Fèlix, one of the guerrilla fighters, observes through binoculars as a burly man pushes Marcos to the ground. Fèlix is perched on a cliff, along with Martí and Julià. He blends his silhouette into the bush he’s hiding in. His comrades wait a bit further back, covered by the forest, each kneeling and watching their assigned sectors. Fèlix follows the scene from afar, watching as Marcos gets up and walks away. He doesn’t lose sight of him for a moment.
“We’ve got it,” Fèlix finally says. “White signal.”
Upon hearing this, Martí bolts like an arrow. He dodges trees and bushes. The kerchief covering his face bothers him, but it’s protocol: in combat zones, faces must be covered. He keeps running between trunks and branches, moving skillfully. Finally, he reaches the position of the rest of the team; he has sprinted a great distance. Panting, he says:
“Clear path.”
The commander gestures to Pep, who is about a hundred meters away, along with Guillem and Toni. Martí takes position near the commander and Quim, who is lying next to him. The commander places his hand on Quim’s shoulder and, raising his left hand, softly says:
“Ready.”
Quim aligns the sight of his rifle with the neck of one of the corpos on the road. “The smaller your target, the smaller the margin of error,” he thinks. He waits for the commander’s order.
