The Kurdish guerrillas surrounding the village had no idea that reinforcements for their targets were on the way.
They continued their attacks in their usual rhythm, launching waves of offensives.
The mercenary leader relayed the news of incoming reinforcements, boosting the morale of the soldiers guarding the entrances.
Half an hour later, however, Campbell's reinforcements had yet to arrive—while the Kurds' had.
Another group of about thirty fighters emerged from the darkness and joined the battle.
The defenders were suddenly under immense pressure.
"Damn it, there are too many of them! At most, we can hold out for another twenty minutes!" The mercenary leader anxiously told attorney Dean Smith. "Dean, call Scott—ask how much longer we have to wait!"
Dean Smith, equally tense, immediately took out his phone to dial.
Just then, the mercenary leader suddenly pressed down on his arm, tilting his head as if listening. "Wait... listen."
Both Dean Smith and Goodman Hall focused their ears.
The sound of helicopter rotors.
At almost the same moment, the Kurdish fighters also noticed the noise. They glanced around in confusion and uncertainty.
Seconds later, three Black Hawk attack helicopters rose over the ridge, flying toward the battlefield in a triangular formation.
"They're ours! Boys, reinforcements have arrived!" The mercenary leader shouted excitedly into his earpiece, followed by a chorus of cheers.
Streams of fire rained down from the Black Hawks, sweeping across the battlefield.
Dust and debris exploded into the air.
Screams filled the night.
"Retreat! Fall back!"
"Damn it, Ilam's leg got blown off!"
"Ahh! I've been hit—help me!"
"My guts are spilling out!"
The heavy firepower from the three Black Hawks shredded the ground outside the village, turning it into a hellscape. The bullets, as powerful as small artillery shells, tore through the Kurdish fighters.
The survivors fled in a panic.
Amidst the roar of the rotor blades, one of the helicopters landed while the other two continued circling overhead, providing overwatch.
A few figures stepped out of the landed helicopter—two fully armed soldiers and a young man in a casual suit.
Dean Smith's eyes widened in shock. "That—that's Martin! My boss's boss! My God, he—he actually came to save me!"
Goodman Hall blinked in disbelief, turning his gaze to the young man in the black casual suit.
Who else could it be but Martin Meyers?!
"Dean Smith?" Martin spotted his lawyer immediately. He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Dean's shoulder, scanning him up and down. "You're not hurt, are you?"
"Thank you, Mr. Meyers. I'm fine. I just—never expected you to come."
"Of course. My employees are in danger—I had to come." Martin smiled.
In truth, the real reason was that his hands were itching for action.
Unlike true pacifists—such as the elves—demonkind, and especially succubi, harbored an innate thirst for destruction. While not as violent as other demon races, succubi were natural warmongers who thrived in chaos.
Ironically, Martin had become one of America's most prominent "pacifists."
Yet deep inside, his demonic blood still craved battle.
That was why, during the "Bank Heist" and the "Hollywood Ripper" cases, his methods had been so ruthless.
Of course, succubi were also pragmatic creatures who prioritized benefits above all else. That explained why Martin opposed Bush's two wars—because he knew they would drag America into an economic quagmire, fueling public resentment toward war.
But that wasn't the only reason he had come in person.
He had also wanted to meet Goodman Hall—especially while he was emotionally vulnerable.
"You must be Goodman Hall?"
"Yes, Mr. Meyers. It's an honor to meet you—and I truly appreciate you saving my life."
Though they were business rivals, Goodman Hall showed Martin no hostility. Partly out of gratitude for saving him, and partly because of Martin's immense status.
After all, Goodman Hall was just a corporate manager, not a board member of Texas Oil Group. There was no personal blood feud between them.
Well... perhaps there was a little.
His job was to prevent Martin from acquiring the West Qurna-1 oil field and secure it for Texas Oil Group instead.
Martin shook hands with Goodman Hall and said, "Before coming, I contacted Brigadier Clayton, hoping he'd send troops to assist you. But he refused. So, I rented three Black Hawks from the U.S. military and brought Campbell Security personnel to rescue you. I'm just glad you're safe."
Goodman Hall was visibly moved. He thanked Martin again, saying, "Martin, I never imagined that the person who'd save me in the end would be you."
Sensing Goodman Hall's emotional turmoil, Martin let out a hearty laugh and added, "We may be business rivals, but that doesn't mean I'd stand by and watch you and your men die. Besides, my own people were also at risk."
Dean Smith's expression grew even more touched.
Goodman Hall's emotions swelled—
The corporation he had risked his life for didn't give a damn whether he lived or died.
But Martin, his supposed "enemy," had come to his rescue.
As Goodman Hall's emotions reached their peak, Martin silently cast a spell.
A subtle, almost imperceptible influence took root in Goodman Hall's mind.
"Alright, boys—let's go home!"
Martin's words sparked cheers among the survivors. Even the mercenaries employed by Texas Oil Group looked at him with newfound respect.
One by one, the three Black Hawks took turns landing, evacuating everyone before disappearing into the night sky.
Back in his quarters, a still-shaken Goodman Hall took a long, hot shower, then poured himself a glass of whiskey to steady his nerves.
After a few sips, feeling calmer, he picked up his phone and dialed a specific number—a Texas Oil Group board member responsible for overseeing him.
"Hello, Director Goldson. I have something important to report."
Over the phone, Goodman Hall recounted the day's—or rather, yesterday's—events in detail.
Then, from the other end of the line, he heard an exasperated voice:
"Damn it, you idiot—you got played! Wait... hold on.
"How the hell is Martin in Iraq?!
"Wasn't he supposed to be locked up at that villa in upstate New York by James Hendricks?!"
Goodman Hall frowned. Not only had Goldson completely ignored his ordeal, but the question itself baffled him.
Martin had been in Iraq all along?
He had been too rattled to even consider that until now.
Just as he was about to ask more questions—
The call was abruptly disconnected.