Chapter 1996 - 1445: Devastating Counterattack (Part 4)

"I don't trust you." Song Heping's reply was as sharp as a blade: "In Illiguo, I can't tell who's human and who's a ghost. Sorry, I can only guard against you."

Very candid.

A super candid answer.

Safar was left speechless.

Song Heping took a sip of tea and continued:

"After this battle, for at least half a year, no tribe would dare to reach a hand towards my convoy. Eight hundred lives exchanged for the survival of my people for the next eight hundred days. This account, very worthwhile."

Safar opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but couldn't find the right words.

Outside the porthole, the lights of Mosul faintly appeared on the horizon.

When Abdul was carried into the tent, the accompanying Bedouin doctor thought he wouldn't make it through the night.

The old chieftain's white robe was completely soaked in blood, the left side of his chest caved in.

That was the trauma caused by the simultaneous fracture of four ribs. A piece of muscle was sliced off his left shoulder by shrapnel, deep enough to expose the bone.

The most severe was the internal injury: the violent impact caused a ruptured spleen and massive internal bleeding within the abdominal cavity, with blood pressure having already dropped to dangerous levels.

Yet the tough old chieftain was still conscious.

He refused any sedatives.

When the doctor's scalpel cut open his abdomen, searching for ruptured blood vessels and damaged organs, he bit on a roll of leather soaked in olive oil, his eyes fixed on the tent ceiling, uttering not a sound.

Outside the tent, the returning warriors knelt in a half-circle, silently praying in the direction of Mecca.

Four hundred and twelve were captured, eight hundred and seventy-three perished.

This was the night of the greatest loss for the Dulaimi Tribe since the 19th-century suppression by the Osman Empire.

A fifteen-year-old boy knelt at the outermost edge of the crowd, trembling all over.

He was Hamudi's cousin. Three hours ago, he was on that burning pickup truck loading ammunition.

He witnessed Hamudi running through the flames, falling, and never rising again.

He saw those mercenaries in tan combat uniforms advancing, shooting, and clearing with textbook precision.

He saw his brothers, with whom he shared his daily life, fall like paper targets on a shooting range, staining the yellow sand with blood.

"Chieftain..." the old butler knelt beside the stretcher, his voice choked: "What do we do?"

Abdul opened his eyes.

In those murky pupils burned a flame he had never known.

It was not hatred.

Hatred is a luxury for the weak, a cheap sedative for losers to console themselves with.

It was fear.

Pure, lucid, bone-deep fear.

"Pass down the order." His voice trembled: "From today, the Dulaimi Tribe will not participate in any actions against 'Musician' company. We will not accept any intelligence concerning them. We will not engage with any so-called 'intermediary' contacts."

He coughed violently, spitting out a froth of blood.

"Tell the other tribes, tell Juburi, tell Zumaili, tell Obaidi and others, that I, Abdul-Razak, am sixty-two years old and have never submitted in this life. Twenty years ago, when the US armored brigade entered Fallujah, I did not yield; fifteen years ago, when Al-Qaeda sent people to incorporate the tribal forces, I did not yield; three years ago when the 'Islamic State' returned, I led three hundred young men to stop them at the border of Anbar Province, I still did not yield."

He paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and the pain from his fractured ribs was piercing.

"But tonight, I yield. That Lord Dong is not a merchant, he's a butcher. Whoever he wants dead, will die. I do not want the Dulaimi Tribe to disappear from this world."

The tent was dead silent.

Only the distant wailing of the desert night wind could be heard.