The last of the gunshots had been fired by the time I reached the compound.
When I got there, the battle was already over.
The enemy had attacked from the same direction Vicente had launched his charge earlier that day. The only difference was that this time, my soldiers were ready to meet them head-on. More than twenty rifles waited behind windows and alleyways, watching for the moment the enemy would emerge from the treeline and step into the open field.
It was nothing short of a massacre.
The fallen torches scattered across the field cast a flickering glow over the otherwise dark meadows. White uniforms littered the grass, their color stark against the night. The attackers had fancied themselves an army, it seemed. Each of them wore a white jacket modeled after the revolutionary uniform, and carried a kit—Remington rifle, ammunition pouch, and bolo knife.
Only to fall within minutes of the engagement.
