Prologue
Over thirty thousand angry citizens flowed through the streets of Managua. The largest anti-government protest in recent memory halted traffic, bringing most of the city to a standstill. They had seen enough and were demanding change. Streams converged, filling the National University stadium parking lot, spilling over onto walkways and roads. Local news stations followed, capturing images of the noisy but peaceful crowd. Whistles blew and drums pounded. Nicaraguan flags waved in the breeze. Some attached to sticks, some draped over the backs of protesters. Shouts of anxious optimism filled the air. The young and naive believed there was safety in numbers, especially with TV cameras present. Their charismatic leader, the founder of the university opposition movement, hopped up on the bed of a pickup truck. He stood tall and held a bullhorn. The crowd immediately began to chant his name.
“Victor! Victor! Victor!”
He paused to admire the sea of brave compatriots draped in blue and white. Intensity grew with each chant, becoming louder and louder. His arms went up.
Cheers erupted.
“We are fearless and unstoppable.”
The crowd responded with their rally cry: “Nobody surrenders, here!”
“Stop government-sanctioned violence!”
Thousands roared: “Nobody surrenders, here!”
“We demand free and honest elections!”
“Nobody surrenders, here!”
The protesters worked themselves up into a fever pitch of excitement. It felt like the start of a revolution, one that would finally free their country from oppression and corruption.
Victor shouted, “Release all political—”
Suddenly, rapid-fire explosions pierced through his words. Victor dropped, injured. Most continued cheering, assuming the loud pops were sounds of celebration from a continuous firecracker roll. Several protesters in front, holding up the poles of a large freedom banner, collapsed. Blood pooled around them. The cheers stopped, and a wave of panic swept across the crowd. Cries for help and screams of horror echoed through the campus. A few rushed to help the wounded, the rest scattered. Heads swiveled, searching for the source of the gunfire. From multiple directions, several canisters of tear gas shot up, landing near the speaker. Protesters nearby crawled, struggling to breathe; others ran while covering their faces.
Among the chaos, under the cloak of thick choking smoke, six men dressed in blue shirts and wearing gas masks rushed Victor. With military precision, they grabbed him and whisked him off into a waiting vehicle.
An hour later, a hundred miles to the north, Sergio Cruz, the leader of the notorious Nicaraguan paramilitary group and criminal cartel, PLVI, sat in his compound finishing his breakfast while watching the carnage replayed on TV.
A spokesman for the government appeared on screen “The president has issued a statement. The government of Nicaragua condemns this senseless act of violence. We will not rest until we bring the murderers of the eight protesters to justice.”
Sergio reached for the remote and turned off the set. A wry smile crossed his face, followed by an involuntary snicker. He took a long pull of what remained of his cigar, then ground it out on his plate. His phone rang. Sergio had been waiting for this call. He raised his arm and waved for the servants to leave the room.
“General.”
“Sergio, well done,” said General Rafael Cortez, the chief director of the National Guard. “Have you interrogated their leader?”
“Not yet. They’re still on their way back.”
“I need to find out who’s organizing these protests,” said the general.
“We will make him talk.”
“Sergio, the president is not happy with all the negative publicity lately. He wants the protests crushed but with less bloodshed. He’s getting pressure from the church and the press to do something. He’ll probably fire someone.”
“I’ll see to it my lieutenants get the message. So, General, any other news worth sharing?”
“Yes, I heard a rumor they’re cutting your funding again next year. We need you, but voices are telling the president the PLVI has grown too big and you’re going rogue.”
“Rogue?” said Sergio in a dismissive tone. “Their money means nothing. General, I’ll let you know what we find out.”
Sergio hung up and called his lieutenant, Luis Ortiz.
“Boss, what is it?” asked Luis.
“I had an interesting talk with Cortez. No more waiting. We need to move forward with ‘silver or lead’.”
“I told you we had enemies in Managua. Did he give any names?”
“I don’t care who they are. I want them all here to see, that to our friends, we are generous.”
“And to our enemies—just try to stop us,” said Luis with a puff of confidence. “But boss, remember that quote from the arms dealer? We don’t have that much.”
“Work with Roberto; do whatever it takes, just get it.”
