However, just as she was approaching a critical checkpoint controlled by 1515, her heart sank abruptly.
The inspections today were particularly stringent, the atmosphere tense and lethal.
Vehicles queued in long lines, progress was slow. From a distance, it was visible that the checkpoint had more than doubled its troops, featuring not just machine-gun equipped pickups as deterrents, but also several individuals dressed differently from ordinary soldiers.
These people appeared to be internal mbers of the 1515 Ard Security Departnt. One of them held a mobile phone, constantly peering at the screen, then conducting extrely ticulous facial recognition and docunt inspections on every car and every person, with a rough and suspicious deanor.
Sarah's heart raced, and cold sweat broke out on her palms.
She quietly took out a small cyanide poison capsule hidden in the pendant of her necklace, gripped it tightly in her palm, the cold touch being her last bit of autonomy.
She knew, if that legendary list indeed existed and was leaked, her photo and basic information were likely among them.
Fear turned into reality.
When her car slowly moved to the front of the checkpoint, that security officer holding a tablet only glanced at the screen, then lifted his head to fix his eyes on her face. After comparing for two seconds, a sharp, chilling glint flashed in his eyes like a hunter discovering prey!
"Get out of the car! Imdiately! Hands up!"
He shouted sharply, his voice piercing and full of threat.
Around them, the ard militants, like vicious dogs receiving orders, imdiately raised their guns and surrounded the car, the muzzles almost touching the car window!
Sarah's face turned instantly pale, but her eyes were unusually calm, even carrying a hint of relief.
She did not attempt any futile argunt or resistance.
She knew everything was over the mont she was targeted.
The experience of capture would be a million tis more painful than death and would inevitably implicate more people.
In the instant those militants roughly opened the car door, she used her body to shield and quickly shoved the capsule into her mouth, biting it down with all the strength of her life!
The violent cyanide toxicity took effect in re seconds.
She convulsed violently, her body uncontrollably slumping forward, heavily hitting the steering wheel, causing the piercing car horn to blare.
Blood gushed uncontrollably from her mouth and nose, her pupils rapidly dilated, and the breath of life swiftly faded.
The ard militants prepared to capture her were montarily stunned by this unexpected turn of events.
The security officer, annoyed, stepped forward and roughly checked her carotid artery, then cursed: "Damn it! She took poison! This Kafir bitch got away easy!"
They then searched the vehicle, and in the crevices of the trunk and spare tire, they found hidden satellite phones, encrypted communication equipnt, and a microfilm, thoroughly confirming her spy identity.
In a remote small village near Sinjar, nightfall just arrived.
Masood, code-nad "Oil Seller," was a true local villager developed by the CIA as a low-level informant, primarily responsible for reporting simple information on the movents of 1515 ard personnel and vehicle traffic in the village and surrounding areas, tempted by money and developnt.
He had just returned from the evening market, having bought a bag of dates and so lamb, oblivious to the earth-shaking changes occurring online and at higher levels, nor was he aware that his code na and village information had appeared on a death list.
At dinner ti, the village dogs suddenly began barking madly.
Soon after, the roar of engines and the screeching of brakes shattered the village's tranquility. Two ard pickups and an off-road vehicle directly surrounded his humble mud house, their glaring headlights illuminating the courtyard like daylight.
More than ten fierce-looking 1515 ard personnel jumped out of the vehicles, guns pointing in all directions.
"Masood! Get out! You traitor of Allah! Arican lapdog! You are cursed!"
The leading sub-leader shouted loudly through a gaphone.
Masood was scared out of his wits, the bowl in his hand fell and shattered on the ground.
He scrambled out of the house and knelt in the courtyard, trembling like a sieve, waving his hands in vain protest: "Injustice! Sir! I am a devout believer! I am wronged! Soone must have frad !"
But the militants ignored his cries.
Several people roughly stord into the house, began ransacking, smashing furniture, prying open the floor.
Soon, in a pit where he secretly stored grain, they found a small signal transmitter tightly wrapped in oilcloth and a stack of US dollars, clearly ant as paynt—that was his "reward" for passing intel on a convoy's movents last ti.
Evidence "conclusive."
"I didn't do it! I was forced! They gave money..."
Masood was forcibly held kneeling on the ground by two militants, desperately crying for help towards the neighbors awakened but only daring to hide behind doors and windows in fearful peering, but only deathly silence and indifference responded to him.
A militant who appeared to be a sub-leader took out a phone to begin filming the "execution of Sharia law," while another drew a sharp, gleaming curved Arabic sword.
"In the na of Allah, purge the apostates and Kafir spies, purify this land!"
The blade flashed a glaring arc under the vehicle's headlights.
The shrill cries and pleas for rcy ca to an abrupt halt.
A head rolled to the ground, the headless body collapsed powerlessly, blood quickly reddening the dry earth.
Outside Mosul, at an automotive repair shop code-nad "Garage" safe house.
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