It was too simple. Far, far too simple. One could not simply capture Zorro the Fox - the Comandante knew that all too well. For months he had pursued his elusive foe, setting cunning traps that the masked man always seemed to escape or evade, always one step ahead of the tyrants who sought to oppress the common folk of California.
And yet, here he was this hot noonday, bound to a post and facing a firing squad in the middle of the plaza.
It was too simple.
The Comandante leaned on the rail of the balcony, narrowing his dark eyes as he gazed down at the scene spread beneath him. When he'd found out that Zorro had a lady - and, furthermore, discovered her identity - it hadn't taken long for him to devise a basic, straightforward plan: Capture the lovely Lolita and threaten her life unless the Fox gave himself up.
At the time, the Don had delighted in the simplicity of his plan, sure that nothing could go wrong - but now that it had worked, now that the notorious Zorro was finally in his hands, the ease with which he pulled off his evil scheme bothered him. It set his nerves on edge, seeing his arch-enemy bound and subdued and facing death. Surely something was to come.
His gloved fingers clenched around the rail as the captain of the Lancers called his men to attention, and he instinctively leaned forward as if to see better.
What's he going to do?
"Ready!" Six muskets, primed and loaded, came up to six shoulders.
Any moment now...
"Aim!" The muskets were lowered, their murderous barrels pointing straight at the condemned man.
Now, surely, Zorro would break free of his bonds and turn the tables on his enemies, bringing chaos to the plaza before slipping away, forever out of reach-
"Fire!"
Six shots rang out simultaneously in one thunderous crash, and six lead balls tore through cloth and flesh and bone. The Comandante went rigid with shock as he watched the masked man in black slump forwards, supported only by the ropes that held him to the pole.
It was over. He had done it.
Screams of horror and rage erupted from the crowd, and the people surged forward as the Lancers lost control. The peasants were a force that could no longer be contained; they flew at the soldiers like mad creatures, fighting against sword and musket with their bare hands, but it was too late.
Zorro was dead.
The sharp, coppery scent of his blood as it flowed across the plaza, staining the dusty stones crimson, was the sweet aroma of victory to the Comandante. Behind him, Lolita was struggling against the hands that held her, screaming around the gag that stifled her mouth, but the cruel man ignored her. Only one thing mattered at this moment - this shining, glorious moment.
Diego Vega - Zorro the Fox - was dead.
Above the cries of the crowd and the hysterical sobs of Lolita, a wild, triumphant laugh rang beneath the hot California sun.
