Chapter 222: Conflict in the plaza

Krugger heard the shouts of people gathering outside the church and smiled wickedly. Then he loudly proclaimed to the soldiers:

“Tie up the priest and the abbess, along with the acolytes. Tell the men they may enter now. Start barricading the church. Tonight we announce that Carlos has arrived in Rionegro — and he plans to stay.”

The translator, upon hearing those words, looked shaken. It was one thing to seize a church, another entirely to bind priests and a nun. Since Krugger had arrived, he had taken the gold, confiscated valuables, mocked the clergy — and now he was tying them up while preparing weapons to kill townspeople if necessary.

It was beginning to look less like strategy… and more like banditry.

The abbess and the priest did not understand a word of German, but they clearly understood that something terrible was unfolding. When one of Krugger’s soldiers opened the rear doors and at least twenty armed men poured inside, María Gertrudis suddenly understood.

The German had prepared for a massacre.

“You knew,” she said sharply, as soldiers seized her arms. “You knew we would call for backup. You deliberately made us believe only you and two soldiers had come — so we would feel secure enough to rally the families.”

She laughed bitterly.

“You were never here for money or land. You planned to deal with everyone who supports us. That was always your objective.”

The priest’s face went pale at her words. In that moment, he understood his career in Rionegro was over. From now on, the church would stand under the shadow of the Gómez family.

Krugger listened to the translation, surprised. He turned his full attention to Gertrudis for the first time, studying her carefully. So the elite families were not ignorant of tactics after all.

He walked slowly toward her and retrieved a cigar from his coat. After lighting it, he offered one to her. She shook her head.

The priest opened his mouth slightly — as if wanting one — but when Krugger ignored him, he fell silent.

“You are intelligent,” Krugger said. “You are from the Sáenz family, aren’t you?”

He took a slow puff.

“I don’t know exactly why your family supports the Church. But after reading the letters I just found…”

He held up several papers bearing the Sáenz signature.

“It seems you believe this theocracy Esteban dreams of will elevate your family — perhaps even make you founding figures of the new order.”

He exhaled smoke calmly.

“To be honest, I doubt the theocracy he is trying to build includes what your family is truly seeking.”

Gertrudis raised an eyebrow. It was a question her family had debated often. A theocracy, by definition, revolved around belief. A merchant dynasty would never fully belong at the top of such a structure.

If the nation were formed that way, the Sáenz family would face two choices: divide into religious and commercial branches to preserve influence — or remain merchants and lose political power entirely.

“I understand why you chose them,” Krugger continued. “The Gómez family showed only a few poorly trained servants. Even if that boy Carlos trained some civilians, from your perspective it must have looked almost laughable.”

“But now…” he said, signaling for one of his men. “Bring me a rifle.”

A soldier stepped forward and placed it in his hands.

“The Gómez family,” Krugger continued calmly, “now possesses its own armory — and enough weapons to become one of the strongest factions in New Granada.”

He showed the rifle to Gertrudis.

Her face went pale.

She did not understand firearms in detail, but she understood the word rifle. It was the weapon the fanatics had used against Spain — the same weapon that had inflicted terrible casualties on both royal troops and Gómez men alike.

“Sit,” Krugger said quietly. “And wait. Tonight, I will show you how terrifying these weapons are for any army.”

He placed the cigar back between his lips and began ascending the spiral stone stairs of the bell tower. His boots echoed against the cold masonry.

Below him, the plaza was a trap waiting to close.

Krugger’s eighty men — now armed with rifled carbines crafted by Ogundele — were invisible shadows along the colonial rooftops, their sights aligned with every entrance to the square.

The air hung heavy with rain and the distant, frantic chanting of the Arango peones.

Krugger reached the top of the tower and rested the cold barrel of his rifle against the stone ledge.

Below, torches flickered like a restless sea of fire.

He saw Don Esteban de Arango step forward, raising his pistol and firing a single shot into the sky.

“We come as envoys of God and the Church!” Esteban shouted. “We know the heretic Francisco sent you and your two men on an impossible mission. Surrender, and we will show mercy!”

Baltazar Hoyos, standing beside him, spoke sharply:

“Why give them the chance? They are dogs of Carlos. Kill them and send their heads to his estate. Let him see how serious we are.”

Esteban frowned, displeased.

Baltazar clearly wanted total war — to make the elite of Rionegro the shield against Carlos Gómez. If blood was spilled tonight, Carlos would have to destroy the entire local aristocracy before even thinking of revenge against the Hoyos family.

Baltazar wanted them to become the wall stopping Carlos’ advance.

“Enough,” Esteban replied coldly. “We have no deep enmity with Carlos — not like you. We are content if he keeps his hands away from Rionegro and the Church’s assets.”

Baltazar curled his lips but said nothing more. Still, he hoped the men inside would refuse surrender. He had heard that Gómez soldiers were fanatically loyal. During the fanatic invation in Medellín, none had surrendered or fled.

He smiled faintly and waited.

As expected, no one answered.

Esteban sighed.

“Very well. You four — open the church doors. Attempt to capture them alive. Unless they fire first, do not shoot.”

The men looked at each other in dismay.

Being the first to enter was almost a death sentence. If the defenders chose to resist, the first bullets would be meant for them. But they were servants — they had no choice but to obey.

They moved to either side of the church doors and pushed.

The doors did not move.

Esteban frowned deeply. It was clear now — the men inside were preparing to defend the church.

“Prepare the powder!” he shouted. “Blow up that door. It seems these men are harder to deal with than we thought!”

A group carrying small barrels hurried toward the entrance.

High in the tower, Krugger smiled.

He adjusted his aim, centered the barrel in his sights — and fired.

The bullet pierced the wood of the powder barrel and tore through the stomach of the servant carrying it. The man collapsed instantly.

But the barrel did not explode.

Krugger frowned slightly.

Those are not grenades… They intend to ignite them first.

For a heartbeat, silence covered the plaza.

Then the night shattered.

Gunfire erupted from the surrounding houses and rooftops. Muzzle flashes burst from windows and balconies like lightning in a storm.

“They’re in the buildings! Attack! Attack!” Esteban’s voice cracked across the square.

Even Krugger’s men heard the panic in it.

They fired back nervously. Their training had been brief — they were not true elites. Many of their earlier kills had come from surprise and clustered targets, not from disciplined precision.

Still, they kept shooting.

“Careful—!” one man shouted before a bullet tore through his throat.

Others rushed toward the houses, hacking at doors with machetes. But inside, defenders waited in silence, muskets aimed at the entrances. The moment wood splintered and light broke through, shots rang out at point-blank range.

Chaos consumed the plaza.

Some servants fought bravely, trying to seize the buildings. Others fled into the dark streets.

Esteban felt a violent удар in his arm. He staggered back, blood pouring down his sleeve. Two of his nephews dragged him toward cover.

They were almost clear of the square when a shot cracked from above.

One nephew jerked forward.

A dark stain spread across his back.

Esteban’s eyes widened, bloodshot and wild.

“Andrés!” he roared.

Seeing the young man collapse, Esteban shoved the remaining nephew away.

“Go! Escape!” he bellowed. “I may not survive this. Tell my father I am sorry for this failure. I should have listened to him — I should have stayed away from this madness. Tell him the family rests on him now. Go!”

The nephew hesitated — then ran.

Esteban seized Andrés’ musket. It was clearly superior to the common ones carried by the servants — a weapon purchased from Vatican armories.

He raised it toward the rooftops.

He fired.

A figure on a colonial roof jerked backward and fell into the darkness.

“Point to the roofs!” Esteban roared through clenched teeth. “Shoot the roofs!”

The order spread.

Shots began striking higher.

Men hidden along the eaves cried out as bullets tore through tiles and wood. The advantage of elevation no longer guaranteed safety.

In Krugger’s ranks, casualties mounted.

In less than a minute of the seventy men he had brought into the plaza, at least five were already dead — and among them, two were Germans who had followed him across the ocean.

The battle was no longer one-sided.

Now, it was Krugger’s turn to feel pain.

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