Eastern Syria, deep within Deir Ezzor province.
There is no dreary London rain here, only dust storms and the cold moonlight.
A camp formed from the remnants of an abandoned oil field looms between the desolate hills.
The walls, compacted with sand and bullet-ridden, are clumsily patched with tattered cloth and rusty iron sheets.
The air is thick with the stench of cheap diesel, lingering gunpowder smoke, and an indescribable, intense smell of blood and sweat.
A massive black flag stands in the center of the camp, flapping fiercely in the hot wind, the twisted white lettering on it resembling some evil totem.
The largest "command post" in the camp is nothing more than a relatively intact brick house.
Inside the room, it is oppressively hot, with a single small window mostly shrouded by a heavy blanket, dimly lit.
A rough operational map hangs on the wall, the areas marked with thumbtacks of different colors.
The floor is covered with a few ragged carpets.
A man in a dirty white robe, sporting a thick beard, stands with his back to the door, unleashing a beast-like roar at an intelligence report just delivered on the table—
"Waste! A cursed bunch of waste! Eight hundred men! Eight hundred warriors of Allah! And our best equipment! Just like that... just like that turned into ashes by some filthy militia... in the sands of Mosul?!"
His voice is hoarse, ferocious, filled with incredulous rage and a nearly overwhelming sense of humiliation.
He is Baghdadi, the self-proclaimed "Caliph," the supreme leader of the 1515 armed group.
The intelligence on the table was freshly received, a hot encrypted report about nearly the entire elite force's annihilation in the Mosul direction.
Each word felt like a red-hot iron brand, searing into Baghdadi's nerves.
He suddenly turns around, his bloodshot eyes bulging with anger, face muscles contorted, and his beard trembles violently.
He grabs a relatively intact earthen cup from the table and hurls it furiously at the wall!
"Bang!"
A dull thud, the cup shatters, the brown liquid and shards scatter everywhere.
"Allah's wrath will burn them! Burn their souls! Let them wail in Hell's fire for a thousand years!"
He swings his fists, cursing hysterically, spitting saliva. He paces back and forth in the confined room like a wounded beast in a cage, his heavy boots thudding on the floor.
The defeat in the Mosul direction not only signifies a significant loss of personnel and equipment but also means territory contraction, a heavy blow to his authority and a destructive blow to the organization's morale!
God cannot bleed!
The 1515 army swept through the northwest of Illiguo and roamed freely along the Siria border in part because everyone feared the 1515's combat prowess and extreme methods to the point of terror.
Now, the "Eligo Liberation Force" militias have made God bleed.
From now on, the 1515's invincible reputation is no longer intact.
He desperately needed an outlet, a revenge target substantial and bloody enough!
"Immediately mobilize troops within Syria, assemble at least ten thousand men! I will personally lead them back to Mosul! Let those filthy infidels taste Allah's wrath; I will burn their city, slaughter everyone involved in this attack..."
Just as his fury almost ignites him, a similarly dirty but more tense messenger rushes into the room, almost tumbling over.
He clutches an envelope tightly.
"Sir! Sir!"
The messenger's voice cracks with fear and excitement, prostrating on the ground, holding the oilcloth-wrapped package high.
"'Dark River'! From 'Dark River'! The most urgent intelligence! About the Mosul attackers!"
"Dark River" — a mysterious, costly anonymous intelligence trading network famed for absolute confidentiality and precision.
Baghdadi's furious movements abruptly halt, his bloodshot eyes fixed on the oilcloth package like a starving wolf spotting fresh meat.
He snatches it and tears open the envelope roughly, pulling out a note.
On unfolding, it revealed only a few lines of text, accompanied by several blurry yet distinctive satellite images.
[Target: Song Heping (nicknamed "Song," "Eagle of Africa"... "Musician" defense handler, Sena northern armed head)]
[Location: Confirmed entry into Syrian territory, currently operating in the western Deir Ezzor province, suburban area of Ashala Town.]
[Intention: Rescue his captured former teammate (codename: Cook). Estimated hideout/assembly area: southeast slope of Gelbi Mountain.]
[Connection: Mosul ambush was planned and commanded by him.]
[Source of information: Anonymous (Reliability: Highest)]
Every word was like a heavy hammer pounding on Baghdadi's heart.
"Song Heping... Eagle of Africa... Son..."
Baghdadi squeezed the name out through clenched teeth, filled with bitter hatred.
This was not an unfamiliar name.
More than two years ago, in the region near the Syria border, it was this man who led the raid on his hideout!
"Gelbi Mountain... Ashala..."
Baghdadi suddenly looked up, his bloodshot eyes piercing the massive map of Deir Ezzor province on the wall.
His eyes rapidly moved across the map, confirming.
Gelbi Mountain, that rugged, desolate mountain range dotted with caves, not far from Ashala Town, indeed an ideal location for hiding and assembling forces!