Chapter 2043 - 843: The Perpetrator’s Unease

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor said, "the Ecuadorian troops are to be fully disarmed and locked up in temporary camps. Officers and soldiers separate. Those involved in the massacre, isolated."

"Understood."

"Have the civilian corridors been opened?"

"Open. At seven this morning, the first batch of refugees has already started to leave the city."

Victor nodded.

"Tell them that within three days, anyone willing to leave can go. After three days, the city is sealed, and a sweep begins."

Bramo was taken aback.

"Sweep for what?"

Victor looked at him.

"Those 'Patriots' hiding in the city. Those murderers. Those accomplices."

He paused.

"Not a single one can be spared."

2 PM, Quito, San Blas District.

At the entrance of the smashed-up Mexican restaurant, an old man was sweeping the ground.

He was in his sixties, wearing worn-out work clothes, holding a broom, sweeping the broken glass on the ground.

Next to him stood a Mexican soldier in uniform, in his early twenties, with a hint of innocence on his face.

"Old man, it's not safe here, you'd better head out of the city."

The old man didn't lift his head.

"I'm not leaving."

The soldier was stunned for a moment.

"Why?"

The old man stopped the broom, lifted his head.

"I've been running this shop here for thirty years. Since I was twenty-eight until now."

He pointed to the pile of rubble.

"This is my life."

The soldier looked at him, unsure of what to say.

The old man continued sweeping.

"Those murderous beasts, they can't escape," he muttered, "they will come back. By then, I want to see them captured with my own eyes."

The soldier was silent for a few seconds. ℴℴ𝘮

Then he stood straight.

"Old man, I'll wait with you."

5 PM, Quito, Presidential Palace.

Alarcón was sitting in the office, opposite Garcia.

Everything in the office was just as he had left it—the papers scattered on the table, a coffee cup still on the windowsill, the TV on, showing scenes of the streets of Quito.

In the screen, Mexican soldiers were patrolling. The streets were quiet, occasionally a few pedestrians hurried by, no one dared to linger.

"Mr. President," Garcia spoke, "What do you plan to do next?"

Alarcón looked at him.

"How are you going to handle me?"

Garcia shook his head.

"I don't know. We'll have to wait for Mr. Victor's decision."

Alarcón nodded.

"Then we'll wait."

He stood up, walked to the window.

Outside, the sky over Quito was very blue, the sunlight shining on the distant mountains, dyeing the snowy peaks golden.

"Brigade Commander Garcia, did you know, when I first came here thirty years ago, I was a young congressman. Back then, I thought that one day, I would make this country better."

He paused.

"Thirty years have passed. I've achieved nothing. Instead... I've become the very person I least wanted to become."

Garcia said nothing.

Alarcón turned around.

"Tell Mr. Victor, I confess. I admit to the crimes I've committed. I'm open to whatever he decides."

7 PM, Temporary Forward Command Center.

Victor looked at the report sent from Quito.

Alarcón confessed.

Sinopiquiar was still at large.

Thirty-seven people on the massacre list have already been captured.

He placed the report down.

"Bramo."

Bramo walked over.

"Here."

"Tell Garcia to keep Alarcón detained in the Presidential Palace. Treat him well, no difficulties. Once things over here are settled, then we trial."

Bramo nodded.

"As for Sinopiquiar, have Bennett's people keep a close watch. If he goes to Colombia, notify the Colombian Government to assist in capturing him. If Colombia doesn't cooperate—"

He stopped.

Bramo waited.

Victor looked at him.

"Then we'll capture him ourselves."

February 10, 1998, early morning, Colombian border.

Sinopiquiar stood on an abandoned farm, looking at the dirt road leading to Colombia in the distance.

His private plane had landed last night on a secret runway near the border. The pilot had left him and run, leaving only him and a box of cash he couldn't carry away.

His phone was long dead. He didn't know what was happening outside, didn't know how far the Mexicans had pursued, didn't know how much further he could run.

Barking dogs could be heard in the distance.

He shuddered.

Are they pursuers?

Or local farmers?

He crouched down, shrank into the shadow of the wall corner, not daring to move.

The barking grew closer.

There were also footsteps.

He heard someone speaking—not Spanish, in a language he couldn't understand.

English?

No, was it—Portuguese?

Brazilians?

He wanted to run, but his legs were weak.

The footsteps stopped at the farm entrance.

Someone shouted something.

Then, a beam of flashlight swept over, shining on his face.

Squinting, he saw a few people in camouflage standing at the door. The guns in their hands, aimed directly at him.

"Mr. Sinopiquiar?" one of them spoke, in Spanish with a heavy accent.

Sinopiquiar did not respond.

"We are with the Colombian National Army. Ordered to ask you to come with us."

He was taken aback.

Colombian National Army?

No—it's not right.

He saw a small emblem on their sleeves.

An emblem he didn't recognize but suddenly understood.

The Mexicans'.

8 AM, Temporary Forward Command Center.

Bennett called as Victor was having breakfast.

"Mr. Victor, Sinopiquiar has been captured."

Victor put down his fork.

"Where?"

"Colombian border. Our Special Forces went across the border to capture him last night. We're bringing him back now."

Victor was silent for a few seconds.

"What about the Colombian government?"

"They don't know," Bennett's voice was calm, "we didn't notify them."

Victor's mouth twitched slightly.

"Make it clean. Leave no evidence."

"Understood."

The call ended.

Victor picked up his fork again.

Casare sat beside, grinning.

"Boss, this is what you call the big picture. The person you want captured can be brought back even if they've crossed borders. The revenge you seek can be exacted even a thousand kilometers away."

Victor said nothing.

He took a bite of breakfast, looked out the window.

Outside, the sky over Mexico City was blue, the sunlight was splendid.

In the distance, traffic on Paseo de la Reforma flowed slowly and orderly.

To the south, a thousand kilometers away, the sky over Quito should also be blue.

But that city, is no longer the Quito it once was.