Chapter 2210: Tough Guy!_2

Chapter 2210 -886: Tough Guy!_2

“Mr. President, are you afraid?”

Assad looked at him. “Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of death.”

Assad was silent for three seconds. “I’m not afraid. Those who have killed aren’t afraid of dying. The fear is that after death, no one remembers.”

The young soldier nodded. “Then I’m not afraid either. No one will remember me anyway.”

Assad placed his hand on his shoulder. “I will remember you. What’s your name?”

“Khalid. Khalid Hussein. A Deraa person.”

Assad nodded. “Khalid Hussein, a Deraa person. I will remember.”

The young soldier smiled.

In the distance, Turkish tanks began to start up. The engine roar traveled far in the night, muffled, like thunder.

Assad stood up, dusting off the dirt from his clothes.

“Brothers, it’s almost dawn. The Turks are coming. When they come, we fight. If we can’t beat them, we die. But we must die in Syria.”

He turned around, looking at the eyes still glimmering in the darkness.

“Not for me to die. It’s for Syria. For those who died under the olive trees. For those holding photos standing at the gates of the Presidential Palace.”

He pulled out a gun from his waist. A Makarov, nine millimeters, which he brought out in the year the Soviet Union disintegrated. The gun barrel was polished bright, and the magazine was full.

“Today, I die ahead of you. If I die, you keep fighting. If you die, your sons keep fighting. If your sons die, your grandsons keep fighting until Syria is free.”

Day broke.

The sun rose from behind the eastern hills, casting a golden glow over the ruins, gilding each stone.

Turkish tanks began to advance. At least fifty, arranged in an assault formation, their barrels aimed at Assad’s direction. Behind them followed infantry, and further back were the Syrian National Army’s pickups.

Assad raised his pistol towards the sky.

“Bang!”

The gunshot rang out.

Not aimed at a person, but at the sky.

“Long live Syria!”

He rushed forward.

Behind him, the thousand soldiers followed, wielding their guns, rushing into the golden sunlight.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge

Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind a folding table, a pot of freshly brewed coffee before him. Beans grown in the Chiapas Highlands, the kind Assad likes.

He poured two cups, one placed in front of himself, the other beside the table. Next to Hassan’s cup. Three cups now. Hassan’s, Assad’s, and one more—after thinking a bit, he picked it up and placed it on the opposite side. Three cups, three directions.

The fog was thick at the eastern bridgehead. The other side couldn’t be seen.

He picked up his coffee, took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

In the distance, from the direction of Aleppo, came the muffled sound of explosions. Even from over a hundred kilometers away, it’s audible, muffled, like thunder.

He put down the cup, picked up the radio.

“Connect me to Mexico City.”

The phone rang once and was picked up. The voice on the other end was Victor’s.

“Lieutenant.”

“Leader, Aleppo is fighting. Assad is charging. As he charged out, he shouted ‘Long live Syria.’ Not ‘Long live Assad.’ It was ‘Long live Syria.’

There was a long silence on the other end.

“Lieutenant, is the coffee still brewing?”

“It is.”

“Then keep brewing. When he returns, drink. If he doesn’t return, drink too. Once finished, pour a new cup. Keep pouring, keep brewing. Until he returns.”

The call ended.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal.

The fog on the lake surface started to disperse. The sun revealed half its face from behind the eastern hills, shining on the water, scattering into golden stars.

He picked up the cup placed beside him and poured it into the lake.

Then he poured another cup, placed it beside the table.

“President Assad, the coffee is still warm. Come back and drink it.”

Aleppo, suburban battlefield

Assad wasn’t aware of how far he had charged.

Gunfire, explosions, shouts, and the sound of his own heartbeat filled his ears. The bullets in his pistol had been exhausted, he discarded the gun, and picked up an AK-47 that had fallen on the ground. The magazine was full, thirty bullets.

He lay in a shell hole, gasping for air. Corpses surrounded him—Syrians, Turks, indistinguishable. In the distance, Turkish tanks continued to push forward. The sound of tracks grinding the ground drew closer, making his ears buzz.

“Mr. President!”

Khalid climbed next to him, his face bloodied, his left eye swollen shut.

“The Turks are flanking from the left! We’re surrounded!”

Assad lifted his head. On the left, at least twenty armored vehicles were bypassing the ruins. On the right, Syrian National Army pickups were setting up mortars. Behind, the way they came was already cut off.

“How many men left?”

Khalid glanced back. “Less than three hundred.”

Assad closed his eyes.

After three seconds, he opened his eyes.

“Any shells left?”

“None. Anti-tank missiles—gone too. Bullets—less than five per person.”

Assad nodded.

“Then let’s charge with bayonets.”

He fixed the bayonet onto the gun muzzle. All three hundred soldiers also fixed bayonets onto their guns.

Three hundred bayonets, shining coldly in the sunlight.

The Turkish tanks halted.

The barrels turned, aiming at them.

Assad stood up, holding his gun, staring at the dark barrels.

“Long live Syria!”

He rushed forward.

Behind him, those three hundred soldiers followed, charging into the golden sunlight.

The artillery fired.

Not the Turkish artillery.

It was the Syrian artillery.

Fired from within the city of Aleppo.

The shell fell among the Turkish tank column, hitting a tank, its turret flew off, crashed to the ground, rolled twice, and stopped. The second, the third, the fourth.