Hell Dawn. Don Pendleton
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an impressive array of underworld contacts and provided invaluable information almost daily, his need to please drained Quissad. Quissad made sure those working for him got very little in the way of acknowledgment. If he’d learned anything from the deposed dictator, it was to control others through fear and uncertainty. A man who found himself on uncertain ground had little time to plot against you, not when he was worried about his own fate.
The small man exited, shutting the door softly behind him. Quissad watched the dance floor a few minutes longer. He fixed his gaze on a leggy brunette, her eyes closed, pelvis gyrating in tandem with the pounding rhythms. For a moment his mind toyed with the notion of those same hips grinding hard against his own, accompanied by sweetly satisfied groans filling his ears. He’d seen her in the club twice during the past two weeks and found himself struck by her beauty. She’d made eye contact with him both times, rousing his suspicions. He was, after all, a man on the run. He didn’t want to betray himself by involving himself with a strange woman who might also be an undercover agent. No, he’d come much too far to take such chances. Still, she intrigued him in a way he found almost intoxicating. He loved the hunt a great deal, but it was the kill that he lived for.
He made his way to a brown leather sofa and fell heavily into it. His jacket popped open, revealing the SIG-Sauer P-226 holstered in a shoulder rig. He liked the gun, and it made him feel safe. A glance at a bank of monitors on a nearby wall told him that his guards were posted outside his door, ready to stop any interlopers dead in their tracks.
He was secure and alone, and it gave him time to think about how he’d gotten to this point. He’d been a commander with Fedayeen Saddam, the former dictator’s elite army, before America had invaded his homeland. During the initial days of the invasion, he’d welcomed the challenge, been all too happy to ply his bloody skills against American soldiers. He’d even taken it a step further, occasionally killing Iraqi citizens and making it appear that they’d died at the hands of Americans. Yes, he’d fought like a man possessed. It wasn’t so much a loyalty to Iraq’s ruler, or to his homeland. Quissad had just needed the release. He’d spent a good deal of his time feeling like a fighter jet that flew unarmed and in slow, small circles. Lots of deadly capacity, but no chance to unleash it. For him it had been a mind-blowing pleasure as he’d never experienced.
When Baghdad fell, he, like other Iraqi soldiers, had shed his uniform 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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