Assad stopped and turned around.
In the city of Aleppo, at least twenty tanks were rolling out. The turrets bore the Syrian flag, green, white, black, with two stars on it.
The last reserves of the First Division.
The commander is dead, they command themselves. When the shells run out, they move them from the warehouse. When that's done, they load themselves. After loading, they fire themselves.
The officer leading them, in his thirties, with a face full of stubble, wearing a worn-out camouflage uniform. He stuck his head out from the tank, looking at Assad.
"Mr. President! We are late!"
Assad stood there, watching those tanks pass by him. The tracks crushed the bodies on the ground, crushed those shell casings, crushed those broken photographs.
He crouched down and picked up a photograph.
In the photo was a young woman in her early twenties, wearing a wedding dress, smiling.
