Entertainment: Starting as a Succubus, Taking Hollywood by Storm-Chapter 437 - 436: Extremist Groups and Being Targeted

Tikrit—a city located 160 kilometers northwest of Baghdad—was Saddam's hometown.

On the dusty, dilapidated main road, a brown off-road vehicle sped forward.

Gordon was behind the wheel, while Martin sat in the back. It was just the two of them in the car.

Staring idly out the window, Martin's mind was focused on the upcoming oil field negotiations.

Fifteen kilometers from Tikrit, a side road appeared to the left. A road sign stood nearby, with Arabic text reading: Dawar Town, 2 kilometers.

Dawar Town?

Martin froze for a moment.

That name seemed familiar.

Then, it hit him—this was the very place where Saddam was captured by U.S. forces, according to his past-life knowledge.

The off-road vehicle entered Tikrit.

This city, too, had been a primary target of U.S.-UK coalition airstrikes. What remained were ruins and lifeless, wandering people.

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The pain of war had long been replaced by the sheer need to survive. In this city, where food was scarce, people shed blood over a piece of bread. Death was no longer something to fear.

The moment Gordon and Martin's vehicle entered the city, it drew attention.

Some approached with pleading expressions—

A desperate mother held up her daughter, screaming, "Please take her! I beg you! She's obedient and smart—she can be a good servant!"

An elderly man held up an empty sack, shouting, "Just a piece of bread! Please! Just one piece of bread...!"

More people had a different look in their

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Chapter 436: Extremist Groups and Being Targeted

Tikrit—a city located 160 kilometers northwest of Baghdad—was Saddam's hometown.

On the dusty, dilapidated main road, a brown off-road vehicle sped forward.

Gordon was behind the wheel, while Martin sat in the back. It was just the two of them in the car.

Staring idly out the window, Martin's mind was focused on the upcoming oil field negotiations.

Fifteen kilometers from Tikrit, a side road appeared to the left. A road sign stood nearby, with Arabic text reading: Dawar Town, 2 kilometers.

Dawar Town?

Martin froze for a moment.

That name seemed familiar.

Then, it hit him—this was the very place where Saddam was captured by U.S. forces, according to his past-life knowledge.

The off-road vehicle entered Tikrit.

This city had been one of the primary targets of U.S.-UK coalition airstrikes, leaving it in ruins. People with hollow, numb expressions wandered the streets.

The pain of war had long been replaced by the struggle for survival. In this famine-stricken city, people were willing to bleed for a piece of bread. Death was no longer something to be feared.

As soon as Gordon and Martin's vehicle entered the city, it attracted attention.

A desperate mother held up her young daughter, pleading hoarsely, "Please, take her with you! Please! She is obedient and smart—she can be a good servant!"

An elderly man lifted an empty sack and begged, "Just a piece of bread! Just one piece!"

Others, filled with greed, gripped crude weapons—kitchen knives, wooden sticks—as they cautiously approached the car.

But when the car window rolled down halfway, revealing the barrel of a black rifle, the crowd recoiled in fear.

Martin shook his head. "War is truly terrifying. Once order collapses, rebuilding it isn't something that can be done overnight."

Gordon nodded. "Destruction is always easier than creation. This war has cost American taxpayers billions, destroyed Iraq's social order—all just to fill the pockets of capitalist groups. It's pathetic."

Martin smirked. "Because capital is this country."

In his heart, he thought: Maybe one day, I will be, too.

The vehicle reached the city center.

Martin put away the gun.

Conditions here were slightly better than the outskirts—there were even people engaging in trade on the roadside. However, buyers and sellers alike were always surrounded by groups, warily watching each other.

Clearly, there was no law and order here.

Martin also noticed a few men dressed in traditional Islamic clothing discreetly slipping pamphlets to the locals.

One particularly bold man came up to their car, shoving two pamphlets through a crack in the window while sneaking a glance at them.

Martin picked up the pamphlet and skimmed through it.

It was propaganda from the Islamic extremist group—ISIS.

The group claimed to be a branch of al-Qaeda. In the future, they would battle against the U.S.-backed Iraqi puppet government until 2019, when their leader, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, would be killed in a U.S. special forces raid. The American military would then claim the organization had been eliminated.

But in reality, ISIS was like a weed—no matter how many times it was cut down, it kept growing back.

One leader after another died, yet the organization continued to survive.

After Baghdadi's death in 2019, ISIS appointed Amir Mohammed Abdul Rahman al-Mawla (Karadash) as its new leader.

On January 21, 2020, Karadash was killed, and ISIS named Abu Ibrahim al-Hashimi al-Qurashi as his successor.

A year later, Abu Ibrahim was killed in an operation, and Abu al-Hasan al-Hashimi al-Qurashi took over.

On November 30, 2022, ISIS announced Abu al-Hasan had died, with his successor being Abu al-Hussein al-Husseini al-Qurashi.

On August 3, 2023, Abu al-Hussein was also killed, and the fifth leader of ISIS, Abu Hafs al-Hashimi al-Qurashi, took over.

One after another, they kept coming.

Truly, the flames of rebellion never die.

ISIS was feared even among other Middle Eastern militant groups for their brutality.

Using guerrilla tactics, their forces had successfully wiped out entire U.S. military units in direct combat.

Ironically, ISIS's leadership and top commanders mostly came from Saudi Arabia, a staunch U.S. ally. Their foot soldiers, however, were primarily from Iraq and Syria—along with militants from Russia and Germany.

But Martin felt no sympathy for them.

They were extremists, infamous for their horrific acts.

Their bombings frequently killed innocent civilians, including Sunni Muslims. In areas they controlled, civilians lived under the harshest restrictions—minor infractions led to brutal punishments such as beheadings and stoning.

They had even fired upon peaceful protesters.

Martin casually tossed the pamphlet aside and said to Gordon, "That guy just now—he's got his eyes on us. Wonder if they're connected to Saddam's people."

Gordon quickly scanned the surroundings.

Sure enough, there were suspicious figures following them. Using sheer numbers and familiarity with the terrain, they were keeping up with the car on foot.

"We're almost there," Gordon said. "Do you want me to shake them off?"

Martin shook his head. "Impossible. This place is full of their people. Besides, they definitely know where the former Iraqi government members are hiding. Just drive straight there."

Glancing at the map, Gordon steered the off-road vehicle into a narrow alley.

After counting six houses down, he stopped the car and honked four times.

A large courtyard gate opened.

Two men in robes and carrying rifles cautiously approached the vehicle.

Martin rolled down the window and grinned, speaking fluent Arabic.

"We were sent by Izzat. We're here to discuss the oil field."

The two guards glanced inside the car, then at the area behind them.

They looked surprised.

Just two people?

These Americans really dared to come here with only two men?

"Drive inside," one of them said.

"Gordon," Martin called.

Gordon drove the vehicle into the courtyard.

As the gates shut behind them, Gordon stepped out first, hand resting near his waist, eyes scanning the surroundings with tension.

Martin, on the other hand, casually opened the door and stepped out, completely at ease.

"Relax," he said. "We're friends. And friends don't hurt each other."

A hearty laugh echoed from inside the house.

"Mr. Meyers is absolutely right! We don't harm our friends."

A mustached Iraqi man emerged from the building.