Pyromancy (English Edition)

FIRST PART

WILDFIRE

They followed the four of them to the El Dique pub, where each had three bottles of beer. They waited past midnight for them to come out, for them to get on their Chinese motorcycles and, before they started the engines, they shot them in the back, finished them off on the ground and threw Molotov bombs over their corpses.

Two stevedores, who were already drunk by then, assured that they saw six skinheads, who after committing the crime got on their own motorcycles —probably Japanese— and escaped to Playa Ancha; the place where two nights later, they were killed.

Those six neo-Nazi skinheads were followed to the El Roma bar, a place located at the entrance of the Playa Ancha hill on the avenue of the same name. They got there a quarter past midnight, they had two bottles of beer each. The killers waited for the skinheads to leave the premises, around two in the morning, and before they got on their Japanese motorcycles they threw firebombs at them and hit them with baseball bats that had nails attached to the ends.

Students partying at the El Roma bar, who at that time were already very drunk, assured that they saw ten barra brava guys dressed in Santiago Wanderers football club shirts, who after murdering the skinheads escaped in three cars up the hill through Quebrada Verde Avenue. Three nights later, at four in the morning, those ten barras bravas were machine-gunned by drug dealers in the Second Sector of Playa Ancha, who after crushing them with bullets, set them on fire with incendiary bombs.

When they called from Santiago to ask Commissioner Esteban Biggs about the string of horrific massacres in Valparaíso, his answer was that he only knew a bit about the commercial relationship between the skinheads and the micro-traffickers of the Second Sector, so probably the thugs from Cerro Playa Ancha had exacted revenge on the barra brava men. The rest of the story was a complete mystery to him, but he assured that he would get there and, hands on, try to figure out what had happened and why.

The five blocks of social housing were built on a natural viewpoint in the Second Sector of Playa Ancha, a stone and soil balcony facing the sea horizon, where almost every sunset of the year is beautiful. Residents who had cars parked pretty much anywhere, since the government did not consider building parking lots. They did build a concrete field though, where baby soccer was played when it was not taken by drug dealers. The charred corpses of the ten barrabravas of Santiago Wanderers were still smoking and stinking up the field. They were killed by drug dealers, everyone knew that, but no one in the blocks would say anything. Esteban Biggs knew that before even arriving to the scene.

When he arrived in his huge black Ford F-50 Tremor pickup, he went unnoticed due to the scandal. However, a cold silence flooded the space when Biggs got out of his vehicle. For a few seconds, nothing was audible but the wind blowing from the Pacific Ocean. The F-50’s damping system screeched as if it had been rusting for fifty years and it swayed as the deputy finally got out, closed the door, and slowly walked toward the crime scene.

Biggs was dressed in a black suit and overcoat. The ground seemed to shake with every step of his huge shoes. He was used to causing the same impression: people looking at him like an alien, children running away or making fun of his enormous size, of his brontosaurus footprints. That’s why he didn’t even pay attention to the shouting of offensive comments that followed his journey. He was much more bothered by the imperfections in the terrain, the split and cracked blocks, the spaces with dust and rocks from the hill that could knock him down at any moment. He had been clumsy from birth and the route from the truck to the field was downhill.

Biggs arrived at the scene of the crime uninjured, but exhausted. He soaked a gray handkerchief trying to dry his forehead, eyebrows and cheeks. As soon as he could manage his breathing enough to be able to speak, he ordered them to make way for him, for he wanted to see what had happened. He was interested, most of all, in finding some clue that would allow him to start directing the investigation. But as soon as a couple of policemen in unforms lifted the plastic that covered part of the trail of dead bodies, the commissioner knew it wouldn’t be easy. A while earlier, while travelling in his truck from Reñaca to Playa Ancha, he assumed that the burning was the work of drug dealers from Buenos Aires kept in Chile by Mexican drug dealers; but they leave a signature: tires are hung on their victims’ shoulders, they are doused with gasoline and then set on fire; they burn them alive to ensure that witnesses will later share horrific stories. At first glance, there was no signature, nothing big enough to call back to Santiago right away.

He was approached at the crime scene by Detective Mateo Segovia Feige. They got along and respected each other. Segovia had worked there all morning, from six AM and in the open air, his hands and nose were numb; he was annoyed that Biggs had gotten there at eleven o’clock but had said nothing, not even a joke to lighten the air, because everyone in the Valparaíso criminal investigation squad knew that the commissioner’s lineage allowed him luxuries that were not attainable by the rest of the staff.

Segovia told him what was known, that the victims had been riddled with bullets in the Third Sector of Playa Ancha, that they had taken the bodies, already dead, to that field in the Second Sector, that they had piled them up and that bombs were thrown at them. Molotov bombs, six or seven, that the experts could not yet know for sure; that no one said anything and that continuing to interview potential witnesses was just wasting more time. Biggs thanked him, said that he was freezing cold and asked if he wouldn’t mind going somewhere quiet and have a second breakfast, which Biggs himself would pay. Detective Mateo Segovia agreed to go to El Roma, since everyone in the port knew or had heard that all roads lead there.

They parked the huge Ford Tremor away from the entrance of El Roma, right in front of the main door of one of the many universities that had campuses there. They walked half a block up the hill; passed a copy shop and a bakery. The same type of music came out of both places: the characteristic dembow of reggaeton. Esteban Biggs shook his head and looked to the ground, for he recognized both songs, and he quickened his pace as much as he could. Mateo Segovia could read his gesture of disgust, he had seen it before in other people who came across one of those raps that were in fashion. He didn’t give a damn if reggaeton was playing or not, didn’t bother him in the least, but he assumed that Biggs, one of the few men of rank in the port city PDI, had more refined ears.

Inside El Roma their waiter was El Rengo. They took the opportunity to ask him; he was waiting for it, you could tell on his face. He remembered perfectly:

[…] the six neo-Nazis arrived on motorcycles to El Roma and parked right outside. They were expensive motorcycles, all Kawasaki brand. They had money —El Rengo emphasized—. They didn’t stay long, they had a liter of beer each. They jumped them right outside, threw two Molotov bombs at each, and then beat them with nailed baseball bats.

El Rengo also remembered the screaming that came with the attack. The skinheads screamed in pain and the witnesses in horror. The killers were around ten Santiago Wanderers fans. They escaped in three cars up the hill through Quebrada Verde.

—We had to close the bar for two days until the wind blew away the smell of burned dead ¬—that was the last thing the waiter told them, before bringing a double portion of cheese empanadas and beers to the table.

Esteban Biggs got down to business without introductions.

—We are never going to solve this… as it has been in recent years with almost all crimes where bullets, drugs and fire are mixed. For some inexplicable reason, flames ignite faster in Valparaíso, they spread more and last longer than in any other part of the world. I have no way to prove what I just told you —he commented to Segovia and smiled at him; it was the first time he had done that since they sat down— but it sounds perfect as an excuse to cover the fact that we will never find anyone guilty. Sixty thousand people live in Playa Ancha alone, and the vast majority would never be willing to talk to us or to the cops.

Segovia kind of thought the same. Not about the fires in Valparaíso, he had never thought about that. The crimes involving drug dealers had become very complicated in recent years. That he had thought about.

—I have to confess something —Biggs said—. Now, that the Port is going downhill, that more businesses are being terminated or stuck and that the industry is no longer enough to sustain a home, it’s the drug trafficking that’s sustaining Valparaíso. It’s a shame, it’s horrible, but it’s the truth. We are transforming into a narco-culture, which began with reggaeton but is now embedded in every home, every time a poor person puts a piece of bread in their mouth.

The long pointed ears and nose, the swollen skin, the chubby cheeks, the hirsute head: Biggs was an elf in ruins. The detectives laughed at his looks behind his back; Segovia had heard comments, floating whispers that no officer or detective dared to blurt out in front of him, since the entire staff knew how close he was to Biggs. However, when asked, no one had a doubt about it in the Valparaíso criminal investigation squad, because as he had been born into a good family, Biggs had received an excellent education and could continue to give it to him. Esteban traveled every year to England and the United States and maintained contact with researchers in other parts of the world; he was one of the best ambassadors in Interpol that the institution had. Nobody knew more than him, not even in Santiago. That’s why they had given him the responsibility of finding out why so many crazy people were suddenly trying to burn down the port. He had been assigned multiple cases of arsonists that had devastated the region and he accepted, without foreseeing that he would find himself in a delta of dead ends.

Biggs ordered another round of cheese empanadas and beers, which also got to the table within five minutes.

—It’s not just one little bunch of schizophrenic arsonists fooling around setting fires —Biggs continued—. There are, of course, a few assholes playing with matches that make a mess that’s hard to fix, but they are only a few. The big problem here is that some of the arsonists are organized with the drug dealers. We have already put a dozen groups in prison but we do not know how many are left.

The perpetually serious face of Esteban Biggs —his grimace of chronic boredom— registered a gesture similar to amusement; Segovia had never seen him like this, entertained, and that encouraged him to pay even more attention.

Biggs ordered the third round of cheese empanadas and beers, which also arrived at the table within five minutes. Segovia didn’t even touch those empanadas, he was full and drunk.

—Look Mateo, last year, before you came along, I caught the great-grandson of a Nazi German spy, an old man known as ‘Kapern,’ which is German for ‘Caper’ —Biggs continued with equal enthusiasm—. He was in Chile during World War II and got expelled in ‘47, because he was in charge of a group of German officers who wanted, among other things, to blow up the Panama Canal. That Nazi, old Kapern, arrived in Chile in ‘37 to carry out maritime sabotage throughout the Pacific coast. It took several years to catch him. He confessed to his gringo captors that in Limache, where he lived in camouflage, supposedly dedicated to cultivating tomatoes, he had learned to read military radio codes, to arm incendiary bombs and to sabotage industrial machinery, and that he carried out all those misdeeds here, in Valparaíso, for years, without anyone suspecting.

—That Nazi spy left a family in Chile —he continued after a long sip of beer—, his children control one of the most powerful business groups in the country, and one of his youngest great-grandchildren is the leader of a group of neo-nationalist assholes who wanted continue with the tradition of their grandfather, they thought it was a good idea to install a neo-Nazi regime in Chile. They burned two schools, three Christian churches and the Casino of the crew in Valparaíso. They didn’t do much damage, but you can’t project what might have happened if we didn’t stop them in time, considering the resources Kapern’s great-grandson had access to. There were seven arsonists in all, all kids. There is no one imprisoned, they took all of them out of jail and sent them out of the country, because they can do that. The great-grandson is now at the University of Heidelberg studying for a master’s degree in investment, trade and international arbitration. You see what I’m talking about? The world of arsonists is as varied as it is strange.

Biggs scratched the tip of his big nose and gazed gravely into the blue eyes of Segovia Feige, who was still smiling.

—Do you know what happens, Mateo? —Biggs continued, as if he was being interrogated and had finally decided to confess—. Look, the situation is much more complex because this issue has been growing in Chile for many years, like germs spreading. What we are experiencing now in Chile are no longer symptoms, colleague: we are already sick. We got sick and didn’t realize it, we didn’t care about it because we weren’t paying attention. Did you listen to that reggaeton crap that we ran to on the street, walking towards El Roma? Did you pay attention to it? One of the songs was called Chica Bombastic… how horrible, isn’t it? The authors of that quintessential bad taste anthem are some guys called Wisin and Yandel, who are friends and have received money from Puerto Rican drug lords, including an even worse guy known as Angelo Millones, the most powerful drug lord in Puerto Rico. That country is a bridge for the shipment of Venezuelan and Colombian drugs to the United States. Reggaeton, colleague, is a weapon of Cultural Invasion: it has introduced Narcoculture throughout the continent but it’s impact has been the strongest in Chile. The happy copy of Eden went to hell about fifteen years ago, Mateo, and Chilean people went with it.

Detective Segovia’s smile faded. He started biting his upper lip; he narrowed his eyes. He didn’t like what he was hearing because he suddenly felt ignorant.

Segovia asked if they could down another round of cheese and beer empanadas, because he needed to chew on something when the nerves got to him.

—Twenty percent of Chilean society is a drug addict, Mateo. It is a market of almost four million people that, also, have a good quality of life. Chile is increasingly interesting for international drug traffickers: they use it as a bridge to Europe —via ports in southern Argentina— and to reach the most powerful countries in the east; as a platform for money laundering, because it’s very easy here; and they are also selling a lot in the domestic market. Valparaíso has a vital importance in this regard, because the bulk of the drug that later travels to Europe or the East is stored here. Seriously, Segovia, we are doomed, because we lost that fight against drug trafficking a long time ago. The only thing left now, for those of us who love the city and the good people who survive here, is to defend the port so that they won’t burn it all down.

Half an hour later, Esteban Biggs paid the bill, got up as quickly as his 150 kilos allowed him and said goodbye to Segovia with kindness, excusing himself because the accountant Duc Tuán was waiting for him for lunch at the Hamburgo. He asked his colleague if he wanted to come with him, he assured that he would be welcome to, but detective Segovia Feige had to decline, because his wife was at home, waiting to have lunch with him.

Biggs walked down the hill with great care, because in addition to the path, which was sloppily made and uneven, he had to fight against the signature Playa ancha wind, which blew in icy gusts of different strengths, swirling the air and carrying dust or pebbles into the eyes of those who were walking distracted. As soon as he got into his black Ford, he grabbed his hair to try to comb it, started the engine and searched inside the flash drive that was installed in the car radio for a very beautiful version of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra for the Moldau of Bedřich Smetana. And, while listening to the first notes played by those two beautiful flutes that sing at the beginning, he let himself be carried away by enjoyment. The Moldau is dedicated to a river, the Vlatava: and as Biggs began to slowly walk down the hill, he imagined that the torrent of that Czech river ran through his veins and cleaned the rhythm of the reggaeton that had ambushed him before entering the door of El Roma, he imagined that Smetana was an exorcist who was removing that diabolical dembow from him, the one that had traveled from the suburbs of Puerto Rico to Valparaíso with the deplorable intention of strangling him.

Clandestine dump

His youngest son found him sobbing and hugged him. Hilario Cardenal was sitting on the last step leading to the patio of his house, he covered his eyes with his left hand and his mouth with the right. It was four o’clock on a Monday. He had an appointment with an important witness. On a different occasion he would have gone to work, but this afternoon was different because he was getting being beaten by his anguish. As soon as he felt the warm hands of his youngest son, he burst into tears like a baby.

No one in his family had seen him cry, not even his wife. He couldn’t remember when the last time had been (perhaps when his mother died?). For a few moments he let himself be carried away by emotion but he soon reconsidered, because he was extremely embarrassed that a teenager was trying to comfort him: Mom says that there’s nothing that has no remedy in this life —said the boy as he hugged him—.

Cardenal dried his tears. He stood up, took a deep breath. His hands were soaked, his eyes bloodshot, his chest hot.

—You haven’t seen anything, understood?

—Yes, dad, don’t worry.

—I am not worried.

And then he started walking toward the house and left the boy sitting on the stairs.

Hilario Cardenal rushed into his office. He had left a large bag on the desk. He opened it to make sure it had remained closed, that no one had tried to break into it. The blood stained clothes were still there. What have you done! —he said quietly as he put his coat back on—. What have you done! —He spoke louder upon reaching the street, opening the door of his metallic gray Honda Accord.

Patchouli is very strong. More than an aroma, it’s a sweetish stench. That viscous smell slipped out from inside the bag and took over the air in the car. Cardenal drove south from Valparaíso. He parked a couple of kilometers before a clandestine dump that dripped its waste from the top of a cliff into the sea. He walked in with his bag on her shoulder. He kept walking another couple of kilometers through the stinkiest garbage before stopping right on the edge of the cliff. Without thinking twice, and without remorse, he threw the luggage; followed it with his eyes until it sunk in the waves that hit the rocks that filled the chasm.

Walking back to the Accord, through the stench, Cardenal ran his nose down his sleeves several times. The patchouli was so strong that it covered even trash.

Lucho greeted politely and Cardenal broke his nasal septum with the butt of his gun. It was ten in the morning.

—You don’t break an agreement, son of a bitch! —Cardenal shouted very loudly as he threw ill-fated Lucho down the stairs, who stumbled before hitting a black door with his back.

Lucho moaned. Cardenal stopped in front of the door, pointing his gun. He put the barrel to the head of the gigantic blond woman who came out swearing because of the commotion. Cardenal walked to the same stride as the woman above Lucho, who was writhing on the ground and trying, in vain, to stop his nosebleed.

—Go and tell that fucking cholo I want to see him now, I don’t care what he’s doing... I want to see him right now or none of the motherfuckers down here are going to have a good time —Cardenal told the huge blonde.

The detective remained standing and pointing at the back of the obese old woman, who walked quickly, despite glancing at the barrel of the gun with every step.

It was dark, the few lit bulbs were not enough to illuminate the corners. Cardenal could barely see the outlines of the boxing ring and the gambling tables. That basement was never ventilated, it was always hot, day and night, winter and summer, even when it was empty. Cardenal knew that they were watching him, that there were many people in this little house, that maybe they were even pointing a firearm at him, but he was not afraid, because there, he knew he was the most dangerous monster.

Álex Intriago Gómez appeared without no fuss in front of the newcomer, from the darkness that reigned within a meter from the barrel of the gun:

—What do you want, Mano.

Cardenal, on the other hand, was melodramatic; he advanced three jumps and hit the Colombian in the left temple. The butt of his gun got smeared with blood a second time, but the new victim hardly moved his head, he didn’t even let out a moan.

—What do you want, mano… —the man from Cali repeated as a red thread ran down his face.

—You don’t break an agreement, son of a bitch! You sent me a cholo and the dumbass waited for me right by my house. He tried to hit me two blocks from my house when I was coming back from buying bread. How can you be such a son of a bitch! I’m warning you, your checking account is over, one more of these and you’re going back to your shitty Colombia and I’ll break the whole business so you won’t want to come back to my glorious Chile ever again! Was that clear?!

Álex took a deep breath, he was used to the darkness of the underground, to the police mistreatment, to the melodramatic outbursts of Hilario Cardenal and so many other crazy people who walked around Valparaíso.

—Where’s my cholo? I’d like to know that before I can promise anything —Alex said and then stuck his eyes on his attacker’s hand: the blood ran down his forearm and into the sleeve of Cardenal’s shirt, It was going to be difficult to clean, or he’d probably throw it in the landfill by the southern edge of Playa Ancha. Álex knew that Cardenal always went there to get rid of his misdeeds.

—I don’t know where that asshole is… in a police station maybe. I treated him very badly and then I left him in charge of some guys who are very good people with me... I guess you could find him over there... or maybe not —Cardenal answered.

Cardenal swallowed hard and moved even closer to Álex Intriago. He put the gun to his chest, against a silver medal where Mary Helper was holding baby Jesus.

—I know that you are very harsh, but you can’t treat my girls like that or you will screw up my business. If you hit or mutilate them, as you did with poor Yócelain, other clients no longer want to use them. So don’t screw it up for me —Intriago said.

—That Peruvian whore was on the streets, she wasn’t any of your girls. Is that why you sent me to the cholo? you don’t think it’s exaggerated?... You sent him to my house, son of a bitch! —Cardenal answered as his weapon pressed the chest of his victim.

—You don’t know anything about my business, don’t come telling me who my girls are. Seriously, don’t mistreat them or...

—Or what, black piece of shit —answered Cardenal while pointing to the Colombian’s eyebrows.

—Or you’re going to run out of credit here, Detective. None of my girls want to work for you anymore… And tell me where that Peruvian girl is, she didn’t come back after meeting with you.

—I have no idea, I don’t get involved in the lives of your whores, I’m not interested... why would I be interested... Look for her yourself, she must be out there hooking around —Cardenal smiled sarcastically.

Cardenal had already started to back away, but his gun was still pointed at Alex’s chest. The detective slipped the fingers of his right hand into the collar of his shirt, revealing a silver chain from which dangled an amulet, a carved silver coin.

—Do you see this, black motherfucker? This is a Contra. A very good friend of mine gave it to me. It protects me AGAINST EVERYTHING, FUCKER! So don’t waste your time on me. You can’t do anything to me, NOTHING, you son of a bitch!

The gigantic blonde appeared from the darkness and passed a white handkerchief to her boss, who immediately wiped away the blood running down his face. Alex looked at the rag, white and flowing red. He kept watching the growing stain for a while as an homicidal rage seeped through his lungs and filled his chest. Then he pursed his lips and frowned at the same time.

—Colombia is not a shitty country —he said before hiding again in the shadows.

As soon as the engine of his Honda Accord started, Hilario Cardenal activated the hands-free system and loudly ordered his cell phone to make a call to Bienvenido Lagos.

—Tell him to stay —he told his subordinate—. Let him know that if he doesn’t stay, we’re going to have to act less nice. Tell him I’ll be there in ten minutes.

It took fifteen minutes. They were waiting for him eating churros, sitting in front of a folding table painted with the Coca Cola corporate colors. Twenty meters to the west the Pacific thundered against a breakwater of jagged rock. Cardenal pulled his car onto the sidewalk and parked right next to the churrero truck. Many years ago that truck was white, before the paint was eaten away by the atomized salt from the coast. Cardenal got out in a hurry and sat down right in front of the two men who were waiting for him and asked:

—How is it they hired a ghetto dude like your brother in one of the most prestigious schools in all of Chile?

The aforementioned replied that he and his brother did not look alike, that they were very different physically: his brother looked more like his father and that was why he was white and had gray hair but, probably, and due to the same genetics, he would soon be bald as well. He said that he, on the other hand, was just like his mother and that was why he had stiff but very firm locks, so he would surely die with lots of hair, and that was a relief, perhaps the only relief he ever had in his lifetime.

Cardenal ordered a packet of churros and a coffee with milk and asked if the other two wanted a second order, but both politely refused.

—You know that your brother stepped on the balls of one of the richest families in Chile, right? —asked Cardenal.

—That’s precisely what the police said —the aforementioned replied.

—That family is German but not from just anywhere. They are from Bavaria and are older than the German Empire, because they were herders of gigantic bulls before the Kingdom of Bavaria existed; in fact, they helped build it. They come from the Zugspitze, which is the highest mountain in Germany. They lived at a height of a thousand meters, on the shores of Lake Eibsee. Now all of that is a national park, but at the end of the 19th century very few people lived around it, and those who did were hard as rocks. The members of that family whose balls your brother stepped on don’t feel Chilean... and they never will because they were and still are too Nazi to accept it. They are going to persecute your brother and then you and your parents and your children, because they have the resources for an eternal hunt and because they are Nazi as shit. Your brother has no idea what he’s gotten himself into or what he’s gotten you and your whole family into. So if you tell me where your brother is... or at least tell me accurately where to look, then I could intercede for that Bavarian family to let you leave the country and make something that looks like a new life —Cardenal explained.

The aforementioned was a mature man. Some strands of his short jet-black hair were beginning to fade. His large eyes were dark with very long, stiff lashes. His back, chest, and arms were very broad. He was wearing a blue wool turtleneck sweater. His hands were swollen and red; just like his nose and cheeks, which were also covered with acne.

—Who gave them those strange names? —Cardenal asked—. Was it your mother? Remus and Alphonsus Rojas: you were baptized with the names of poor circus magicians... So, will you give me the help that I am kindly asking for? Can you tell me where I could start looking for your brother Remus?

Alphonsus Rojas asked him to write his home address down. Rojas assured that he did not use a mobile phone and that he did not have a fixed telephone line in his apartment because he had moved there very recently. He said he worked in a public school. Because, like his brother, he was a teacher, and he had gotten that job about six months ago, because he hadn’t lived in Valparaíso before. He asked him to give him a week, then he would contact them to give them some clue about his brother Remus.

—It has been pretty hard to get what little I have. My younger brother and I don’t get along, we haven’t seen each other in at least two years, so I have no idea what he’s done or why he’s wanted by a billionaire German family. He is, and that’s true, a madman, so that’s why I’m not surprised he’s involved in weird stuff. He always got into weird stuff and I don’t want him to get me into his crap again. All of us in the family have suffered enough with him, so I am happy to help you, but I need time.

Alphonsus stood up, said goodbye very kindly and walked north along the winding path that flanked Altamirano Avenue. Only then did Cardenal realize that Rojas was a human being of enormous size.

Molotov

The Language teacher taught them that fire is the element that causes the most fear in human beings, more than the water that mobilizes tidal waves, more than the wind that pushes hurricanes, more than large-scale telluric manifestations. He trained them to make perfect firebombs. He guided them to do it quickly and skillfully.

First they had to prepare a potion made of potassium chlorate with sugar, a thick liquid that is then used to soak strips of cloth. Those pieces of cloth had to be dried in the open air for twelve hours. Inside thick glass bottles —of ordinary soft drinks, for example— the students had to mix gasoline with oil, then put the potassium chlorate and sugar soaked tissues in there. And finally, very carefully, add two ounces of sulfuric acid. The acid would not mix with the rest of the formula, it would go to the bottom of the bottle and wait there until the container broke. So when the glass exploded on a target, the acid would come into contact with the cloth impregnated with the potassium chlorate and sugar, causing an instant chemical fire and combustion of the gasoline-oil mixture. The language teacher taught them that by adding sawdust or household paint, Molotov bombs become even more powerful. And then he invited them to take to the streets to express their anger against the prevailing socioeconomic system, since Molotov bombs are extremely effective against armored vehicles and wooden buildings.

Alan Salinas was eighteen years old, he had finished high school a few months ago and did not intend to dedicate himself to another cause other than fighting for the destruction of official political power and the establishment of a new order, where, above all things, economic burdens would disappear, all debts, like the ones that forced his father to take his own life. Alan thanked the English teacher for all the lessons taught and ordered his six classmates to dress in white overalls.

They left the school at 8:00 p.m., all seven of them dressed in disposable white coveralls of synthetic Tyvek paper, tight at the wrists and ankles, a zipper in the front from the crotch to the eyes, and protective hoods that