Aleppo, northern suburbs. Night.
Assad leaned on the hood of the armored car, holding the cup of cold coffee.
Lieutenant Alvarez poured it for him from a thermos, beans grown in the Chiapas Highlands, now cold, bitter like medicine.
He took a sip, didn't spit it out, swallowed it. In the distance, the Turks' tanks had stopped.
Not retreating, but waiting for dawn.
At dawn, they will launch their assault.
At dawn, his army will be wiped out. At dawn, Syria will be erased from the map, piece by piece.
He remembered what Alvarez said on the bridge in the afternoon, "Mr. President, the bridge is not for escape. Bridges are meant for crossing."
He crossed the bridge, drank coffee, came back. He returned, so it was time to fight. Fight and then die. Dying is good. He put the empty cup on the hood, stood up, and looked at the soldiers scattered among the ruins. Less than eight hundred remaining, some digging trenches, some cleaning guns, some resting with closed eyes. No one spoke.
