The hunter never gives up the hunt because the prey has sharp fangs.
They only prepare stronger traps, sharper knives.
"Order Milosh." Song Heping's voice echoed in the cabin: "Let Team A prepare to engage. Combat principle—if we attack, we annihilate. I don't care whether he uses mortars or bayonets, within forty minutes, I want the Dulaimi Tribe to lose all combat capability."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the electronic map on the screen, as if he could see the Dry River Valley about to ignite through the layers of contour lines.
"Set an example for the other tribes. Show them the price of reaching out."
Twenty kilometers south of Highway 7.
The Dulaimi Tribe's armed gathering place is in a dry river valley.
Abdul sits in the passenger seat of a modified Toyota pickup, with the Belgian FN FAL rifle he's used for twenty years beside him.
The gunstock's wood grain had been soaked by sweat countless times, its patina smooth like an antique.
