9 Bullets Quotes

Sticks and stones and small caliber bullets may break my bones... Words will never, et cetera.

You can fall in love and make love many times but there is only one bullet with your name etched on the side. And if you are lucky enough to be shot with that bullet then the wound never heals.

My name is Markowski. I carry a badge. Also a crucifix, some wooden stakes, a big vial of holy water, and a 9mm Beretta loaded with silver bullets. I was never a Boy Scout but "Be Prepared" is still a good motto to live by. Especially if you plan to keep living.

I still didn’t know quite what the witches were capable of. The threshold could be booby-trapped or enchanted. I could be walking into a cage fight with a demon. Hell, she could open the door with a Glock 9 in her hand and put a bullet in my ear, or throw a cat at me, or call me a damn hippie.

It feels as though it were just yesterday Grandfather exited my life like a bullet, leaving a bleeding hole behind.

Ty smiled sadly. 'This is the way we've always done it, Zane. It doesn't mean we intend to out there. It just...' 'If we do, it'll be with not regrets,' Owen offered when Ty's explanation faltered. 'You say good-bye first. When the bullet hits, you don't wish you'd told anyone you loved them one last time.

Some of us came to the cities to escape the reservation. We stayed after fighting in the Second World War. After Vietnam, too. We stayed because the city sounds like a war, and you can't leave a war once you've been you can only keep it at bay -- which is easier when you can see and hear it near you, that fast metal, that constant firing around you, cars up and down the streets and freeways like bullets. The quiet of the reservation, the side-of-the-highway towns, rural communities, that kind of silence just makes the sound of your brain on fire that much more pronounced. (9)

I’m a believer in the single-bullet theory. You can fall in love and make love many times but there is only one bullet with your name etched on the side. And if you are lucky enough to be shot with that bullet then the wound never heals.

he knew all my caches and clichés—and pulled out an extra box of shells. “What other weapons do we have?” I started the Bullet and pulled the gear selector down into drive. “Steadfast resolution.” I turned and looked at him, not as if he would take the option, but it had to be said. “If you want out, now would be the time.” He actually laughed as he reloaded the round. “I try never to miss an episode of Steadfast Resolution—it is my favorite program.” •

The precision metallic ratcheting sound a Glock 9mm makes when a bullet is forced out of the gun's clip into the killing chamber is a universal sound that good guys and bad guys and wild animals alike understand on a primal level. - The Devil's Necktie

But there are no criminals here Just people surviving against all odds Multi and never ending circumstances of racial repression Class war accompanied with post-traumatic stress syndrome-like symptoms Marshal law-like conditions Magic trick tactics transforming Brown and Black pearls into perils with K-9’s searching the perimeter Face filled with hate abra cadabra cop smiles with a gun and a badge The bullet is faster than the eye Judges able to devour justice with a single courtroom motion not missing a crumb Now you have your freedom then you don’t

He held them in his hand and looked at them as a man who was panning for gold, expecting only flakes, would look at four nuggets in his pan. The four bullets had black noses. Now the meat was out of them, the short twist rifling showed clearly. They were 9mm standard issue for the Schmeisser machine pistol. They made the man very happy. They picked up all the hulls, he thought. But they left these as plain as calling cards.

Today, according to the NIMH, bipolar illness affects one in every forty adults in the United States, and so, before we review the outcomes literature for this disorder, we need to try to understand this astonishing increase in its prevalence.9 Although the quick-and-easy explanation is that psychiatry has greatly expanded the diagnostic boundaries, that is only part of the story. Psychotropic drugs—both legal and illegal—have helped fuel the bipolar boom.

Jules had listened in on nearly every word exchanged while they’d been back there together, and it was more than obvious that Max had yet to pull Gina into his arms and do his imitation of the Han Solo and Princess Leia big-moment kiss from The Empire Strikes Back. Maybe when Jules and the E-man walked out of the garage and climbed into that ancient Escort—which turned out to be part of the Testa fleet-Max would take the opportunity to plant a big, wet one on this woman that he still so obviously adored. Or maybe not. “Sweetie, I love the haircut,” Jules told Gina as he gave Max back his cell phone. “You look fabulous for a woman who’s been dead for five days.” “What?” she said, but it was time to go. “Max’ll fill you in,” he said. There. There was no way Max was going to be table to tell Gina about receiving the report of her death without getting a little misty-eyed. At which point Gina would, at the very least, throw her arms around him. If Max couldn’t manage to turn that into a truth-revealing kiss, he didn’t deserve the woman. “Ow,” he added as Emilio pressed his weapon into Jules’s kidney. “Sorry,” Emilio managed to put the right amount of apology into his voice, but he was obviously so stressed that he didn’t quite get the right facial expression to match. It was pretty odd. Particularly when he jabbed Jules again. “Let’s go.” Wow, wasn’t this going to be fun? Max, meanwhile, had stepped protectively in front of Gina. He caught and held Jules’s gaze. “We’ll wait for your call.” Silently, he sent another message entirely. If Emilio gave Jules any trouble, he should shoot him. Never mind the fact that Emilio was the one with the drawn weapon. Never mind that Jules’s hands were out and empty, and that he’d have a major bullet hole in his body if he so much as put said hands near his pockets.

bullet,” said Colonel Shreck, “was to open up and rip the shit out of the tissue and organs.” “It didn’t open,” said Hatcher. “If it had, he’d have never made it to the car, much less dumped that FBI agent. We know because Payne’s report says he saw blood on the back of the shirt. It had to go through without opening up.” “Why didn’t it open up?” Shreck asked. Finally, Hatcher answered. “In our research, we’ve found that most of the stopping problems with 9mm Silvertip came with first-generation ammunition. They first started manufacturing it in the mid-seventies. The real bad stopping problems took place then; subsequently they changed the circumference of the

Some of the ideas were silly, thanks to Molly, who, despite being upset with Jones, was still trying to keep the mood upbeat. They had boxes and boxes of copy paper. They could make thousands of paper airplanes with the message, “Help!” written on them and fly them out the windows. Could they try to blast their way out of the tunnel? Maybe dig an alternative route to the surface? It seemed like a long shot, worth going back in there and taking a look at the construction—which Jones had done only to come back out, thumbs down. Two of them could create a diversion, while the other to took the Impala and crashed their way out of the garage. At which point the Impala—and everyone in it—would be hit by hundreds of bullets. That one—along with taking their chances with the far fewer number of soldiers lying in wait at the end of the escape tunnel—went into the bad idea file. Molly had thought that they could sing karaoke. Emilio had a Best of Whitney Houston karaoke CD. Their renditions of I Will Always Love you, she insisted, would cause the troops to break rank and run away screaming. Except the karaoke machine was powered by electricity, which they were trying to use only for the computer and the security monitors, considering—at the time—that the generator was almost out of gasoline. Yeah, that was why it was a silly idea. It did, however, generate a lot of desperately needed laughter.

At the other extreme, the consumption tax rate should be very, very high for any products that impose massive negative externalities. Consider handgun ammunition. Currently, one can buy five hundred rounds of 9 mm ammunition for about $110 from online U.S. retailers—about twenty-two cents each. But each round of ammunition has a slight chance of falling into the wrong hands and killing someone. How slight? About 10 billion rounds are sold per year in the United States. There are about thirty thousand gun-related deaths in the United States per year (including suicides, homicides, and accidents). Assuming the typical gun death involves one round of ammo, the chance that any given round will end up killing someone is about thirty thousand divided by 10 billion, or three per million. Now, a person’s life is generally reckoned to be worth about $3 million, according to the usual cost-benefit-risk analyses by highway engineers, airlines, and hospitals. If each bullet has a three per million chance of negating a $3 million life, then that bullet imposes an expected average cost on society of $9. That’s about forty times its conventional retail cost of $0.22, so, by my reasoning, it should be subject to a consumption tax rate of 4,000 percent. This is obviously a rough calculation; it ignores the injury costs of nonlethal shootings (which would increase the tax) and the crime-deterrence effects, if any, of citizens having ammo (which would decrease the tax).

By the time Dimitrov realised what had happened, it was too late. He had taken aim but Bond had already fired. Three bullets spat their ugly farewells, driving into the Russian’s chest and throat. Bond lay on the ground, sodden, his broken rib pounding. The rain beat down on him. A car drove past, spraying more water over him, but the driver noticed nothing and didn’t stop. Eventually, Bond stood up. He slipped the Walther PPK into his pocket and walked over to the dead Russian who was lying on the tarmac in a pool of rainwater and blood. He was still holding his own gun, a 9x18mm Makarov pistol, a sophisticated but ugly weapon used by the Russian army and police. He had come close to firing a second bullet. His finger was still curled around the trigger, already stiffening as his muscles began to contract. Trigger mortis.

Honest to God, I hadn’t meant to start a bar fight. “So. You’re the famous Jordan Amador.” The demon sitting in front of me looked like someone filled a pig bladder with rotten cottage cheese. He overflowed the bar stool with his gelatinous stomach, just barely contained by a white dress shirt and an oversized leather jacket. Acid-washed jeans clung to his stumpy legs and his boots were at least twice the size of mine. His beady black eyes started at my ankles and dragged upward, past my dark jeans, across my black turtleneck sweater, and over the grey duster around me that was two sizes too big. He finally met my gaze and snorted before continuing. “I was expecting something different. Certainly not a black girl. What’s with the name, girlie?” I shrugged. “My mother was a religious woman.” “Clearly,” the demon said, tucking a fat cigar in one corner of his mouth. He stood up and walked over to the pool table beside him where he and five of his lackeys had gathered. Each of them was over six feet tall and were all muscle where he was all fat. “I could start to examine the literary significance of your name, or I could ask what the hell you’re doing in my bar,” he said after knocking one of the balls into the left corner pocket. “Just here to ask a question, that’s all. I don’t want trouble.” Again, he snorted, but this time smoke shot from his nostrils, which made him look like an albino dragon. “My ass you don’t. This place is for fallen angels only, sweetheart. And we know your reputation.” I held up my hands in supplication. “Honest Abe. Just one question and I’m out of your hair forever.” My gaze lifted to the bald spot at the top of his head surrounded by peroxide blonde locks. “What’s left of it, anyway.” He glared at me. I smiled, batting my eyelashes. He tapped his fingers against the pool cue and then shrugged one shoulder. “Fine. What’s your question?” “Know anybody by the name of Matthias Gruber?” He didn’t even blink. “No.” “Ah. I see. Sorry to have wasted your time.” I turned around, walking back through the bar. I kept a quick, confident stride as I went, ignoring the whispers of the fallen angels in my wake. A couple called out to me, asking if I’d let them have a taste, but I didn’t spare them a glance. Instead, I headed to the ladies’ room. Thankfully, it was empty, so I whipped out my phone and dialed the first number in my Recent Call list. “Hey. He’s here. Yeah, I’m sure it’s him. They’re lousy liars when they’re drunk. Uh-huh. Okay, see you in five.” I hung up and let out a slow breath. Only a couple things left to do. I gathered my shoulder-length black hair into a high ponytail. I looped the loose curls around into a messy bun and made sure they wouldn’t tumble free if I shook my head too hard. I took the leather gloves in the pocket of my duster out and pulled them on. Then, I walked out of the bathroom and back to the front entrance. The coat-check girl gave me a second unfriendly look as I returned with my ticket stub to retrieve my things—three vials of holy water, a black rosary with the beads made of onyx and the cross made of wood, a Smith & Wesson .9mm Glock complete with a full magazine of blessed bullets and a silencer, and a worn out page of the Bible. I held out my hands for the items and she dropped them on the counter with an unapologetic, “Oops.” “Thanks,” I said with a roll of my eyes. I put the Glock back in the hip holster at my side and tucked the rest of the items in the pockets of my duster. The brunette demon crossed her arms under her hilariously oversized fake breasts and sent me a vicious sneer. “The door is that way, Seer. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.” I smiled back. “God bless you.” She let out an ugly hiss between her pearly white teeth. I blew her a kiss and walked out the door. The parking lot was packed outside now that it was half-past midnight. Demons thrived in darkness, so I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I’d been counting on it.

Max’s unflinching gaze never left that house. “What do you think’s going to happen?” Jules asked him quietly, “if you let yourself peel that giant S off your shirt and take a nap? If you let yourself spend an hour, an evening, screw it, a whole weekend doing nothing more than breaking and taking enjoyment from living in the moment? What’s going to happen, Max, if—after this is over—you give yourself permission to actually enjoy Gina’s company? To sit with her arms around you and let yourself be happy. You don’t have to be happy forever—just for that short amount of time.” Max didn’t say anything. So Jules went on. “And then maybe you could let yourself be happy again the next weekend. Not too happy,” he added quickly. “We wouldn’t want that. But just happy in a small way, because this amazing woman is part of your life, because she makes you smile and probably fucks like a dream and yeah—see? You are listening. Don’t kill me, I was just making sure you hadn’t checked out.” Max was giving him that look. “Are you done?” “Oh, sweetie, we have nowhere to go and hours til dawn. I’m just getting started.” Shit, Max said with his body language. But he didn’t stand up and walk away. He just sat there. Across the street, nothing moved. And then it still didn’t move. But once again, Max was back to watching it not move. Jules let the silence go for an entire minute and a half. “Just in case I didn’t make myself clear,” he said, “I believe with all my heart that you deserve—completely—whatever happiness you can grab. I don’t know what damage your father did to you but—” “I don’t know if I can do that,” Max interrupted. “You know, what you said. Just go home from work and . . .” Holy shit, Max was actually talking. About this. Or at least he had been talking. Jules waited for more, but Max just shook his head. “You know what happens when you work your ass off?” Jules finally asked, and then answered the question for him. “There’s no ass there the next time. So then you have to work off some other vital body part. You have to give yourself time to regrow, recharge. When was the last time you took a vacation? Was it nineteen ninety-one or ninety-two?” “You know damn well that I took a really long vacation just—” “No, sir, you did not. Hospitalization and recovery from a near-fatal gunshot wound is not a vacation,” Jules blasted him. “Didn’t you spend any of that time in ICU considering exactly why you made that stupid mistake that resulted in a bullet in your chest? Might it have been severe fatigue caused by asslessness, caused by working said ass off too many 24-7’s in a row?” Max sighed. Then nodded. “I know I fucked up. No doubt about that.” He was silent for a moment. “I’ve been doing that a lot lately.” He glanced over to where Jones was pretending to sleep, arm up and over his eyes. “I’ve been playing God too often, too. I don’t know, maybe I’m starting to believe my own spin, and it’s coming back to bite me.” “Not in the ass,” Jules said.

If a leaden bullet is composed of electric charges, may not a human spirit be composed of something equally intangible—or tangible? I found myself as Carlyle put it, "standing on the bosom of nothing." That was in 1920, when I was just turned sixty-nine. In the following year, on the 19th of December, 1 9 2 1, my wife died. The dear girl had a happy death. She never knew she was dying and she had no pain. She just fell asleep. The last time I saw her she was sleeping quietly, and she looked like a pretty child. There was a slight flush on her cheeks and one little white hand lay out on the green counterpane: "like an April daisy on the grass." That was at midnight, and she died at six the next morning. I had gone to bed, for I was exhausted with watching. For the last week or more she would not let me out of her room by night or day. When I got up on the morning of her death I found to my surprise that I did not believe she was dead. My materialism notwithstanding, I felt that my wife was alive. My daughters, who held the same materialistic views, shared my feeling. We could not believe that she was not. Perhaps it was because we had been so devoted to her, because she had so filled our lives. I began to ask myself if perhaps the spiritualists were right. I did what Lady Warwick did when the Socialist idea came to her. I read all the best spiritualist books I could get hold of. I read and thought steadily for a couple of years and then I wrote some articles in the Sunday Chronicle protesting against the harsh criticism and cheap ridicule to which spiritualists were subjected. Still, I was not convinced. I was only puzzled. The books had affected me as W. T. Stead's talk had affected me. I told myself that all those gifted and honourable men and women could not be dupes or knaves. And—if they were right?

Hitler initially served in the List Regiment engaged in a violent four-day battle near Ypres, in Belgian Flanders, with elite British professional soldiers of the initial elements of the British Expeditionary Force. Hitler thereby served as a combat infantryman in one of the most intense engagements of the opening phase of World War I. The List Regiment was temporarily destroyed as an offensive force by suffering such severe casualty rates (killed, wounded, missing, and captured) that it lost approximately 70 percent of its initial strength of around 3,600 men. A bullet tore off Hitler’s right sleeve in the first day of combat, and in the “batch” of men with which he originally advanced, every one fell dead or wounded, leaving him to survive as if through a miracle. On November 9, 1914, about a week after the ending of the great battle, Hitler was reassigned as a dispatch runner to regimental headquarters. Shortly thereafter, he was awarded the Iron Cross Second Class. On about November 14, 1914, the new regimental commander, Lieutenant Colonel Philipp Engelhardt, accompanied by Hitler and another dispatch runner, moved forward into terrain of uncertain ownership. Engelhardt hoped to see for himself the regiment’s tactical situation. When Engelhardt came under aimed enemy smallarms fire, Hitler and the unnamed comrade placed their bodies between their commander and the enemy fire, determined to keep him alive. The two enlisted men, who were veterans of the earlier great four-day battle around Ypres, were doubtlessly affected by the death of the regiment’s first commander in that fight and were dedicated to keeping his replacement alive. Engelhardt was suitably impressed and proposed Hitler for the Iron Cross Second Class, which he was awarded on December 2. Hitler’s performance was exemplary, and he began to fit into the world around him and establish the image of a combat soldier tough enough to demand the respect of anyone in right wing, Freikorps-style politics after the war. -- Hitler: Beyond Evil and Tyranny, p. 88

The dramatic interplay was more in Lester’s wheelhouse, particularly the scene where Billy Bob contemplates suicide. Wracked with guilt over disappointing his coach (and, in retrospect, possibly suffering from post-concussion syndrome), Billy Bob sits on the back of his pickup with his football trophies, a bottle of tequila, and a Mossberg 12-gauge pump shotgun when he’s confronted by Mox. “Championship trophy. Steelers. We were 9. Remember this shit? Playing Pee Wee?” “Yeah,” Mox says. “It was fun.” “No, it wasn’t. I remember being yelled at.” Billy Bob throws the trophy. “Too fat, Billy Bob!” Bang! “Too slow and dumb!” He pulls the pump handle. Bang! “It was great,” Robbins, the director, says. “I remember that night shooting that scene, and you don’t do that once, you do it over and over again from different angles. And he was just able to deliver that performance over and over again, and those were real tears and real emotion coming out of him.” Lester drew on pain from his personal life, thinking of his late father and his sister Linda, who died at 35. He also pulled from his own struggles with suicide. Inconsolable after Linda passed, he had put a loaded gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. “God,” he says, is the only explanation. “I actually have the bullet, still. It’s not a dud; it’s live. It just didn’t go off,” Lester says. “I was kind of dreading [that scene] because I knew where I’d go. But I’m an actor and I’m making a commitment to the character. To do that, you have to go 100 percent and just hope you pull yourself out of it.

Following the July 1919 race riot in Washington, DC, Johnson investigated and offered this assessment of how and why peace was restored. “The Negroes saved themselves and saved Washington by their determination not to run but to fight, fight in the defense of their lives and their homes. If the white mob had gone unchecked—and it was only the determined effort of black men that checked it—Washington would have been another and worse East St. Louis.” The violence in DC was sparked by a rumor that a white soldier’s wife had been raped by a Negro. The city was filled with military men back from World War I. It also had been filling for some time with blacks migrating out of the South in search of something better. On a hot Saturday in mid-July, hundreds of white veterans rampaged through DC’s black neighborhoods. The violence continued two more days, peaking on Monday after an editorial from the Washington Post urged “every available serviceman to gather at Pennsylvania and Seventh Avenue at 9:00 p.m. for a cleanup that will cause the events of the last two evenings to pale into insignificance.” White servicemen answered the call and stormed through black neighborhoods in the southwest and Foggy Bottom. But the going was tougher in northwest Washington, DC, where the forewarned community was barricaded in and well-armed. As the mob approached, Negroes answered with a barrage of gunfire. The mob scattered. In the aftermath, cars were found riddled with bullet holes. Dozens of people were seriously wounded and one black man died by gunshot. Black gunfire certainly helped staunch the mob.

FEAR DOESN’T CHANGE THE STATISTICS Fear about guns seems to be greatest among those who know the least about them. It takes some familiarity to know that young children can’t simply fire a typical semi-automatic pistol. Few are likely to know that the slide needs to be pulled back to put a bullet in the chamber. Those who do are unlikely to have the strength to do so. And, of course, they may not be aware that the safety has to be switched off. Maybe more media attention should be given to the dangers posed by everyday items. In 2014, motor vehicles killed 303 pedestrians under age ten.8 Bicycle and space heater accidents take many times more children’s lives than guns do. Suffocation claimed over 1,100 lives. The most recent yearly data available indicate that five-gallon plastic water buckets claimed the lives of more than thirty children under age five. Again, the problem with gun-phobia is that without guns, victims are much more vulnerable to criminal attack. Guns are used defensively some 2 million times each year.9 Even though the police are extremely important in reducing crime, they simply can’t be there all the time. In fact, they virtually always arrive after the crime has been committed. Having a gun is by far the safest course of action when one is confronted by a criminal.

Some had to be left behind – those too sick, weak from hunger or wounded to go on. Many of these men and women (for women fought in the Partisan ranks as well) fought the Germans until they had one bullet left – the one for themselves.

It’s true that the female of the species is always more ruthless than the male, especially if she is called upon to protect those in her care.

How do you account for that?” Cayla asked in confusion. “What bullet could kill on impact at any point of the body?” “One that’s laced with rune magic,” I said with a roguish grin. “I love you,” Cayla blurted. “Everything you’re saying right now is turning me on. I’m dripping wet.

Kill somethin’,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Right now?” I hissed. “Do it,” Haragh urged. “He thinks you’re weak.” I looked around at the angry ogres all towering beyond Aurora’s ring of flames, and as much as I wanted to avoid being eaten by Grot, I didn’t think killing one of his ogres would strictly get things off on the right foot. Then I saw another of the black birds swooping overhead, and I pulled my revolver out to take my aim. I waited a few seconds until the bird circled back to where I wanted him, and when I fired a bullet into his chest, the body came spiraling down and crashed into the mud directly in front of Grot. Another batch of mud boiled up as everyone stared at the carcass, and I holstered the revolver. “I came for the feast,” I informed the leader. “Smooth,” Haragh mumbled. We both waited as we carefully gauged Grot’s reaction, and I could see the leader’s bloody brown eyes staring down at the huge bird for what felt like an eternity. When he finally looked up, his wrinkly expression was completely unreadable, and he looked at me like this for a full minute before slowly sizing up the women at my back. Then he let out a low growl that was so bassy I could feel it resonating in my chest. “Ye’ kill for Grot?” he suddenly roared as he bared his teeth, and every ogre in the mob snarled their disapproval. I didn’t even have to glance at Haragh to know the look he was sending me was wide-eyed and loaded, but I just crossed my arms and held the leader’s gaze. “Hell, no,” I growled back. “That’s my kill. Get your own.

With her eye still in the scope, Zoya Zakharova pulled the charging handle back on the VSS rifle, chambering a 9-by-39-millimeter round. She hadn’t envisioned using the weapon this evening at all, and she hadn’t fired a VSS since her sniper training four years earlier, but she had a target downrange now, and she was committed to killing him. She followed the man’s head with the crosshairs of the rifle, holding just a touch high to account for the characteristics of this bullet at this distance

He removed the 9mm Heckler & Koch USP SD Herman had given him and spun a GEMTECH suppressor onto its threaded barrel. It was loaded with subsonic ammunition and he carried two extra magazines. If bullets started flying, though, that meant something had gone very wrong.

Victor ignored him and reached inside the dead man’s jacket, searching unsuccessfully for a wallet. He went to take the man’s radio receiver, but it was in pieces, a bullet having passed straight through on the way to his heart. In a shoulder holster Victor found a 9 mm Beretta 92F handgun and two spare magazines in a pocket. The Beretta was a good, reliable weapon with a fifteenround mag, but a heavy, bulky gun that, even without the attached suppressor, was impossible to conceal completely. With subsonic ammunition the stopping power wasn’t great either. For this kind of work it was a poor choice of pistol. If the guy wasn’t dead Victor might have told him so. The Beretta wouldn’t normally have been his preference but at times like this there was no such thing as too many guns.

With his left hand Victor pulled the Beretta from the back of his waistband and pointed both guns at the doorway, one in each hand. Not so good for aiming accurately but he needed the extra stopping power if he was going to drop the gunman before he could open fire. He was a big guy and neither subsonic 5.7 mm or 9 mm rounds were going to guarantee putting him down instantly unless he was shot in the head, heart, or spine. But with enough bullets it wouldn’t matter where Victor hit. He held the Beretta directly below the FN so he could still line up one set of sights. Victor had seen amateurs hold two guns at arm’s length, hands shoulder-width apart, trying to emulate their favourite action movie stars. They always died quickly

The short-barrel MP9 submachine gun released a cluster of silenced rounds that ran up Novakovich’s body, some of the bullets sparking off the case of the hard drive. Novakovich cried out and crumpled backward with a crash. The gunman pivoted sharply at the corner of the passage and turned the muzzle of the MP9 toward Marc. His night vision goggles would easily render the space visible, and there was no cover at all. Marc took the offensive and attacked as the weapon came toward him. With the Glock in his fist, he brought the heavy butt of the pistol across, smashing it into the lenses of the gunman’s NVG rig with such violence that broken shards were driven into the shooter’s cheek and eyes. The gunman jerked the MP9’s trigger, but the shots went wide, chugging into the wall and the ceiling of the corridor as the magazine emptied

…After seventeen minutes of panicky crowds destroying everything in their path, Eric could distinguish, despite all the chaos and hellish noise, the slight buzz of a second plane. He started counting to himself, watching the blazing inferno at the North Tower: One, two, three, four, five, six, seven… The second Boeing glided into the South Tower, WTC-2, and it seemed to Eric that this plane was flying slowly, that its impact was a soft one… Due to the pandemonium all around, the impact itself seemed not to be as loud as the first hit. Still, in a moment the second twin was also blazing. Both skyscrapers were on fire now. Novack looked up again at what had happened a minute before: the terror attack of the century. Then he started walking fast down Church Street, away from the huge buildings that were now on fire. He knew that in about an hour, the South Tower was to collapse completely, and half an hour after that, the same was to happen to the North Tower, which was also weakened by the impact. He knew there were tons of powerful Thermate in both buildings. Over the course of the previous two months, some fake repairmen had brought loads of it into the towers and put them in designated places around the trusswork. It was meant to make buildings collapse like card towers, which would only happen when the flames reached a certain point. The planes had started an unstoppable countdown as soon as they hit the buildings: these were the last minutes of their existence. Next in line was the third building: 7 WTC, which stood north of the Twin Towers. It counted forty-seven floors, and it too was stuffed with Thermate. Novack started getting concerned, however, that the third plane seemed to be late. Where’s the third plane? Why is it late? It’s already fifty minutes after the first impact, and they were supposed to hit the three targets with a time lag of about twenty minutes. Where are you, birdie number three? You are no less important than the first two, and you were also promised to my clients… People were still running in all directions, shouting and bumping into each other. Sirens wailed loudly, heartrendingly; ambulances were rushing around, giving way only to firefighters and emergency rescue teams. Suddenly hundreds of policemen appeared on the streets, but it seemed that they didn’t really know what they were supposed to do. They mostly ran around, yelling into their walkie-talkies. At Thomas Street, Eric walked into a parking lot: the gate arm was up and the security guy must have left, for the door of his booth stood wide open… …Two shots rang out simultaneously during the fifth and the longest second. They were executed synchronously, creating a single, stinging, deadly sound. The bullet from the sixth floor of the book depository went straight up into the sky, as planned. The second bullet shot out of a sniper rifle, held confidently in the arms of a woman behind the hedge, on the grassy knoll. It was her bullet that struck the head of the 35th US president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The woman walked quickly down the grassy knoll. Stepping only about five meters away, she put her rifle into a baby pram waiting there, with a real six-month-old baby boy whimpering inside it. She put on thick glasses and started walking away, exhibiting no haste. Only thirty seconds after the second shot, the woman was gone, nowhere to be seen… After the second or, rather, the third shot, the one from the knoll, President Kennedy’s head was tossed back. Jackie somehow managed to crawl onto the back hood of the car. A security agent from the escort car had already reached them. The motorcade picked up speed and disappeared under the overpass. Zapruder’s camera kept whirring for some seconds. He must have filmed the whole operation – that is, the assassination of an acting US president. But now he simply stood there without saying a word, completely dumbfounded...

I know I made choices that cost you. I've got this habit of rushing into things because I think they need doing. I lost time with you, but it was always my choice. Heading to the Agatha King. Sounding the alarms on Medina. Trying to get to the bullet on Ilus. Going back to see what was really happening on Eros Station. They were all risks I took, and I told myself it was okay because I was only risking me. But I was risking someone important to you too, and I am so grateful that I've been someone important to you. I didn't mean to take that lightly.

What the hell are you doing here?” Rudely snapped out of her Hugh daze, Grace snapped her head around to look at Theo. “Visiting local businesses?” Hugh offered, but Theo just glared. “Getting some ice cream?” That was the second time he’d mentioned ice cream in the past hour. Hugh must be getting hungry. He handed the gun and the bullets he’d removed from it over to Theo, who deposited them in his pocket without dropping his scowl. “Finding a quiet place to make out?” Grace flushed and was instantly annoyed at herself for turning red.

The man in the middle gets the bullets from both directions; but I suppose we have to take our stand there all the same.

…Two shots rang out simultaneously during the fifth and the longest second. They were executed synchronously, creating a single, stinging, deadly sound. The bullet from the sixth floor of the book depository went straight up into the sky, as planned. The second bullet shot out of a sniper rifle, held confidently in the arms of a woman behind the hedge, on the grassy knoll. It was her bullet that struck the head of the 35th US president, John Fitzgerald Kennedy. The woman walked quickly down the grassy knoll. Stepping only about five meters away, she put her rifle into a baby pram waiting there, with a real six-month-old baby boy whimpering inside it. She put on thick glasses and started walking away, exhibiting no haste. Only thirty seconds after the second shot, the woman was gone, nowhere to be seen… After the second or, rather, the third shot, the one from the knoll, President Kennedy’s head was tossed back. Jackie somehow managed to crawl onto the back hood of the car. A security agent from the escort car had already reached them. The motorcade picked up speed and disappeared under the overpass. Zapruder’s camera kept whirring for some seconds. He must have filmed the whole operation – that is, the assassination of an acting US president. But now he simply stood there without saying a word, completely dumbfounded..

Semi-automatic guns don’t fire “rapid bursts” of bullets. Fifty-caliber sniper rifles were never covered by the federal assault weapons ban. Such weapons may be “super destructive,” but the New York Times neglects to mention that there is no recorded instance of one being used in a murder, and certainly not in a mass public shooting.8 “Urban assault vests” may sound like they are bulletproof, but they are actually just nylon vests with a lot of pockets.9 These are just a few of the many errors that the New York Times made in their news article.

Finally, in 2008, Irving Kirsch, a psychologist at the University of Hull in the United Kingdom, found that in the trials of Prozac, Effexor, Serzone, and Paxil, symptoms in the medicated patients dropped 9.6 points on the Hamilton Rating Scale of Depression, versus 7.8 points for the placebo group. This was a difference of only 1.8 points, and the National Institute for Clinical Excellence in Britain had previously determined that a three-point drug-placebo difference was needed on the Hamilton scale to demonstrate a “clinically significant benefit.” It was only in a small subgroup of patients—those most severely depressed—that the drugs had been shown to be of real use. “Given these data, there seems little evidence to support the prescription of antidepressant medication to any but the most severely depressed patients, unless alternative treatments have failed to provide benefit,” Kirsch and his collaborators concluded.

Bosch held the pistol down between his knees and ejected the magazine. It was double-stacked with fif teen 9-millimeter Parabellum rounds. He thumbed them out and put them into a cup holder in the arm rest. He then ejected a sixteenth round from the cham ber and put it in the cup holder with the others. Bosch looked down the sight to focus his aim. He peered into the chamber, looking for any sign of rust, and then studied the firing pin and extractor. He checked the gun's action and trigger several times. The weapon seemed to be functioning properly. He then studied each bullet as he reloaded the magazine, look ing for corrosion or any other indication that the am munition was old or suspect. He found nothing.

Suddenly something came over me. It was as if I was possessed by an evil spirit. I called Amberline’s name in a voice that sounded like it came from the depths of hell. As Jimmy cocked his pistol, I quickly squatted down, breaking Jedidiah’s grip, going down just a fraction of a second before Jimmy pulled the trigger. The bullet left the barrel and went straight to where I was being held and plunged into Jedidiah’s chest.” ”. From Fear and Retribution

1. Headline 2. Open – Promise or Negative Optism (See Chapter 9) 3. Credentials 4. Offer 5. Bullets 6. Choice of one 7. Price 8. Guarantee 9. Takeaway 10. Signature 11. P.S.

Germany’s famed GSG9 counterterrorism unit and until a bullet injury to his leg

Cole Younger led eight men into Russellville, Kentucky, on May 20, 1868, and rode out with exactly $9,035.92. As the gang made its escape, shooting into the air to discourage gawkers, one member shot at the metal fish weather vane atop the courthouse, sending it spinning. Almost a century later, that historic weather vane, with a bullet hole through it, could still be seen on the roof of the new courthouse, where it had been placed to honor the town’s history. One man was eventually convicted for that robbery, for which he served three years in prison.

I open my car door and start to slide in, but I start to think that Bob might want my phone number in case something changes before Saturday. I jot it down really quickly on the back of a receipt and go to give it to him. I hear one of the men he’s with as I walk closer. “Who was that on your bike?” He laughs sharply. It’s not like the laughter I heard from him today at all. “Just a girl.” Just a girl? A girl I have a date with on Saturday, or my name would have been better. But apparently, I am just a girl. “She got a name?” one of them asks. “I never can remember their names,” he says. “Too many of them.” He laughs sharply again and lights a cigarette. “That one is no different from the rest. Just something to do.” My heart sinks all the way down to my toes. I crumple my phone number up and drop it to the ground. At least I won’t have to get dressed up on Saturday. Maybe I just dodged a bullet.

It is my opinion (and many disagree) that for carry the .380 ACP should be the minimum caliber you choose. But we have heard over the years that the 9mm bullet is better than the .380. Recognize that the bullets are very similar in size and weight with the significant difference being the velocity of the bullet.

nearly

Wirot held up his card, and the

For some reason, keeping an eye on my little savior has an unusually calming effect on me. She did save my life on the night we met, but not in the way she probably thinks. It wasn’t the makeshift bandage, which I keep in my pocket wherever I go. And it wasn’t her inexperienced extraction of the bullet from my side. But, had I not met her, the next mission likely would have been my last. There is a limit to how much shit someone can take before calling it quits and checking out of this world. That night, just moments before the girl found me, I realized that I had my fill. As I sat on the ground in that alley and watched the dark sky above, I decided to make my next job the final act of my life.