Once Upon a Time in Bliss

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The man known only as Bishop looked down at his handiwork.

So much fucking blood. Why did the human body have to contain so much blood? The average male body contained six quarts of blood. Thirty-six quarts of blood. That was what he’d spilled today. Thirty-six quarts of evil, drug-running blood, and it wasn’t enough and it never would be. The US government would make sure of that.

Bishop took a long breath, the hot Colombian air humid in his lungs. He was so fucking sick of foreign countries. He didn’t go to the nice ones. He went to the pits of the world—the places where humanity and rights were a distant dream. Somalia. Afghanistan. Iraq. Now here in a drug-torn section of Colombia.

The SEAL team he’d gone in with high-fived and smiled. They were heroes. They’d done their job, and they’d done it with precision and the perfect amount of mercy. They didn’t play with their targets. They took them out quickly when they could, giving the vicious killers an easier death than they deserved, but they were soldiers, not animals.

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