Chapter 1985 - 1442: Fire of Greed (2)

"Yeah! Let's do it!"

"When has our Dulaim tribe ever been scared of anyone? Back when the American rolled in with tanks, we still didn't bow down!"

"Once we get this batch of weapons, the whole Anbar Province will be our turf!"

The atmosphere in the tent boiled over again, a greedy flame burning in every man's eyes.

It was a raw, naked hunger.

A hunger for money, for power, for a chance to rewrite their fate.

Mahir watched all of this, knowing there was no turning back anymore.

He stepped into the center of the tent and raised both hands. Everyone fell silent.

"In the name of Allah." Mahir's voice echoed inside the tent: "Today our Dulaim tribe is going to do something big. If we succeed, our descendants will remember this day. If we fail..."

He paused, sweeping his gaze over every face:

"Then we'll go see Allah and tell Him we fought until the very last moment."

Outside the tent, the morning sun had fully risen, dyeing the desert gold.

Eight hundred tribal fighters had already assembled.

Some wore traditional robes, some wore camouflage, some were even wearing bulletproof vest stripped from US Army corpses.

The weapons were all over the place, from brand-new AK-74s to battered old Lee-Enfield Rifles, from RPG-7 launchers to homemade large-caliber shotguns.

But the same thing burned in all their eyes.

That cornered-animal frenzy, that do-or-die resolve of men with nowhere left to go.

The Dulaim tribe's oilfields were drying up, the government had cut all subsidies to irregular armed groups, and rival tribes were eating away at their territory.

This might be the last chance: either get rich overnight, or be wiped out for good.

And ten kilometers away in another valley, the Jabur Tribe was doing the exact same thing.

Saladin Province, Jabur Tribe secret camp.

Unlike the Dulaim tribe's swaggering show, the Jabur Tribe's assembly was far more covert.

They didn't have a big camp, just groups scattered across a dozen small valleys, linked by motorcycles and radios.

Tribal chief Omar Jaber was a wiry, middle-aged man.

Right now he was crouched under a rock face, watching the distant highway through a pair of binoculars.

"The intelligence from the American says the convoy has twenty trucks, and four of them are carrying the most valuable cargo." Omar said to his son beside him: "Number three, seven, twelve, and sixteen. All we need to do is stop the convoy, quickly identify and hijack those four trucks, then pull out immediately—no getting bogged down."

His son Casim was only nineteen, but he'd already fought in three tribal clashes and was a sharpshooter.

"Father, what if the escort troops fight back? The intel says there are helicopters."

"That's why we've prepared a little surprise."

Omar grinned, showing uneven yellow teeth. He waved behind him, and a few young men pushed over a trailer covered with canvas.

When they flipped the canvas back, Casim sucked in a breath.

It was a ZU-23-2 twin-barreled anti-aircraft gun, the barrels still bearing powder stains from the Siria battlefield.

Even more shocking, stacked beside the mount were more than a dozen crates of special ammunition—armor-piercing incendiary rounds.

"Bought from our 'friends' in Siria. Cost us sixty thousand US Dollar, basically our entire fortune." Omar stroked the cold barrel: "Twenty-three millimeter caliber, two thousand rounds a minute, flat-trajectory fire can punch through a light armored vehicle. Helicopters coming in? Then we'll let them taste this."

Casim's eyes lit up. With this beast, their odds went up by at least thirty percent.

"But we only have a hundred and fifty men." He still kept a sliver of reason: "The intel says the escort could be fifteen hundred..."

"Which is why we don't hit them head-on." Omar unfolded a hand-drawn map: "Look here, eight kilometers before the Death Curve there's a downhill stretch. We'll plant IEDs in the road ahead of time and blow the lead vehicle. Then we use the AA gun to lock down the highway and sow chaos. At the same time, we've prepared four modified Toyota pickups, each with six men, and they've only got one job—drive straight up to those four target trucks, kill the drivers and guards, and drive the trucks away. We don't need to annihilate the enemy, we just need to grab the trucks and run."

"But Father, the other tribes are after this shipment too. The Dulaim tribe, the 1515 Remnant, maybe even militias from other factions. Once we grab the trucks, how do we make sure they don't rip us off on the way out?"

Omar's smile turned more grotesque: "That's why we've prepared a second route—no highways, we cut across the desert. Once we seize the trucks, we leave the road immediately and head into the sand. We've got tankers and guides waiting out there, they can take the trucks straight to the Siria border. Once we're in Siria, the 'buyers' will take over from there."

A flawless plan.

At least, flawless on paper.

Watching the fanatic gleam in his father's eyes, Casim felt a flicker of unease.

Everything was going too smoothly—so smooth it didn't feel real. The American handing them intel for free, people of Syria selling them heavy weapons, the whole plan fitting together like clockwork...

As if someone had carefully built the perfect trap around them.

But he didn't say it out loud.

In this tribe, questioning the chief's decision was dangerous.

And besides, the lure of hundreds of millions' worth of arms was too great—great enough to make men ignore every warning Signal.

All over the camp, the young men were making their final preparations. They were welding steel plates onto pickups, checking the IED detonators, and stuffing rounds into magazines.

Some were excited, singing; some were nervous, praying under their breath; most were expressionless, mechanically repeating the same prep motions.