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Amin al-Masri knew the moment the bombs began falling.

Neither he nor his men could hear the Israeli fighter jets streaking overhead. They could, however, hear—and certainly feel—the IAF’s handiwork. The entire tunnel began shaking violently. Shards of rock rained down on them and their prisoners. The lights flickered. Clouds of dust filled the air.

To his horror, al-Masri realized there was no way back. Furious at the incompetence of his men and with himself for not having kept his eyes on Tanzeel, he nevertheless ordered his men to run and run hard. They would all be dead if they did not begin moving again.

As more bombs fell outside, it became increasingly difficult to see, further slowing the pace of the fighters. To be fair, the men had no idea where they were going, what was ahead of them, or where the turns were. They had never been in the tunnel before and had only studied the map for a few moments during their briefing the previous day. But al-Masri did not care. Nor did he listen to them when they asked for water breaks. Instead, he unleashed a torrent of obscenities and drove them onward without mercy. With no margin for error, they had to press forward and pick up the pace, he told them. But the bombs kept falling and precious time was being lost.

The tunnel went on for well over a kilometer. Hunched over and operating in the near dark, it took them almost two hours before they reached the end. They heard and felt several sections behind them collapsing. Finally, however, they reached a wooden ladder and a metal hatch built into the roof of the tunnel.

The lead operative unlocked and opened the hatch, only to find himself staring down the barrels of a dozen submachine guns. It was not the Israelis who were waiting for them, however. It was fellow members of the Radwan Unit.

Drenched with sweat and gasping for fresh air, al-Masri was the last man up the ladder and through the hatch. He found the prisoners still unconscious and lying side by side on the bare concrete floor. His men were chugging bottles of water or pouring them over their heads, trying to wash the dust out of their eyes and cool down their overheated bodies. The Radwan fighters soon brought ice-cold bottles of grape juice and trays of freshly baked pita, grilled shawarma, and bowls of hummus and olives.

As his ravenous men wolfed down the food, al-Masri waved off their entreaties to join them and instead ascended another wooden ladder through another hatch until he pushed aside a rug and climbed into a small, dark room. The shade on the single window was drawn, but he could still see a simple cot, a wooden desk and chair, and a shelf of old books. He closed the hatch and replaced the rug. Then he dusted himself off, walked over to the window, pushed aside the shade, and peered into the Lebanese countryside.

They had done it. They had survived. They had reached their safe house—the basement of a mosque in the town of Aitaroun—just kilometers from the Israeli border. But they had also made critical mistakes, al-Masri told himself as he listened to the continuous explosions nearby and felt the ground shake again and again. And he had only himself to blame. He had lost too many men in the raid. Some of them had been friends since childhood. And then there was Tanzeel. The thought of his brother in the hands of the Zionists made him physically ill. The thought of having to explain this to their mother made it worse.

Al-Masri replaced the shade and walked to the door. Unholstering his sidearm, he slowly turned the knob and opened the door ever so slightly. He scanned the sanctuary, but there was no one there, not even the imam to whom he paid a small fee for the use of the mosque. He opened the door farther and eased into the room, his .45 up and ready.

He checked the office. It was clear. He checked the bathrooms and the vestibule. They, too, were clear. He briefly peered out of several more windows but found no one in the courtyard nor in the narrow streets that passed in front of and behind the mosque.

Beginning to breathe a bit easier, he holstered his weapon, removed his filthy boots, performed his ritual washings, and went back into the sanctuary and bowed toward Mecca. There was not much time for prayer or reflection. The rest of his men would be coming along soon. They certainly were not staying there. They could not. The Israelis were coming. Maybe not through the destroyed tunnel. But they were coming, al-Masri knew. They had to keep moving.