Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm-Chapter 439 - 438: A 4 Billion Dollar Deal—What Is It?

(Quick correction: In the previous Chapter about the car chase, the speed of sound is 1,224 meters per hour, and a Bugatti can't reach that speed. Just assume that car was modified. My apologies.)

(TL/N: Stupid Author)

Watching Martin step out of the house with his phone, someone inside suddenly asked, "Could this guy betray us?"

Izzat glanced at him and said, "If he wanted to betray us, he would have done so already. Why wait until now?"

A few moments later, Martin reentered the room.

He had just contacted China, and as expected, they refused to grant asylum to the exiled Iraqi government.

Looks like he would have to use some magic to get these people out.

"Would you be willing to go to Africa?"

Martin's question was met with silence.

"Africa?"

The men in the room exchanged uncertain glances. These were high-ranking officials who had once lived in luxury—going to Africa and struggling for survival?

Many of them hesitated.

Seeing their reactions, Izzat's expression darkened as he memorized the faces of those who looked reluctant. Then he asked, "Which country in Africa?"

The officials suddenly looked hopeful. If it was South Africa, that might be acceptable.

At this time, South Africa was still a developed country—it hadn't been ruined yet.

"Guinea," Martin replied.

Disappointment filled the room.

Martin wasn't lying to them.

Over the past few years, through his connections with Gordon and former military contacts, he had been quietly assembling a few mercenary teams.

These mercenaries had been operating in Africa and had now established a base in the war-torn region of Guinea. They even controlled a small iron mine.

If Martin was willing to spend a bit of his magic, arranging for these Iraqi officials and their families to relocate there wouldn't be an issue.

But from the looks of it, none of them were interested in Guinea.

Martin smiled and offered a second option.

"If you don't want to go to Africa, then survive for four more years. After that, Bush will step down, and the new president will grant you a pardon."

One of the officials scoffed. "You don't even know who the next U.S. president will be, so how can you be sure they'll pardon us?"

Martin chuckled. "I have my ways, but I can't tell you why."

The next U.S. president would be Obama.

By next year, Martin would be attending Harvard Law School, where Obama was an honorary professor.

Four years would be plenty of time to gradually influence him.

Of course, he couldn't say this out loud.

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The Iraqi officials looked skeptical.

Martin raised a hand. "I swear to God."

One of the officials shook his head. "Your faith in God is not as strong as our faith in Allah. Your oath means nothing to us."

Martin remained unfazed. "In that case, you have no choice but to trust me."

Izzat suddenly spoke up. "Martin Meyers, can you truly guarantee that the U.S. president four years from now will grant us a pardon?"

"I guarantee it," Martin said firmly.

"No! He's lying! We can't let him fool us!" One of the officials shouted angrily.

"Shut up!" Izzat snapped at him, then turned back to Martin. "Fine, Mister Meyers. I will trust you. We will endure this invasion for four more years and hope that a pardon truly comes. You should know—if you deceive us, there will be consequences."

Martin smiled. "I hope you survive. And don't worry—I always keep my word. Also, that is not my army. That's Bush and Texas Oil Group's army—it has nothing to do with me."

"Good. Then let's sign the contract," Izzat said.

The contract had already been prepared—a thick stack of documents.

All that was needed were signatures from both parties and official stamps.

Martin skimmed through the contract. Finding no issues, he swiftly signed his name.

Izzat then took the contract.

An hour later, when he returned, the document had two new seals—one from the Iraqi Ministry of Oil and the other from the presidency.

And a signature—Saddam bin Hussein bin Majid al-Tikriti.

So, Saddam was nearby.

After signing, Izzat did not immediately hand over the contract to Martin.

He waited for the payment to be processed.

It took three hours, but eventually, 4 billion U.S. dollars were transferred into 22 different offshore accounts.

Only after confirming the funds had arrived did Izzat stand up, hand the contract to Martin, and say with a smile, "Go now. The oil field is yours. Take it before the United Nations declares our government illegitimate."

"I will. Thank you."

By the time Martin stepped out of the house, the sun was setting.

Gordon, ever watchful, stood at the door, not moving an inch.

"Let's go, buddy. It's done," Martin said cheerfully.

As they drove away, the ISIS operatives who had been lurking earlier had all disappeared.

That confirmed it—ISIS and Izzat's faction were closely linked.

The two sides had likely already formed an alliance.

———

Meanwhile, on the other side.

Goodman Hall and his men had followed Campbell Oil's CEO, David Scott, to a small village outside Mosul.

But they didn't dare get too close.

They stopped about a kilometer away, gathering under a small hill.

These weren't U.S. soldiers.

They were Texas Oil Group's own mercenaries.

That wasn't unusual.

Nearly all major international mining companies had their own private armies to protect their resources—especially in conflict zones like Africa and the Middle East.

Five vehicles. A total of ten men.

All of them professionals.

After exiting their cars, they methodically retrieved and strapped on their gear.

Within moments, everyone was fully armed.

Meanwhile, Goodman Hall peered through his binoculars, intently observing the village.

The village had been abandoned—no signs of civilians.

A black Maybach and an armored vehicle had entered and stopped in the center.

Goodman Hall adjusted his binoculars, focusing on the man in the black suit who stepped out of the Maybach.

"What the f***?! Who the hell is that?"

The man wasn't David Scott.

It was a complete stranger.

Then, a group of men in camouflage uniforms exited the armored vehicle.

They carried a large, heavy box out of one of the houses.

"What the hell is that?"

Goodman Hall was completely baffled.

What should he do now?

For a moment, he hesitated.

Then he made up his mind.

Turning to a mercenary commander, he ordered, "Move in. Capture everyone in that village."

Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Try not to kill anyone."

He had a feeling that those men in camouflage looked an awful lot like British soldiers.