Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Tarhuna was one of the last cities to fall in Libya's war—not due to formidable defenses, but because it was so inconsequential that rebels had no interest in it.

The city had a mayor, but with the civil war, it was under military control, led by Lieutenant Colonel Mohammed. His regiment, once at full strength, had dwindled to just over 1,000 men due to deserters. Mohammed didn't expect to hold Tarhuna with them; he just hoped the rebels wouldn't bother, letting him enjoy his command a bit longer.

When Mutassim ordered him to welcome an incoming mercenary unit, Mohammed had no doubts or complaints. He knew both sides had hired mercenaries since the war began, and their combat prowess was undeniable. From Mutassim's tone, Mohammed sensed he valued this unit highly, sparking a small ambition: Maybe I can leverage them to cozy up to Mutassim.

When his men reported an unidentified armed group approaching Tarhuna, Mohammed grew excited. "Go ask if they're Satan's mercenary unit. If so, bring them into the city—treat them like family. Tell their leader I'm hosting a dinner at city hall tonight. Wait—ask for the password. Mutassim gave me 'Flaming Rose.' If they answer correctly, escort them in. Be friendly, got it?"

Satan's team, driving ten "priceless" trucks, rolled into Tarhuna under the "warm" escort of a local officer. It was almost too easy—no one even checked the trucks.

On the way, Satan mused over Mutassim's password, Flaming Rose. Was it random? A nod to his Italian girlfriend? Or a metaphor for Libya's chaos?

Lost in thought, the convoy entered a military camp.

"Mr. Satan, this is your temporary base. We'll provide your meals—same as ours, no shortchanging. Also, Lieutenant Colonel Mohammed invites your officers to a dinner at city hall tonight."

"Dinner? That's thoughtful of him," Satan replied.

Once the officer left, Ram and Big Dog crowded around.

Ram grinned. "A feast? Maybe some good food tonight. Any girls? I'm pumped."

Big Dog frowned. "War's on, and this Mohammed's throwing parties? Libya's government army is rotten top to bottom. Gaddafi's done."

Mentioning Gaddafi, Ram's smile faded. "We didn't nab Gaddafi. What'd the boss say? He pissed?"

"Boss isn't mad. Said Gaddafi and his money can't escape—he'll find him," Satan replied.

"Whoa, boss got a mole near Gaddafi? Bet it's one of those female bodyguards. Everyone knows he's a master with women," Pilot whistled.

"Enough. Let's clean up and get ready for dinner," Satan cut in, feeling oddly uneasy at Pilot's words. Jaleena Khalaf Al-Naas's image flashed in his mind. Jaleena, you okay?

…

Baghdad, Iraq.

Gordon hung up the satellite phone. "Boss, Satan's set. When's the plane leaving?"

Martin smiled. "Now."

He made a call.

That night, at Tarhuna's military airstrip, a massive unmarked plane landed smoothly. Mohammed, accompanying Satan, showed no suspicion, only awe. "Satan, brother, your company's got pull. That's a U.S. Globemaster III—C-17. Not easy to get."

Seeing the "hegemon" parked in the dark, Mohammed's desire to bond with Satan's crew intensified. These aren't ordinary mercenaries. Small outfits don't get strategic assets like this. Maybe I can score a job with their company if Libya goes south…

Satan waved. Six trucks rolled toward the C-17's rear.

To fit, Satan had consolidated the ten trucks' cargo into six, as the C-17 could only hold that many.

The trucks drove into the plane's belly, the ramp closed, and the aircraft taxied, roared, and vanished into the night.

"All set, Lieutenant Colonel. The supplies for Mr. Mutassim are loaded. Let's head back," Satan said casually, relieved.

…

When the plane touched down at Baghdad International Airport at dawn, Martin, Gordon, and trusted aides inspected the cargo.

As expected, not all crates held gold—there were antiques and art, their value incalculable. But the gold alone, 30 crates, was worth $1.62 billion.

Martin entered the cockpit. "Fly to Guinea. Don't return. Someone will meet you there."

"Got it, boss."

The pilots were Martin's men.

On the drive back, Gordon asked nervously, "Boss, hiding a plane like this—won't it cause trouble? Like an investigation?"

Martin laughed. "No worries. The U.S. military writes off tons of weapons and gear yearly—how else do their officers get rich? A C-17's trickier, sure, with classified tech, so—"

He paused, grinning wider. "Tomorrow, two C-17s will 'crash' during a transport mission, plunging into the sea. In reality, only one will go down, too mangled for even the best experts to piece together."

Gordon's eyes widened. You can play it like that?

"But the military—losing a C-17? They'll go along?"

"Of course. I paid for two planes, above market price."