"Brothers, the Iranians have stopped. They're tired, scared, and don't know what to do. Before they figure it out, let's strike. Strike, and we win. If we can't win, we die. Dying means no more exhaustion."
He held his gun and walked out.
Behind him, fewer than fifty soldiers followed, holding guns with bayonets gleaming coldly in the sunlight.
The Iranian position was less than five hundred meters ahead. Seeing the Syrians charging, they panicked; some fired, some ran back, some lay on the ground playing dead.
Maher was at the forefront, bullets flying past his ears. He ran so fast that the Iranian soldiers couldn't aim in time. He rushed into the trenches, striking the first person in the face with his rifle butt, stabbing the second in the stomach with his bayonet, and punching the third in the chest.
He stopped. No standing Iranians were around him. Covered in blood, he stood there, gasping for air.
