In the top-floor suite of the Tulip Hotel, the air seemed solidified.
Lemont stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the city of Illiguo under the night sky.
A heavy clinking of a glass was heard from behind.
Lemont turned around and saw Robbin downing the whiskey in one gulp, then smashing the glass onto the oak coffee table.
The amber liquid splattered, leaving a damp mark on the dark wood grain.
"These cowardly fools." Robbin gritted his teeth.
Lemont said nothing. He knew exactly whom Robbin was referring to.
In the past two hours, Robbin had called the leaders of eight tribes.
Those tribal elders who had previously vowed to take a bite out of that fifteen billion dollars worth of arms were now either not answering calls or having their stewards answer with "The elder is resting." The only one who did pick up, Khalid, stammered for three minutes with a central message: Our tribe has decided to accept Mr. Song Heping's peace plan, don't urge us to commit suicide.
