Middle Eastern tyrants

Chapter 183 Everyone Will Face Their Own Ending (Part Two)

"We want to see the king!"

"We must get an explanation for this!"

"."

The princes and nobles downstairs didn't stop there. From dozens to hundreds, within a few days, the number of royal family members participating in the protest quickly exceeded a thousand.

The "National Welfare and Development Fund" is essentially using royal money to provide welfare to the people, which naturally led to collective resistance from members of the royal family.

After all, if more money is given to the people, less money will be given to them.

"These past two days, the Provisional Supreme Council has been driven to its knees by phone calls. As soon as the foundation was established, at least 70% of the princes have sided with the conservatives. These people are really incredibly stupid."

The Chancellor of the Exchequer shook his head: "But this is for the best. At least it lets us see who is wavering and who is firmly on our side."

Shuangzhi is currently experiencing a period of tremendous economic growth. Affected by soaring international oil prices, Shuangzhi's total revenue last year increased more than tenfold, even exceeding the revenue of many developed countries.

What they should be doing now is figuring out how to spend this money wisely and focus on national development, instead of handing it over to those princes who do nothing all the time so they can squander it abroad.

"Your Highness, it's a call from General Stans of the United States," the secretary said from outside the door. "Shall I transfer you?"

"Get in."

Prince Mohammed glanced at the brand-new landline on the table and casually asked, "Newly replaced?"

"Yes, Your Highness. The previous one had some problems, and we just had it replaced with this new one last night."

Just then, the phone rang. Prince Mohammed reached out to answer it when a piercing sound of shattering glass came from downstairs, followed by the deafening crash of a heavy object collapsing, and shouts and curses from the crowd.

The intense argument even penetrated two floors.

This was, after all, His Majesty's palace. Prince Muhammad frowned, stood up, and instructed his administrative secretary Khalid, "I'll go down and take a look first. You answer the phone and apologize to General Stans, telling him I'll be back shortly."

"Hello, this is..."

Prince Mohammed had only taken a few steps—

boom! ! !
A deafening explosion suddenly came from behind him!

The massive shockwave instantly ripped the documents off the table, sending splinters flying and filling the room with smoke. The brand-new telephone shattered in the flames, its receiver and fragments scattering like shrapnel throughout the room!

Khalid didn't even have time to make a sound before the explosion engulfed his head in an instant.

Everyone inside the administration building was still reeling from the sudden explosion.

As the smoke cleared, Khalid lay motionless on the ground.

Half of his face had been blown away, and half of his head had been blown apart. Several civil officials in the room, who had never experienced such a scene before, turned pale and began to vomit uncontrollably.

Prince Mohammed, having already moved some distance away, was not seriously injured, though he suffered several cuts on his face from flying shrapnel. The force of the explosion was precisely controlled around the telephone.

This indicates that it was a targeted and precisely calculated assassination.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer stood frozen, his face ashen. That phone call should have been answered by Prince Mohammed… If the prince had been sitting there just moments before, he would be collapsed on the ground right now…

He didn't dare to think about it any more.

Hearing the explosion, the palace guards rushed in frantically. The garrison commander, upon seeing the horrific scene inside, was instantly terrified, breaking out in a cold sweat and turning as pale as paper.

Prince Mohammed slowly turned around. His face was still marked with bloodstains, but his expression was unusually calm. Only in his unfathomable eyes was there a barely contained, almost frozen, rage.

His voice was completely calm, yet chilling to the bone: "An assassin has infiltrated the palace. Investigate thoroughly. I need to know who the murderer is."

He paused slightly, his gaze sweeping across the garrison commander's pale face like an icy blade, and added, word by word:
"No matter who is found out, no matter who is behind them, I will investigate to the end and I will never forgive them!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

News of Prince Mohammed's assassination spread rapidly, reaching the ears of every prince, including Prince Mursad.

"Brother...isn't this...going too far?" Mursed's younger brother asked cautiously, his face filled with worry.

"Would you believe me if I said I didn't do it?"

Seeing his brother's "I understand" expression, Mursad knew that the other brother didn't really believe him.

You dared to assassinate the king, so why would you be afraid to assassinate a prince?
Mursad knew that if his own brother thought so, the other princes would probably also think that he was the one who did it.

"You can go out now." He waved his hand, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He lit a cigar and placed it on the table, but didn't smoke it.

The smell of nicotine keeps his mind clear.

Mursad always felt that there was an unseen hand behind the scenes, vigorously instigating the conflict between the "conservatives" and "progressives" within Shuangzhi.

The other party is like a catalyst, always hiding in his shadow and then amplifying their actions.

But this time, assassinating Muhammad was definitely not Mursad's plan.

Could it be that Muhammad orchestrated this whole thing himself?
That doesn't make sense. What would be his purpose in doing this?

Or perhaps other conservative princes, such as Walid, who is third in line?

But would that old man really do something so foolish just to get on the throne a couple of days earlier?
"."

“Mossad.” After eliminating all other options, Mursad uttered the last possibility.

Immediately, he felt an absurd sense of relief.

Following this line of reasoning, regardless of whether the assassination succeeds or not, Mossad will be exposed anyway.

wrong,

Prince Mursad's smile faded. In fact, when he had instigated the people to fight against the United States last time, the other side hadn't really been hiding anything.

It's just that I've been having such a smooth time that I feel a bit numb and sluggish.

"So...they deliberately exposed themselves?"

Would a group of well-trained agents deliberately expose themselves?

Suddenly, a strong chill ran down Prince Mursed's spine.

broken!

He realized why Mossad would do such a thing.

If the Sudri faction were to trace their activities back to them, the relationship between the conservatives and Mossad would become very complicated!

What terrifies Mursad even more is that during the previous "Daman bloodshed," he took advantage of this to suppress the progressive forces.

This is essentially a giant bomb that has been planted long ago, and the fuse has already been lit.

Now that Muhammad is still alive, he will surely investigate this matter thoroughly.

This was exactly what Mossad wanted, as long as they left some "clues" at just the right time.
Mursad immediately grabbed the encrypted phone and dialed Prince Talal first.

The voice on the other end of the phone still carried a heavy resentment, as if forced to get out of bed: "...What's wrong?"

Mursad quickly replied, "Mossad's men have infiltrated our ranks! We must find them before Muhammad makes a move!"

Sigrún has taught at the Iceland University of the Arts as a part-time lecturer since and was Dean of the Department of Fine Art from -. In – she held a research position at Reykjavík Art Museum focusing on the role of women in Icelandic art. She studied fine art at the Icelandic College of Arts and Crafts and at Pratt Institute, New York, and holds BA and MA degrees in art history and philosophy from the University of Iceland. Sigrún lives and works in Iceland.

Duma, a small town on the eastern outskirts of Damascus once known for its stone houses and sprawling orchards, has long since been transformed beyond recognition.

The Zionites felled fruit trees to use as roadblocks, carved holes in stone houses to turn them into firing ports, and even the streets were filled with fortifications built with sandbags and reinforced concrete.

Private Katz crouched in the trench, gazing toward the Golan Heights, mechanically chewing his rationed biscuits, his eyes bloodshot and red.

The past week has been a nightmare for him and all his comrades on the front lines.

At night, the rumble of tank engines would inexplicably start around the camp, sometimes mixed with the metallic noise of tracks grinding against each other.

The Arab troops would also occasionally sweep their positions with powerful searchlights, the blinding light making it impossible to open one's eyes. They would even occasionally fire a shell or two, neither accurately nor densely, as if just to remind them that we were always there.

Just then, the rumbling sound came again from afar. Katz shook his companion, who was resting beside him, and shouted, "David! David! Wake up! Tanks! The Arab tanks are coming again!"

David jolted awake, grabbed the gun, listened for a moment, and then the roaring sound disappeared again.

“I swear I just saw searchlights, and those were definitely Arab tanks!” Katz scratched his cheek.

"Oh shit……"

David said impatiently, "Don't fucking yell like that next time! That's Arab psychological warfare, a decoy tactic, you know? They just don't want us to sleep. Look carefully before you yell... Let me get a good night's sleep. If they really want to fight, let them fight. I've had enough..."

For the first few days, the entire position was on high alert, and every time the alarm sounded, the soldiers would quickly move into their battle positions.

But the repeated false alarms gradually relaxed the soldiers' tense nerves, causing them to become numb, tired, and even somewhat annoyed.

In another corner of the trench, the most senior sergeant, Thiago, didn't wake up at all; David could even hear his even snoring.

Katz sighed and shrank back into his position, trying to drift off to sleep as well.

But just then, the familiar engine sound appeared once again.

Then came the alarm—

Ironically, the alarm stopped abruptly halfway through, as if someone had pulled the switch.

However, almost at the same time, a violent explosion reached Katz's ears.

Sergeant Thiago opened his eyes: "Landmines?"

Katz also sensed something was wrong. He hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to risk peeking out slightly.

The next second, his blood almost froze.

In the darkness, countless enormous and ferocious silhouettes emerged from the night. It was not an illusion, nor a feint, but a real, steel-forged torrent!

"tank--!!!"

Katz used all the strength he had in his life to sound the alarm.

But it was all too late.

His roar was instantly drowned out by the deafening roar of artillery fire. Heavy artillery rained down, and flames shot into the sky, engulfing the trench where Katz and his squad were located.

(End of this chapter)