The afternoon sun hung high above the city, washing the crowded boulevard in a golden haze. Traffic moved slowly toward a heavily fortified checkpoint where concrete barriers divided the road into narrow lanes.
Armed men dressed in black kaftans with crimson scarves covering the lower halves of their faces stood in disciplined rows, their curved scimitars hanging from ornate belts while modern rifles rested comfortably against their shoulders. Every arriving vehicle was ordered to stop, and every passenger was instructed to step outside.
From the second floor of an expensive restaurant overlooking the checkpoint, Damian sat comfortably inside a private VIP room enclosed by floor to ceiling glass. The table before him held untouched plates of Lebanese food while a glass of champagne rested loosely between his fingers.
