355: Chapter 355 Puppet

"Captain, why are we suddenly leaving? Everything was fine."

In a fortress in Iraq, a Lockheed Martin soldier asked, puzzled.

Beside him, the squad leader was gazing into the distance, deep in thought, and didn't answer immediately.

"If we're pulling out, then let's pull out. This godforsaken place doesn't even have a woman with an ass bigger than a pea. I'm sick of it," a burly man with a stubbled face, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips, interrupted gruffly.

At that moment, the captain said gravelily, "I'll give you a heads-up. The higher-ups say someone is coming to take over this place."

The soldiers around him were taken aback, instinctively looking up at the empty blue sky. Above this area, there was nothing but the scorching sun.

"It's the Thir..."

The captain had just started to speak when a scout beside him suddenly shouted as if he'd seen something,

"Alert! Unknown aerial presence approaching."

Everyone was startled.

Looking toward the horizon where yellow sand met the azure sky, several tiny black dots began to appear, almost blending into the blue. They were moving extremely fast. In just over ten seconds,

the deafening roar of rotors crashed down like rolling thunder, growing from a distance until it pressed painfully against their eardrums.

These were over a dozen attack helicopters, and the emblem on the aircraft was a silver triangle gleaming with a cold light.

Delta Military Company! Some had already realized, watching in shock as the dozen or so helicopters slowly descended.

A violent gust of wind kicked up, making it hard for the soldiers to keep their eyes open. The cigarette fell from the stubbled man's lips onto the sand with a soft thud, but he didn't utter a single complaint.

The cabin doors slid open, and dozens of figures clad in black combat gear filed out. In mere moments, they had assembled into a squad.

These men were as silent as shadows. Combined with their icy gazes, they exerted immense pressure on the Lockheed Martin personnel. In front of them, they felt like raw recruits.

Whether it was an illusion or not, they felt that any one of these dark figures could easily take them all down.

At that moment,

a final figure emerged from the helicopter. The newcomer walked directly up to the Lockheed Martin group. Without even removing his helmet, a cold, sharp, and utterly emotionless voice issued forth:

"Durant Stern, Head of Delta Special Operations. We are ordered to take over the fortress. You have three minutes to vacate the premises..."

—

*Smash!*

Baghdad, the Iraqi Prime Minister's residence.

The entire mansion's marble floors were polished to a mirror shine. A giant crystal chandelier hung from the high, vaulted ceiling. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows lay a meticulously manicured garden and swimming pool, a sight that exuded sheer opulence at a glance.

Even the presidential palace of this country couldn't compare to half of this place.

The items on the desk were violently swept to the floor by an elderly man with a thick stubble. Still not venting his rage, he grabbed the collar of the man beside him, his face dark and menacing as he said,

"Are you saying my brother was killed by this company? Do you have any proof?"

"Sir..."

The steward's voice was full of terror as he pointed to the cardboard box that had been knocked to the floor. "We received this package this afternoon. Inside is... inside is..."

Hassan bin Ibrahim's heart sank. Following the steward's finger, he saw the cardboard box on the floor.

The Prime Minister said nothing. Step by step, he walked to the box, bent down, and slowly picked it up.

It felt quite heavy in his hands.

When Hassan lifted the damaged lid and saw what was inside, he couldn't help but close his eyes in grief.

There was nothing else in the box, only a frozen head. Its face was contorted, eyes wide open, the fear and agony of its final moments frozen upon it.

He knew this face all too well. From the slums of their childhood, climbing to where they were now, his brother was the only person he dared to trust with his back.

This was his younger brother, who had depended on each other for survival since they were children.

After he became the Prime Minister of Iraq and sidelined the original government, he had handed over the nation's economic lifeline—the oil sector—to his brother, Harith.

"Didn't he go to the Third-Party Technology Company headquarters for negotiations? And with such favorable terms. We even agreed to give half the oil to this company. How could this happen?"

Hassan's shoulders trembled with rage. "A price. No matter what it takes, I will make this company pay a price!"

His roar echoed through the luxurious room. After a moment, Hassan's overwhelming fury gradually settled into a chilling calm. He was a man who had stepped over blood to reach the Prime Minister's seat; he was no mere hot-headed brute.

Moreover, this time the opponent was that colossal entity already famous worldwide. He had to be extremely cautious.

"Brother, I will avenge you..."

Hassan slowly closed the cardboard box, his movements gentle as if afraid of disturbing the deceased. His previously trembling shoulders were now completely steady. Only ruthlessness and resolve remained in his clouded eyes.

Hassan straightened up, took out the phone from his pocket, and dialed a number. When the call connected, the slightly hesitant voice of the Iraqi President came through.

Hassan ignored the puppet President's greeting. His tone was terrifyingly calm, yet each word carried an undeniable pressure:

"Listen, I don't care what you're doing right now. Issue a highest-level emergency meeting notice in the name of the presidential palace immediately. Tomorrow morning, I expect all senior government officials to be present..."

After hanging up, Hassan looked at the box on the desk, a trace of doubt flickering in his eyes.

What he couldn't quite understand was why this company had specifically sent his brother's head. Was it a warning...

—

Early the next morning,

at the presidential palace in Baghdad, President Latif al-Rashid stood before a dressing mirror, allowing the woman beside him to smooth the wrinkles on his collar.

His wife tied the tie for this middle-aged man and said gently, "Darling, I'll wait for you to come back."

Latif nodded, leaned down to kiss his wife, then turned and walked out of the room.

Exiting the presidential palace, a car was already waiting at the door. The driver respectfully opened the car door for him. After Latif bent down and got in, the vehicle headed towards the Iraqi government building.

Watching the street scenes whizzing past the window, Latif sighed inwardly. Although he was the head of state of Iraq, in front of Prime Minister Hassan, he was always just an obedient puppet.

It was somewhat quiet inside the car.

Latif suddenly felt something was off. This old driver, who had been with him for five years, hadn't said a single word since he got in the car today.

Normally, the driver would always respectfully greet him with a 'Good morning, President.' But just now, when opening the car door, he hadn't offered any greeting at all, which seemed rather strange.

The feeling of unease grew. Latif tentatively spoke toward the driver's seat, "Adel, how's the traffic today? We mustn't be late."

"Excellent, President."

The driver replied flatly.