Estrada did not have an answer to Ortega’s statement. The other soldiers around looked at me, waiting for a rebuttal.
But there was no lie in Ortega’s words. And the questions he had stirred—about colonization, its evils, its gifts—were far too complicated to answer here, especially with a throbbing head, blood on my sleeve, and the faint crackle of gunfire still echoing in the distance.
"So," I said at last, "you’re a loyal son of Spain?"
Ortega looked up, unsure where I was taking the conversation.
"But here you are," I continued, "fighting alongside heretics and anarchists. Men who not only pervert the Faith—but hate Spain with every bone in their body."
Domingo opened his mouth, but no words came. The confidence on his face faded. He couldn’t hold eye contact. Some of the soldiers chuckled, content with what they saw as a proper rebuttal.
"We were... deceived," he said after a pause. He looked at his comrade—now motionless and pale. The soldier bandaging the man’s wound finally stood up and shook his head toward me.
"All Señor Paras and Señor Sadiwa told us was that they were raising arms against you," Ortega continued, his voice lower now. "They never said they’d bring in these demons. Before we knew it, we were surrounded. And by then, it was too late to back out."
He paused. "We watched them torture civilians. Slaughter them. I know they’d do the same to us if we tried to escape." His eyes flicked toward the dim interior of the bahay-na-bato with unease.
I followed his gaze. The door was still open, but the windows remained shut. The dimness inside was impenetrable, and with all the noise from earlier, no one could’ve heard footsteps or the creak of a floorboard. There might still be cultists inside—waiting, hiding.
"Who’s we?" I asked. "And is Señor Sadiwa... Gabriel Sadiwa of Santa Cruz?"
He cleared his throat. "Yes. That’s him. And by ’we,’ I mean what was left of our company. Cazadores scattered after the revolution spread. Sadiwa was one of those who offered us shelter in Santa Cruz. Said he’d help us regroup. But then..."
He stopped himself mid-sentence. He’d said too much and realized it. I didn’t press further. I was already piecing it together. The resistance we had encountered in Santa Cruz—it hadn’t been stirred up by Don Suarez as I had wrongly assumed. There were still men in these parts who mourned Spain. Who had not accepted the republic, and never would.
But this wasn’t the time to dig deeper. The fighting wasn’t over. We still had a house to clear.
"Are there still cultists inside that house?" I asked, cutting to the point.
Ortega looked startled. "What do I gain from telling you?"
Estrada let out a sharp breath through his nose, about to speak, but I raised my hand to stop him.
"You get to live," I said calmly. "Everyone involved in this rebellion—those who didn’t fall in the fighting—will be hanged. But if you help us now... if you tell us what we need to know, you’ll be spared. You’ll return to Tayabas. To your family. If that’s what you want, after all this."
Ortega looked between Estrada, Guzman, and me, his expression tightening. He swallowed hard.
"How do I know you’ll keep your word?" he asked.
I didn’t blink. "Because I’m not like them," I said. "I am a friend to civilization. A principal, like you. A gentleman. A Christian. And by God, I swear—you will not be touched."
He stared at me for several seconds, judging whether I meant what I said. Then he shifted his weight, dragging himself closer to the edge of the deck.
"There’s a man hiding behind the door panel," he said, voice flat now. "He’s got a machete. Another two are upstairs, by the landing. They’re out of bullets. They’re waiting to jump anyone who climbs to the second floor."
I turned to Guzman. He was already watching the doorway. When he looked back at me, I gave a slight nod. He nodded in return and leaned toward a few nearby soldiers. Quiet instructions passed between them—short and deliberate.
Guzman and the chosen men crossed back toward the house, staying low and careful not to look directly at the door, knowing the pulajan behind it might be watching through the narrow slit at the hinges. From that angle, he wouldn’t see the opposite hut, but he could spot anyone approaching head-on.
As they crossed, the rest of the escolta began regrouping. Some rechecked their bolts. Others fixed bayonets and lined up to either side of the entrance, whispering among themselves, still unaware of the trap.
Guzman made sure that he and the three other soldiers were closest to the doorway and stood just outside the field of vision of the hidden cultist. At a glance, it looked like they were preparing for a breach like any other.
Then, without warning, Guzman raised his rifle and fired into the door panel.
The other three followed instantly, spacing their shots so they hit in a tight diamond—two upper, two lower. The wooden panel cracked, splintered, and jerked inward. There was a grunt, followed by the loud clang of a machete hitting the marble floor.
"Pasok! Inside now!" Guzman barked, pushing forward.
The rest of the escolta moved fast. Rifles raised, they surged through the doorway, vanishing inside.
We couldn’t see what followed, but we heard it—shots fired in quick bursts, a chair or table crashing, angry voices shouting in Tagalog and Visayan. Then the thunder of heavy footsteps.
A moment later, one of the cultists hurled himself through the upstairs window. He hit the ground with a crunch and cried out, trying to crawl.
Estrada didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The pulajan’s head jerked back, and he collapsed into the dust.
I turned back to Ortega. His face was still. Tired.
"Now," I said, "let’s talk about the weaknesses in the presidencia’s defenses."
Ortega looked away from the body on the ground. "One condition," he replied. "You spare the other Cazadores. The ones who came with me."
I raised a brow. "That’s a heavy demand."
He shook his head. "Not if it’s your only way into the compound without more blood spilled. And I mean that literally."