Chapter 707: Fear the Wolfsangel
The ceiling fan spun like a lazy guillotine over the back room of La Estrella Roja, a smoky tango bar in San Cristóbal.
It was past midnight. The band had gone home. The drunks had stumbled out.
Only the bar’s ghosts remained, hollow men, bitter women, and those with no past and less future.
Kurt sat at the corner table, back to the wall, eyes half-lidded like a serpent watching mice perform theater.
His coat was draped over the chair next to him, revealing the black leather holster beneath his arm.
Not concealed. Just present. Intentional. A message.
Luis Menéndez was already seated when he arrived, local, slick-haired, a face that smiled too easily.
He lit a match with a flick of his thumbnail and grinned around the cigarette.
"You’re late," Luis said in Spanish.
Kurt poured himself a glass of vermouth, slow and silent.
"I’m never late. You were simply early to failure."
Luis raised a brow. "Charming as always."
Helena Gallo entered next, wearing a red dress that slit too high and dipped too low for someone not selling something.
But she wasn’t selling. She was watching.
Her eyes scanned the bar like twin razors, and when she sat across from Kurt, she dropped the disguise with the practiced sigh of a woman who knew how men looked at her and didn’t care.
"The American is gone," she said. "His driver switched the car at the last second. Either they knew, or they got lucky."
"Luck is just foresight wearing a blindfold," Kurt murmured. "We’ll try again."
A thump echoed from the stairwell.
The bartender, Argentine, barrel-chested, covered in faded sailor tattoos—nodded discreetly and ducked behind the bar.
Then came Frank.
No last name. No history. Just Frank.
He walked like a man with nowhere to be but everywhere to die.
His suit was clean, unremarkable, but his eyes were twin bullet holes, black, unblinking, and hollow.
Kurt nodded once.
Frank sat without a word.
Then the fifth arrived.
A local dealer, half-tied with the Cartel del Sur, a man named Baltazar.
Dark skin, darker morals.
Gold chain, half-buttoned shirt, knuckles swollen from reminders left in other men’s mouths.
He stank of cigarettes, blood, and cheap cologne. His eyes darted.
"You brought us here why?" he asked. "You need guns? Drugs? A girl to scream in the background while you beat a confession out of someone?"
Kurt didn’t blink.
"I need Buenos Aires to fall forward, not backward."
Baltazar laughed. "You think you’re saving Argentina?"
"No." Kurt leaned forward. "I’m reordering it."
Luis chuckled into his drink. "That’s his way of saying ’yes.’ Just with more steps."
Kurt ignored him. He lit a cigarette, held it between fingers like it offended him.
"We don’t care about your king. Your Reich. All this old empire shit, people here don’t even remember their own history,"
Baltazar said. "Tell me what I get. That’s how this works. Not ideology. Incentive."
Kurt gestured.
Helena slid a folder across the table. It opened with a whisper.
Inside: ledgers. Transaction records. Lists of names, policemen, border agents, customs officials.
Every one on a cartel payroll.
"These are yours," Kurt said. "Your enemies. Your allies. And your replacements, should you prove inefficient."
Baltazar’s smile died.
"You threatening me?"
"No." Kurt stubbed out his cigarette with surgical calm.
"I’m giving you leverage. Yours. Or someone else’s. That choice is yours to make."
Baltazar looked at the folder again. Then at Frank. Then at Helena. Then at Kurt.
He swallowed, slow.
"...I’ll play your game. For now."
"You’re not playing it," Helena said flatly. "You’re in it."
The bartender brought a fresh bottle. Not ordered. Just known.
Whiskey now. Stronger.
Luis leaned back, swirling his glass, ever the charmer.
"You know, Kurt, I’ve got a bad feeling about this...."
Kurt took a sip from his glass, finishing the amber liquid contained within. His face was expressionless, but his tone was playful.
"The last time you said that, I found you in a ditch in Catalonia, covered in blood, half of it your own, half not...."
Luis flashed a smile with one gold-capped incisor. "And look at me now. Still pretty. Still breathing."
Frank finally spoke.
"One of the naval officers we tagged is frequenting a brothel near Avenida Belgrano. Same one tied to the American consulate’s under-the-table imports."
"Sex, drugs, leverage." Kurt said. "Isn’t it fascinating how power always comes back to the same three currencies?"
Helena muttered, "Because it’s the same transaction. Always."
Luis added, "Except when it’s bullets. Those are final."
Frank didn’t blink. "We need a woman in there. To observe."
Helena raised an eyebrow.
Luis gestured. "I volunteer. For moral support."
"You couldn’t get invited to a funeral," Helena replied.
Kurt tapped the table twice. The sound was final.
"Enough."
Silence fell.
A single violin note from the jukebox wailed through the bar, dying like a scream in a river.
Kurt stood. Walked to the window.
The street outside was slick with rain and secrets. Taxis glided through puddles. Neon flickered against peeling walls.
A boy sold flowers to a man in a black coat. Nothing was innocent.
He turned back, voice quiet.
"Buenos Aires is on the edge of the knife. The Americans want it orderly. The locals want it complaint. And we..."
He paused.
"We just want it afraid."
Baltazar laughed nervously. "You say that like fear’s a solution."
Kurt smiled without joy.
"It’s a beginning."
He walked back to the table. Poured himself another drink. Let the burn sit in his chest like gasoline.
"Operation Silberkrone will proceed on schedule. Tomorrow night, we plant the letters. The next day, the papers run the scandal. The third day, the embassy calls its dogs back and the Peronists double down. On the fourth day..."
He looked at each of them, slowly.
"...we take the port."
Frank nodded.
Helena lit another cigarette, exhaling like a flamethrower.
Luis smiled.
Baltazar said nothing, but his hands were steady now.
Kurt refilled his glass and took another sip.
The taste was bitter, not sweet.
But he preferred it that way.
Sweetness was for lies.
And this world had no room left for lies that didn’t bleed.
They left the bar together.
Not all at once.
Not like a group.
That would be too obvious.
No, they departed like ghosts. Helena out the front, trailing perfume and menace.
Frank through the alley, his footsteps soundless.
Luis hailed a cab and winked at a passing girl. Baltazar walked away muttering to himself, clutching the folder like it might bite him.
And Kurt remained the longest, tipping the bartender double, fixing his collar, straightening his gloves.
When he finally stepped into the street, the fog had rolled in thick and low.
He vanished into it like a man returning home.
The war never ended.
It just found a new theater.
And Buenos Aires would soon learn the price of alliances.
---
The safehouse was a nondescript boarding house off Avenida Rivadavia, tucked between a shuttered bakery and a priestless chapel.
The iron gate creaked like a throat clearing before confession, and the hallway smelled of damp brick and tobacco ghosts.
Kurt didn’t knock. He never had to.
Inside, the lights were low.
Not dark, never dark, but dim enough to give the illusion of peace.
A record played softly in the parlor, something old and stringed, almost mournful.
A ruse, like everything else.
Gerhardt looked up from the table as Kurt entered, stripping off his gloves.
He was cleaning a pistol, old habit, never finished.
The other men barely moved.
They were sprawled across the parlor and kitchen in shirtsleeves and suspenders, civilian coats hanging by the door, but every belt had a blade tucked behind it, every jacket a weight that spoke of steel.
One man played chess with himself.
Another whittled wood down to splinters.
Two more watched the street through cigarette smoke and half-drawn blinds.
"They moved?" Gerhardt asked.
"They’ll burn the city if it means they get to be kings of the ashes," Kurt replied, tossing his coat over a chair.
"Riots will begin tomorrow night. Cartel muscle and angry students playing at revolution. By morning, the papers will be wet with names and blood."
"We use the chaos?"
"We are the chaos," Kurt said. He reached into his coat and pulled free a thin folder, setting it beside the coffee pot.
"The Americans don’t suspect how deep our knives go. Neither do the locals. But we’ve arranged the evidence. Documents, photos, transactions, enough filth to drown the embassy and half the cabinet."
"And then?"
Kurt looked around the room. Every man met his gaze. Some with hunger. Some with hate. None with doubt.
"Then we cut the head off the snake," he said. "The port. The rail junction. The comms tower at Villa Lugano. All fall in 48 hours. The rioters give us cover, the press gives us fire, and the Peronists give us an excuse."
A quiet settled in. Not peace, anticipation.
Gerhardt clicked the safety on his pistol and stood. "Orders?"
Kurt’s voice was low, final.
"Load. Sleep. Pray. Tomorrow we remind this city who taught the world why they should fear the wolfsangel when they see its black banners flying."