unknown fate

Chapter Seven, Episode Five

Imam lifted his gaze to the ceiling; fury tightened his features, a silent storm about to break. The words that followed were not just speech but the weight of an old verdict.

“I’m telling you—there’s nothing I’ve ever done right in my life. Now I finally have a chance to atone for all I’ve done. I’ll get weapons to people who are fighting with stones—do you understand what that means? They face their enemies empty-handed. And by the way, the money from this operation will reach those who employ you, and will support whoever works from here until the end of your life—yours, your men, and even your boss. Right, Ghali Bey?”

Ghali stood beside him, voice steady as a reaffirmation of resolve.

“Rabea, listen to Imam and don’t argue. I chose him for this operation; he’s the leader we all must follow—me first of all.”

Rabea sank back into his seat, a hardness at the corners of his mouth, but he nodded at last, defeated to the inevitability of command.

“I’ll listen.”

Imam allowed the faintest shadow of gratitude to cross his face, then slipped back into the work-hardened tone of command.

“That’s the first checkpoint. All right, men?”

“All right!” the hall answered in unison, as if making an oath.

Imam closed his eyes for a moment, as though tracing the next lines on a map, then turned back to the screen with sharper focus.

“Now we move to the second checkpoint. This one is an Interior checkpoint with a large number of soldiers and plenty of weapons, but again—we’ll handle it without a drop of blood. I’ll tell you how.”

He swept his hand toward the screen; the image reflected in the faces around the room: the soldiers gathered in two positions. Imam’s voice grew calm and clinical as he outlined the tactic like a judge delivering a sentence.

“We’ll enter in a big truck loaded with some children’s toys and other useless things. Inside that truck will be ten of our men—except the driver, who won’t move. They’ll park the truck right there to be searched. Five soldiers will step out—maybe more—to inspect it. With that, we’ll have pulled five soldiers out of the checkpoint.”

He pointed to the second spot on the screen.

“Then another truck from us will pass through inspection normally and stop at this point. That point has five soldiers: two of them check licenses and look closely at the faces of people in the trucks; the other three sit around playing on their phones—not paying attention.”

He turned to Rabea and entrusted him with the key role, as if handing him a weapon of words.

“Your job, Rabea, is to act like you forgot the licenses. The soldier will tell you you need to come with him to file a report, and he’ll make you park the truck right there.”

Rabea nodded slowly; his eyes betrayed an inner resistance that dared not voice refusal. In that instant the hall became a tactical stage—every move measured, every breath carrying consequence.

Imam’s voice softened for one final, iron-edged instruction before he left them to the plan’s execution:

“Every word here equals a life. No arguments after this. No wasting time. Whoever stands with us must know their role is precise and must be executed like clockwork. There is no room for error.”

Men around them leaned in; some exchanged looks and made quick, inward calculations. Some had already decided. Others still weighed the gap between loyalty and danger. On the projected screen the next step glowed—the hush that fell over the hall felt like the moment before violent motion.

Imam steadied his breath, his eyes sharp and commanding as he resumed, his voice carrying the weight of a meticulously drawn plan:

“After that, they’ll take you into that room—straight to the officer—to file the report. You’ll walk with him, and two of our men will follow close behind. Another two will step out of the car, pretending to smoke, offering cigarettes to the soldiers at the checkpoint. At that exact moment, the third truck—loaded with five of our men—will roll up to the inspection point. One of them will ask to use the bathroom. And the moment he reaches the soldier posted by the restroom, that’s when it starts—the full takeover of the checkpoint, without firing a single shot.”

A ripple of tension spread across the room. The map on the screen glowed with red marks, while the men leaned forward, hanging onto every syllable.

Imam pointed to the projection, outlining the choreography as though sketching fire into the air:

“Once we’ve secured the checkpoint, we’ll load the captured soldiers into the large truck disguised with children’s toys. We’ll strip their uniforms, take their IDs, and replace them. We stand in their positions, do their job. That checkpoint is often quiet—only the occasional car passes through. By then, the time will be 5:30. Perfect timing. Nothing out of place.”

He let the words settle before pressing on. His tone hardened:

“Then we move—all our men, all the trucks of weapons and ammunition—toward Checkpoint Three. And that’s the toughest one. Highly trained soldiers, heavy deployment. Two armored vehicles. Two watchtowers. Each tower has a soldier armed with an RPG. An assault there would be suicide—unless we exploit one thing: the shift change. Exactly at six o’clock.”

A hush fell. Imam’s voice became colder, sharper:

“We’ll drive in with a truck full of sugar, rice, oil—humanitarian supplies, or so it will seem. They’ll inspect it thoroughly, gathering around, distracted. That’s when we study their movements up close. And when the clock strikes six, in the middle of the handover—soldiers exchanging posts, weapons shifting hands—we move. We flood in, overwhelm them, wipe out the checkpoint. The towers will be empty, the armored vehicles unmanned. Resistance, if any, will be scattered, weak, with light weapons. Not enough to stop us.”

He paused, letting the inevitability of his words weigh on the men before him. Then, almost solemnly:

“Once the checkpoint falls, we strip it clean—take every weapon from the fallen, seize the armored vehicles, and break open the crossing. Our brothers from the Palestinian resistance will be waiting with trucks of money. Those go through first. Then, one by one, the weapon convoys. And as a gift, we’ll hand them the armored vehicles themselves.”

The air thickened with a strange mix of dread and fervor. Some faces burned with anticipation, others with unease. Imam’s gaze swept across them like a blade.

“That’s how we finish the mission—minimal losses. Once the money trucks pass, our men at the first and second checkpoints withdraw fast, before anyone notices what’s happened.”

He took a long breath, then locked eyes with Rabea and the circle of men around him. His voice, calm yet unyielding:

“I believe everything is clear.”

Rabea’s reply came low, heavy:

“Fine. When do we move?”

Imam didn’t blink.

“The moment we receive the weapons—on the same day. We get the shipment, and we execute. No delays. Every second counts.”

The room dimmed, shadows drawing longer on the walls. The men exchanged hushed whispers, weighing their lives against the storm ahead. And at the center, Imam stood—unyielding, unreadable, the lone figure ready to march them into the unknown.