Chapter 2166 - 874: You’re Quite Arrogant, Aren’t You~_3

Hafez was silent for a long time. "And Rifat?"

"At the airport. His private plane is already being prepared. He's flying—to London."

Hafez closed his eyes. He remembered 1970, when he launched the "Corrective Movement" to seize power, Rifat was only twenty-one, charging into Damascus with tanks, clearing out all the opposition for him. That year, Rifat was just a kid, with light in his eyes. Now, that kid is running.

"Stop him."

The Minister of Defense was stunned. "Mr. President—"

"Stop him. Don't let him get on the plane. Don't let him leave Syria. Don't let him—" He paused, "Don't let him leave Damascus alive."

The phone hung up.

Hafez sat on the bed, looking at the gray sky outside the window. In the distance, from the direction of Damascus, came the dull sound of explosions. Not the sound of artillery, but the rumble of tank engines coming from far away, muffled like thunder.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Get me the Golan Heights. Find Brigadier General Hassan."

The phone rang many times before it was answered. On the other end was Hassan's voice, hoarse, tired, but firm.

"Mr. President."

"Hassan, I will handle the matter of Rifat. Stop your troops."

Hassan was silent for three seconds. "Mr. President, Rifat killed my nephew. He killed my cousin's son. He killed eleven Syrians coming out of prison number 317. They had just been released from prison, three days ago, they walked across the bridge at Lake Tiberias. They thought they were going home, thought they were free, thought they would see their families who have been waiting for them for nine years, fifteen years, twenty-two years. Rifat's men were waiting at their door, and as soon as they entered, opened fire. He did not kill prisoners of war; he killed civilians. He did not kill enemies; he killed Syrians."

Heavy breathing was heard on the other end of the line.

"Mr. President, I brought two brigades. Tanks, armored cars, self-propelled artillery. Not to fight Damascus. To find Rifat. Hand him over. Give him to me. I will take his head back. The troops return to Hamah. The bridge remains. The water continues to flow."

Hafez was silent for a long time. "Hassan, Rifat is my brother."

"I know. But he killed my nephew. He killed eleven Syrians. He held thirty-seven Syrians in prison number 317, imprisoned them for eleven years, twenty-two years, thirty years. Those lives are lives too."

"Hassan—"

"Mr. President, I fought at the Golan Heights for seven days, lost two thousand three hundred brothers, took Lake Tiberias. Not to fight for Rifat Assad's private prison. Not to fight for him killing Syrians. To fight for Syria. For Syria's water, for Syria's land, for Syrian lives."

He paused. "Rifat is not a Syrian. He's a beast."

The phone hung up.

Hafez sat there, listening to the busy tone in the receiver. Outside the window, in the direction of Damascus, the explosions were getting closer.

Seven o'clock in the morning, Damascus International Airport.

Rifat Assad stood beside his private plane, his face ashen.

The plane was already refueled, the pilot sat in the cockpit, the engine was running, the gangway was lowered. But he couldn't board. Because a tank was parked on the runway. Not his tank, Hassan's tank. The tank of the 5th Division, the gun pointed at his plane.

He turned and looked at the guards standing behind him. "What are you standing around for? Get that tank out of my way!"

The guards didn't move.

Rifat squinted. "Are you deaf?"

One of the guards spoke, his voice very light. "General, Hassan's men say that whoever blocks the way is an accomplice of prison number 317."

Rifat's face turned pale. "You—you dare disobey orders?"

The guards said nothing. They looked at him, their expressions strange. Not anger, not fear, but something cold, like they were looking at someone already dead.

Rifat turned away and looked at the tank. The barrel was long, a dark hole aimed at his chest. He remembered when Malik Hassan died, there was a hole in his chest too. A hole the size of a baby's fist, blood gushing out of it, staining the gray tracksuit.

He thought of those photos. Twelve photos, twelve dead people, signed by his own hand, orders given by him personally. "Attempt to escape during transfer, executed on the spot." That's what he told the people in Damascus. That's what he told Hassan's men. That's what he told his brother.

Now, Hassan's tank was parked on the runway, the gun pointed at him. His guards stood behind him, looking at him like a dead man.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Get me Hassan."

The phone rang once and was answered.

"Rifat." Hassan's voice was very cold.

"Hassan, are you crazy? Do you know what you're doing? You're rebelling! You're—"

"Rifat, how many people have you killed?"

Rifat's words caught in his throat.

"Prison number 317 has been open for eleven years. Of the people who went in, less than half came out. Those who didn't come out, where did they die? Where were they buried? Who buried them?"

Rifat said nothing.

"You may not say it, but I know. You have a plot of land north of Hamah, where olive trees grow. How many people are buried under those trees?"

Rifat's hand began to shake. "Hassan, how—how do you know?"

"Because I dug. Last night, my men went to that land. Dug three meters deep, unearthed seventeen corpses. Some already rotted, some just recently buried. One of them was still wearing a gray tracksuit, with a hole in his chest, the same as my nephew."