Chapter 1692 - 1341: Convoy Bound for Death (Part 3)

Underneath the robe, he wore an inconspicuous gray soft bulletproof vest.

This was his habit; when traveling in public, he always took some low-key protective measures.

His complexion wasn't good, and he had heavy bags under his eyes.

Clearly, he didn't sleep well last night.

However, decades of political career and guerrilla warfare experience had already etched a commanding posture into his bones.

His back was straight, his head slightly raised, and as his gaze swept over the convoy and the people present, he still carried that habitual authority.

"Is everything ready?"

Masood asked as he let his gaze fall on his own nephew.

In those slightly clouded eyes due to age, there was a flash of complex and indescribable emotion.

There was concern, scrutiny, and a barely detectable hint of regret.

"Everything is ready, Chairman."

Barzani fluidly opened the rear door of the Mercedes in the middle, bowing slightly, his posture impeccably respectful.

"Please get in. The frontline situation is complex this time, and I will personally escort you over."

Masood paused in front of the car door, his brows slightly furrowed: "You're going personally? Isn't the Military Committee supposed to hold an emergency meeting this morning? About the final response plan for Kirkuk's situation..."

"I've already arranged for Chief of Staff Faruk to preside in my place."

Barzani's face was full of smiles and false concern.

"At such a critical moment, I must stay by your side. After all, the situation at the front can change in an instant, with me there, command and coordination will be smoother, and we can also respond promptly to any unexpected situations."

He lowered his voice slightly, trying to make his tone sound more solemn.

"Moreover... intelligence indicates that there might be extreme actions on Abu You's side. With me and my men, it's an extra layer of protection for your safety."

This reason was reasonable, even appearing considerate and thoughtful.

Masood stared at his nephew's face, which bore a striking resemblance to his own brother's younger days, trying to read something beneath that perfect facade.

Hesitation?

Unease?

Flaws?

But he couldn't read anything.

Salahuddin had been good at controlling emotions from a young age, which is a quality of an excellent soldier and an essential skill for a mature politician.

Perhaps, he was just overthinking?

Masood sighed inwardly.

He nodded and said no more, bending down to sit in the car.

Barzani got in from the other side, sitting next to him.

The convoy slowly drove out of the residence, through Elbil's streets that hadn't fully awakened yet.

Workers were cleaning up the garbage left by last night's revelers, delivery vans unloading milk at the alley corner, and a distant mosque's minaret echoed with the melodious call to morning prayer.

This peaceful scene blurred and became distant in Masood's eyes through the dark bullet-proof glass, like a reflection of another world.

The convoy drove out of the residence, heading south along the streets of Elbil.

The car's interior was quiet, with only the deep rumble of the engine and the faint hiss of the air conditioning system.

Masood glanced at the rapidly retreating city landscape outside the window and suddenly spoke up.

His voice was soft, as if talking to himself or traversing a long tunnel of time:

"Barzani, do you remember the spring of 1991, when we fled into the northern mountains of Haraabja?"

Barzani's body tensed almost imperceptibly.

Of course, he remembered. He was sixteen that year when Sadam's army launched a brutal crackdown on the Kold Armed Forces.

In the face of the powerful offensive by that year's Iliko Government Army, the Kold Armed Forces, in an absolutely weak position, had to abandon the towns it had just captured and retreat into the mountains.

Masood was forty then, already one of the important leaders of the insurgents, yet he insisted on bringing along his ailing brother's only son.

That was himself, Salahuddin Barzani.

"I remember."

Barzani cleared his throat, trying hard to keep his emotions from fluctuating too much.

"At that time, I had malaria, my fever soared to nearly 40 degrees, and you carried me the entire night. The mountain road was steep and slippery, you fell three times, your right knee hit a rock, and blood soaked through your pants, but you never let me go."

"Your father entrusted you to me on his deathbed, saying: 'Masood, if I don't survive, take care of my son, make him a true Kold Warrior.'

Masood turned his head, looking at his nephew beside him.

The morning light came through the car window, casting a soft glow on his aged face, his eyes exceptionally bright in the light, as if they could penetrate all appearances.

"I promised him. Over the years, I've watched you grow from a frail teenager into an outstanding commander, a respected general. In my heart, you've long been more than just a nephew... sometimes I feel you are more like my ideal successor than my own two sons."

Barzani's fingers involuntarily curled on his knee, his nails dug deep into his palm, the slight pain helping him maintain a calm exterior.

"I've always... been grateful to you, Uncle. Without your protection and education, I might have died in a refugee camp long ago, or become another corpse under Sadam's secret police gun."

"So, when I recently heard some rumors, saying you've been frequently moving troops, planning some... unusual activities,"

Masood's voice remained soft, but every word was like a cold needle, slowly piercing Barzani's eardrums.

"I felt heartbroken. Like a father watching his most valued son, walking step by step towards a cliff."

The air inside the car froze instantly.

The driver's hand tightened on the steering wheel, his gaze inadvertently sweeping over the rear-view mirror in the cockpit.

In the front passenger seat, Major Jalal's right hand quietly moved towards his gun holster, but his fingertips stopped when they touched the cold leather, slightly trembling.

Barzani forced a smile on his face.

But the smile was as stiff as a freshly cast plaster mask.

"Uncle, you're overthinking it. Those are all rumors, spread by Abu You and the people behind him, aiming to sow discord between us, to undermine the unity within the Kold."

He tried hard to sound more "sincere".

"I'm just fulfilling my duty, protecting our land, defending our resources. You know better than anyone that the oil fields in Kirkuk are the lifeblood of our Kurdistan's economy, and must not fall into the hands of traitors."

"Then order to withdraw the troops assembling at Kirkuk."

Masood looked straight into his nephew's eyes.

He was attempting to give his nephew one last chance.

"After today, I will stay in Kirkuk and notify Abu You to come for a meeting, we will hold formal negotiations on the front line, resolving the dispute peacefully. I'm old, Barzani, I don't want to see Kold blood dye Kold land red in the last years of my life. We've spilled too much blood already, for independence, for freedom, for dignity... isn't that enough?"

"Sometimes, a short war is for a longer peace."

Hearing that his uncle was going to personally meet and negotiate with Abu You in Kirkuk, Barzani's voice gradually turned cold.

"Compromise and concession will only make the enemy more aggressive. Abu You is a living example — we give him an inch, he wants a foot; we give him a foot, he wants a mile! Uncle, your kindness and patience, in some people's eyes, have turned into a weakness to be exploited!"