The scorching sun of the Mediterranean generously spilled over the terrace of a seaside villa along the Mediterranean Avenue in Tripoli, heating the white railings and floor tiles to a burning temperature.
In the distance, the harbor's faintly visible cannon-fire-charred ruins starkly contrasted with the unrealistically blue waves nearby.
Song Heping sat in a spacious wicker deck chair, wearing loose beach shorts, eyes squinting at the shimmering sea. Deep within his gaze, the sharpness that lingered showed that his nerves had never truly relaxed.
Hurried footsteps sounded from inside the villa.
Henry emerged from the house and approached him, whispering, "Boss, the Frenchman Shire's convoy entered Marshal Haftar's temporary command post five minutes ago. He brought two assistants, four bodyguards. Quite the entourage."
Song Heping took a large sip of iced water, his gaze still fixed on the distant sea: "Any feedback from Haftar's side?"
"No official news for now. However..."