Orders from Graybill Pellegrin

Take out that ding-a-ling Quayle. The bumhole-peeping weed yanker’s trying to get us killed – that caravan was armed to the teeth this time. He tipped off his Black-plated buds at the embassy, I’m sure of it! We still slaughtered the lot of them, of course, but lost a few good lads of our own. Since Quayle means to diddle our derrières, let’s diddle Quayle. Grab him, scorch his heels and find out where he’s hid his share of the previous raid. He can’t possibly have lost all of it playing gwent. Once you’ve got that, time for him to dance the grim fandango.