14:30 – NLU Headquarters, Third Floor

  It wasn't a scream. It was more like a whirlwind trapped in a bottle—a panic muffled by ingrained military discipline.

  Mateo listened through the carbide radio on his desk, hidden inside a modified wooden drawer, broadcasting fragmented whispers from various points within the headquarters.

  "...the commander won't open his door..."

  "...the briefing commences in five minutes..."

  "...should we force entry?"

  The voices murmured, apprehensive. Vargas was not the type of leader one interrupted. His fear of assassination had morphed into structured paranoia—the very security protocols he’d designed now ensnared him.

  No one dared open his office door without explicit orders, even as a critical meeting was set to begin.

  Such was the irony. The best prison is the one the prisoner builds for himself.

  But time was a relentless tide. With every passing second, the likelihood of someone taking initiative grew.

  His most loyal aide, Captain Rojas—a man with a face carved from granite—was undoubtedly en route from the mess hall. If Rojas arrived first, everything could unravel.

  Mateo pressed the tiny microphone concealed in his shirt collar. "Second Eagle, range?"

  Felix's voice, flat yet tense, answered from the approaching vehicle. "Three minutes. There's an NLU patrol on Main Avenue. Have to take a detour."

  "We don't have three minutes. Rojas is on the move. If he gets there first—"

  "Understood. Accelerating."

  The radio switched back to the panicked whispers from the third floor. Mateo closed his eyes, visualizing the headquarters' layout in his mind.

  He had one card to play here: Marta, a middle-aged woman with eyes like a hawk. Mother Rosa had recruited and trained her. Marta worked at the NLU headquarters as a senior administrative officer. And they had known each other for a decade.

  "The monthly report for Captain Rojas," she said to her direct superior in a bland, bureaucratic tone. "He requested it before the briefing."

  Her superior, a portly Major more concerned with his coffee than paperwork, waved a hand without looking up. "Fine, fine. Deliver it."

  Marta walked out of the room with efficient steps.

  Mateo knew what she was doing: buying time. Intercepting Rojas in the corridor, distracting him with "urgent" paperwork, creating a delay of thirty seconds, maybe a full minute.

  It wasn't much. But in a game like this, a minute was an eternity.

  14:32 – NLU Headquarters, Main Entrance

  Felix's vehicle—an unmarked black government sedan—screeched to a halt.

  Four men disembarked swiftly: Felix in the full dress uniform of a Colonel, two Blindaje operatives disguised as aides, and a courier carrying a case containing the decree.

  The guard at the entrance—not Garcia, who had been relieved—snapped to attention. "Colonel Felix? There is no appointment logged—"

  "National emergency," Felix cut in, his voice slicing through the air like a blade. "Direct order from President Guerrero. Open up."

  He brandished the decree with its large, crimson presidential seal. The guard hesitated, his eyes flicking to his comrades. Protocol warred with authority.

  One of the Blindaje operatives, Leo with a new face thanks to makeup and a fake mustache, stepped forward. "Every second you waste is an act of treason. Open. Now."

  The sheer confidence worked. The young guard gave a nervous nod, signaling. The heavy steel doors swung open.

  Felix strode inside, his footsteps echoing in the silent marble lobby. He did not head for the third floor. He moved towards the central communications room on the first floor.

  That was the first move they had agreed upon: seize control of information. Sever the headquarters' ability to communicate with the outside world, then move upward.

  Third Floor Corridor

  Marta succeeded. Captain Rojas, a muscular man whose face seemed hewn from stone, halted in the corridor, cursing as Marta presented the documents.

  "This is the wrong form. It should be 7-B, not 7-A."

  "But the Major said—"

  "I don't care what the Major said!" Rojas growled, yet his hands began flipping through the pages. An ingrained bureaucratic habit. He was trapped in the ritual he despised.

  Down the corridor, a group of NLU officers had gathered before Vargas's office door. One of them, a young Lieutenant with a pale face, knocked softly.

  "Commander? The battalion debrief is waiting."

  No answer.

  The Lieutenant looked to his senior, a bespectacled Major. "Should we...?"

  "Wait for orders from above," the Major replied, his voice uncertain.

  In a steel storage closet, Mateo listened to his own breathing. The radio crackled with Felix's voice, now from the communications room.

  "In the name of the President of the Republic, I am assuming control of this facility. Sever all external channels. Now."

  There was a sound of protest, then a sharp order, then the clicking of switches being thrown. One by one, the headquarters' connections to the outside world were severed: telephones, telegraphs, radios.

  ***

  Central Communications Room

  Felix stood in the center of the suddenly silent room. Four radio operators stared at him, bewildered.

  "Who is in charge here?" Felix asked.

  An old Sergeant stood up, his face wrinkled like bark. "I am, Colonel. Sergeant Ortiz."

  "Ortiz. You know me?"

  "Yes, Colonel. From the training camp at San Pedro."

  "Good. Then you know I do not speak idly. This facility is now under my emergency command by presidential order. All communications go through me alone. Is that clear?"

  Ortiz swallowed, then nodded. A seasoned soldier understood chain of command better than politics. "Clear, Colonel."

  "Maintain it. If anyone attempts to send a signal without my authorization, detain them. Use force if necessary."

  Felix turned to the two Blindaje operatives near him. Then to the courier, "with me."

  They left the room, heading for the elevator. Destination: the third floor. Time was growing ever tighter.

  ***

  Outside Vargas's Office

  Rojas finally freed himself from Marta, throwing the misfiled document to the floor. "Damned paperwork!" He hurried toward the crowd outside Vargas's office.

  "Situation?" he grunted.

  "The Commander is not responding, Captain," the young Lieutenant reported. "The door is locked from the inside."

  Rojas tried the handle. Locked. He knocked harder. "Commander Vargas! It's Rojas!"

  Silence.

  Rojas's eyes narrowed. An old soldier's instinct flared. "Break it down."

  "But protocol—"

  "Break it!" Rojas roared.

  Two burly NLU soldiers braced themselves, raising their shoulders to ram the solid wooden door. A first impact sounded. BAM.

  He pressed the microphone. "Felix. They're breaching the door."

  "We're in the elevator. Thirty seconds."

  BAM. A second blow.

  The door to Vargas's office splintered inward. Rojas was the first through, his sidearm already drawn.

  The scene inside froze him in place.

  Vargas sat behind his desk, his body slightly slumped forward as if studying the documents before him. His face appeared calm, almost relaxed. But his eyes were wide open, vacant, staring into emptiness. His lips had a faint bluish tinge.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The document on his desk was a routine report on "subversive element activities"—the same thing he read every day.

  "Commander?" Rojas approached cautiously.

  No response. Rojas touched Vargas's neck, searching for a pulse. The skin was still warm, but there was no heartbeat. No breath.

  He was dead...

  A choked sound escaped Rojas's lips. Something was wrong... this wasn't grief—it was realization. This was no accident. This wasn't a natural heart attack. This was...

  "Move!" he barked at the others. "Clear out! Guard this door! No one in or out!"

  But it was too late.

  The elevator chimed on the third floor. Felix stepped out, followed by the courier. They were immediately confronted by two NLU soldiers with rifles raised.

  "Halt! Identify!"

  Felix did not halt. He kept walking forward, his authority like a physical aura. "Colonel Felix, under direct order of President Guerrero. Lower your weapons."

  The soldiers hesitated. They were trained to obey, but this was a collision of orders—loyalty to their possibly dead commandant versus the authority of the president.

  In the corridor, Rojas emerged from Vargas's office, his face contorted with anger and disbelief. "Felix!" he shouted. "What is the meaning of this?"

  "Executing presidential orders, Captain," Felix replied, unnervingly calm. "The NLU headquarters is now under my emergency command."

  Rojas let out a laugh, short and bitter. "You think you can just waltz in and take over? Commander Vargas—"

  "—has succumbed to a sudden health crisis," Felix interjected, his voice cutting like ice. "And per emergency protocol, command devolves to the highest-ranking officer designated by the president. That is me."

  Rojas snarled, his hand on his holstered pistol. "I received no such order."

  "That is not a choice, Rojas." Felix brandished the decree again. "This is a lawful order. To defy it is insubordination. Treason."

  Around them, other NLU officers and soldiers began to gather. Some with hands on weapons. Some confused. Some—like the bespectacled Major—took a step back, calculating.

  Mateo, in the storeroom, listened to the near-explosive tension through the radio. He could imagine it: two magnetic poles repelling each other in the narrow corridor, a nearly visible field of force.

  He pressed the microphone, whispering on a dedicated channel. "Team B. Go."

  On the roof, in the ventilation shafts, in the basement—ten Sombra operatives moved. They were not for open combat. They were shadows moving behind the scenes, eliminating key targets while the officers faced off.

  Rojas took a deep breath. He looked around him—about twenty men in the corridor, most confused, some ready to follow him.

  But he also saw Felix, with his unshakable posture, the presidential decree, the two aides whose eyes were sharp and hands near their weapons.

  And he saw something else: behind Felix, at the end of the corridor, Marta stood calmly.

  Behind her, several other administrative staff—people usually overlooked—were also present. They were unarmed. But they were numerous. And they blocked the path to the emergency stairs.

  Rojas assessed the balance of power in an instant. He could probably kill Felix. But then what? A civil war within the headquarters? With communications cut, no orders from Vargas, most of the troops unaware?

  "What proof do you have the Commander died of natural causes?" Rojas challenged, searching for a flaw.

  "The President's physician is en route," Felix answered smoothly. "But before that, I have orders to stabilize the situation. That includes temporarily detaining individuals who might... overreact."

  Rojas's eyes widened. "Detain? You will detain NLU officers?"

  "If necessary to prevent chaos, yes." Felix stared at him unblinkingly. "Captain Rojas, I order you to surrender your sidearm and await me in the east conference room. In the name of the President of the Republic."

  It was a gamble. If Rojas refused, bloodshed would begin here, now.

  A vein throbbed at Rojas's temple. His breathing was heavy. His right hand trembled over his pistol. He looked into the eyes of his men—some nodded, urging him to fight. Some avoided his gaze.

  And he saw the bespectacled Major, who now stood clearly behind Felix.

  "Major Cruz?" Rojas asked, his voice hoarse.

  "Orders are orders," Major Cruz said, his voice unsteady but clear. "The presidential decree... it is lawful."

  Treason. Or duty, depending on the perspective.

  Rojas drew in one last, deep breath, then—in a slow motion that felt like defeat—unbuckled his holster and handed it to one of the Blindaje operatives.

  "Fine," he grunted. "But this isn't over, Felix."

  "No," Felix agreed. "It is only the beginning."

  He gestured, and two seemingly neutral NLU soldiers escorted Rojas away. Not roughly, but firmly.

  The first crisis was averted. But Mateo knew this was only the surface. Rojas was merely a symptom. The disease went deeper.

  ***

  Felix now stood in the central command room on the third floor, surrounded by maps and status boards. Before him were ten NLU officers—section commanders, head of logistics, intelligence officers.

  "First," Felix said, his voice filling the quiet room. "Commander Vargas has died suddenly. Cause unknown, under investigation. Second, by presidential order, I assume temporary command of the NLU until a designated successor is appointed. Third, there are indications of enemy infiltration within our ranks. Certain elements may have turned."

  It was the narrative they had prepared: Vargas a victim (not by their hand), an external threat, the need for unity.

  A battalion commander, a bear of a man named Commander Torres, stood. "Colonel, with respect... this is highly irregular. How do we know this isn't... a coup?"

  The right question. Felix was ready.

  "You know who I am, Torres. I am not a politician. I am a soldier. Always have been. If this were a coup, would I come alone with only two aides? With a decree that can be verified later? No." He paused, making eye contact with each man in the room.

  "The Republic is in danger. Not from outside, but from within. And the NLU—we—can be part of the solution, or part of the problem. The choice is yours."

  It wasn't an answer, but something better. A call to a higher identity. From loyalty to a man, towards loyalty to the institution, to the state.

  Torres nodded slowly, sitting back down. Not fully convinced, but not opposing.

  "First step," Felix continued. "We secure the headquarters. All personnel remain at their posts. No one in or out without my authorization. All communications through me. Second, I need a list of all personnel with close ties to the late Commander Vargas—aides, personal guards, special staff. For their protection, and for the investigation."

  That list. That was the core. In polite language, Felix had just asked them to identify themselves or their comrades most loyal to Vargas.

  Several faces tightened. Some paled. But no one openly protested. Discipline and doubt worked in tandem.

  In the archives room, Mateo listened and gave a slow nod. Good. Now, time for phase three.

  ***

  15:00 – Various Locations, Headquarters

  The operation unfolded with chilling precision. As the list of names began to flow—from cooperative officers, from archives accessed by Marta, from the observations of hidden Sombra operatives—special teams moved.

  They were not NLU soldiers. They were a mix: some Blindaje operatives who had infiltrated as support staff, some Sombra experts in silent takedowns, some even regular NLU soldiers persuaded by Major Cruz or fearful of the consequences of defiance.

  First target: Lieutenant Garcia (not the door guard sergeant), Vargas's personal aide. He was found in the private archives, shredding documents. Captured without resistance.

  Second target: Sergeant Major Ruiz, head of interrogations. He was in the basement when the team arrived. Tried to resist, was shot in the leg, then subdued.

  Third, fourth, fifth... Like dominoes, key figures in Vargas's personal network fell. Some taken quietly, some with minimal struggle, some—the most fanatical—choosing suicide over capture.

  Mateo, still in the warehouse, received reports through the hidden radio. Each name crossed off the list was a breath of relief. But also another weight added to the burden that would one day haunt him.

  He thought of the city outside today. The day was still bright. People walked the streets, unaware that a state within a state was being dissected alive.

  He left the steel warehouse closet and made his way towards the NLU headquarters.

  ***

  16:30 – Command Room

  Felix sat alone for the first time since his arrival. Before him, a long list of names: 47 individuals detained. 8 dead (suicide or resisting). 15 others "under close observation"—loyalists not deemed critical enough.

  Of the estimated thousand fanatical loyalists, this was only the core. But it was the head of the serpent. The rest, leaderless and uncoordinated, would dissolve or assimilate.

  The door opened. Mateo entered. The two men regarded each other—the young man with an old burden, and the middle-aged man doing the dirty work for a cleaner future.

  "Success?" Mateo asked.

  "So far." Felix lifted the list. "But this is only the beginning. Rumors will spread. Resentment will fester. Some of those we captured have followers."

  "We will handle that. With military tribunals. With evidence of their crimes—torture, extrajudicial killings, corruption. We will change the narrative: we are not killing heroes, but purging criminals from the institution."

  "You believe that will work?"

  "It must." Mateo sat down, rubbing his face. He felt suddenly, profoundly weary. "Otherwise, all of this—Vargas, the detainees, even The Bridge Project—it's all for nothing."

  Felix leaned forward, his voice low. "I need to know. The poison... did he suffer?"

  Mateo looked at him, then turned his gaze to the window. "No. The report says it was quick. Like falling asleep."

  That was partly true. But from the memories of his first life, Mateo knew that digitalis poisoning—even accelerated—was not without sensation. There was discomfort, confusion, fear.

  But it was more humane than a bullet. Cleaner than the torture Vargas routinely administered.

  "Good," Felix said, as if convincing himself. "Good."

  A moment of silence passed. Then Felix asked, "And now? The NLU?"

  "Now we rebuild it. With a new doctrine. With loyalty to the constitution. And," Mateo looked at Felix, "with a new Commander."

  Felix shook his head. "Not me. I have... other duties to attend to. And I am too... tainted by today."

  "You are who they will follow. For now. Until we find the right successor."

  "A successor from where? Every senior NLU officer is linked to Vargas."

  "Not from the NLU," Mateo said. "From the outside. Someone clean. Someone who understands security but also understands..."

  Felix regarded him with interest. "You already have someone in mind."

  "A few candidates. But that is for tomorrow." Mateo stood. "For now, hold the headquarters. Ensure no leaks of the wrong story. Tomorrow morning, we announce Vargas's death from a heart attack. Full military honors. Then, slowly, introduce the reforms."

  "And Vargas's family?"

  That was the difficult question. Mateo had thought about it. Vargas's wife, his two teenage children. They were not guilty. But they could become a symbol, a rallying point for the disaffected.

  "We protect them. Provide a generous pension. Relocate them from the capital. Politely."

  "A purge with a smile," Felix murmured.

  "It's better than the alternative."

  Felix nodded, then suddenly laughed—a short, dry, humorless sound. "You know, in all my years in the military, I never imagined being part of something like this. A soft coup. A revolution within the revolution."

  "This isn't a revolution," Mateo said, walking to the door. "It's maintenance. Like cleaning the rust from a jammed gear so the machine can work again."

  He left the room, descended to the first floor, and exited the headquarters through a side entrance. The late afternoon sun greeted him, warm on his skin.

  Across the street, the service van was still parked. Clara and Leo were inside, their faces weary but vigilant.

  "All good?" Clara asked.

  "For now." Mateo got into the vehicle. "Let's go home."

  They drove through the streets of Caraccass, now bustling with evening activity. The market was still open. Children ran home from school. An old man sold ice cream from a cart with a tiny bell.

  The world kept turning. It didn't matter who died in the concrete headquarters, who held power. Life found a way.

  But Mateo knew this was only an interlude. The storm inside the fortress might have subsided, but the winds still blew outside. There would be questions. There would be suspicion. There would be reprisals.

  He looked out the window at the faces of passersby. Some smiled. Some hurried. Some were blank.

  How many of them knew how fragile it all was? How thin the veneer was between the bread on their table and chaos in the streets? How much filth a handful of people had to handle so they could keep smiling?

  Well, they didn't need to know.

  The vehicle passed the "Rising Sun" cooperative. The queues were gone. A mother walked out carrying a sack of rice, her small daughter leading her by the hand.

  The Bridge still stands, Mateo thought. For now.

  He leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw the dead face of Vargas. The defeated face of Rojas. The weary face of Felix.

  And above them all, the face of Luis, the boy from the riverbank, who could now spell his name.

  An exchange. Always an exchange. A life for a life. Filth for cleanliness. Sin for the possibility of redemption.

  Was it balanced? Was it fair?

  There was no answer in the quiet vehicle, only the sound of the engine and the road, and the weight of a nation that had just been saved—or perhaps just condemned—by their choices.

  They arrived at the Palace of the Sun as dusk began to fall. The palace, with its white walls and golden dome, looked like an illusion. Beautiful, majestic, yet as fragile as glass.

  Mateo stepped out, looking up. Somewhere inside, his father waited for a report. His mother was probably reading. Eleanor and Isabella were likely laughing.

  Their small, protected world, built upon a foundation he had wet with poison, blood, and deceit.

  He took a deep breath, then walked inside. There was still work to be done. Stories to be crafted, lies to be woven into an acceptable truth.

  Night would come. And tomorrow, the sun would rise again over the Republic of Venez, shining on a nation a little safer, a little more stable, and a little more stained with sin than the day before.

  That is the price of progress, he thought as he stepped through the door. And he, Mateo Guerrero, was the one who had to pay it.

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