Chapter 109: Near Perfection
I raised a hand in the air as I slowly went down on one knee.
At once, the squelching of boots against the damp ground and the hiss of grass brushing against fabric ceased. The line froze. Sargento Guzman crept to my side, his movements smooth despite the mud. He was followed by Mario, who crouched low, unable to hide the nervousness on his face—his wide eyes flicked between the trees and the distant lights of the town.
On the other side of the field, Roque’s platoon had also halted. The cadet and a few of his men had pushed slightly ahead of our line, now crouched behind a group of large boulders. Their outlines were barely visible in the faint grayness before dawn.
We had successfully advanced to the outskirts of Buenavista. The treeline, scattered shrubs, and tall cogon grass, coupled with the slight downward slope, gave us the cover we needed to approach undetected.
Our first hurdle lay just ahead—right at the mouth of the town proper.
A makeshift barricade blocked the road. It was constructed of bamboo poles lashed together with vines and reinforced by a few wooden stakes. Smoke from a dying campfire drifted lazily in the air, carrying the faint scent of burnt wood. Beside it, two men stood guard. We could hear the low murmur of their conversation carried by the breeze, mixing with the distant rustling of palm leaves.
They wore the expected attire—red strips of fabric tied around their bodies. One had a band across his forehead, the other had pieces wrapped tightly around both arms. From the silhouette of their postures, I could tell they were armed with rifles, though the low light made it difficult to identify the type.
Teofilo spotted them before I did. He was watching from a concealed position closer to the front, eyes steady. He looked toward me. I nodded once. He already knew what to do.
Roque, crouched behind the rocks, gestured with two fingers. Two of his men silently separated from the group and crawled forward. They moved efficiently and silently—clearly the lightest and quickest in his platoon. Roque whispered instructions to them, barely more than a breath. They didn’t nod or reply—they just moved.
A small clump of banana trees stood within striking distance of the checkpoint. The two recruits took the long route, slipping through the tall grass and circling behind the trees. The rest of us held our breath, rifles ready.
We didn’t hear it—but maybe the sentries did. A faint rustle. A sudden shift in the breeze. Whatever it was, the Pulajanes stopped chatting. The one nearest the trees stepped forward, gripping his rifle tighter, eyes scanning the darkened thicket. The other looked less concerned—his weapon still loosely pointed at the ground, more for show than readiness.