Caraccass Port, 2:00 AM

  The lighthouse beam revolved slowly, sweeping across aging warehouses, stacks of shipping containers, and black water that lapped gently against the docks. The stench of fish mingled with sweat that had soaked into the rotting wood over decades.

  Thirteen men sat inside Warehouse Number 7. No one spoke. The only sounds were cards being slapped onto wooden tables, the clink of bottles, and the snoring of one who'd already passed out on a pile of burlap sacks.

  Outside, shadows moved.

  Cruz raised his left hand. Fingers spread wide. Five seconds.

  Behind him, twenty men in black uniforms, faces hidden behind cloth masks. Their breaths formed thin vapor clouds in the cold night air. Each right hand gripped a pistol with a long barrel, fitted with a homemade silencer.

  Three. Two. One.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Four guards outside the warehouse crumpled before they could scream. One still managed to reach for his waist—going for his pistol—but the fifth bullet entered precisely between two ribs. He fell with a wet thud.

  Cruz gestured. His team fanned out. Two to the front door. Six to the side entrance. Twelve surrounded from behind.

  He himself walked toward the front door, slowly, like a man in no hurry. In his hand, the same pistol as the others. But in his eyes—something different. Something that made his men keep their distance.

  The warehouse door burst open with a savage kick.

  BAM!

  Inside, chaos. Tables overturned, cards flying, bottles shattering. Hands reaching for weapons.

  Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  Four men fell before they could stand. One caught in the forehead, dead instantly. One in the neck, blood spraying like a small fountain. One in the chest, still crawling before a second bullet stopped him.

  The survivors—six of them—ran for the back door. It burst open.

  Bang. Bang. Bang.

  They scrambled back inside, but there was nowhere to go. In front, Cruz. Behind, shadows with rifles. To the sides, wooden walls that offered no escape.

  One of them—a massive man with a serpent tattoo coiled around his neck—charged at Cruz screaming, machete raised high.

  Cruz didn't move. His left hand rose slowly, tapped his right shoulder twice—the signal for "hold fire."

  The big man covered the distance in three strides. The machete came down.

  Cruz sidestepped. His body shifted like water. The blade passed his shoulder by centimeters. Then his right hand moved—fast, precise—and the machete changed owners.

  The big man didn't understand what happened. His hand was suddenly empty. Then something cold and sharp touched his neck.

  Cruz stared at him from twenty centimeters away. Their eyes met.

  "José Machete?" Cruz asked. His voice was flat, like someone asking for directions.

  The man shook his head frantically. "No! I'm—I'm not... I just—"

  A slice. Thin, precise. Blood flowed from his neck, but not deep. Just enough to silence him.

  Cruz looked at the others. Five men remained, kneeling on the floor, hands above their heads. Some trembled. One wept.

  "Where's Machete?" Cruz asked.

  They remained silent.

  Cruz exhaled. He walked to the youngest—maybe twenty, with sweat pouring down his acne-scarred face. Pressed the pistol against his knee.

  "I'll ask one more time."

  The young man screamed. "HE'S NOT HERE! He was called to his Don house this afternoon!"

  Cruz stared at him. "Who's is Don?"

  "I—I don't know his name. Just heard them call him 'Don.' Don something. Machete called him 'Don.'"

  Cruz nodded. Then—Bang.

  The young man collapsed, his knee destroyed. He screamed, rolling on the blood-soaked floor.

  "You told the truth, but you're still a syndicate member." Cruz turned, walking toward the door. "Take the living. Leave the dead."

  His men moved. Two dragged the five survivors out. The one with the wounded knee kept screaming, but no one cared.

  Outside, gunfire echoed in the distance—from the direction of the main market, from the industrial district. Simultaneous operations.

  Cruz looked at the night sky. No stars. Just thick clouds and smoke from factory chimneys that never stopped belching.

  He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it with slow movements. The smoke mixed with his breath vapor.

  "Team Two," he said into the radio. "Report."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Static crackled, then: "Nine targets here. Five dead, four detained. One fled east, pursuit team chasing."

  Cruz exhaled. Felix. They'd catch the runner—or his body would be found in a drainage ditch tomorrow morning.

  "Team Three?"

  "Sixteen targets. Weapons warehouse. Heavy resistance, but we were faster. Thirteen dead, three detained. Support teams mopping up the runners."

  Cruz stubbed out his cigarette, tossing the butt into the sea. "Good. Return to base. Business isn't finished."

  ***

  Market Back Alley, 2:30 AM

  The man staggered as he ran. His hand pressed against a stomach soaked with blood. His breath came in gasps, each inhale feeling like knives stabbing his lungs.

  He didn't understand what had happened. One minute he'd been playing cards in the warehouse, waiting for his guard shift. The next minute the door exploded, gunfire erupted, screams filled the air, and he ran. Ran as fast as he could.

  Now he was in the alley behind the market, surrounded by garbage piles and empty chicken cages. The stench of rot was everywhere. Stray dogs barked in the distance.

  He stopped, leaning against a damp brick wall. His hand pressed harder against the wound in his stomach—deep, probably through-and-through. Blood kept seeping between his fingers.

  "Stay calm... breathe..." he whispered to himself. "Have to... have to escape..."

  Five more steps, and the shadow appeared.

  Not from the front. Not from behind. From above—the market's low roof, someone dropped down with the fluid grace of a cat. A pair of boots landed in the muddy ground without a sound.

  The man gasped, stumbling back until his spine hit the wall.

  The shadow walked closer, face hidden behind black cloth. Only the eyes were visible—eyes that never blinked, never showed expression. In his hand, a blade with a thin edge, almost like a giant needle.

  "Don't... please don't..." The man raised his hands, though one still clutched his stomach. "I... I can pay... I have money... I—"

  The shadow stopped two steps away. Looked at him. Then—no words. No questions. No negotiation.

  The blade moved.

  The man felt something cold at his throat. Then warmth. Then wetness. His hands groped, found the wound, tried to close it—but it was too deep, too wide.

  He fell to his knees. Before him, the shadow had already vanished. The alley was empty. Just him, his blood, and the dogs that were starting to creep closer.

  He thought of his mother. Forgot her face. Then darkness.

  ***

  Mansion on the Hill, 3:15 AM

  José Machete woke with his heart pounding. Not because of a noise. But because of something—a premonition, maybe—that crawled up his spine.

  He sat on the edge of the bed. Cold sweat soaked his sleep shirt. The woman beside him still slept, oblivious.

  He heard something.

  Footsteps. Outside the bedroom. Soft, but definite.

  Machete reached for the nightstand drawer, pulled out a pistol. Trained movement—thirty years in the underworld had taught him one thing: never ask who, shoot first.

  The bedroom door opened.

  Cruz stood in the doorway. Not hiding, not aiming a weapon. Just standing there, with an expression like someone who'd just woken up.

  "Machete."

  The voice was flat. No anger. No threat. Just recognition.

  Machete aimed. His finger on the trigger.

  Cruz didn't move.

  Three seconds. Four. Five.

  "Do you know what happened tonight?" Cruz asked.

  Machete didn't answer. His hand trembled slightly. Not from fear—but from something he couldn't explain.

  "Your men are finished. Your warehouses are burning. Your money, your weapons, your network—gone." Cruz stepped forward one pace. "Only you remain."

  Machete drew a breath. "Who sent you?"

  "You know who."

  Silence. Machete thought about all the reports he'd received over the past few months. About the Vargas purge. About people who disappeared. About the boy in the palace who supposedly never slept.

  "That devil... he sent you?"

  Cruz didn't answer. But that was answer enough.

  Machete laughed. A strange, dry laugh, like a man who'd just realized he'd been dead from the start.

  "Crazy," he said. "Shit! I thought he was busy in Prussi. I thought he'd forgotten about us."

  "He never forgets." Cruz stepped closer. Now only two meters from Machete. "Just waits for the right moment."

  Machete stared at the pistol in his hand. Then at Cruz. Then—Bang!

  Not from Machete's pistol. From the window. A single shot, precise, through the glass.

  Machete collapsed. The bullet entered at his right temple, exited on the left, carrying fragments of bone and brain with it. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud.

  The woman in bed screamed.

  Cruz turned to the window. Outside, beyond the shattered glass, a shadow waved. A shadow that had followed from afar, seizing the moment when Machete's attention wavered.

  "Good work," Cruz murmured.

  He walked out of the bedroom, leaving the screaming woman, Machete's body pooling blood, and the smell of gunpowder beginning to mingle with expensive perfume.

  ***

  Sombra Temporary Headquarters, 5:00 AM

  Felix sat on a folding chair, a cup of cold coffee in his hand. Before him, a map of Caraccass covered in red X marks—twenty-seven locations, all sterilized.

  The door opened. Cruz entered, his uniform still spattered with blood—not his own, but enough to make anyone who saw him shudder.

  "All done," Cruz said, sitting without being invited. "Machete's dead. Thirty-eight others with him. Sixteen detained—we're taking them to Bull Island for interrogation."

  Felix nodded. "We chased down seven runners. Found five. Two still being pursued."

  "Let them run. The important thing is Machete's dead. His network is destroyed."

  They sat in silence for a moment. Outside, the sky was fading from black to deep blue. Dawn was approaching.

  "You know," Felix said suddenly, "when Mateo first said 'eradication,' I thought he was speaking metaphorically."

  Cruz looked at him. "He wasn't."

  "Yeah. I know that now." Felix sipped his coffee. "Thirty-eight people in one night. That's... fast."

  "Efficient," Cruz corrected. "That was the order."

  Felix didn't answer. But in his eyes, there was something—not regret, but awareness. That the boundaries they'd once thought existed, never really had.

  Cruz stood. "I'm reporting to Mateo. You rest."

  He left. Felix remained seated, staring at the map covered in red X marks, wondering when all this would end—or if this was only the beginning.

  ***

  The Sun Palace Office, 6:30 AM

  Mateo read the report without expression. Page after page. Thirty-eight dead. Sixteen detained. Machete's network completely destroyed in six hours.

  He set the report down. Looked at Cruz, who stood before him.

  "Our casualties?"

  "Four lightly wounded. Two shot in the arm and thigh. All treated."

  "Good." Mateo stood, walking to the window. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise, illuminating a city that had just been cleansed of its garbage. "José Guerrero. Former NLU field commander. Slipped through the purge."

  Cruz nodded. "Someone was protecting him. We got several names from initial interrogations—customs officials, a city council member, even a judge."

  Mateo didn't turn around. "Arrest them. Now."

  "Without further investigation?"

  "You have names from interrogations. That's enough. Arrest them, interrogate them, find out who else is above them."

  Cruz nodded. "Understood."

  He turned and walked toward the door.

  "One more thing," Mateo said without turning.

  Cruz stopped.

  "That sniper at Machete's house. Who was it?"

  "One of my best. He'd been following Machete for three days. Waited for the perfect moment."

  Mateo nodded slowly. "Tell him... clean shot."

  Cruz almost smiled. Almost. "I will."

  He left. Mateo remained at the window, watching the sunrise paint the city in shades of gold and orange. A city that didn't know how close it had come to being consumed by the cancer he'd just cut out.

  His eyes drifted to the corner of his desk. To a drawer. The drawer where he kept a single file—not an intelligence report, not a state document. Just a personal note about a girl named Camila Flores and her family.

  He wondered if they'd slept through the night. If they'd heard the distant gunfire and prayed it wasn't coming for them. If they'd ever know that the devil they feared was also, in some twisted way, their protector.

  Probably not. That was how these things worked.

  Mateo turned from the window and walked back to his desk. The morning was young. There was always more work to do.

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