The busy signal blared sharply.
Cavendi felt drained of all his energy and instantly erupted, "F*** the dog Prime Minister!"
Let those British soldiers die in Medellin!!!
Time was mercilessly slipping away amidst the desperate sound of gunfire in Medellin, in Victor's countdown, under Casare's mocking gaze.
Every second came with the possibility of a soldier's life slipping away. Yet, he was trapped in the confines of this small room, helpless, just waiting for the gentlemen in London to come up with a "sincerity plan" that might never satisfy Victor.
He collapsed dejectedly onto the cold metal chair in the communications room.
Time seemed to stretch and freeze in this small space, every second accompanied by the potential bad news coming from the direction of Medellin.
The Prime Minister's promise of urgent consultations sounded like the most vicious curse to his ears.
