Mission Objective:
Track and eliminate a suspected Sangley informant hiding in plain sight during the Taal town fiesta.
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Taal, Batangas – "La Tierra del Fuego y Tradición"
Taal was burning—but not with fire. With music. With color. With illusion.
Banderitas fluttered above the cobblestone streets, strung between ancestral houses and antique capiz windows. The whole town was glowing with tradition—kalesas on parade, children laughing in barong tagalog, young women dancing the Subli, their hands flickering like candle flames.
And yet, somewhere in the crowd… death waited.
Juan Cariño Hernández stepped out of the old black car, his boots touching the volcanic soil of Batangas for the first time. He wore a straw hat and a white long-sleeved camisa de chino, blending in with the local men. But his eyes were hunting.
Don Eduardo followed closely, reading from a telegram.
> "Our source says the informant will be performing in the plaza. Code name: Agila Blanca. Former guerrilla. Works now for Señor Lim as a courier of secrets. Kill him… before he disappears."
Three days earlier, in a hidden room beneath Escolta, the files they recovered from El Dragón Rojo pointed to a man who had evaded justice for years. A ghost of the Chinese-Filipino syndicate, protected by old loyalties and newer bribes.
And now he was in Taal—posing as a folkloric dancer.
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The Plaza, 4:00 PM
The sound of rondalla music filled the air—bandurrias, laúds, and the soft beating of cajones under the steps of the Subli dancers. A man with silver hair and dark sunglasses strummed a guitar nearby, his voice low and haunted.
"Careful," Eduardo said. "This place honors tradition… but it forgets nothing."
Juan's eyes scanned the crowd.
Colorful tents.
Rosquillos.
Calle Crisologo-style streets.
But his attention narrowed when he saw her—a woman in red traje de mestiza, dancing like she had devils in her blood. The way she moved. Too sharp. Too trained.
"She's not just a dancer," Juan muttered.
"Look at her wrists," Eduardo said. "Tactical scars. She's been in fights."
Then he saw him.
A man dressed as a festival marshal. Large hat. Oversized sash. Fake mustache. But his boots? Military-grade. And his walk? Wrong for a civilian.
"Agila Blanca," Juan whispered.
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The Mission Begins
The plan was clean: wait until dusk, separate the suspect, interrogate, execute.
But the festival had other plans.
As the Subli dancers entered their final formation, fireworks exploded overhead—and gunshots followed.
Chaos.
Screams.
Juan saw the dancer in red pull a pistol from beneath her skirt and fire into the crowd. A decoy.
"Trap!" Eduardo shouted.
The real Agila Blanca fled into the Casa Villavicencio, an old heritage house turned museum. Juan chased him through its creaking halls, past portraits of ilustrados and antique oil lamps.
In the darkened master bedroom, they fought.
Fists. Blades. Blood on narra wood.
"You don't know what you're fighting for," Agila Blanca hissed. "The Sangleys built this city—fed it—kept it alive after the Americans left you in pieces."
Juan didn't speak. He drove his bolo into the man's shoulder, pinning him to the wall.
"You killed Gabriel," he whispered.
The man smiled. "That was just business."
A single shot. Silence.
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Aftermath
In the church patio, Juan stood under a halo of lanterns.
Don Eduardo lit a cigar, offering one to Juan.
"One less ghost," Eduardo said.
Juan stared at the darkened bell tower.
"No… one more step," he corrected. "Towards something deeper. This syndicate… it doesn't just run in Binondo. It runs in our bloodlines."
He walked away as the kundiman began to play in the distance.
But the fiesta would never forget the blood spilled that night.