and melted into the background. For months he performed double duty. He supplied his tactical expertise and muscle to the insurgency, while also commanding a small group of kidnappers that stole children from Iraq’s upper crust: doctors, lawyers, even his former comrades from the regime.
It had been with great reluctance that Quissad had left the country. Again, his reluctance had had nothing to do with patriotism; he’d simply wanted to spill blood. He’d been born with an unquenchable bloodlust. He knew he could kill. He’d burned, stabbed, shot and otherwise savaged Iraqis and Kurds dozens of times. Each time he’d expected the repetition to rob the experience of its joy. It never did. Rather, his bloodlust continued to return, each time with greater regularity, an unquenchable thirst that cried out with greater volume to be satisfied.
Before the war, he’d always reasoned that all-out combat would provide him with ample bloodshed to slake his thirst. Instead it had only intensified his need until it drove his every action. Now, with the Cold Earth worm and its potential to kill hundreds of thousands, perhaps even millions, he could finally satiate and silence the voices that drove him, prompted his every action and decision.
The very notion of such wholesale destruction caused his mouth to feel dry and hot, his nerves to tingle, and he knew better. Whether the worm was used once or a dozen times to snuff out life, it’d never be enough for him. And the best part was that he’d sell it to someone else and let them take the fall while he took their money.
He swallowed two amphetamine capsules, washed them down with a glass of water, and thought longingly of the joint in the glove compartment of his BMW parked in a garage under the club. Later, he decided. He slipped another cigarette into his mouth. Torching it with an ornate gold lighter, he settled back into the couch and stared up at the ceiling. Things definitely were falling into place for him. Within a few days, he’d be a hell of a lot richer and the world much bloodier. It was almost too good to be true.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Black Hawk helicopter carrying Able Team skimmed over the trees. The rotor wash beat down on branches below, flattening them or causing them to whip about wildly as the craft closed in on a predetermined landing spot.
Blancanales checked over his weapons and other equipment. A glance around told him that Lyons and Grimaldi were doing likewise. A Drug Enforcement Administration pilot was navigating the craft to their destination. Another DEA agent, James Larkin, rode with the commandos.
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