Chapter 2165 - 874: You’re Pretty Arrogant, Aren’t You~ (2)

At four o'clock in the morning, someone knocked on the door.

She stood up, her legs numb, leaning against the door frame as she slowly stood straight. The door opened, and the person standing outside wasn't Malik. It was three people wearing black suits, no hats, no military insignias, faces covered with masks, only their eyes showing.

"Malik Hassan's mother?"

Her heart sank. "He—what happened to him?"

The person in the middle took a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her. She accepted it and glanced at it. In the photo, a young man lay on the ground, a hole in his chest, eyes open, staring at the sky.

She recognized that face. It was her son's face. The face she'd waited nine years for.

Her legs gave way, sliding down the door frame slowly, the photograph slipped from her hands onto the ground. The three men in black suits turned and left, their leather shoes clattering on the stone path, further and further away.

She sat on the ground, staring at the photograph, staring at the open eyes, staring at the wound the size of a baby's fist. She didn't cry. She just sat there, holding the photograph, holding the name of the person she'd waited nine years for.

By daybreak, neighbors found her sitting on the threshold, already dead. Her hand still clenched the photograph.

At five o'clock in the morning, Golan Heights, Syrian Army 5th Division position.

Brigadier General Hassan hadn't slept all night.

He sat in the command vehicle, a casualty report spread out before him. 5th Division, 2,300 killed, 4,100 wounded. His division fought from the north of Golan Heights all the way here, fighting for seven days, with 2,300 young Syrians dead. He knew many of them. The machine gunner killed by a sniper outside Hasspin Village was his former driver. The company commander blasted by a tank shell on the outskirts of Tiberias City was his Military Academy classmate. The artilleryman who fired his last shot by the lake was his cousin's son.

The phone rang. He picked it up.

"General, the Mexicans sent some photographs."

The staff officer's voice trembled. He opened the tablet, and the screen lit up. The first photo, Malik Hassan lying on the ground, a hole in his chest, eyes open. The second photo, another young man from 317, also a hole in his chest, eyes open. Third photo. Fourth photo. Fifth photo. Twelve photos. Twelve dead.

Hassan's hand started to shake. Malik Hassan, his cousin's son, his father died in 317, caught on the day he was born, never saw him. Enclosed for nine years, released three days ago, he had him sent to Hamah, to find his mother. Now his mother is dead too.

He smashed the tablet on the table.

"Rifat Assad—" His voice squeezed out from his throat, every word stained with blood.

The adjutant stood before him, face pale. "General, call from Damascus. General Rifat says those people 'attempted to escape during transfer and were shot'."

Hassan stood up and walked out of the command vehicle. It was still dark, the position quiet, only the wind blowing from the lake, chilling to the bone. He stood by the lake, gazing at the lights across in Tiberias City. Those lights still glowed, dim and sleepy like drowsy eyes.

He remembered three days ago, Malik crossing the bridge, moving slowly, every step heavy like trudging through mud. On the bridge's midpoint, he squatted down, touched the wooden planks on the bridge. He stood up, looking at the lake, the water as blue as the sky, Tiberias City a distant white.

He recalled the note he wrote: "Hamah, Old Town, No. 7 Fayez Street. Your mom still lives there. Waiting for you."

Now his mom is dead. His nephew is dead too.

He turned around, went back into the command vehicle, picked up the red phone.

"Connect me with the 4th Armored Division."

The phone rang three times, picked up. The voice of Major General Adnan Saad on the other end was hoarse and tired.

"Hassan, are you mad? What time is it now?"

"Adnan, Rifat killed my nephew."

Silence from the other end for five seconds. "I know. My people also received the photos. He killed twelve people from 317, including my cousin."

Hassan's hand tightened around the phone. "Your cousin? He also was from 317?"

"Imprisoned for fifteen years. Released three days ago. Died yesterday. Rifat's people waited for him at home, shot as soon as he entered the door. His mother—my aunt—watched him collapse at the doorway. Now she's still in the hospital."

Silence between the two for a long time.

"Adnan, are you with me?"

Silence again on the other end. "With you. Doing what?"

Hassan looked at the lights across the lake. "Go settle with Rifat."

"When?"

"Now."

At five thirty in the morning, Damascus, Presidential Palace.

Hafez Assad was awakened by the phone.

He picked up, the voice on the other end was the Minister of Defense, anxious like fire on his heels.

"Mr. President, the 5th Division and 4th Armored Division have defected! Hassan and Adnan are advancing towards Damascus with their troops! The vanguard has already passed Homs!"

Hafez sat up. "How many people?"

"At least two brigades. Tanks, armored vehicles, self-propelled artillery. Hassan's troops joined with Adnan's forces north of Hamah. They—they've raised a banner."

"What banner?"

The Minister of Defense swallowed. "'Revenge for 317.' General Rifat killed twelve who were released from 317, including Hassan's nephew and Adnan's cousin. The whole army knows now. The First Division, Third Division, Republican Guard internally—they're spreading. Some want to join them, some want to stop them, some don't know what to do."