276: Chapter 276 Badges, Who's Next?

The phantom figure crouched down and felt his carotid artery.

Confirmed dead.

Then, a small metal badge was gently placed beside the corpse—crossed rifles over the shape of a map of Gaza.

Having done all this, the phantom figure stood up, exited the room soundlessly, and blended into the shadows of the courtyard.

The entire process took less than thirty seconds.

The security guard in the gatehouse rolled over and continued snoring.

On the surveillance monitor, there was only a slight fluctuation of light and shadow, like signal interference.

That same night, in an underground parking lot of an upscale restaurant in Jerusalem.

Ronen Bar, Deputy Director of the Mossad Operations Division, hummed a tune as he walked toward his parking space.

Dinner had gone very well. That foreign liaison had been completely fooled by him, truly believing that Squid Nation had everything under control.

“Sinwar? He won't last more than a few days,” Bar had said at the time, swirling his wine glass with total confidence.

Now, he pulled out his car keys and pressed the unlock button.

“Beep-beep.”

The headlights of the black Volvo flashed.

Just as Bar pulled the car door open and prepared to sit inside—

From the shadows beneath the car, a figure “flowed” out like liquid.

The hair on Bar's entire body stood on end!

His operative instincts made him spin around instantly, his right hand reaching for the holster under his arm like a flash of lightning!

But it was too slow.

“Thwip.”

“Thwip.”

Two soft sounds, like air leaking from a balloon.

Bar’s body jolted.

He looked down and saw a blood flower blooming on his chest.

He looked up again, feeling a cold sensation at the center of his brow.

His vision began to blur.

In the dim light, he vaguely saw a pair of eyes—cold, sharp, as if burning.

“You... how did you get in...” Bar grunted, slowly sliding down against the car door.

The figure crouched down and confirmed the death.

The same badge was placed on the corpse's chest.

Then, a hand reached into Bar’s inner pocket and retrieved an encrypted USB drive.

The figure stood up and walked toward the ventilation duct in the corner of the parking lot. The metal grate there had already been silently cut away, revealing a dark entrance.

When the security guard heard something and rushed over, he saw only a corpse and a badge.

And the pool of dark red on the ground that was gradually expanding.

Thirty-six hours.

In a high-rise office building in downtown Tel Aviv.

Amir Cohen, Director of the Government Press Office, was staying up late to review a draft.

The headline was: “Humanitarian Situation in Gaza Continues to Improve—Squid Nation Military Provides Comprehensive Assistance.”

He frowned and changed “comprehensive” to “active.”

“It sounds more credible this way,” he muttered to himself.

Just then, the ventilation grate behind him slid open gently.

Cohen heard a faint noise and turned his head in confusion—

An extremely thin metal garrote silently looped around his neck.

It tightened suddenly!

“Ugh!” Cohen’s eyes widened, his hands clawing desperately at his neck, his nails making a piercing sound against the garrote.

But the struggle lasted only ten seconds.

His body went limp, his eyes still staring at the unfinished press release on the screen.

A badge was placed on the keyboard.

In Haifa, at the military academy faculty apartments.

The newly appointed commander of the 7th Armored Brigade had just finished his inaugural speech and was dragging his exhausted body back to his residence.

The corridor was very quiet, with only the sound of his footsteps.

A person wearing a janitor’s uniform and pushing a cleaning cart came toward him.

The brigade commander didn’t pay it any mind and stepped aside to let them pass.

The moment they brushed past each other—

The janitor’s hand seemed to lightly touch the back of his neck.

The brigade commander frowned and continued walking forward.

After three steps, he suddenly felt a wave of dizziness.

After five steps, breathing became difficult.

After seven steps, he leaned against the wall and slowly sank to his knees.

The last thing he saw was the back of the janitor pushing the cart around the corner into the stairwell.

And on the floor, the badge that had appeared out of nowhere.

In Beersheba, at a safe house.

An electronic warfare technical officer was busy at a terminal.

“Give me two more days, and I can paralyze at least half of their communication network,” he said into his headset.

No sooner had the words left his mouth—

The terminal screen in front of him suddenly flashed with static.

Immediately after, an extremely faint “beep” came from inside the computer case.

The officer’s face changed drastically, and he lunged to his feet to run!

But it was already too late.

BOOM!!!

A miniature explosive device detonated, and flames instantly engulfed the entire workstation.

When the guards outside rushed in, they saw only charred remains and the badge pinned into the wall by the shockwave.

In Tel Aviv, in a park near the parliament building.

A far-right member of parliament was out for a morning jog.

His breathing was steady and his pace firm, his mind calculating how to push for more radical legislation in parliament today.

“Those Gazans, they should all be...” he muttered to himself.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his chest.

As if he had been pricked by something.

The MP stopped and looked down in confusion—

There was a tiny puncture in his shirt, almost invisible.

He reached out to touch it but felt nothing.

“Strange...” he grumbled, continuing his run.

Fifty meters later, his steps began to falter.

One hundred meters later, he clutched his chest and collapsed to his knees.

Passersby crowded around in panic, someone calling for an ambulance.

But it was already useless.

The autopsy report later showed: the heart had been precisely pierced by a specialized ice-pick-like weapon; the wound was tiny but fatal.

At the scene, a badge lay quietly in the grass.

Twelve targets.

Military, political, intelligence, propaganda, parliament...

In thirty-six hours, all eliminated.

At first, the authorities tried to suppress the news.

“Accidental death.”

“Sudden illness.”

“Under internal investigation.”

But as the list of the dead grew longer and the ranks higher, with the same badge found at every scene—

The fire could no longer be contained in paper.

In the Cabinet Security Meeting Room.

Lavitz slammed a stack of photos onto the table!

“What is going on?!” he roared, his eyes bloodshot. “What the hell is Mossad doing?! Is the Defense Forces' security made of paper?!”

The meeting room was deathly silent.

Everyone kept their heads down, their faces pale.

The newly appointed acting director of Mossad wiped cold sweat from his forehead, his voice dry: “Minister, the optical camouflage technology used by the attackers... we’ve never seen anything like it. Heat signatures and radar wave detection were almost completely ineffective. Their operational methods... are too professional, far exceeding any known organization.”

“I don’t want to hear technical analysis!” Lavitz slammed the table again. “I want the killers! I want their heads!”

He looked around, his voice suddenly dropping, carrying a neurotic tremor: “Also, the list... who is their next target?”

He paused, his eyes staring intently at every person present.

“Is it me?”

“Is it... everyone sitting here?”

No one dared to answer.

Someone subconsciously touched their neck.

Someone stole a glance at the guards outside the door—suddenly feeling that that small handful of men was not nearly enough.

The layers of security that once made them feel safe now seemed so fragile.