimed now at the lagging members of our escolta, who were still darting between abandoned market stalls and stone fences behind us. I, Guzman, and Ortega had already reached the nearest hard cover: the stone wall of a building, long-abandoned, likely since the early days of the revolution. The walls were unfinished, its roof absent, and only a light fuzz of moss clung to the lower blocks.

"Stop firing! Virgilio! Rodolfo! It’s me, Domingo Ortega!" he shouted again, leaning against the stone wall. His shoulder pressed to the edge, mere inches from open exposure. His other hand clutched his side, blood visibly soaking through the bandage there. He winced with every movement.

The gunfire slackened, and then stopped entirely. Whether they recognized the name or simply paused for lack of targets, I couldn’t tell.

A voice called back, sharp and skeptical: "If it’s you, show yourself—with your hands in the air!"

Ortega glanced at me. Sweat trickled down his brow despite the shade. I couldn’t tell if it was the pain, the exertion, or the weight of what he was about to attempt. Likely all three.

"You sure about this?" I asked, lowering my voice.

He drew a slow, shaky breath and nodded once.

"If anyone else comes out with you," the voice added, "we’ll shoot you both!"

Without further hesitation, Ortega stepped out from the wall, into the morning light. His shadow stretched ahead of him like a second figure. He didn’t raise his hands. Instead, he stood casually, limping a few paces forward with a confident, almost annoyed expression—like a man arriving late to a meeting that never should’ve started without him.

"How do you not recognize my voice?" he barked, irritation creeping into his tone.

I heard laughter from behind the barricade—relieved, perhaps, or just surprised.

"I’ll walk over there and have a talk with you," Ortega said, not bothering to wait for permission. He limped across the open space, favoring his good leg, leaving faint drops of blood with each step.

We took the Cazadores’ warning seriously. I ordered everyone to stay put, eyes on the barricade, rifles ready but held low. I strained to listen for the conversation, but most of it was drowned in the chaos elsewhere—sporadic gunfire, shouts, the groan of a wounded man being moved.

Minutes passed. One of the soldiers crept up to the corner, stealing a glance.

"They’re still talking," he whispered.

Sargento Guzman sighed and brushed dust from a cracked bench leaning against the wall. "They’re sure taking their time."

I allowed myself a faint smile. "I see no reason why he’d betray us."

The sergeant looked unconvinced. "Do you know him well, Heneral?"

The immediate answer was no. Ortega felt like a stranger. And yet... the former Martin’s memories had him pictured perfectly.

I recalled how, just last year, their company had arrived in Boac under Spanish orders to pacify the province. They questioned the local principalia, attended Mass, shook hands. Sargento Ortega had made a habit of visiting Martin’s home under the guise of social calls—always polite, always observant. But every visit came with subtle probing: questions about local unrest, names of suspected rebels, hints at whose loyalties leaned where.

In the end, I doubted Ortega ever realized Martin was one of the rebellion’s largest financial backers. Not until it was far too late.

"Not much," I admitted, "but I’d choose rebels over madmen any day of the week."

Guzman wasn’t convinced. "Unless there’s money involved. What if Señor Paras promised them a big purse?"

A fair concern—except for one fact.

"If they’re sensible," I said, "and I think they are, then they’ve already figured out they won’t survive this battle to collect whatever Florentino promised them."

As if summoned, Florentino’s voice rang out, loud and triumphant:

"You can come now, Don Lardizabal! They’ve switched sides!"

I straightened at once.

The soldiers near me looked over, then one peeked past the corner again.

"They’ve crossed the barricade, Heneral. I think... that guy was telling the truth."

"I’ll go first," Guzman volunteered.

Before I could stop him, the sergeant moved forward, nudging aside the soldier at the edge. He peeked out carefully, rifle raised to shoulder height—ready but not threatening. His caution was a comfort.

"Eyyy, amigo! Put your rifle down! You’re making us nervous!" someone called out playfully.

"It’s alright, Sargento," I said, placing a hand on his shoulder as I stepped out from cover.

The men behind the barricade had indeed switched sides—and, amusingly enough, had quite literally crossed to ours. They had scaled their own defenses and now stood behind the row of houses adjacent to the lot, shielding themselves from their former comrades, the pulajanes, and exposing themselves to us. It was a show of complete trust.

"Everyone, to the barricade," I ordered with a grin.

The twelve of us moved quickly across the dusty street. Boots thudded on packed clay, and a small cloud of dust followed in our wake. In that moment, I knew—if the Cazadores decided to open fire now, it would be both a dark joke and a tragic end.

But when we reached them, the former Spanish soldiers greeted us with smirks and folded arms, scanning us up and down with curious amusement.

There were five of them manning the position, and as Ortega had assured, all God-fearing men who understood basic hygiene—and, it would seem, also... honor.

Among them was one paler than the rest. He looked out of place.

"The uniform... how very original," Teniente Medina, one of the Spanish officers of the Cazadores company, said in his native language.

I realized how surreal it must be for them to see us in their uniforms. The Republic, after all, adopted its rayadillo uniform from the Spanish. Even the rifles were the same.

"Gracias por el diseño," I replied with a mock bow.

He gave a tight-lipped smile, then his eyes dropped to my shoulder straps.

"You have a lot to be thankful for... General."