unknown fate

Chapter Seven, Episode Fourth

Scene 1

The cold night breeze stirred the curtains while the ticking clock whispered into the silence. Imam lay stretched out on his bed, his eyes fixed on a ceiling that offered no answers. Beside him, Asrar rested quietly, lost in deep sleep—the only sound affirming her presence was the steady rhythm of her breath.

He reached out without waking her, his gaze drifting between her face and the ceiling, while his mind unfolded into a map of tangled lines: three checkpoints, trucks loaded with heavy weapons, and a desperate need to slip them past watchful eyes. The plan felt impossible—madness, perhaps. Sleeplessness etched tension into his face. With a quiet motion, he turned off the lamp, trying to surrender to rest. But sleep would not come. He tossed left, then right, a man haunted by thoughts that would not fade.

Scene Two

Later, in his office—though time mattered little to one about to fight a different kind of battle—Imam paced the room like a caged predator. Papers lay scattered, fragments of a half-drawn plan; the rest lived only in his head. Suddenly, as if struck by lightning, he seized his phone.

His heart pounded as he pressed call. The line opened: “Hello.”

—“Hello.” Ghali’s voice, calm, sharp, and ready as always.

—“I’ll need all your men with me, under my command. They’ll follow my orders to the letter—the operation is big, and it won’t be easy.” Imam’s tone carried steel beneath its calm.

—“All my men are yours. Whatever you need, consider it done.” Ghali didn’t hesitate; he was used to Imam’s demands.

—“We’ll also need to boost our weapons. Special equipment—for this operation only.”

—“What kind of weapons are you asking for?” The question cut straight to the point.

—“One hundred light automatic rifles… and two RPGs.” Each word landed like the weight of a storm.

—“Imam, are you trying to start a war? I just want this mission to pass smoothly.” Ghali’s voice held concern edged with caution.

—“Don’t worry. I’ve accounted for everything.” The reply was short, decisive, more conviction than comfort.

—“Then consider it done.”

—“And consider me ready.”

The call ended. Imam lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke slowly as he sank into his chair. The room was now his only companion: the desk, the cigarette, the smoke twisting upward like burning dreams. Each exhale carried the heaviness of decisions too great to bear.

Through the haze, Asrar’s sleeping face lingered in his memory—her presence alone a reason to risk it all.

Beyond the window, the city remained unaware that another dawn was about to break on the edge of catastrophe. Imam crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, gripped the back of his chair, and whispered to himself, barely audible: “No room for improvisation now… every second has to be accounted for.”

Silence reclaimed the room. But in that pause—between the end of the call and the last curl of smoke—the weight of an irreversible choice settled in, heavy as fate itself.

Scene Three

The lights were off except for the glare of the screen in a narrow hall crowded with more than a hundred men—shifting shadows and tense faces visible only by the glint in their eyes. Imam and Ghali stood at the center, two anchors in a sea of waiting. The men listened intently; the air itself seemed to whisper the danger that hung over them.

Rabea, with his familiar sharp face and blunt manner, couldn't hold back: “I don’t know what you’re trying to do. You’re getting into a game that isn’t ours. We don’t hand out weapons and plans like this—you're making it sound like you're going to liberate Jerusalem or something.”

A complete silence fell for a few seconds; glances crossed the room. Imam answered in a low, uncompromising voice: “What I want from you is to listen and execute, nothing else. Otherwise you’re out of the operation—understand?” His firmness left no room for doubt.

Rabea swallowed and, controlled but resentful, said: “Fine. I’ll listen. Go ahead.”

Imam stepped toward the screen and pressed a button; images of the first checkpoint flickered into view—still shots showing guard posts, soldier positions, the angles that shaped the threat. The silence that followed felt heavier than any shout.

“Focus on what I’m about to say,” Imam began, his eyes cutting through the crowd like a hawk. “This is a big operation—any mistake by a single man could ruin the whole thing. What you’re seeing is the first checkpoint. This is the largest weapons shipment ever to be smuggled: twenty large transport trucks loaded with weapons, rockets, and ammunition… right, Ghali?”

Ghali gave a curt nod. “Right, Imam.”

“We’re moving these to our brothers in Palestine—those resistance groups. We have to get them past three checkpoints. This is the first checkpoint.” Imam gestured at the screen; the photos of the soldiers flashed like foreign bodies against a dark backdrop.

“We’ll replace those soldiers with our men. We’ll wear their uniforms, take their places in the checkpoint, and perform their duties exactly. There are ten soldiers at this checkpoint: five standing at this position”—he pointed to a corner of the screen—“and five at that other position.” His voice was cold and methodical. “Keeping the soldiers close together will make it easier for us to control the checkpoint and reduce the chance of sudden searches. Of the first five: two inspect vehicles, one checks licenses, and two stand back to secure the area.”

The tone shifted into precise tactical detail. “We’ll enter in the first truck; inside it will be four of our men. We’ll handle them without firing a shot. While the first truck is being inspected, three of our men will get out of the second truck, move to the two soldiers on the ground, distract them—ask about a restroom, keep them talking—and at that moment the team in the front truck will subdue those two soldiers and put them into the third truck. The third truck is the large one carrying the weapons; we’ll put those soldiers inside it, take their uniforms, wear them, and assume their roles at the checkpoint.”

A low murmur ran through the hall—fingers gripping armrests, faces shifting between admiration, tension, and dread. Rabea snapped back, voice sharp as a blade: “Are you joking? You’ll get us all killed! We have our own work—that’s the d**g trade. We’ve worked it for years, it’s enough for us. Why do you want to expose all of us to this risk?”

Imam stared at him for a moment; his calm eyes masked a fire. “This is not recklessness, Rabea. These are precise calculations. A greater interest outweighs a calculated risk. If you want out, the door is open—but if you’re staying, every second you spend counts for ten. Who’s with me?”

A faint clap started in the hall and grew into murmured agreement; some whispered, others tightened their grips on weapons with renewed resolve. The stakes and consequences were now written on their faces: a strange courage and an anxious fear for endings none of them yet knew.

Imam returned to the screen, his voice tightening to protect the plan from failure: “There is no turning back once we start. If we do this right, the balance will shift. If fear wins, we’ll be cursed by those we love and those we fear. Decide fast.”

The clock’s ticks in the hall were like a judge calling the trial to order—a trial for a plan that knew no mercy.