El Maestre (11)
In group combat where both sides are armed with guns, exposing your flank or rear is catastrophically fatal. Due to the nature of firearms, a single person bypassing the front line can collapse an entire unit. And the superior physical abilities of primitive magic Awakened enable high-speed maneuvers unbound by terrain or obstacles. In future small-unit engagements, the key would be how effectively each Awakened leveraged their individual abilities alongside that unique mobility.
That's why, during training, I'd granted my subordinates broad autonomy while emphasizing my own on-site command capabilities. No cutting-edge command system—intuitively grasping every soldier's field of view from above, bird's-eye surveying the battlefield—could surpass a field commander who visually pierced everything. Especially not in a chaotic mess like this, brimming with interference.
Having reaped a three-digit toll of death from Dobla A and the British alike, I stood at the midnight-dawn cusp, gazing down at the freshly slaughtered corpses.
Soldiers who smelled different, had different skin tones, even different uniforms and gear from the British. They were the "+1" from the FPDA+1 coalition—Indian troops who'd raced 330 kilometers at their mother country's behest.
Their hearts stilled, the soldiers stared blankly with wide eyes at the hazy sky veiled by moon and stars. They'd crushed cartel militants with ease, only to be swept away like a disaster by me and my men.
Was that it?
The deaths of those with no reason to die chilled my fevered head, overheated by the heat of battle, in an instant. Forgotten fatigue returned, weighing down my entire body. It felt like liquid gravity seeping like poison through my lukewarm veins.
Just then, Kyung-tae reached the same conclusion.
"Hyungnim. Time to pull back, yeah? Enemies are piling up, and burning more of the city risks our remaining deals. Throw out some bait here and wrap it up..."
"Yeah. Everyone, shed your armor."
Corpses to dress in armor littered the ground everywhere. Dobla A's sicarios, and gutter trash who couldn't even make that cut. But none suitable for faking the knight commander's death. The fate of the infamous El Maestre would remain an unsolved mystery. All we'd leave behind were the knight commander's arms and armor.
After dressing and planting the body, the next step was faking the cause of death.
"Firing."
Thwoom! One subordinate launched a captured RPG-7 from a sicario.
At the end of its trajectory, an Indian army truck loaded with recoilless rifle rounds and ample explosives.
Boom! Kwakwakwa-boom! The truck erupted in a fierce chain explosion. Shockwaves rippled out twice, pulverizing nearby buildings. Parked cars tumbled like in a typhoon; a motorcycle side-swiped by the blast skidded half a block across asphalt, sparking flames.
What of the corpses at ground zero? Shredded and flung about as commonplace.
Forensic analysis of the aftermath would yield one conclusion: Fake holy knights had hacked the Indians to pieces, only to get caught in a cartel rocket attack and meet an unlucky mass grave.
Shrieking wails pierced from the few remaining occupied homes. Amid it all, something thudded and splattered—a chunk of the horse we'd tied to the truck, rolling dully. Its lower neck gone, half its hide peeled off, it sprawled across the asphalt. The sight evoked a Picasso brought to life in gore. Wounds and burns in erratic colors. Staring into the one intact eye of that bloody artwork, Kyung-tae murmured flatly.
"Poor bastard. Such a gentle guy."
A dutiful beast who'd left striking evidence and witness accounts across the city. Death's agony must've been instantaneous. At least quicker than standard slaughter.
Turning my back on the charnel house, I withdrew to the Bitíal riverside. From decision to link up with the men positioned in the greenbelt by the riverbank, we fought not a single additional battle, nor took any detours. The streets we'd rampaged through lay utterly deserted, literally no-man's-lands.
But then.
"One more prey left?"
In comms linked to the field HQ, Suyeon informed me of another target's emergence. Not essential, but overflowing with value worth killing for.
"Docks? Which ones?"
I cross-checked the name against the pre-memorized map and felt a twinge of bewilderment.
"...In this mess, they're smuggling money and drugs right in front of the naval base?"
Puerto Vallarta's harbor bay was pathetically small. If not a tourist spot, it'd hardly qualify as a port. Its sole entrance faced a cruise dock and naval base; farther in, small docks for fishing boats and yachts crammed the space. Marina Vallarta sat deepest among them.
So if El Fuego meant to evac himself and his plaza's core assets by sea, he'd have to pass the narrow strait right before the naval base. Barely 100 meters wide.
"Is that even possible?" The navy had to be on high alert. No amount of usual bribes would let that slide. It could escalate to a diplomatic incident.
Suyeon answered without hesitation.
Ah, got it.
"So, as long as El Fuego doesn't dawdle, he'll make it."
Few rental boats for tourists among the exodus. Unless civilians looted keys from offices. Most were private yachts of the wealthy—western coastal residents, first to savor southwest breezes. Mexico's public power existed for them. Post-Guadalajara incident, many Guadalajara elites fled to this nearby resort. Why luxury hotels glossed lips, why Perucho's daughter Maria earned 50 pesos a day. El Fuego had factored this in. When FPDA+1 clashed with Dobla A, he saw this as his only out. Smart call. Sly, selfish bastard.
I sighed, deciding.
"Gotta nab that one too."
Just when I thought only vanishing act left, this new chore annoyed me to no end. But no matter the fatigue, you don't ignore a surefire lottery win dangling before you.
A cartel plaza boss running the port's top casino, peddling drugs and hookers to tourists—his assets alone, conservatively, millions in cash and goods. Even accounting for the harbor's slump. Tens of billions in bonus for brief extra work. Passing that up would be idiotic.
And El Fuego, with El Tiro, had to be FPDA+1 spoils. For a clean wrap-up. Survival irrelevant.
'Cornered cartel lord chooses suicide... or they killed each other.' Neat enough for that loathsome island nation to save face.
Hearing my sigh, Suyeon spoke in a slightly subdued tone.
"No. You did right telling me." I'd vowed no losses myself.
"Plan?"
"Islets? Safe?"
"Good enough. Joining soon."
Comms cut. We raced the path Suyeon had paved. Five kilometers of flawless prep took about four minutes. Coastal road near naval base hugged the nature preserve swamp, so from there, just max speed parallel to the road.
No surprise we beat the cartel's cargo convoy to the docks.
Krurrrung— The guttural exhaust of an armored vehicle neared.
Leading the cartel convoy: An eight-wheeler military APC. As an arms dealer, I clocked it instantly—not Mexican regular army, but a cartel lord's private toy.
'SKOT?'
SKOT (OT-64 SKOT). Cold War relic from old Czech and Polish stables. Military APC, sure, but now hawked as junkyard classics worldwide. Full-option compact car price—hobbyists snapped 'em up easy. Guns stripped, of course. Sold civvies like this sometimes sparked domestic wars. So common even arms dealers like me ignored 'em. Why overpay black market for licensed market fodder? Unless high-risk clients needed customs.
Still, in Mexico? Plenty potent. Cold War junk or not, third-world spots stuck in the 20th century ran 'em active. Narco tanks from modded trucks? These guys had leveled up. Hell to transport, too.
Kwajik— Battering ram on the prow shoved obstructing cars roughly aside. Civilian wrecks from panic pileups at intersections.
Through the gap, high beams flashing, the convoy snaked into the docks. Midway, two flatbeds: One drugs only; the smaller crammed with bills and bullion. The latter far exceeded my expectations.