Fold

Beads of sweat began to trickle down Ibrahim’s brow. This bothered him. He did not want to appear nervous, but it was stifling in the small room.
His next card skidded across the table. Four of spades, not much help there. He was in too deep to back out now, having jumped into the betting with his pair of pocket aces. Maybe they would be enough…
No, they weren’t. Fuad raised, confident as always. Ibrahim folded: no choice.
He was down to a grimy pair of boxer shorts and an explosive belt. Gaza Strip Poker was not for the faint-hearted.