Bull Island.

  The island didn't exist on any official map. It wasn't marked on any port authority's charts. Local fishing boats knew to give the surrounding waters a wide berth. Anyone who asked too many questions would be told the same thing: "It's a quarantine island."

  The disease it quarantined was humanity itself.

  The room measured three by four meters. Concrete walls, windowless. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting just enough light to make out a face, but not enough to read by. The air was thick with the stench of disinfectant, layered over sweat, vomit, and something else—the settled, acrid odor of terror.

  Hernán Castillo sat on a metal chair bolted to the floor. It could have been four hours or four days; time had no meaning here.

  His hands and feet were bound to the chair with specialized cords—tight enough to leave brutal welts, yet loose enough to foster the cruel illusion that he might, if he just struggled hard enough, slip free. That was part of the torture.

  The heavy door groaned open.

  Major Cruz stepped inside, his uniform crisp and immaculate. In his hands, he carried a thin manila folder and a single glass of water.

  "Hernán." His voice was flat, devoid of inflection. "Drink."

  Cruz placed the glass on the floor, deliberately just out of reach. It wasn't an offer of kindness; it was a gesture, a reminder of what was being withheld. Hernán's eyes locked onto the water. His lips were cracked and bleeding from dryness.

  "We got every name from Machete before he died," Cruz stated, settling onto a folding chair that materialized from somewhere in the gloom. He opened the folder. "Now it's your turn. I know you're not the mastermind. You're just the door. But a door sees a lot of traffic."

  "I've told you everything!" Hernán's voice was a raw, desperate rasp. "The customs officials. The city council members. That judge... I gave you all of them!"

  "Not enough." Cruz's voice was a cold blade, cutting him off. "Those are just the tails. I want the head. Who was above Machete?"

  Hernán fell silent. His bound hands trembled uncontrollably.

  "I... I don't know. Machete never said. Only... only a code. 'The Don.' He called him 'The Don'."

  Cruz just stared at him. Five seconds. Ten. Then, with a weary sigh, he stood and walked to the door, rapping on it twice.

  The door swung open. Two men entered, their faces obscured by black cloth. In their hands, they carried something long, thin, and wickedly sharp.

  Hernán thrashed against his restraints. "No! I told you everything! I don't know anything else! Please—!"

  The first man grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back brutally. The second man brought the sharp instrument close to his eye. It was a long needle, like a syringe but thicker, its tip glinting menacingly in the dim light.

  "I'm going to ask you one more time." Cruz stood in the doorway, his back to the scene, his gaze fixed on the corridor beyond. "Who was above Machete?"

  "I don't know! For the love of God, I don't know! Machete only said... he said... 'He's older than the current regime.' That's all! I swear I don't know!"

  Cruz was silent for a long moment. Then, he gave a subtle signal. The man with the needle stepped back. The door slammed shut. Hernán dissolved into sobs, his body going limp against the cold metal of the chair.

  Cruz walked back, sat down, and reopened the folder.

  "We'll verify your information. In the meantime, you'll wait here." He stood, heading for the door, then paused. "Your wife and children are in a separate cell. Their conditions are... adequate. But you know how it is here—time moves slowly. It moves slowly for them, too."

  The door clanged shut, leaving Hernán alone with his terror, staring at the glass of water that remained forever out of reach.

  Family Holding Cell, Bull Island.

  This room was marginally larger. It held four thin metal bunk beds, a single bucket in the corner for sanitation, and a cold-water tap jutting from the wall. The light was just as dim, but at least it was shared.

  Elena sat on one of the bunks, cradling Manuel in her arms. The eight-year-old boy had stopped crying yesterday. Now he was just... vacant, staring at the bare concrete wall. His toy dinosaur was still clutched in his small hand, but its stitching was beginning to come apart.

  Camilla sat on the adjacent bunk, hugging her knees to her chest. Her face was a mask of emptiness. She hadn't cried since last night.

  The door opened. A woman in a gray uniform, her face etched with exhaustion, entered carrying a tray with four bowls of watery porridge and four cups of water. She set it on the floor without a word and left.

  Manuel stared at the food, unmoving.

  "Eat, sweetheart." Elena tried to spoon some into his mouth, but he pressed his lips tightly together.

  "Dino is sick," he whispered.

  Elena looked at the toy. The seam on its belly was torn, cotton stuffing spilling out. She had no needle, no thread. All she could do was try to push the cotton back in with her fingers, holding the tear closed.

  "I'll sew Dino up later, honey," she whispered. "When we go home."

  Manuel looked up at her, his eyes empty but still holding a flicker of childish trust. "When are we going home?"

  Elena had no answer for him.

  From the next bunk, Camilla's voice cut through the silence, hoarse and thin. "Mama... is Papa a bad man?"

  Elena turned sharply. "No! Your father is not a bad man. He just... he just chose the wrong friends."

  "He said 'I'm sorry' when they took him away." Camilla's gaze remained fixed on the wall. "Why say sorry if you didn't do anything wrong?"

  Elena had no answer for that either. She just held Manuel tighter and prayed the door would stay closed for a long, long time.

  Interrogation Corridor, Bull Island.

  Thirty-seven people sat in a long line on metal chairs. Some still wore their pajamas, others were in expensive suits now wrinkled and stained with sweat. A judge sat with his robe still draped over his shoulders. A city councilman had his tie on backwards. A businessman's glasses were broken, hanging askew on his face.

  Major Cruz walked slowly down the line. Each footstep echoed ominously on the concrete floor.

  "There are innocent people here," he announced, his voice resonating through the space. "We know that. Wives, drivers, low-level employees just following orders. You'll be released today."

  Several faces relaxed. A few people began to cry with relief.

  "But." Cruz stopped walking. "We also know who's lying. Who was directly involved. Who took the money, who looked the other way, who signed the fake documents."

  He pulled out a long sheet of paper and began to read names slowly.

  "Ana García."

  A middle-aged woman, a former customs official, hung her head.

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  "Carlos Márquez."

  A man with a bewildered face—he'd been arrested during dinner—looked up in panic. "Me? I'm just a dockworker! I don't know anything!"

  Cruz didn't even glance his way. He read fourteen more names, then folded the paper.

  "Those of you whose names were not called will be processed for further interrogation. Those who were called—" he paused, letting his gaze sweep over them one by one. "—will be released."

  Alejandro Quintana screamed. "I don't know anything! I—!"

  Two men in black uniforms roughly pulled him from his chair. He fought, kicked, and screamed all the way down the corridor. "My son! My wife! They don't know anything! LET THEM GO!"

  His cries faded into the depths of the facility.

  Cruz walked outside. In the open air, he lit a cigarette, the smoke curling from his lips.

  "The ones being released," he instructed his aide. "Escort them all the way home. Then keep them under surveillance, twenty-four-seven. I want to know every move they make, every phone call, every single visitor."

  The aide nodded crisply. "And their families? The ones still here?"

  "The ones whose husbands are deeply involved—wives and kids stay. Hostages. Until their husbands talk." Cruz took a long drag, exhaling the smoke into the gray, overcast sky. "The small fish? Let them go. But watch them all. Every single one."

  2:36 PM. Caraccass Port.

  A small boat bumped against a rundown pier. Twenty-three people disembarked—men, women, a few children. Their clothes were disheveled, their faces pale, their eyes swollen from crying. They were the "lucky" ones, the ones released.

  No one was there to meet them. No families knew they were coming back. They just stood on the dock, confused, terrified, with no idea where to go.

  Ana García staggered to a wooden bench near the pier and sat down heavily, staring blankly at the sea. Behind her, unnoticed, a man in ordinary clothes sat on another bench, reading a newspaper. His eyes, however, never truly left her.

  In another corner, Carlos Márquez stepped off the boat, his hands shaking violently. He looked around wildly—searching for his wife, his children.

  He collapsed to his knees on the dock and wept.

  The man with the newspaper made a small notation in a little book.

  ***

  Valverde City, 300 Kilometers from Caraccass. 6:10 PM.

  The sun was beginning its descent, painting the western sky in beautiful shades of orange and gold. In the town square, a few children were still kicking a ball around. Street vendors were starting to pack up their wares. An old man pushed a cart selling boiled peanuts.

  The first sound was like a firecracker.

  A few people turned, looking for the source. Then came a second sound. A third. A fourth.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  The popping continued, a rapid, staccato rhythm. It wasn't firecrackers.

  From the end of the main street, a group of men appeared. Twenty, thirty, maybe more. Their faces were covered with black cloth. In their hands, they carried machetes, axes, pistols.

  "GET BACK! CLEAR THE AREA!"

  People scattered, screaming. Carts overturned. Children wailed. A mother dropped her baby—the infant lay screaming in the middle of the street.

  The group didn't stop. They ran through the square, past the market, heading straight for the city government building.

  The front door was smashed in.

  Inside, office workers fled in panic. A young secretary hid under her desk. A middle-aged man ran for the back door—but was caught, yanked backward by his hair, and dragged, screaming, into a corridor.

  On the second floor, the mayor's office.

  Mayor Ignacio Salazar was reading a report when he heard the commotion downstairs. He stood up, walked to the window, and looked down.

  The square was empty. An overturned cart lay on its side. A baby wailed, abandoned in the middle of the street. No people in sight.

  The door to his office burst open.

  Three men stepped inside, machetes glinting in their hands. Their eyes, peering from behind the black cloth, stared at him with empty, chilling detachment.

  "Ignacio Salazar?"

  He nodded numbly. His hand, hidden from view, crept towards his desk drawer. A pistol was in there.

  The first man stepped forward, raising his machete.

  Ignacio yanked the drawer open. His hand closed around the pistol—too late.

  The machete came down. Not to kill—not yet. But to maim.

  Two fingers from his right hand were severed, landing on the floor with a soft thud. Blood sprayed across the polished wood.

  He screamed, collapsing to his knees, clutching his mutilated hand as blood poured from the wound.

  The second man stepped forward. He wasn't carrying a machete. He was holding a cloth bag. He opened it and pulled something out.

  A head!

  A human head, eyes wide open in a frozen rictus of horror, mouth agape in a silent scream. The neck was a ragged, poorly severed stump.

  Ignacio recognized the face. It was his brother's head—the head of the city's police commander.

  "No..." he whimpered. "No... please, no..."

  The third man moved in, holding a smaller knife. He leaned down, grabbed Ignacio by the hair, and yanked his head back, exposing his throat.

  "A message from the Don," he whispered. "Thank you for your cooperation."

  The knife moved.

  ***

  Valverde Town Square. 7:38 PM.

  They came back. Not to attack this time—but to display.

  Five bodies hung from lamp posts in front of the government building. The mayor. The police commander. Two city council members. A judge.

  Below the gruesome display, a crudely painted banner proclaimed: "This is the price of betrayal. Others will follow."

  No police. No soldiers. Only the terrified citizens, peeking from behind their curtains, afraid, confused, not knowing who to trust anymore.

  The abandoned baby from the square had been found by an old woman, taken inside, and given milk. No one knew where its mother was.

  ***

  Caraccass, 10:00 PM. The Sun Palace.

  The report arrived first as a telegram, then was confirmed by a courier who arrived on a lathered, exhausted horse. Mateo read it twice. Then a third time.

  Valverde. A small city, three hundred kilometers from here. Thirty armed men. Five officials dead. Two beheaded. One—the mayor—had his right hand mutilated before his throat was cut. The police commander's head was carried in a bag and shown to the mayor before his execution.

  And the message beneath the bodies: "This is the price of betrayal."

  Mateo set the paper down. Felix and Cruz stood before him. No one spoke.

  "They're not hiding," Mateo said finally, his voice quiet and controlled. "They want us to know."

  Felix nodded grimly. "This is payback. For Machete. For yesterday's operation."

  "But this is different." Cruz shook his head slowly. "Machete was street-level scum. This... this is military, or ex-military. Their movements were fast, coordinated, and the message is clear. They want to spread fear."

  Mateo stood and walked to the map on the wall. Valverde—a small city, a trade route to the south. Not strategically important. This was the opening shot in what could become a wave of violence.

  "Do we have anyone there?"

  "The local police have all fled. The army hasn't moved yet—they're afraid of traps." Felix moved closer to the map. "But we have two Sombra agents in the region. They've been heading to Valverde since the first reports came in."

  "Order them to find a trail. Identify the leaders of this group. Where they came from, who's paying them, who trained them." Mateo's gaze was fixed on the map. "I want names within three days."

  Cruz nodded. "And the bodies in Valverde? The mayor and the others?"

  "Send a team. Retrieve the bodies. Give them a proper burial." He paused. "And keep an eye on their families. This could be bait. Or they might be targets themselves."

  Felix and Cruz exchanged a glance.

  "You think this is just the beginning?" Felix asked.

  Mateo met his gaze. His eyes were cold, but behind the coldness, something else lurked. Extreme, razor-sharp vigilance.

  "This is just the warm-up."

  ***

  11:30 PM. Felix Temporary Headquarters.

  The radio crackled to life. A voice from Valverde—the Sombra agent who had arrived two hours earlier.

  "The five bodies have been taken down. The locals are starting to come out. But there's something strange—some of them... were smiling."

  Felix tensed. "Smiling? Why?"

  "Seems like... they approve. The mayor was deeply unpopular. Two years ago, he raised market taxes by fifty percent. The merchants hated him. The police commander—his men were notorious for shaking down civilians." The agent's voice hesitated. "They're scared, sure. But underneath the fear... there's satisfaction."

  Felix was silent for a long moment. This was more complicated than they'd thought. It wasn't just a terrorist attack—it had deep local roots. Resentment that had been carefully cultivated, and then ignited.

  "Get back to your primary mission," he ordered finally. "Find the perpetrators. Forget about public opinion."

  The radio went dead. Felix sat back, rubbing his face wearily. Outside, the night remained stubbornly, oppressively dark.

  ***

  Valverde. 2:04 AM.

  A man cautiously opened the door to his shack. Two men waited outside, their faces hidden by cloth, but their eyes... their eyes were familiar.

  "All clear?" the man inside whispered.

  "For now." The masked man handed him a thin envelope. "Your payment. And a message: keep your mouth shut."

  The man took the envelope and opened it. Money. A lot of money.

  "I won't tell a soul," he promised.

  The masked man smiled behind his cloth. "We know. Your family's still here."

  They melted away into the dark alley. The man closed the door. His wife stirred, waking up.

  "Who was that?"

  "No one." He hid the envelope under the mattress. "Go back to sleep."

  Outside, a dog barked once, twice, then fell silent.

  ***

  Caraccass, 4:12 AM. The Sun Palace.

  Mateo hadn't slept. On his desk lay three new reports: one from Valverde, two from other cities.

  Insurrection. That was the right word. This wasn't ordinary crime. This was organized, it had a purpose, and it had popular sympathy.

  In Valverde, citizens had smiled at the sight of dead corrupt officials. In other towns, armed groups were beginning to emerge, offering "protection" to markets, filling the void left by the fleeing police. They were crudely effective.

  Mateo picked up a pen and wrote a series of brief orders for Cruz:

  Tighten security for all regional officials. Evacuate threatened families to Caraccass. Recruit local informants—we need eyes in every market, every back alley.

  Then for Felix:

  Sombra, expand your operations. Infiltrate these groups. Find their leaders. Don't kill—capture alive. I want to interrogate them personally.

  He set the pen down and stared out the window. Outside, the sky was beginning to shift from black to deep blue. Dawn was approaching.

  The battle had just begun. And this time, the enemy wasn't in the ports or the squalid warehouses. The enemy was in the small towns, in the markets, in the hearts of a people growing weary and desperate.

  He thought of Camila. Her face, her tears, her little brother who had died because of a single day's delay. The ordinary people who suffered because of a broken system—and now they were starting to fight back. With the wrong methods, with blood on their hands, but they were fighting.

  "We have to be faster," he murmured to himself. "Or they'll burn it all down."

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