Chapter 2081 - 852: A Cage of Men, Awaiting Their Master (Part 3)

Talas narrowed his eyes.

"Are you trying to provoke me?"

Volkov shook his head.

"I'm telling the truth."

He took a step closer.

"General, I know who's behind you. You also know who's behind me. That man is waiting in Moscow. Waiting for you and the Squid Man to start fighting, waiting for the Mexicans and the Americans to start arguing, waiting for the whole world to turn into a pot of boiling porridge—"

He paused.

"That man will come out."

11:00 a.m., suburbs of Moscow, that villa

The Boss sat in that wide armchair, holding a glass of vodka.

The fire in the fireplace was blazing, but cold sweat kept seeping down his back.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

Volkov's voice came from the other end.

"Boss, the Syrians are still hesitating."

The Boss nodded.

"Let them hesitate."

Volkov froze for a moment.

"Let them hesitate? Isn't that—"

"Isn't that just right?" the Boss cut him off. "Only people who hesitate get anxious. Only anxious people make mistakes."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, snow was still falling over Moscow, the world a blur of white.

"Volkov, do you know why I had you put those four crates on the Mexicans' ship?"

Volkov said nothing.

"Because I wanted them to fight. Mexico and the Squid are so far apart, they were never going to fight. But with those four crates, they did."

He laughed.

"Now Syria and the Squid are so close, they were certain to fight. But with that forty-eight–hour pause, they're hesitating instead."

He turned around.

"When you hesitate, you start thinking. When you think, you get scared. When you're scared, you wait. And when you wait—you let that man wait for what he wants to wait for."

Volkov's voice came over the line:

"Boss, what is that man waiting for?"

The Boss was silent for two seconds.

Then he said:

"He's waiting for us in Moscow."

12:00 noon, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple"

Victor sat at his desk, three intelligence reports spread out before him.

The first was from Bennett's people: the address Volkov used to send the video traced back to an abandoned factory on the outskirts of Moscow. The factory's owner was a shell company in Russia. The legal representative of that company was connected to a man named "Sergei Ivanov."

The second was from the Squid intelligence service: Sergei Ivanov, fifty-eight, former KGB Colonel, disappeared after the Soviet Union collapsed, rumored to have operated for years in Eastern Europe and the Middle East, the actual controller behind the "Black Sea Wolf."

The third was from his own people: that Sergei Ivanov was currently in that villa on the outskirts of Moscow.

He pushed the three reports aside.

Bramo stood beside him.

"Victor, do we move?"

Victor shook his head.

"No rush."

Bramo was taken aback.

"No rush? Then—"

"That villa," Victor cut him off, "is not his real lair."

He stood up and walked to the map.

"Why did Volkov send us that video?"

Bramo thought for a moment.

"To make us trust him?"

Victor nodded.

"Right. To make us trust him, to make us believe that Sergei Ivanov is the man behind the scenes. And then what?"

Bramo said nothing.

Victor answered for him:

"Then we go grab that man. Once we grab him, everything's over. Volkov can take over his business."

He turned around.

"That's called killing with a borrowed knife."

1:00 p.m., north bank of the Litani River, Squid positions

Ben Abraham had already rested for three hours.

But he hadn't fallen asleep.

He leaned against a wrecked armored vehicle, staring at the city to the north.

Tyre was there. A two-thousand-year-old city, a Phoenician port, a Crusader fortress. Now, the ZZD people were inside, waiting for him.

"Brigade commander."

The adjutant walked over.

"Orders from above."

Ben Abraham took the slip of paper.

There was only one line: "Continue advancing. Objective: Tyre."

He folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket.

"Get the Brothers up."

1:15 p.m., Squid Armored Forces began advancing toward Tyre.

Five kilometers.

Tanks formed a column and rolled north along the coastal road. On the left was the Mediterranean, a blinding blue. On the right, olive groves, a blackish green. Ahead lay that city, a washed-out gray.

The guns opened up.

ZZD mortars fired from inside the city, shells landing on both sides of the road, throwing up plumes of dust and smoke. The tanks accelerated, machine guns raked the area, infantry jumped down and fanned out, rushing toward the city.

Ben Abraham's Merkava led the charge.

Half his body was exposed outside the hatch, his face blackened further by the smoke, his eyes narrowed to slits as he stared ahead. Shells burst around him, shrapnel clanged off the armor; his ears could no longer hear anything, only a constant, droning buzz.

"Brigade commander! Left!"

The adjutant's voice drifted over from far away.

He turned and saw someone in a window of a building—shouldering a Rocket Launcher, about to fire.

"Stop!"

The tank slammed on the brakes. The turret swung, the gun barrel leveled at that window.

"Boom!"

A shell slammed in, blowing the entire floor apart.

The tank surged forward again.

2:00 p.m., outskirts of Tyre

By the time the first Merkava broke into the urban fringe, the streets were already empty.

Shopfronts were all shuttered, windows boarded over, the road littered with abandoned cars and furniture. In the distance, the minaret of a mosque still stood, but there was someone on top—Sniper.

"Bang!"

A round smacked into the tank's armor and ricocheted.

Ben Abraham ignored him.

"Infantry dismount. Clear house by house."