Chapter 12: The Trojan Barrels
Isabela stood on the docks of Veracruz, the smell of tar and fish heavy in the air. Behind her stood three wagons loaded with heavy oak barrels.
Surrounding her were fifty men. They weren’t soldiers. They were coffee pickers, dock workers, fishermen, and street toughs. They were the people the city ignored. They were armed with machetes, old muskets, and knives hidden in their boots.
“Listen to me,” Isabela said, her voice low and steady. “We cannot storm the main gate. The cannons will shred us.”
She pointed to the supply boat bobbing in the harbor, captained by a man named Elias, a smuggler she had bailed out of jail two years prior.
“The fortress needs water and wine for the execution ceremony tomorrow. The garrison is celebrating early. Elias will take the barrels in.”
“And us?” a young dockworker asked.
“You are inside the barrels,” Isabela said grimly.
A murmur went through the group.
“It is tight. It will be hard to breathe. But once you are inside the courtyard, you are the virus in the body,” Isabela continued. “I will approach the main gate with the distraction. When you hear the first explosion, you burst out. You take the guard tower. You lower the drawbridge.”
She looked at them.
“I cannot promise you gold. I spent it all on the gunpowder. But I promise you this: Tonight, we remind them that blood is thicker than their stone walls.”
“We are with you, Doña!” Elias shouted.
“Then load up,” she ordered.
Isabela watched as men climbed into the oversized wine casks, curling their bodies into tight balls. False bottoms were hammered shut.
She adjusted the pistol tucked into her belt. She smoothed her black dress. She wasn’t the widow anymore. She was the storm.
Chapter 13: The Night of Sulfur
The moon was obscured by thick clouds. Perfect.
Isabela rode her carriage up to the land-bridge connecting the fortress to the mainland. She was alone, save for her driver—an old revolutionary named Mateo who had served with Nahuel’s father.
“Halt!” The sentry shouted, leveling his musket.
Isabela leaned out. She looked terrified, her hair disheveled.
“Please!” she cried. “I must see Captain Valeriano! I have the deed to the estate! I want to trade!”
The sentry laughed. “The Captain said no visitors.”
“Tell him I have gold!” she screamed, holding up a heavy sack. “Please!”
Greed is a universal language. The sentry signaled for the gate to open just a crack, enough for a person to walk through.
“Walk. Hands up,” the sentry ordered.
Isabela stepped out of the carriage. She walked onto the bridge.
Meanwhile, inside the courtyard, the “wine shipment” had been unloaded near the mess hall. Soldiers were laughing, eager to tap the kegs.
“This one is heavy,” a soldier grunted, tilting a barrel.
Crack.
The wood splintered from the inside. A blade punched through the oak, slicing the soldier’s throat.
The barrel burst open. A man leaped out, machete swinging.
All around the courtyard, twenty barrels exploded outward. The “Trojan Horse” had arrived.
“Attack!” Elias roared, jumping from the lead barrel with dual pistols blazing.
Chaos erupted. The soldiers, drunk and unprepared, scrambled for their weapons.
Isabela heard the screams inside. The sentry on the bridge turned around, distracted.
“Now, Mateo!” she shouted.
Mateo pulled a fuse from his pocket, lit it, and threw it into the carriage. He and Isabela dove off the bridge into the shallow water below just as the carriage—packed with four kegs of gunpowder—slammed into the iron gate.
BOOM.
The explosion shook the earth. The iron gate twisted and blew inward.
“For Nahuel!” the shout came from the darkness behind the bridge. The rest of Isabela’s army charged through the smoke, swarming into the fortress.
