Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm-Chapter 441 - 440: Kurdish Guerrillas and a Fat Target

As the armored vehicle burned more intensely and the screams from inside grew fainter, Goodman Hall gasped for breath and turned to the mercenary leader.

"Buddy, can we get those British soldiers out? They could help us fight."

The mercenary leader spoke into his earpiece. "Desak, how's Brown?"

Desak's voice crackled through the headset. "He's fine, just a scrape on his head."

"Okay, good. You and Brown, get the side door of the armored vehicle open. Get those British soldiers out."

"We'll try."

A moment later—

Desak and Brown's conversation came through the earpiece:

"Fuck, the door's jammed. Can't pry it open."

"Damn it, it's too hot!"

"I'll try the back door."

"No, Brown, don't—"

Bang!

A gunshot rang out.

Brown let out a muffled grunt, followed by Desak's panicked shout:

"Brown! Are you okay?"

"Shit, you idiots, get out of there!"

"Use the door as cover, morons!"

Bullets rained down on the armored vehicle, mixed with the occasional sharp crack of a sniper rifle and agonized screams.

The mercenary leader gritted his teeth and lifted his thermal imaging periscope toward the hillside, ignoring the chaos around him as he carefully observed the enemy's positions.

Through the heat signature display, he saw at least a hundred attackers crouching low, advancing slowly while firing.

These weren't his priority.

His periscope scanned further.

Then—there it was. A sniper lay camouflaged among the rocks, barely visible except for the heat signature.

"Ivan, eleven o'clock high," he called into the radio.

"Got it!"

At the rear of the armored Maybach, a spotting scope peeked out, zeroing in on the target.

Its operator, Ivan, a tall, wiry man with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, locked in. He always kept something in his mouth when sniping—it helped him focus.

His scope didn't have thermal imaging, but with the mercenary leader's direction, he quickly spotted the sniper hidden among the brush.

"Buddy, you're already dead," Ivan muttered under his breath.

He steadied his rifle.

"One... two... three—bang!"

He silently counted to three, then squeezed the trigger.

The mercenary leader, still watching through his periscope, saw the enemy sniper's head jerk back before slumping sideways.

"Nice shot, Ivan."

"Too easy."

"Everyone, the enemy is coming down! Get ready to engage!"

"Roger that."

"Understood."

"Got it, boss."

A flurry of responses crackled through the radio.

The remaining mercenaries, along with the uninjured British soldiers, quickly gained the upper hand.

Though outnumbered, they had superior firepower, better accuracy, and vastly more combat experience.

The mercenary leader didn't join the fight. He kept scanning for more threats.

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The enemy had fired a rocket earlier—was that their only one, or did they have more?

Five minutes passed.

The mercenaries had fully suppressed the attackers.

And no more rockets came.

The mercenary leader was just about to breathe a sigh of relief when—

Through his periscope, he spotted a series of red heat signatures emerging over the ridge.

"Shit!"

He swore under his breath before barking into his radio, "More reinforcements incoming! Lay down suppressive fire and retreat in stages!"

Goodman Hall's face went deathly pale.

"Shit. We're gonna die here, aren't we?"

Dean Smith, the lawyer, was trembling too. He'd seen plenty in his life—but war? He had never experienced anything like this.

The mercenaries began an orderly retreat, but the British soldiers panicked.

Unlike the well-trained mercenaries, the British troops lacked battlefield experience. In their rush to flee, they exposed themselves in the open.

Bullets tore through the air.

Two British soldiers were gunned down instantly.

The rest scrambled to take cover.

"Idiots!" the mercenary leader cursed.

He turned to one of his men. "Go get them moving."

"What if they don't listen?"

"Then leave them. Save yourself."

"Got it!"

...

Meanwhile, back in Baghdad—

After securing the oil field contract, Martin and Gordon returned to their hotel.

By the time they settled in, it was already past one in the morning.

Just as they were about to rest, there was a knock at the door.

Martin chuckled. "That must be David. Probably here to report."

Gordon opened the door.

Sure enough, it was David Scott.

But he looked frantic.

Without even greeting Gordon, he rushed inside.

Martin's smile vanished.

Something was wrong.

"Martin, we have a problem!"

"What happened?"

"Just got a call from Dean Smith—he and Goodman Hall's group have been surrounded by Kurdish guerrillas."

"Kurdish? Why would they—"

Martin stopped mid-sentence.

In the past few days, he had familiarized himself with Iraq's political landscape.

The Kurds were an ethnic group in West Asia, a branch of the Mediterranean Caucasians.

With a population of around 30 million, they were the fourth-largest ethnic group in the Middle East, after Arabs, Turks, and Persians.

They were spread across Turkey, Syria, Iraq, and Iran, with small communities in Azerbaijan and Armenia.

The Kurds had their own language and script.

Despite living in different countries, they never fully assimilated, leading to continuous conflict with their host nations.

So in every country they lived in, they were seen as outsiders, constantly at odds with the locals.

When the Iraq War broke out, the Kurds didn't side with the Iraqis.

Nor did they fight for the Americans.

Instead... they became bandits.

Looting and pillaging.

And most of all—kidnapping wealthy individuals for ransom.

To them, it didn't matter whether their victims were Westerners or Middle Easterners.

A rich target was a rich target.