Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm

"Eureka, we found Gaddafi!"

A cheer rang out.

The rebel leader, ignoring the squabble over the loot, ordered his men to guard the area and rushed with a few others toward the source of the shout.

Arriving at the room, he saw his soldiers shoving an old man in a white robe. The man stumbled, lost balance, and fell.

"You can't treat me like this! I'm Libya's hero, I'm Gaddafi!" the old man cried from the ground.

The rebel leader strode forward, grabbed his hair, and yanked his face up. He pulled out a photo, holding it to the light for comparison.

Moments later, he shouted, "It's really him! We've got Gaddafi! The war's over—we won!"

"Woo-hoo!" his men cheered wildly.

"Under international law, I demand the respect due a leader!" Gaddafi pleaded, fear trembling in his voice.

"Hah, leader?" Slap! The rebel leader struck him hard across the face. "You think you deserve that?"

Slap! "If not for you and your greedy officials, my family wouldn't be jobless. My youngest wouldn't have starved at two years old."

Slap! "If not for you, my sister and brother-in-law wouldn't have died in your massacres."

Slap! "If not for you, this country's people wouldn't be starving."

Slap! "If not for you…"

A dozen slaps later, Gaddafi's spirit was broken, his face swollen like a pig's.

"Lock him up! And tell those mercenaries they can't touch the loot, but I'll report their contributions to get them a bigger cut."

With Gaddafi captured, the rebel leader was in high spirits, willing to share some profits with the mercenaries.

The mercenaries didn't press for the loot. Satisfied with promises of more pay, they dispersed to rest. Perhaps they didn't know what was in the trucks.

Night deepened.

In Ram Kerr, most rebels and mercenaries slept soundly, believing the war was over with Gaddafi's capture.

The rebel leader, too excited to sleep, finished his report call. Capturing Gaddafi would surely earn him a promotion—maybe even general status by tomorrow.

Since sleep was out of the question, he'd find some fun. He hadn't forgotten the "Golden Treasure" in his custody—a real beauty.

…

Outside Ram Kerr, under cover of night, soldiers with night-vision gear crept forward.

At 100 meters from the village, Satan raised a fist, halting his men.

He aimed his thermal imaging scope at the buildings. At least 35 or 36 heat signatures dotted the rooftops and corners—some sitting, some standing, some leaning, one even smoking.

Satan grinned. The sentries seemed lax. They just won a big fight. Wonder if Gaddafi's caught or dead… and Jaleena, is she okay?

Suppressing his worry, he turned to Ram and Big Dog. "You two attack from this side. Frey and I will circle to the rear. Sync your watches—one hour from now, we hit with five rounds of mortar fire, then charge together."

"Got it!"

"No problem."

The rebel leader reached the room holding Jaleena Khalaf Al-Naas. Two dozing guards outside snapped awake at his approach.

He waved them off with a smile, no hint of reprimand. "Relax, boys, the war's over. I'll go in first, then you're free to have fun."

The guards' faces lit up.

Inside, Jaleena, bound and gagged, curled in a corner. Hearing footsteps, she glanced at the door.

"No more chances, woman. Gaddafi's caught," the leader said.

Jaleena made muffled noises through her gag.

He stepped closer, sniffing. "What's that smell?" He looked at her. "Oh, you wet yourself? What a waste. Water's precious in the desert."

Crouching, he removed her gag and smirked. "Well, want to beg for mercy?"

"Kill me!" she spat, glaring.

He shook his head, amused. "You're braver than Gaddafi. When we dragged him from the basement, he was shaking, begging, groveling like a dog."

Jaleena's eyes burned with rage, but she stayed silent.

"I like that look," he said. "Hope you keep it when I have my way with you."

He reached for her clothes.

A sudden whistling filled the air.

He froze. He knew that sound—mortar fire, like what they'd used earlier that day.

Before he could react, explosions rocked the village, followed by panicked footsteps and screams. He leapt up, shouting, "Damn it, enemy attack!"

Chaos erupted. In the pitch-black village, rebels ran like headless flies. Sporadic flashes of explosions lit the night, like a grim roulette wheel, claiming lives at random.

The 60mm mortars weren't devastating, but twelve firing relentlessly in vertical arcs shredded exposed targets. Rocket launchers, with their piercing power, tore through wooden and mud walls with ease.