The sun hadn't yet appeared when the trucks began to roll.

  From the eastern edge of the city, twelve black vehicles emerged from the Security Corps barracks, forming a long convoy. Their headlights were off. Only the low growl of engines disturbed the peace of the cobblestone streets.

  Inside each truck, twenty men sat packed tightly together, their faces hidden behind cloth masks. Rifles rested across their laps. No one spoke.

  From the northern barracks, eight more trucks. From the west, ten. From the south, fifteen.

  Nine hundred men in total. Nine hundred pairs of eyes that hadn't slept all night. Nine hundred hands that had checked their weapons three times over.

  Felix sat in the front seat of the lead truck, his window cracked open just enough to let the cigarette smoke curl out into the cold morning air. His gaze swept across the empty streets. The city lights were still burning. In the distance, a few dogs barked intermittently.

  He checked his watch. 4:30.

  The operation was starting now.

  "Team One, report your position." His voice crackled over the radio.

  "Team One, in position. First target's residence, five hundred meters out."

  "Team Two, ready."

  "Team Three, ready."

  One by one, the reports came in. All on time. All according to plan.

  Felix flicked his cigarette butt out the window. "Begin."

  ***

  The small town of San Miguel, 80 kilometers from Caraccass.

  The house was unremarkable. Faded yellow brick walls. A low iron fence. A single frangipani tree in the front yard. Inside, the light in the master bedroom remained off.

  Five men in black uniforms vaulted the fence without a sound. One moved directly to the front door, two to the back, and two more to the side windows.

  The front door didn't last long. One well-placed kick near the lock, wood splintered, and the door swung open.

  Inside, the sounds of startled awakening. A light flicked on. A woman screamed.

  "DON'T MOVE!"

  Ramon Castillo—Chief of the San Miguel Public Works Department—jerked awake, his heart nearly exploding from his chest. His wife shrieked beside him. Framed in the bedroom doorway stood three black silhouettes.

  "What—what is this!"

  The tallest man stepped forward, a sheet of paper in his hand.

  "Ramon Castillo, by the authority of the National Purge Operation, you're under arrest."

  Ramon tried to rise—but his arms were already seized, hands wrenched behind his back, cold steel clicking around his wrists. He screamed, "You must be joking! I haven't done anything!"

  From the next room, his ten-year-old daughter began to cry.

  The man stared at him with an expressionless face. "Your wife and child stay here. You're coming with us."

  They dragged him out. His wife clung to him, sobbing. His daughter grabbed his leg.

  "Papa! Papa, don't go! Don't take my papa away!"

  Ramon didn't have time to answer. The already-splintered front door slammed shut behind him. Outside, a black truck waited.

  ***

  The coastal city of Puerto Viejo, 120 kilometers from Caraccass.

  The old pier was usually deserted at this hour. But not tonight.

  Six men sat inside a wooden warehouse near the pier's end. Empty beer bottles littered the floor. Playing cards were scattered across a table. The air reeked of fish and cigarette smoke.

  One of them—a large man with a snake tattoo coiled around his forearm—was counting money. Stacks of bills. A lot of them.

  "This is from the eastern docks," he said. "Two weeks, twenty ships. The Boss will be pleased."

  The others laughed. "We're pleased too. Boss is pleased, we're pleased, everybody's pleased."

  Their laughter died abruptly as the warehouse door exploded inward.

  Not opened—exploded. Wooden planks flew everywhere. Smoke billowed. Shouts erupted.

  Six black-clad figures swarmed in from multiple directions, rifles raised.

  "HANDS UP! EVERYONE!"

  The tattooed man lunged for the pistol at his waist—Bang! A bullet slammed into his shoulder, sending him crashing to the floor, his weapon skittering away. The others were already on their knees, hands locked behind their heads.

  One minute. Six men in cuffs. The money on the table—maybe twenty-six thousand Bolívars—was scooped into a special evidence bag.

  The team leader glanced at his watch. 5:17 AM. Right on schedule.

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  ***

  Caraccass, 5:34.

  A luxury apartment on the 12th floor. City views. Expensive furniture. In the bedroom, a man slept with a woman—not his wife.

  The door wasn't forced open. It was unlocked with a key that had been prepared in advance.

  Four men entered, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. One went straight to the bedroom and switched on the light.

  The man—Roberto, a city councilman—gasped, lurching upright. The woman beside him shrieked, clutching the sheet to her chest.

  "Good morning."

  Roberto's hand darted toward the nightstand—but another hand caught his wrist faster, twisting it back. His pistol was confiscated.

  "You have the right to remain silent. But talking won't change anything."

  Roberto was cuffed and yanked to his feet. He was wearing only his underwear. The woman wept into the pillow.

  "Clothes," he pleaded. "At least let me put on some clothes."

  The man shook his head. "Not necessary. What matters is you're coming with us."

  They dragged him out. Outside, the sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern horizon. The city lights were beginning to dim.

  ***

  6:00. Felix's Temporary Headquarters.

  Reports streamed in continuously from ten different cities. Each report carried a code: "package received" for successfully apprehended targets. "package damaged" for those who resisted. "address empty" for those who had slipped away.

  Felix scanned the list in his hand. First-day arrest targets: 57 names. Apprehended so far: 45. Escaped: 5. Resisted and were killed or wounded: 5. Two more were still unaccounted for.

  Acceptable numbers. No operation was ever perfect.

  He keyed his radio. "Team Seven, status?"

  Static crackled, then: "Team Seven, two targets secured. One resisted, wounded, still alive. Bringing him in."

  "Good. Team Eight?"

  Silence.

  "Team Eight?"

  A different voice answered, "Team Eight... we have a problem. Target had bodyguards. Three armed men. We were forced to—" a pause. "—three dead. Target escaped."

  Felix exhaled slowly. "Location?"

  "Hillside residential district. Villa 14. Target fled east. We pursued but lost the trail."

  "Report to the support teams. They'll track him."

  The radio went silent. Felix stared at the map spread before him. Hillside residential district—an elite area, home to many officials. If the target had ducked into another house, he could hide for days.

  "Deploy a Sombra team," he ordered his aide. "Track him down. Don't let him reach the media."

  8:22.

  In a modest house on the eastern outskirts, a woman opened her door to two men in black uniforms. Her face was pale.

  "My husband... he's not home. He left last night, said he had business to attend to."

  The man made a note. "Name?"

  "Jorge... Jorge Márquez. He's... he's a village official. But he's a good man! He's not corrupt, I swear—"

  The man didn't answer. He just radioed in: "Target 34, not at residence. Wife cooperative. Keep under surveillance."

  They left. The woman collapsed to her knees on the doorstep, sobbing.

  At a traditional market in the southern district, vendors were setting up their stalls as usual. But something was different this morning. Two soldiers stood at the main entrance, rifles in hand, eyes watchful.

  A vegetable vendor whispered to his neighbor, "What's going on?"

  "They say it's the purge operation. Started catching corrupt officials today."

  "Corrupt officials? At the market?"

  His neighbor shrugged. "They say they're everywhere. In the villages, in the city council. The important thing is we're still selling."

  But customers were scarce that morning. People were afraid to leave their homes.

  ***

  10:18. Security Corps Headquarters, Interrogation Wing.

  Hernán Castillo had been here for 36 hours. He didn't know that. Time had no meaning in this place. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips cracked and bleeding. The glass of water still sat just out of reach. He had long since stopped staring at it.

  The door opened. Not Cruz. A different man. Younger, with a tired face.

  "Hernán Castillo."

  Hernán looked up.

  "Good news. Your wife and children are being released today."

  Hernán's eyes widened. "What?"

  "You cooperated. Gave us names. That was enough." The man stepped closer, placing the glass of water within reach. "Drink."

  Hernán grasped the glass with trembling hands. Plain water had never tasted so sweet.

  "But—" The man paused. "—you're staying here. Until the process is complete. Your wife will be given money, temporary housing, and protection. But you—" He looked directly at Hernán. "—won't be seeing them for a long time."

  Hernán bowed his head. Tears fell into his glass.

  "Thank God... at least... at least they're safe."

  The man turned and walked toward the door, then stopped.

  "Oh, one more thing. Your daughter, Camila. She asked about you. We told her you were in a safe place." A pause. "She smiled."

  The door closed.

  Hernán sat in his chair, glass in hand, and wept like a child.

  ***

  The Sun Palace.

  Mateo ate his lunch. Bread, cheese, a glass of water. On his desk lay the operation progress report. First-day arrest targets: 57. Already detained: 49. Dead (resisted): 3. Still at large: 5. Teams were still pursuing.

  Next to the report sat three newspapers from that day. All as predicted.

  He read the report from Valverde. Sombra agents reported that after the President's announcement, some of the residents who had initially "smiled" were now showing hesitation. They saw the government was serious. They were starting to come forward.

  New informants, the report stated. Two individuals approached us tonight. Want to provide information about the armed groups.

  Mateo nodded with satisfaction. The plan was working.

  The door opened. Isabella entered without knocking, her face tight with tension.

  "Mateo."

  He looked up. "What is it?"

  "I heard about the operation. Mass arrests, military tribunals, even public executions." Isabella sat in the chair across from him. "Are you serious?"

  Mateo chewed his bread slowly. Swallowed. "Serious."

  "And you think this is right?"

  "It's necessary."

  Isabella stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed. "I'm not going to say you're wrong. Corrupt officials do need to be punished. But the methods... this is too fast, too—"

  "Too efficient?"

  "Too frightening."

  Mateo set down his bread. "Bella. In Valverde, corrupt officials were killed and their bodies were hung up, and the people smiled. Do you know why? Because they hated those officials more than they feared the killers." He stood. "Now, we're giving them an alternative. Swift justice, decisive justice, and—" he emphasized, "—certain justice. Let them see that the government can be more ruthless than the rebels. But our ruthlessness is for the people, not against them."

  Isabella was silent. Her eyes glistened.

  "I'm scared, Mateo. Not for myself. But for you. For what you're becoming." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Right now, you're organizing mass arrests. You're counting how many die, how many escape, how many flee." A tear slipped down her cheek. "Do you still remember that cat?"

  Mateo looked at her steadily.

  "I still feed the cat, Bella. Fantasma. I still take care of Coco the parrot." His voice was soft. "It's just different now. Now, the cat's name is Camila Flores."

  Isabella froze.

  "I sent people to her house. Moved her and her family to a safer place. Funded her siblings' schooling. Got treatment for her mother." Mateo sat back down. "That's also part of what I do. People don't see that part. But I still do it."

  Isabella stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, a faint smile touched her lips.

  "At least you're still sane," she whispered.

  She stood and walked to the door. Before leaving, she turned back.

  "Be careful, Mateo. Hold on to your sanity."

  The door closed.

  Mateo sat alone. On his desk, the reports still waited. 5 at large. 3 dead. 49 detained.

  He picked up his pen and wrote:

  Day 1 of arrests complete. 57 targets, 49 secured. 3 dead, 5 at large. Evaluation: need better coordination.

  Then he set down his pen and looked out the window. Outside, the sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange.

  ***

  The old man read the report he had just received. The first day of the operation. Forty-nine arrested. Three dead. Five escaped—and one of them was his.

  He smiled.

  "That boy works fast," he murmured to Felipe, who stood beside him. "Forty-nine people in half a day. Remarkably efficient."

  But he's also forgotten something. He's too focused on quantity. He forgets that quality matters too.

  "The one who escaped—one of ours?"

  "One of them. The rest were common thugs."

  "Good. Contact him. Hide him. Give him plenty of money. We'll use him later."

  Felipe nodded.

  The old man rose and walked to the window.

  "Seven days," he murmured. "Let's see what you can accomplish in seven days, boy."

  He smiled. But the smile never reached his eyes. His eyes remained cold and empty.

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