Carlos Mendez's new office faced west. It wasn't a deliberate choice—he'd simply taken the Head of State's study after Ricardo was moved to a secure location.
But now, every evening, the sunset fell directly before his window, bathing the room in an orange glow that made everything look like an old painting.
He had never liked sunsets. Too dramatic. Too much unnecessary meaning.
On the same mahogany desk Ricardo had once used, three documents now lay spread out.
The first: a list of military officers to be "early retired." The second: a draft of the official announcement for the press. The third: a map of locations to be used for… something that would never appear in any newspaper.
Carlos read the first list once, then read it again. Forty-seven names. Too many. He crossed out twelve with his pen—the rest could still be useful, those not too loyal to Ricardo, or those with troublesome family connections. Thirty-five remained.
And twelve walking corpses.
The door opened. Roberto entered with soundless steps, as always. The young man with the thin mustache and perpetually half-lowered eyes carried a new folder. His face was pale, but his hands were steady.
"Everything is ready, Colonel," he said. He still addressed Carlos by his former rank, even though Carlos was now "Acting Head of State." Carlos didn't correct him. There was comfort in old formalities.
"The announcement?"
"Ready. The news agency will broadcast it within the hour. El Sol Nacional has already printed a special edition. The headline: 'President Guerrero Ill, Acting Leader Appointed to Manage Transition Period.' Nothing suspicious."
"A quote from the doctor?"
"Dr. Herrera has signed the medical statement. We gave him… sufficient incentive." Roberto paused briefly. "He won't talk."
Carlos nodded. Dr. Herrera, an old man with trembling hands, had nearly fainted when they "invited" him to headquarters last night. But after a thick envelope and assurances that his family would be safe, he'd become quite cooperative. People could always be bought. It was only a matter of price.
"And Ricardo?" Carlos asked. He didn't look at Roberto when he asked. His eyes were still on the list of names.
"In a secure location, as the Colonel ordered. Heavy guard. No contact with the outside world. He… he asked to speak with his wife."
"No."
"I told him no." Roberto hesitated. "Colonel… are we… I mean, eventually… will we have to…"
Carlos looked up. Stared at Roberto. The young man's eyes were uneasy—not afraid, but uncertain. Carlos knew that feeling. Had felt it once, the first time he had to decide someone's fate.
"No," he said firmly. "Ricardo must stay alive."
Roberto blinked. "But—"
"You heard me. He stays alive. Not because I'm kind, and not because I lack the heart for it." Carlos leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced over his stomach. "But because he's too popular. The people still love him. The newspapers, even those we control, can't simply reverse public opinion overnight. If Ricardo dies—killed, or even by suicide—the people will suspect. They'll ask questions. And questions are the beginning of instability."
He stood, walking to the window. The sun was half-set, leaving orange traces on the western horizon.
"As long as Ricardo lives and is 'ill,' the people can hope. They can think that one day he'll return. And as long as they hope, they won't take to the streets. They won't carry banners. They won't cause us problems."
He turned to face Roberto.
"We don't need a dead hero. A dead hero is a martyr. And martyrs are more dangerous than living heroes. Because martyrs can't be controlled. Martyrs can't be given medicine, can't be imprisoned, can't be silenced. Martyrs only grow in the people's memory, becoming larger every day, until eventually they're stronger dead than alive."
Roberto nodded slowly. His eyes no longer looked uneasy. Now there was understanding there—or at least compliance.
"So Ricardo stays in the safe house. For a long time."
"For a very long time," Carlos said. "We treat him well. Good food, books, perhaps someday we'll allow his family to visit. But he will never again sit in that chair." He pointed to the chair behind the desk. "That chair is mine now."
A moment of silence. The sound of the wall clock—a relic from the old regime, still ticking faithfully.
"Then," Roberto began cautiously, "that list?" His eyes shifted to the papers on the desk.
Carlos returned to his chair, picked up the document with the twelve names, and read it again in a low voice.
"Admiral Sebastián. Colonel Adrián. Major Julio. Captain—" he stopped, folding the paper, "—those who can never be brought to cooperate. Those too loyal to Ricardo. Those who will be problems later."
"All of them?"
"Not all." Carlos shook his head. "Twelve men. The rest we give unimportant new positions. Let them live, let them feel lucky. But keep them close. We need officers. That's why we can't kill everyone loyal to the old regime—otherwise, there'd be no one left to run the army. And an army without officers is just a crowd of people with weapons."
Roberto made notes in his small book. "Admiral Sebastián is the most difficult. He has enormous influence in naval circles. Many captains respect and are loyal to him."
"Then that's why he must be first." Carlos stressed the word 'first.' "Set an example. Let them see that no one is untouchable. That we are serious."
"When?"
"Tonight."
Roberto nodded without expression. "Location?"
Carlos took a map from his desk drawer—a topographic map of the eastern region, outside the city, near a mine that had been abandoned for five years. His index finger pressed down on a spot.
"Here. An old excavation pit, deep enough, long unused. No one will search there. No one will hear anything."
He folded the map, handed it to Roberto.
"Make sure it's clean. Nothing identifiable. No insignia, no uniforms, no documents. They will become missing persons. No bodies, no evidence. The people will ask, but without answers, the questions will die on their own."
"And their families?"
Carlos closed his eyes briefly. "Their families know nothing. They'll be told their husbands or fathers have been assigned to a secret mission abroad. For an indefinite period. We give them decent pensions—enough to keep them quiet, but not enough to make them suspicious."
Roberto wrote again. His pen moved quickly, without hesitation.
"Admiral Sebastián," Carlos said again, his voice slow, as if visualizing. "He will resist. Make sure he can't speak before… before we finish."
"Understood."
"Execute on site. No trial needed. No confession needed. They were condemned the moment they chose to be loyal to the wrong man."
***
That night, at eleven o'clock, three military trucks with no markings emerged from the secret garage behind the main command headquarters.
The first truck carried twelve soldiers in dark brown uniforms without insignia—faces handpicked by Roberto, men of proven loyalty, who would not hesitate, who would not ask questions. Their weapons had been checked, wrapped in cloth to keep them from clinking.
The second truck was empty. For passengers.
The third truck was also empty. For… other purposes.
They picked up their targets one by one, from their homes, under the pretext of "an emergency summons from command." Some came willingly, still in their pajamas, thinking there had been an attack or an uprising. Others were suspicious, but had no choice when two fully armed soldiers stood at their doors.
Admiral Sebastián was the most difficult.
The old man lived in a simple house near the port—not in the high-ranking officers' district, because he'd always considered official residences in the city center too lavish. When the truck arrived, he was sitting on his back porch, drinking coffee, despite the late hour.
"What is this?" he asked, rising slowly. He wasn't in uniform—just a worn shirt and trousers. His eyes narrowed at the soldiers without insignia.
"Emergency summons from command, Admiral," said the squad leader, a sergeant with a flat voice.
"An emergency summons at eleven at night? Without a letter? Without identification?" Sebastián laughed shortly. "Son, do you think I was born yesterday?"
"We're just following orders, Admiral."
"Whose orders?"
Silence.
Three seconds. Five seconds.
The sergeant signaled. Two soldiers moved forward, gripping Sebastián's arms. The old man didn't resist—he was too old to fight, and he knew when to choose his battles. But his eyes, as they led him to the truck, never stopped staring at the sergeant.
"Carlos Mendez," he said, half asking, half concluding. "He must have ordered this."
The sergeant didn't answer.
"Tell him," Sebastián continued, his voice unwavering, "that he will never sleep soundly. That every shadow will feel like a bayonet at his back. That history will write his name in blood ink, not gold."
The truck moved.
In the darkness, Admiral Sebastián sat between Colonel Adrián and Major Julio. They didn't speak—there was no need. They all already knew this was their end.
The journey took an hour. Winding roads, up and down hills, past dark coffee plantations and small streams glinting under moonlight. No one spoke. Only the rumble of the truck engine and the occasional snap of branches beneath the tires.
The location—the abandoned mine—looked like a giant mouth gaping in the darkness. A pit fifteen meters deep, twenty wide, with steep, slippery earthen walls. Around it, tall trees blocked the starlight, making the place feel like a massive underground chamber.
Flashlights were switched on. Fifteen points of light danced across the mine walls, casting strange shadows that moved like ghosts.
The prisoners were unloaded one by one. There were twelve men that night—nine loyalist officers plus Admiral Sebastián, Colonel Adrián, and Major Julio.
They stood in a single line at the pit's edge, hands bound behind their backs, mouths gagged with cloth. Some were already limp, their bodies trembling violently. Others stood straight, eyes forward, refusing to show fear.
Admiral Sebastián was the last to be unloaded. His gag was loose—perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. He looked at the squad leader, the same sergeant who had picked him up.
"I have the right to speak before I die," he said. His voice was calm.
The sergeant hesitated. His eyes shifted to Roberto—who had just descended from the third truck, his black suit immaculate despite the late hour, his hair perfectly combed. Roberto nodded.
"You have one minute," said the sergeant.
Sebastián smiled. A strange smile—not bitter, not victorious, but something like relief. Like a man who had been waiting for something a long time, and it had finally come.
"Carlos Mendez," he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. "Tell him that what he does tonight will not bring him peace. He thinks by killing us, he secures his power. But what he's doing is killing the only people who could have prevented his own destruction."
He paused. His gaze shifted to the other officers beside him.
"We all know Ricardo wasn't perfect. He was too idealistic, too trusting of words. But he had a heart. He still remembered why he fought. Carlos? Carlos only remembers power. And a man who only remembers power will eventually be destroyed by that power itself."
He looked at Roberto.
"That's my message. Deliver it."
Roberto didn't answer. He only gave a small hand signal.
Bang.
The first shot wasn't loud—the weapons were fitted with special suppressors. Colonel Adrián fell first, right beside Sebastián. Blood sprayed from his temple, deep red under the flashlight beams, seeping into the dry mine soil.
The second shot, third, fourth. Sounds like wet slaps. Bodies dropped one by one, some twitching briefly before going still. Major Julio managed a muffled shout through his gag—"Long live the Republic!"—a muted sound that came out like a long howl, then stopped.
Admiral Sebastián remained standing. For some reason, no one had shot him first. Perhaps because he was the oldest. Perhaps because some remnant of respect lingered among those soldiers. Perhaps because they wanted him to watch.
He looked at the bodies beside him, one by one. Adrián. Julio. Captain Rojas. Lieutenant Castillo. Mayor Paredes. Faces he knew, faces who had dined at his house, faces who had called him "Admiral" with respect, not fear.
Now they lay on the ground, blood pooling around their heads, eyes wide open staring at a night sky they could no longer see.
"Your turn, Admiral," the sergeant said. His voice held no pity. But no satisfaction either. Just flatness. Like a man finishing a job.
Sebastián lifted his chin. "Do it."
Bang.
One shot. His body fell backward, rolled briefly at the pit's edge, then stopped at an angle—one hand still bound behind his back, face upward, eyes half-open.
Silence.
The last gunshot faded among the trees. The night birds that had scattered in fear now began returning to their nests. A light wind blew, carrying the smell of gunpowder and blood.
Roberto stood at the pit's edge, looking down. Twelve bodies lay on the dry ground, their shadows cast by the shifting flashlights making them seem as if they were still moving.
"Clean it up," he said.
The soldiers descended into the pit with shovels. They didn't dig very deep—just enough to cover the bodies with soil and rock, enough to make them not easily found.
Not a proper grave. Just a hole, earth, and silence.
An hour later, it was done.
The trucks moved back toward the city, leaving the dark, silent mine behind. No sign that twelve men had died there. The freshly turned earth was slightly higher than the surrounding ground, but in the darkness, no one would notice.
***
The next morning, the newspapers published a special edition.
EL SOL NACIONAL
The front page: a photo of Ricardo Guerrero in bed, his face pale, eyes closed, a cold cloth pressed to his forehead. The photo had been taken last night by the palace photographer who "happened" to be in the room when the doctor examined him.
PRESIDENT GUERRERO ILL, ACTING LEADER APPOINTED
General Carlos Mendez to Lead Transition Period Until Recovery
On page three, a small notice: "Twelve Officers Assigned to Overseas Mission."
No one asked. No one dared.
In the safe house, in a windowless room, Ricardo Guerrero sat on a wooden chair, staring at a blank wall, unaware that the twelve men most loyal to him had died last night.
No one would tell him.
In his office, Carlos Mendez read the special edition of El Sol Nacional one more time. The black coffee in his hand had gone cold, but he didn't care.
Outside the window, the sun was rising. A new day was beginning.
Carlos smiled. A smile that didn't reach his eyes.