Chapter 2085 - 853: New Mexicans~_3

2:30 PM, on the outskirts of Moscow, that villa.

The boss stood by the window, watching the heavy snow outside.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

It was the voice of the young man on the other end.

"Boss, Natasha has arrived."

The boss nodded.

"What did the Mexicans say?"

"Still haven't interrogated. But Bennett is waiting for her."

The boss laughed.

"Bennett. Victor's dog. He'll believe it."

He paused.

"Tell Ramzan, he can move."

3:00 PM, Golan Heights.

Ramzan raised his hand.

Behind him, two hundred Chechens simultaneously lifted their guns.

Five hundred meters ahead was the Israeli defense line.

Trenches, barbed wire, machine gun positions, and those soldiers in gray-green uniforms.

"Charge."

At the sound of the first gunshot, Ramzan had already run fifty meters out.

Bullets whizzed past his ears, like summer mosquitoes. People around him started falling, one, two, three—he didn't look back, just kept running forward.

Three hundred meters.

Two hundred meters.

One hundred meters.

The Israeli trenches were getting closer. Those faces clearer. Young, fearful, angry, shooting.

He jumped into the trench, landing on something soft. Looking down, it was the face of an Israeli soldier, in his early twenties, eyes open, mouth agape, blood oozing from his chest.

He didn't stop.

The rifle butt smashed into another Israeli's face, a knife stabbed into a third's belly, a Hand Grenade was thrown into the hiding spot of a fourth—

Explosions, screams, gunfire, all blended together.

When he straightened up, there were no living Israelis left in the trench.

He gasped for breath, looking at the corpses.

Over twenty. All young. The oldest wasn't even thirty.

He thought of his son. Dead in Chechnya, fifteen years old, killed by a Russian shell. When he died, his face was just as white, eyes open like this.

"Ramzan!" someone shouted.

He snapped back to reality.

"North! Target—Safed!"

4:00 PM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir looked at the battle report just delivered, his hands trembling.

"The Golan Heights... breached?"

Moses's voice came from the other end of the phone, hoarse, weary, with a touch of disbelief.

"Yes. More than two hundred Chechens, mixed with Syrian forces. Our defense... could not hold."

Shamir closed his eyes.

"Casualties?"

"At least fifty dead. Still counting."

Shamir opened his eyes.

"What about the Syrians?"

"They haven't moved. The Chechens were at the forefront. The Syrian forces followed behind, but haven't entered our range yet."

Shamir was silent for three seconds.

Then he said:

"Tell the Golan Brigade, counterattack."

4:15 PM, Golan Heights, outskirts of Safed.

Ramzan leaned against an olive tree, gasping heavily.

His left arm had been shot, blood flowing down his elbow, dripping onto the ground, quickly absorbed by the sandy soil.

Around him stood over thirty men. All Chechens. All old brothers who had followed him for five years.

"Ramzan, we've charged too far," a young man said.

He nodded.

"I know."

"The ones behind didn't catch up."

"I know."

"The Israeli reinforcements are coming soon."

"I know."

He stood up, looking at the city in the distance.

Safed. The Holy City of the Jews. Inside are thousands of Jews, hundreds of soldiers, countless streets he can't make sense of.

"Let them come," he said.

5:00 PM, Mexico City, Northern Prison.

Natasha entered the interrogation room as Volkov was drinking water.

He looked up, saw her, and the cup in his hand dropped to the ground, water splashing across his pants.

"Na... Natasha?"

She stood at the door, unmoving.

He stared at that face. Thin, pale, big eyes, just like his, seeing everything as if through a veil.

"Your mom..." his voice was hoarse, "where's your mom?"

Natasha didn't answer.

She just looked at him.

Looked for a long time.

Then she spoke, her voice very soft:

"Dead. Three years ago."

Volkov's tears came down.

He reached out, wanting to touch her face.

She took a step back.

"They said," she said, "you're a bad person. Killed people. Dealt drugs. Smuggled arms."

Volkov's hand stopped in mid-air.

He looked into her eyes.

Those eyes carried no hate, no love, nothing. Just looking at him, like looking at a stranger.

"They were right," he said.

Natasha was silent for three seconds.

Then she asked:

"Then why did you raise me?"

Volkov was stunned.

"You sent money to my mom every month. You put me through school. You let me survive."

Her hands began to tremble.

"Why?"

Volkov looked at her.

"Because you're my daughter."

Natasha's tears fell.

She stood still, not moving, just crying.

Bennett stood by the door, watching them.

He said nothing.

He simply turned and left.

6:00 PM, Golan Heights, outskirts of Safed.

The Israeli counterattack began.

Tanks, armored vehicles, helicopters, and those reserve soldiers just dispatched from the rear—all in their twenties, some with unshaven stubble, some with trembling hands, but none retreated.

Ramzan stood behind a house that had been bombed down, watching those approaching steel beasts.

Only about a dozen men remained by his side.

"Ramzan," the young man said, "we can't run anymore."

He nodded.

"I know."

"What do you want to do?"

He looked at the distant city.

Safed. The Holy City of the Jews. Inside are thousands of Jews.