Chapter 2076 - 851: For Survival? (2)

The real ZD people waited for them by the roadside.

Rockets came flying down from the hillside, hitting the side of the armored vehicle, erupting into balls of fire. Machine gun bullets swept past, striking the steel plates, clanging like someone hammering an iron barrel.

Ben Abraham's tank was hit directly by a rocket.

The violent shock threw him off his seat, his head struck the hatch, and stars filled his vision. The driver was shouting something, but it was indistinct. All he could hear was the buzzing sound in his ears.

"Brigade commander! Are you okay?"

The gunner's voice seemed to come from a far distance.

He shook his head, slowly bringing things into focus.

"I'm fine. Keep moving forward."

The tank continued to advance.

There was a body lying by the side of the road—not a Squid Man, but a real ZD soldier. Very young, in his early twenties, with blood not yet wiped clean on his face. His eyes were open, staring at the night sky, not knowing what he was looking at.

Ben Abraham looked away.

Hiam Town was just ahead.

5:00 AM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office

Shamir hadn't left that window.

Outside the window, the sky was starting to lighten. The outline of the Temple Mount emerged from the darkness, the golden dome of the mosque glistening in the morning light.

The phone rang again.

This time it was Moses.

"Shamir, the 91st Division has taken Hiam. They are advancing towards the Litani River. Casualties—seventeen dead, forty-three wounded."

Shamir tapped his fingers on the window frame.

Seventeen.

This was just the beginning.

"What about the real ZD side?"

"At least two hundred. And their ammunition depots, command centers, communication facilities. We bombed over twenty targets."

Shamir said nothing.

He knew Moses was waiting for something—a "well done" or a "good work."

But he said nothing.

After three seconds of silence, he asked:

"Any movements from the Syrian side?"

Moses's voice hesitated for a moment.

"On the Golan Heights, Syrian Government Army is massing. At least two divisions. Tanks, artillery, and—those Chechens."

Shamir squinted his eyes.

"What do they want to do?"

"Don't know. But our intelligence says they've received orders—once we're deep into fighting with the real ZD, they'll press down from the north."

Shamir was silent for a few seconds.

Then he said:

"Notify the Golan Brigade. Enter highest readiness."

He hung up the phone and turned around, looking at Ross.

Ross was also looking at him.

"You heard."

Ross nodded.

"Syria is getting ready to move."

Shamir shook his head.

"Not Syria. It's YL. It's Russia. It's the one who wants me to fight with Mexico."

He walked to his desk and picked up the report on the Cayman Islands shell companies.

"Mr. Ross, help me send a message to Victor Reyes."

Ross waited.

Shamir looked at him.

"Tell him, we're not enemies. Tell him, the one who had his ship detained is the same one who had me being called 'SZ.' Tell him—"

He paused.

"Tell him, I can fight in Lebanon, he can fight in Mexico. But we're fighting the same person."

7:00 AM, Mexico City, "Feathered Serpent Temple" penthouse

Victor hadn't slept all night.

The coffee cup on the table was replaced three times, the ashtray filled twice, and the TV on the wall was kept on—CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera, all airing the situation in Lebanon.

The Squid Man's tanks were pushing north. The real ZD's rockets were crashing south. Syria's army was massing on the Golan Heights. The YL people were shouting "jihad."

Bramo pushed the door open and came in.

"Victor, a call from the Americans."

Victor looked up.

"Who?"

"A White House envoy. Ross."

Victor took the phone.

"Mr. Victor."

"Mr. Ross."

Both fell silent for a moment.

Then Ross spoke:

"Shamir asked me to pass a message."

"Go ahead."

"He said, the one who had your ship detained and the one who had him called 'SZ' is the same."

Victor tapped his fingers on the table.

"Evidence?"

Ross remained silent for a few seconds.

"Cayman Islands shell companies. The one funding the protests against Mexico in Ecuador and the one funding the three thousand rabbis in Jerusalem is the same legal entity."

Victor narrowed his eyes.

He recalled the old man—Joshua Ben-David—standing on the Temple Mount shouting "SZ."

He recalled the four boxes—silver-gray, PTFE-coated—appearing in the cargo hold of his ship.

He recalled the Chechen woman—Tamara—lying in a pool of blood.

"Who is that legal entity?"

Ross did not answer.

"Mr. Ross?"

Ross's voice dropped:

"Couldn't find out. But the direction of the funds—flowing east."

Victor was silent for three seconds.

Then he said:

"Moscow."

Ross did not deny it.

Victor stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was already starting to jam. Horns were honking, people were cursing, and some were sticking their heads out of car windows, looking toward the National Palace.

They still didn't know Lebanon was at war.

They still didn't know Syria was massing.

They still didn't know—

The war had already begun.

"Mr. Ross," Victor said, "tell Shamir, I've heard."

"And then?"

Victor looked outside.

"Then, let him fight. Let him force those people out from underground. When they show their heads—"

He paused.

"I'll block them from the other side."

8:00 AM, Southern Lebanon, north bank of the Litani River

Ben Abraham stood by the riverbank, looking at the olive grove across.

The Litani River wasn't wide, just over twenty meters, with a gentle flow. But on the opposite bank, there were real ZD mortar positions, and a shell had just landed five meters from him, blasting two soldiers away.