Chapter 2100 - 856: They Were Afraid of Being Mobbed—So They Struck First! (Part 2)

Bennett froze for a moment.

"Shamiel? Squid Prime Minister?"

"Yes. The one cursed as 'SZ' by three thousand rabbis. I want to talk to him. Now."

4 A.M., Jerusalem, Prime Minister's office.

Shamiel stood by the window, watching the silhouette of Temple Mount slowly emerge in the morning light.

He hadn't slept for thirty-six hours.

On the desk behind him lay three war reports. The first: Northern Gaza was now under control, at least two hundred targets destroyed, two high-level commanders of the HMS confirmed dead. The second: Arafat was still under surgery, his fate unknown, the BLST Authority was in chaos. The third: The Mexican Embassy was bombed, seven Mexicans dead, Victor's call was waiting on the line.

He turned around and picked up the receiver.

"Prime Minister Shamiel."

The voice on the other end was calm, but Shamiel could sense the volcano beneath that calmness.

"Mr. Victor."

"Your people bombed my embassy."

Shamiel paused for a second.

"Technical malfunction. I apologize."

Victor laughed. A cold laugh.

"Technical malfunction. Your people, with a one-ton bomb, malfunctioned onto the roof of my embassy. Prime Minister Shamiel, do you know who lived in that building?"

Shamiel said nothing.

"The counselor's daughter, ten years old. She was sleeping at the time. It took three hours to dig her out from the rubble. She's still in a coma."

Shamiel closed his eyes.

"Mr. Victor—"

"Listen to me."

Victor interrupted him, his voice suddenly hard.

"Your war with the HMS is your business. Your war with the ZZ Party is also your business. But you bombed my embassy, killed my citizens, that is my business."

Shamiel opened his eyes.

"What do you want?"

Victor was silent for three seconds.

Then he said:

"I want the pilot of that F-16."

Shamiel froze.

"What?"

"I want the person who dropped the bomb. Your person. Hand him over to me. I'll deal with him personally."

Shamiel's hand was trembling.

"Mr. Victor, that's impossible—"

"Impossible?" Victor sneered, "Did you think it was possible when you bombed my embassy?"

Shamiel took a deep breath.

"I can compensate. Double, triple, ten times. You can name your price."

Victor said nothing.

Shamiel waited.

Waited for a long time.

A very faint laugh came from the other end.

"Prime Minister Shamiel, did you think I was negotiating business with you?"

Shamiel said nothing.

"You're wrong," Victor said, "I'm not negotiating. I'm informing you."

The call ended.

Shamiel stood there, listening to the busy tone in the receiver.

Outside the window, the Golden Dome Mosque of Temple Mount began to reflect the morning light.

But he knew, some light would never shine again.

5 A.M., Mexico City, "Feathered Serpent Temple" top floor.

Victor put down the phone and looked out the window.

Bennett stood behind him.

"What did he say?"

Victor didn't turn around.

"He said impossible."

Bennett was silent for a second.

"What do we do then?"

Victor turned around.

"Tell Garcia to put the 1st Armored Brigade on alert."

Bennett froze.

"That's—"

Victor interrupted him, "I'm not just equipped with diplomatic notes."

He walked back to his desk and picked up the report on the embassy.

"Seven Mexicans. They're going to use the lives of these seven Mexicans to test how much I can endure."

He put the report down.

"Let them test."

8 A.M., Tel Aviv, Squid Defense Army Headquarters.

The pilot of that F-16 was named Eilad Shachar, twenty-seven years old, a Lieutenant in the 117th "First Jet" Squadron.

During his early morning mission, he dropped seven bombs, destroying three targets. On his return, the eighth bomb fell due to a "rack malfunction."

Now he was sitting in an interrogation room, facing three men in suits. One from the Air Force Command, one from Intelligence, and another from the Prime Minister's office.

"Are you sure it was a malfunction?"

Shachar nodded.

"I'm sure. Pre-flight checks were all normal. On the return flight, the system alarm suddenly went off, then the bomb dislodged."

The man from intelligence looked at him.

"Did you hear anything? Sense anything?"

Shachar thought for a moment.

"No. Everything was normal. Until the bomb fell."

The man nodded.

"Alright. You can go."

After Shachar left, the man turned to the Air Force Commander.

"He might be telling the truth."

The Air Force Commander frowned.

"Might be?"

The man stood up and walked to the window.

"The Mexican Embassy was along the return route. If the bomb fell at that position, it could only have been a malfunction. No one would be stupid enough to deliberately drop a bomb along the return route."

He paused.

"But Victor won't believe it."

10 A.M., Gaza, European Hospital.

Arafat was still in surgery.

The operation had been going on for six hours. The doctors had removed three shrapnel pieces from his skull, and two from his chest. His spleen had been removed, his liver repaired, and his left thigh bone was pinned with steel.

High-ranking officials from the BLST Authority crowded the hallway, smoking, making calls, whispering arguments. No one knew what to say or do.

A nurse rushed out of the operating room.

"He's awake."

The officials rushed in.

Arafat lay on the operating table, his face covered in bandages, only his eyes visible. Those eyes were bright, looking at the ceiling, at the people gathering around, at the last moment he knew he was still living in this world.

"Tell..."