Jafali's reaction was the most unbearable.
His face instantly lost all color, becoming paler than a corpse. Beads of cold sweat rolled down from his temples like small streams, soaking his collar.
Many of those corpses were once his subordinates.
"This... this is impossible..."
Jafali's voice was dry and hoarse, trembling uncontrollably, filled with bone-deep fear, "Just with their ragtag remnants? A bunch of dogs with their tails between their legs? How could they... how could they achieve this?!"
His gaze swept over the corpses that had been precisely shot in the head and torn apart by trap mines, as if seeing his own future outco.
"Shut up, Jafali!"
Yarif suddenly turned his head, like an enraged lion, growling with disgust, trying to mask his own shock with anger, "Open your eyes! They must have used a despicable ambush! Digging traps, burying mines! Lurking like scorpions in the desert, attacking from the shadows! It must be like that!"
He seed to be convincing others, but more like convincing himself.
"Despicable? Ambush?!"
Jafali, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on, suddenly had his fear ignited by Yarif's self-deceiving attitude, turning it into a hysterical rebuttal.
Originally, when he defected to the GNA, he never intended to completely eliminate Haftar.
Even in the initial pursuit, he held a contrary attitude.
After all, without Desert City, Haftar had no foothold in Libya, not to ntion his forr superior's forces were just over a hundred people, far from capable of staging a coback.
There was no need to pursue such a person relentlessly.
He pointed at the remnants and corpses all over the ground, his voice suddenly rising, sounding exceptionally harsh in the empty, dead silent passage.
"Look at this! Yarif! Open your damn eyes wide and take a good look! Is this an ambush? This is a one-sided slaughter! It's hell brought to earth! Song Heping beside Haftar is a devil! His n are all madn with no regard for their lives! Why are we pursuing them? Huh? To die?! Haftar is already finished! Let him take his pitiful band and rot away in that godforsaken corner of Northern Darfur! Why push the cornered mad dogs to turn and fight us to the death?!"
The more Jafali spoke, the more agitated he beca, spittle flying, his voice filled with a strong sense of retreat and deeply ingrained fear.
The scene last night of Song Heping breaking out from their heavily guarded core area of the Desert City with a small elite group, like ghosts, with precise and deadly sniping, and those elusive explosions, still vividly lingered in his mind, shattering his courage.
The Asura-like scene before him completely crushed his last shred of bravery. He just wanted to escape, as far away from the na Song Heping as possible.
"Coward!"
Yarif was outraged, his forehead veins bulging.
He abruptly pulled out the ornate Tokarev pistol from his waist, the gun cocked with a "click", the barrel pressing directly against Jafali's forehead, his face twisted and hideous with extre anger: "Jafali! Are you trying to shake the troops' morale?! Don't forget your current position! You survived by betraying Haftar and licking the British's boots! Now you want to shrink back?! Ms. M's orders are to kill Song Heping and Haftar! Use their heads to stabilize the situation! Do you dare defy?!"
His voice was filled with murderous intent.
"Ms. M? Ms. M is far away in London! Sipping afternoon tea in her velvet-draped office! It's not your people dying!"
Jafali also threw caution to the wind, at the point of life and death, he pointed at the corpses dressed in forr National Army uniforms, shouting hoarsely, "Look who's dead! They're the brothers who defected with ! They believed we could bring them a better life! For a casual order from the British, we are to fill this endless pit with our own n?! Yarif, damn it, wake up! Song Heping's gang got the forward team's supplies and water! They're like desert foxes by now, already running far! In this damned, endless desert, where do we find them? To chase after ans to be led by the nose until we get taken out one by one! Look at this! This is the outco!"
Bang—!!!
A crisp, cold gunshot, like a death announcent, abruptly interrupted Jafali's desperate roar, plunging the chaotic scene into suffocating silence.
All of Jafali's expressions and words froze.
He stared ahead, eyes wide in disbelief, pupils dilating and contracting rapidly, fixating intensely.
On his sweat and dust-covered forehead appeared a shocking, tiny blood hole, edges neat. A trickle of blood mixed with white, viscous brain matter slowly and anderingly flowed down his nose, dripping onto his once pristine but now dust-covered officer's uniform.
His mouth remained open, as if the word "order" was still lodged in his throat.
Yet, the light of life had entirely vanished from his eyes.
His body, like a severed stump, lost all support, falling backward heavily, crashing onto the bloodstained sand amidst scattered organ fragnts, stirring a small cloud of dust.
The one who fired was SBS Deputy Captain, Captain Don.
The Beretta M9A3 handgun in his hand emitted a faint wisp of smoke, quickly dispersed by the desert breeze.
His expression remained unchanged, as cold and hard as eternal ice, with no ripple in his blue-gray eyes, as if he had rely swatted an annoying fly. He didn't even glance at Jafali's corpse.
After killing Jafali, Captain Don's icy gaze swept over the group of rebel soldiers Jafali had brought, already scared out of their wits.
Every soldier touched by his gaze felt as if they were being stared at by a venomous snake, instinctively stepping back half a pace, lowering their heads, not daring to et his eyes.
"Those who disrupt morale and retreat at the battlefield, die."
Captain Don's voice was not loud, yet it clearly reached every person present, carrying absolute will and a blatant threat of death.
"This is the highest order, and also a battlefield ironclad rule. From now on,"
His gaze turned to Yarif, whose face also paled slightly, "if anyone dares ntion giving up the pursuit, or question the orders..."
His gun slightly raised, it was no longer a threat, but a definite execution stance, slowly pointing at those shivering rebel soldiers.
"The result will be just like his."
Ti seed frozen.
The air was heavy as lead, pressing on everyone's chest, only interrupted by the crackling of burning vehicle wreckage and the wind sobbing through the crevices in the rocks, like the sound effects of Hell.
Yarif was also startled into a furious heartbeat by Captain Don's sudden, extrely cold execution, his palms instantly soaked in sweat.
But he quickly realized that this British was not helping him, but ensuring the execution of orders by the bloodiest ans possible.
He swiftly holstered his own gun, stood up straight, trying to make his voice sound full of strength and anger, shouting at his subordinates and those rebels numbed by the threat of death:
"Did you all hear that?! A coward's end has only one! Target Kurtan Oasis! Chase! Chase down those damned bastards! Avenge our fallen brothers! Cleanse our sha with the blood of Song Heping and Haftar! Clear the roadblocks! Move out! Now!"
The roar of engines sounded again, this ti with a kind of madness driven by death, a reckless aning.
The soldiers, as if whipped, moved stiffly yet swiftly to clear the rocks blocking the path.
Fear, like the deadliest plague, silently spread and took root in the pursuit forces.
Yet stronger than fear, was the death threat from Captain Don's icy muzzle, near at hand.
It was like an invisible chain, gripping everyone's throats, forcing them forward.
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