Evening.
When the news reached the Juburi tribe, Chieftain Nasser Juburi was in the midst of evening prayers.
He knelt on a wool blanket, facing Mecca, his hands raised to his chest, his lips softly reciting the "Opening Chapter."
The tribal intelligence officer almost stumbled into the tent.
This old subordinate of fifteen years hadn't lost composure like this since 2014, when the Islamic State seized Mosul.
"Chieftain! Dulaimi... the Dulaimi tribe is finished!"
Nasser halted his prayers.
He maintained his posture with hands raised, like a suddenly petrified statue.
The flame of the oil lamp flickered gently in the center of the tent, casting alternating shadows and light on his deeply lined face.
"How many?"
