Basra Fortress
Sayyid Khalid Mashhadani, finally walking down the stairs into the main hall of the fortress, was sweating profusely. He had been in some dangerous situations before, but never one where his death had been this close. If it wasn't for him ignoring his dignity and crawling on the floor, he would be dead by now. Just thinking about the bullet that grazed his hair made his blood run cold.
This feeling of weakness and vulnerability made him very angry. "Who the hell selected the sandbags? Bring him to me right now!" he growled like a wounded beast that had gone mad.
The soldiers who managed to retreat from the top of the fortress stepped a few feet back as they were startled by the growl of the general. They looked at each other with panicked expressions. Mashhadani was getting impatient, and his irritable mood got worse. Just when he was about to snap, a soldier whose hand had been pierced by a bullet spoke out with gritted teeth.
