Scene Six
The silence of the night was tainted by the faint groans seeping from among the rows of captive soldiers who had just been dragged out of the trucks. They were nothing more than the remnants of life from the first and second ambushes—exhausted, their hands bound, their faces smeared with dust and blood. The Palestinians hurled them to the ground like discarded sacks, their bodies scattered under the cold glare of floodlights.
Imam advanced toward them with steady steps, his hand gripping an assault rifle with the rigidity of death itself. There was no trace of hesitation or mercy in his eyes. He halted before them, pausing as if to grant them one last breath, then raised his weapon and unleashed a storm of bullets. The shots thundered, blood sprayed, and the bodies collapsed in
