"It's me, Domingo! Stop shooting!" shouted Ortega, his voice hoarse but forceful as a precise hail of bullets poured from the makeshift barricades of broken furniture, driftwood, and chunks of stone debris.
It was supposed to be the weakest point of the presidencia compound—a wide, vacant lot, rarely used and often ignored. Just an open space where townsfolk once stored lumber or carts. In contrast, all other approaches to the building were tight alleys that could be held by just two or three determined men.
But the former Cazadores who were tasked to defend it made it impenetrable. All those who wanted to assail it would have to cross a ten-meter open space—that was the town street—and be sitting ducks to the trained marksmanship of the former Spanish infantrymen.
If we had grenades, it would have been doable. But we only had rifles, and the only way to take it was to sacrifice a couple or more recruits—a sacrifice I was not willing to make.
