Chapter 2091 - 854: Too Many Complications_4

Then he said:

"Give me an hour."

The phone hung up.

2:30 PM, Golan Heights.

The first United States bombs fell when the Syrians were crossing the Blue Line.

Those tanks, those infantry, those Chechens—all were blown to the sky.

The explosions lasted a full twenty minutes.

When the dust settled, the Blue Line was covered with scrap metal and corpses.

The Israelis poked their heads out from the trenches, looking at the hellish scene.

The Golan Brigade commander stood by the tank, looking at those burning wrecks, muttering:

"Damn it..."

3:00 PM, outskirts of Moscow, that villa.

The Boss stood by the window, looking at the white snowy landscape outside.

The phone rang.

He picked it up.

"Boss, the Americans have entered."

The Boss nodded.

"I know."

The voice on the other end paused.

"What do we do?"

The Boss was silent for three seconds.

Then he said:

"Make Grisha talk."

The other end froze.

"Make him talk? He knows nothing—"

"Let him know." The Boss interrupted, "Let him know his daughter is in Saint Petersburg. Let him know if he talks recklessly, something will happen to his daughter."

The other end was silent for two seconds.

Then said:

"Understood."

3:30 PM, Mexico City, Northern Prison.

Grisha sat in the interrogation room, looking at the empty chair opposite.

The door opened.

It wasn't Bennett who came in, but another man. In his forties, wearing a suit, with neatly combed hair, holding a mobile phone.

He placed the phone on the table.

"Mr. Grisha, someone wants to talk to you."

Grisha looked at the phone.

The screen was lit, showing an unfamiliar number.

He picked it up.

A voice came through—processed through a voice changer, so the identity wasn't clear.

"Grisha."

Grisha's hand trembled slightly.

"Your daughter is in Saint Petersburg."

Grisha froze.

"I... I don't have a daughter—"

"You do." That voice interrupted, "You just don't know it."

Grisha's expression changed.

"You're lying to me—"

"You can choose not to believe." The voice was very calm, "But when you can't get out, what will happen to your daughter?"

The phone hung up.

Grisha sat there, looking at the phone, looking at the door, looking at the empty chair.

His mind was blank.

4:00 PM, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the interrogation record just sent from the Northern Prison.

Grisha didn't say a word. He just took a call. After the call, it was as if he'd been emptied.

He put the record down.

Bramo stood beside him.

"Victor, that call—"

"I know." Victor interrupted him.

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma had started to slow down. Someone was honking, someone was cursing, someone was sticking their head out of the car window, looking in the direction of the National Palace.

"The Principal is in Moscow," he began, "The Principal has people in Saint Petersburg. The Principal also has people in Mexico City."

He turned around.

"Who made that call?"

Bramo shook his head.

"Can't trace it. The number was temporary, discarded after use."

Victor nodded.

"Have you found Grisha's daughter?"

Bramo nodded.

"Found her. There's one. Fourteen years old, living with her mother in the suburbs of Saint Petersburg. Grisha doesn't know."

Victor's eyes narrowed.

"He doesn't know?"

"No, he doesn't. When his ex-wife was pregnant with her, Grisha was in prison. After he got out, his ex-wife had already left with the child."

Victor was silent for three seconds.

Then he said:

"Tell her."

Bramo was stunned.

"Tell her what?"

Victor looked at him.

"Tell her, her father is in Mexico. Tell her, her father needs her."

Bramo's expression changed.

"Victor, that means—"

"Means what?" Victor interrupted him, "Means telling the Principal we're also looking for people?"

He walked back to the desk and sat down.

"The Principal has her, we have her too. When both of them arrive, we'll see who can hold their ground."

5:00 PM, Golan Heights.

The American bombers have flown away.

The Blue Line was littered with scrap metal and corpses. Syrians, Chechens, and a few Israelis—killed by friendly fire.

The Golan Brigade commander stood by a battle-damaged tank, looking at the soldiers collecting the bodies.

They were very young. The oldest was no more than thirty. The youngest just turned nineteen.

The adjutant came over.

"Brigade commander, the Staff Department orders—rest in place, await further instructions."

He nodded.

"Casualties?"

The adjutant paused.

"One hundred thirty-seven dead. Over three hundred wounded."

He closed his eyes.

One hundred thirty-seven.

These were his soldiers.

"Bury them," he said.

6:00 PM, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir looked at the battle report just delivered, his hand didn't shake.

The Golan Heights held. The Syrians retreated. The Americans entered.

He set the report aside.

Moses stood in front of him, his complexion finally regaining some color.

"Shamir, we won."

Shamir shook his head.

"No."

Moses was stunned.

"Didn't win?"

Shamir stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the Golden Dome Mosque on Temple Mount glistened in the sunset. In the distance, to the north, smoke still rose from the Golan Heights.

"That person in Moscow," he said, "wants us to fight the Syrians. Now it's happened. He wants the Americans involved. Now they are. He wants—"

He paused.

"He wants everyone to be in chaos. Now they are."