Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm-Chapter 442 - 441: Whose Reinforcements?

Goodman Hall's convoy was ambushed by Kurdish guerrillas on their way back.

The armored Maybach in particular stood out—it was clearly the vehicle of an important figure.

At this moment, Goodman Hall and his group were surrounded in an abandoned village. The mercenary leader had divided his men and the English soldiers into several groups, each guarding different entrances to the village. Although the Kurds outnumbered them, they were unable to break through immediately.

However, time was not on their side, as they hadn't brought much ammunition.

In fact, they had already used up half of it.

Goodman Hall had just called Brigadier Clayton, requesting reinforcements.

Meanwhile, attorney Dean Smith had also contacted David Scott, leading to the scene where Scott sought out Martin in the middle of the night.

"Are you sure they're Kurds?"

After finishing his call, Goodman Hall, looking grim, approached the mercenary leader, who was observing the enemy forces through binoculars.

"Yes. Look at their clothing, 06. It's distinct from other Middle Eastern ethnic groups like Arabs or Persians. Kurds prefer these wide-legged trousers with broad belts around their waists."

Taking the binoculars, Goodman Hall saw the enemy fighters' outfits flickering in the gunfire, confirming what the mercenary leader had said.

"Why are these Kurds attacking us?" Goodman Hall was increasingly puzzled.

"I've heard that the Kurds have been heavily oppressed in the region. Especially in Turkey, where they're legally prohibited from speaking their own language, and their ethnic identity isn't even recognized. In Iraq, they also face serious discrimination," the mercenary leader explained.

"Then shouldn't we be their allies?" Goodman Hall was even more perplexed. "We're fighting the Iraqis, and the Kurds don't like them either. Why are they targeting us?"

"Because they don't like Americans either."

"No, that's not right. They do like Americans!"

The mercenary leader's sudden shift in tone momentarily lifted Goodman Hall's spirits, but before he could ask if there was room for negotiation, the mercenary leader continued:

"They love kidnapping Americans—because Americans are rich and value their lives."

"Uh..."

Goodman Hall was speechless.

The mercenary leader turned to him and asked, "You just called Brigadier Clayton—what did he say?"

At the mention of this, Goodman Hall's expression darkened with anger. "That bastard said his troops won't deploy at night—it's too dangerous. Damn it! I swear I'll report him when I get back. He had no hesitation when taking the money!"

"That's if we make it back alive."

The mercenary leader seemed unsurprised, shrugging. "Clayton's response is normal. Ordinary American soldiers rarely conduct night operations. Their advanced weaponry has made them more reliant on tech, but also more afraid of death. Of course, special forces are a different story."

Then he added, "Bad news—our ammo is running low. We won't last until morning. We have to break out."

Goodman Hall's face turned pale.

As a member of Texas' Hall family, he wasn't from a super-elite lineage, but he was still a well-off local magnate.

He had never endured much hardship growing up. Though he kept in shape, gym muscles were useless in life-threatening situations.

The earlier sprint for cover had nearly exhausted him.

He had no intention of going through another desperate run for survival.

He suspected he wouldn't make it halfway before dropping behind and either being captured or killed—neither of which was acceptable.

"Can't we hold out in the village until sunrise? At least we have cover here," Goodman Hall asked.

The mercenary leader shook his head. "That would be suicide. Once daylight breaks, visibility improves, and we'll have zero chance of breaking out. Even if Clayton's troops depart at dawn, they'd take at least four hours to get here. Do you think we can hold out that long? Mr. Hall, we have to fight our way out—it's our only chance."

Goodman Hall hesitated. He didn't want to die, but he also didn't want to be gunned down while running.

He was stuck between two bad choices.

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Just then, Dean Smith's phone rang.

"Mr. Scott?"

"Yes, we're still trapped in the village."

"Ammunition is almost gone."

"Wait, let me check."

Covering the phone, Dean Smith asked the mercenary leader, "How long can we hold out with our remaining ammo?"

"At this rate... an hour at most!"

Dean Smith's face paled slightly as he relayed, "Mr. Scott, we can hold out for one more hour, no more."

His expression suddenly changed, and he exclaimed, "What?! Really? That's great!"

"I understand! Thank you very much!"

"We will hold out until you arrive!"

As he hung up, he noticed two pairs of gleaming eyes staring at him, making him jump.

"Shit, you two look like starving dogs spotting a bone."

"Spit it out! Reinforcements?!"

"Is Campbell Oil sending mercenaries to rescue us?"

Both Goodman Hall and the mercenary leader grabbed his arms, firing off questions.

Dean Smith nodded. "Yes! Mr. Scott said reinforcements will arrive within an hour. We just need to hold on until then."

"Really?" Goodman Hall's excitement was visible.

"Yes! Mr. Scott told me personally. Just now, Mr. Meyers himself said, 'Every Campbell employee is a valuable asset. We must do everything possible to ensure their safety!'"

Even in their dire situation, Dean Smith couldn't help but feel a bit smug.

Goodman Hall, however, was torn between irritation and envy.

He snorted inwardly before turning to the mercenary leader. "What do you think?"

"Then we hold out for another hour. If no reinforcements arrive, we retreat." The mercenary leader considered for a moment before replying.

Goodman Hall felt a small sense of relief and nodded. "Alright, one more hour."

Silently, he prayed: Campbell's reinforcements better show up.