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Of the nine men al-Masri had left behind, Abdel feared he was the only one still alive.

No one was responding to his calls, though it was hard to hear anything over the roar of the inferno that was now engulfing nearly the whole of the compound.

Abdel had already found the severed head of one of his men, though the face was burned beyond all recognition. Picking through the rubble, he soon came across more body parts but could not determine if these went with the head he had just found or if they belonged to someone else.

He heard someone shrieking in pain and sprinted through the flames into what was left of the garage. He found one of his men alive, though barely. His left leg had been blown off, and he was bleeding out. Abdel removed his belt and tied it around the man’s upper thigh as a tourniquet, pulling it as tight as he possibly could. But to no avail. The man’s eyes soon rolled up into his head. Abdel felt for his pulse, but he was gone.

Grabbing his Kalashnikov rifle, he began working his way around the outside of the camp, doing a perimeter check, looking for bodies, and praying to find survivors. He quickly discovered that the front gate had been blown to pieces. So, too, had the back gate, along with large sections of the surrounding wall. The only structures still standing were the one al-Masri had used as an office and the shed Abdel had been standing on when the Zionists had fired their missiles.

Covered in blood, soot, and dust, Abdel staggered about in shock. He had been so certain that they would have enough time to fire on the Israeli craft and still evacuate the premises. How could he have been so wrong? How could the Israelis have struck so hard and so fast?

There was no time to process the questions. Abdel suddenly heard another one of his men shouting. Two, actually. Whoever they were, the men were not crying out in pain. They were calling him to come quickly. Electrified, Abdel sprinted around to the far side of the shed, in the direction of the voices. When he came around the corner, he was thrilled to see two faces he recognized. But then he saw the pain in their expressions. They were both burned, but they were breathing and on their feet. And they were not worried about themselves. They were standing over a body. As Abdel raced up to them, he found himself staring down at the lifeless, glassy eyes of the youngest member of their team—at least the youngest now that Tanzeel was no longer with them.

They stood there for several moments, just staring at their fallen comrade, not sure what to say and therefore saying nothing. They were so rattled by all that had befallen them in the last few minutes that they did not even notice the commandos who now approached them from behind.

“Hey, you guys okay?” said the leader.

Startled, Abdel turned around, as did his colleagues, weapons at the ready. To his astonishment, Abdel was staring into the fiery, battle-weary eyes of five Hezbollah operatives—the very ones the Israelis had been shooting at. They were no longer wearing wet suits and scuba gear. They were all wearing black- and white-checkered kaffiyehs that covered most of their faces and olive-green uniforms that were as filthy as they were drenched with sweat and seawater. When Abdel spotted the yellow Hezbollah flags sewn onto their sleeves and the special forces pins on their lapels, he lowered his weapon and began to breathe again, though he wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or cry. “Who are you guys?” he asked.

“Radwan, like you,” the leader replied. “The Sheikh sent us to infiltrate Nahariya. We were supposed to hit one of their schools, take everyone out, strike fear into the hearts of the Zionists. Unfortunately, we got turned back.”

One of the men behind the leader spoke up as he ejected a magazine from his AK-47 and replaced it with a fresh one. “Thanks for the help. You really saved us.”

“Yes,” said the leader. “We’re just sorry it cost you so much.”

Abdel nodded, then wiped the sweat from his face and motioned for his colleagues to lower their weapons. Reluctantly both men did. “My name is Abdel,” he said, shifting his weapon to his left hand and reaching out with his right. “Abdel Rahman.”

“You’re Abdel?” the leader said with surprise. “So you know Colonel al-Masri, right? I can’t believe we found you.”

“Of course we know him,” Abdel replied. “We’re on the colonel’s personal staff.”

“Then praise Allah—we’ve come to the right place.”

The man stepped forward to shake Abdel’s hand. The moment he grabbed it, however, he twisted Abdel’s arm behind his back and put a .45 to his head. Both of Abdel’s men started to raise their weapons. One was double-tapped to the forehead and died instantly. The other was shot once in the knee and once in the shoulder. He dropped to the ground, writhing in pain.

Then the kaffiyehs came off, and Abdel’s face became as pale as a ghost.