...
Tripoli, top floor suite of the Corinthia Hotel.
Sayif sat slumped amid chaos, like a statue losing its soul.
The shattered debris of the phone lay scattered on the carpet, like his shattered dreams of an empire.
Outside the window, the sounds of cannon fire on the city's edge seemed closer, the muffled explosions intermittently making his heart clench.
Abandoned.
Completely, mercilessly abandoned.
The "allies" in England, France, and the United States who once promised him power and wealth have all now closed their doors.
He was left alone in the eye of the storm, awaiting to be crushed by Haftar and Song Heping's steel torrent.
Despair seeped like cold venom into his bones.
Just as he had lost all hope, another ultra-secret satellite phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated!
It wasn't the one he usually used, but a number known to only a few absolute confidants.
