Outside the cabin was the pitch-black night sky, with only the dashboard emitting a faint blue light.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes.
Twenty million US Dollars annually.
The number flashed through his mind.
The price was fair. For "leveraging" his reputation and the deterrence of the "Musician" company.
Old Masoud was a shrewd politician, knowing exactly where to spend money and who to spend it on for the best value.
As for the military reform, internal purge, and faction balance of the Kurd people...
That was their own business.
He would provide "recommendations" as required by the contract but would never get deeply involved.
That was not his battlefield, nor was it the role he was meant to play.
The helicopter began to descend, and Baghdad's lights spread out ahead.
In that city, more meetings, more negotiations, more deals awaited him.
But, at least in this game with the Kurd people, he found his position—
