Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

Three days after Martin's words, news broke: two U.S. military C-17 transport planes had "crashed" near Iraq's coast, exploding mid-flight. Only fragments were recovered.

The C-17 Martin hid quietly vanished into a secret hangar in Guinea.

The official investigation concluded that both planes were sabotaged with bombs by Iraqi insurgent groups, a claim one group promptly took credit for. The cover-up was airtight.

As for the transported cargo, it didn't go down with the planes but was funneled through covert military channels into vast wealth for certain high-ranking officers.

Ordinarily, a C-17, packed with classified tech, wouldn't be sold, even by a corrupt U.S. military. But Martin was Martin—he made the impossible happen.

…

After securing the precious cargo, Satan and his team stayed in Tarhuna. Martin had tasked them with seizing the other half of Gaddafi's haul, likely richer in gold—a hard currency vital for his escape.

Days later, Gordon relayed a message: Martin had located Gaddafi.

By October 20, 2011, the action shifted to Sirte, a small Libyan port city on the Gulf of Sidra with under 20,000 residents. Gaddafi's hometown, it was now encircled by rebels. Fierce urban combat had raged since dawn, with the city blacked out.

Gaddafi hid in a sturdy concrete building, lit by candles, a teapot simmering on a stove. He wasn't directing the fight—that was Mutassim's job. He made no plans, issued no orders. Since fleeing to Sirte amid destruction, power cuts, and food shortages, he'd grown despondent. Without Mutassim's fierce resolve, he'd have considered surrender.

"Maybe I can buy a way out with money?" he mused aloud.

The battle stretched from dawn to late afternoon. The rebel assault finally paused.

Hurried footsteps approached. Mutassim, looking haggard, entered, eyeing the nearly boiled-dry teapot and his father, lost in a book. He cleared his throat.

"Oh, Mutassim, you're back. How's it going?" Gaddafi asked weakly, snapping out of his daze.

"We repelled the rebels' attack," Mutassim said, then urged, "Father, please pull yourself together. We're not done yet. You could visit the front lines, boost the men's morale."

"No, I'm too old, too tired. I've left the army and the fight to you. I'm just a frail old man now."

Perhaps feeling his words too defeatist, Gaddafi added, "How many men do we have left?"

"About 3,000—our most loyal, elite fighters," Mutassim replied, abandoning hope of rallying his father.

Gaddafi suddenly said, "Mutassim, maybe we could escape by sea."

Mutassim shook his head. "Father, please be realistic. Where could we go besides Libya? Your so-called friends—Italy's Berlusconi, France's Sarkozy, Turkey's Erdoğan, Britain's Blair—they've all abandoned you. No country will take us. Shall we drift at sea and starve? If that's the choice, I'd rather die fighting here."