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.