Black Ops 1 Quotes

I have to get back there." I said to Adrian. "Into that door." He arched an eyebrow. "What, like sneaking in? How very black ops of you. And oh, you know— dangerous and foolish." "I know." I said, surprised at how calm I sounded as I admitted that. "But I have to know something, and this may be my only chance." "Then I'll go with you in case that guy comes back," he said with a sigh. "Never let it be said Adrian Ivashkov doesn't help damsels in distress.

Confidence is highly erotic.

The man lived like a monk. And made love like a sinner.

Because they're probably long gone. Are you hurt?" Gabe asked with enough urgency that she realized he must have felt shiver in delayed reaction to the hole in the door. "No. No, I'm okay. What a about you? Are you hurt?" "Only if you count the fact that you damned near ripped off my plumbing groping around for my phone." She made a sound of exasperation. "Now? You pick now to become a comedian?" "It's all about timing," he whispered back.

She dug around in her bag, found what she was looking for, and brought the little stuffed dog back to bed with her. Childish, yeah. She didn't care. He was soft and cuddly-unlike Jones-and she had a need for soft and cuddly right now. She'd like to meet a woman who could breeze through a shotgun blast and not need something to hold on to. Even if it was just an old stuffed pup.(...)She swallowed hard,then caught her breath when he opened his eyes, turned his head on the pillow toward her. He searched her face in the dark. "Come here," he whispered. When she hesitated, he reached for her. "The dog can come, too.

Which is your bad shoulder?" His brows knit together. "The left," he said carefully. She slugged him in the right. He staggered. Steadied himself. Grinned. "Is that like some weird Wyoming mating ritual thing I should know about?" "Damn you," she cried, flying into his arms. Finally. "Damn you, damn you, damn you!" He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was such a coward.

There were more of them out there. More walkers. And I was being asked to step up and be... what? Some kind of Captain Heroism who would lead the boys in the Red, White, and Blue to victory? What was I getting myself into? This wasn't task force duty, this wasn't even SWAT-team level. I'd never even smelled anything this big before and now I was expected to train and lead a black ops team? How frigging insane was this? Why were they asking me? I'm just a cop. Where are the guys who actually do this for a living? How come none of them were here? Where's James Bond and Jack Bauer? Why me, of all people?

He’d never felt this protective of a woman before. Only she brought that out in him. That powerful, odd mixture of independence and vulnerability completely melted him. The fact that she flew a Black Hawk and could talk shop with the best of them? Hot as hell. And her laugh. God, she had the dirtiest laugh he’d ever heard. Every time he heard it he thought of sex. Hot, sweaty sex, the kind that left a man exhausted and weak and his partner unable to move.

Never trust a woman hoarding a half-eaten bag of M&M's.

Calm down. If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't need this knife to do it.

You make velocity look good.

Do not tell me what I think you're going to or I swear to God, I'm going to fly to Brazil and go all black ops on this guy for cheating on you.

I'm not Lois Lane and you are neither Superman nor Clark Kent," she fired back. "It's crazy for you to go anywhere in this condition, and if you had the sense God gave a rock, you'd stay put." Gabe stopped in his tracks. "Did you just compare me to a rock?" She snorted. "I have the utmost respect for rocks. They're hard, they're heavy. They make good paperweights.

Hot damn, Diego Santero looked fine soaking wet. Everything about him radiated potent masculinity, from the slick, dark hair that drew emphasis to the angles of his cheeks and jaw, to the water beading off his forearms and the soaked black shirt and cargo pants that clung to every curve of muscle and flesh below.

There’s the bullshit you know that you know; the bullshit you don’t know and know you don’t know; and the bullshit you just think you know but really don’t. Making a promise in the middle of an alien black op falls under the last category. So…sorry!

Havens reached into his ear and pinched enough of the latex with his fingernails to withdraw the device. He dropped it on the ground and crushed it under his foot. He didn’t care if it was found. It was French-made. Procured for that very purpose. F*** overwatch. Screw the French.

we're going balls to the wall, guys. Our sneak-and-peak just turned into a hostage rescue.

I'll carry you." But she was already holding on, and though she knew she'd have to soon, she didn't see how she'd ever be able to let go of him.

Faces close, they breathed into each other, their bodies slick with water and sweat.

Frowning, Shiloh forced herself to look up at him. Roan deserved her courage, not her cowardice. “You wanted to kiss me.” “I still do.

He leaned over, catching her lowered gaze. “I’m the present, Darlin’.

Who are you?’ asked Gurun. ‘I am the Polity black-ops stealth attack ship Obsidian Blade.’ ‘Fuck,’ said Gurun.

Am I in trouble? He chortled, "well, a bunch of not-so-friendly thugs were waiting to ambush you and blow up your apartment. If that doesn't qualify as trouble, I don't know what does.

She touched him everywhere she could reach. The rounded hardness of his biceps and chest, the ripped contours of his back, his thick, damp hair, until touching with his hands wasn't enough.

Shiloh had never seen a man who was a hunter. But she saw one now. There was an intense feeling around Roan, raw and untamed, as he studied her, his nostrils flaring to catch her scent. He ruthlessly dug into her opening eyes, reading her, trying to understand where she was at within herself and what she wanted from him. “This is your call,” he said, his voice low and guttural.

Tonight, after we're done with the bank, we're going to finish this. Somewhere it's just the two of us. But if I keep kissing you right now, I'm not going to have enough blodd left in my brain to keep you safe at the bank.

Oh my god, Bella, what have you done?” Bella jumped as she turned to face Nathan, seeing his wild eyes, his pale features, his hard, buff body stalking across the front yard, his chest slick with sweat, bits of the grass he had been cutting sticking to his jeans as he strode furiously to where her car met the back of his truck. “It’s just a little dent, Nathan. I promise . . .” Her heart was in her throat. Not in hear. He would never hurt her. But he sure knew how to pout when he wanted to. “A little dent.” He gripped her shoulders, moving her aside as he stared down at the crumpled fender as it sank into the bumper of his truck. It was an accident. It was all his fault. If he hadn’t been wearing those butt-snug jeans and boots with no shirt as he cut the lawn, it would have never happened. “You hit my truck.” Male pride and offended dignity filled his voice. “That’s my truck, Bella.” Yes. It was. And he was very proud of the powerful, black four-by-four he babied worse than any woman would a child. She would be jealous if it weren’t for the fact that he couldn’t actually bring it into the house.

I must have apologized to him a thousand times during those two snowbound days. I’m sorry, Sams. I said no matter what, but what you’re too young to understand is there’s more than one kind of bullshit. There’s the bullshit you know that you know; the bullshit you don’t know and know you don’t know; and the bullshit you just think you know but really don’t. Making a promise in the middle of an alien black op falls under the last category. So…sorry!

Let’s get one thing clear between us, Shiloh. I would never laugh at you. I might tease the dickens out of you, but I would never, ever make fun of you. That’s not who I am. I don’t believe in humiliating another person. It’s not in my DNA.

How much the pain grew inside him after Ossie died until the only way to deal with it was to throw himself into the fray. And the whole time, Vanessa's body was wrapped around him like she was the only one being strong as a shield while he stripped his life bare.

She wanted his strong, capable hands on her blody and those soft lips locked with hers. She wanted to be held tight and kissed until she could forget-if only for a few precious minutes-that her life as she knew it had evaporated in a cloud of smoke and flame and violence.

She had a hand on his belt, ready to show him exactly what she had in mind for the night, when he lowered to his knees between her legs, his hands spanning her ribs. Nervousness had vanished from his expression, replaced by eyes that gimmered with tenderness and perhaps even a hint of joy.

He liked the sound of her voice, husky and low in a way that got him thinking about pinning her to the rock and setting his mouth to work on the hollow of her throat, proving to her which of them was in control. Then again, feelings didn't get much more out of control that his were at the moment.

She felt his fingers caress her scalp, the sensations swift, heated shocks rocking through her body. His breath was punctuated against her cheek and nose. The tension mounted in him until Shiloh felt as if he would snap and break, unleashing that throbbing sexual power she sensed so intensely around him.

Havens turned again. Someone else passed between the trucks. That someone walked with less purpose than the other workers near the stalls. To Havens this meant a surveillance asset was on him and it probably was not an assassination attempt. It eased him back into relative comfort for just a moment or two more.

They were opposite in so many ways, but it was the kind of difference that was balancing-her softness with his steel, his instinct and her logic. He was teaching her by example to have courage in the face of fear, and she badly wanted to help him give voice to his grief and understand it was all right to feel pain.

She dribbled water over his neck and back. The towel didn't quite soak up all of it, and drops raced down his back, trailing the curve of his spine. She loved that curve, framed on either side by ripple after ripple of muscle, and she especially loved the way it dipped in at his waist before flaring onto his perfect, rounded backside.

I spent a few more minutes puzzling over the timeline before turning my attention to the notebook’s first page, which contained a pencil drawing of an old-school coin-operated arcade game—one I didn’t recognize. Its control panel featured a single joystick and one unlabeled white button, and its cabinet was entirely black, with no side art or other markings anywhere on it, save for the game’s strange title, which was printed in all capital green letters across its jet black marquee: POLYBIUS. Below his drawing of the game, my father had made the following notations: No copyright or manufacturer info anywhere on game cabinet. Reportedly only seen for 1–2 weeks in July 1981 at MGP. Gameplay was similar to Tempest. Vector graphics. Ten levels? Higher levels caused players to have seizures, hallucinations, and nightmares. In some cases, subject committed murder and/or suicide. “Men in Black” would download scores from the game each night. Possible early military prototype created to train gamers for war? Created by same covert op behind Bradley Trainer?

Her gaze slid up the thick muscles of his arm, imagining her hand doing the same, imagining what it would feel like to explore a body of such raw, masculine energy. No doubt about it, he was man built for battle. Yet she could seein his sharp, dark eyes, and in the glimpses of humor and caring he'd let slip, that there was so much more to him than the fight.

And if we don't keep moving, we won't make it to a computer in time to stop the submarine sale because we'll have to spend a second night in the jungle, surrounded by friggin' pit vipers. In the rain. And I am sick and tired of the rain. I want to get a roof over our heads and dry clothes for you because I can see right through your damn shirt and it's driving me crazy.

Before she could say anything more, Sabella swung around at the sound of Noah’s Harley purring to life behind the garage. God. He was dressed in snug jeans and riding chaps. A snug dark T-shirt covered his upper body, conformed to it. And he was riding her way. “Is there anything sexier than a man in riding chaps riding a Harley?” Kira asked behind her. “It makes a woman simply want to melt.” And Sabella was melting. She watched as he pulled around the side of the garage then took the gravel road that led to the back of the house. The sound of the Harley purred closer, throbbing, building the excitement inside her. “I think it’s time for me to leave,” Kira said with a light laugh. “Don’t bother to see me out.” Sabella didn’t. She listened as the Harley drew into the graveled lot behind the house and moved to the back door. She opened it, stepping out on the back deck as he swung his legs over the cycle and strode toward her. That long-legged lean walk. It made her mouth water. Made her heart throb in her throat as hunger began to race through her. “The spa treated you well,” he announced as he paused at the bottom of the steps and stared back at her. “Feel like messing your hair up and going out this evening? We could have dinner in town. Ride around a little bit.” She hadn’t ridden on a motorcycle since she was a teenager. She glanced at the cycle, then back to Noah. “I’d need to change clothes.” His gaze flickered over her short jeans skirt, her T-shirt. “That would be a damned shame too,” he stated. “I have to say, Ms. Malone, you have some beautiful legs there.” No one had ever been as charming as Nathan. She remembered when they were dating, how he would just show up, out of the blue, driving that monster pickup of his and grinning like a rogue when he picked her up. He’d been the epitome of a bad boy, and he had been all hers. He was still all hers. “Bare legs and motorcycles don’t exactly go together,” she pointed out. He nodded soberly, though his eyes had a wicked glint to them. “This is a fact, beautiful. And pretty legs like that, we wouldn’t want to risk.” She leaned against the porch post and stared back at him. “I have a pickup, you know.” She propped one hand on her hip and stared back at him. “Really?” Was that avarice she saw glinting in his eyes, or for just the slightest second, pure, unadulterated joy at the mention of that damned pickup? He looked around. “I haven’t seen a pickup.” “It’s in the garage,” she told him carelessly. “A big black monster with bench seats. Four-by-four gas-guzzling alpha-male steel and chrome.” He grinned. He was so proud of that damned pickup. “Where did something so little come up with a truck that big?” he teased her then. She shrugged. “It belonged to my husband. Now, it belongs to me.” That last statement had his gaze sharpening. “You drive it?” “All the time,” she lied, tormenting him. “I don’t have to worry about pinging it now that my husband is gone. He didn’t like pings.” Did he swallow tighter? “It’s pinged then?” She snorted. “Not hardly. Do you want to drive the monster or question me about it? Or I could change into jeans and we could ride your cycle. Which is it?” Which was it? Noah stared back at her, barely able to contain his shock that she had kept the pickup. He knew for a fact there were times the payments on the house and garage had gone unpaid—his “death” benefits hadn’t been nearly enough—almost risking her loss of both during those first months of his “death.” Knowing she had held on to that damned truck filled him with more pleasure than he could express. Knowing she was going to let someone who wasn’t her husband drive it filled him with horror. The contradictor feelings clashed inside him, and he promised himself he was going to spank her for this.

As Merripen gave the ribbons to a stableman at the mews, Amelia glanced toward the end of the alley. A pair of street youths crouched near a tiny fire, roasting something on sticks. Amelia did not want to speculate on the nature of the objects being heated. Her attention moved to a group—three men and a woman—illuminated in the uncertain blaze. It appeared two of the men were engaged in fisticuffs. However, they were so inebriated that their contest looked like a performance of dancing bears. The woman’s gown was made of gaudily colored fabric, the bodice gaping to reveal the plump hills of her breasts. She seemed amused by the spectacle of two men battling over her, while a third attempted to break up the fracas. “’Ere now, my fine jacks,” the woman called out in a Cockney accent, “I said I’d take ye both on—no need for a cockfight!” “Stay back,” Merripen murmured. Pretending not to hear, Amelia drew closer for a better view. It wasn’t the sight of the brawl that was so interesting—even their village, peaceful little Primrose Place, had its share of fistfights. All men, no matter what their situation, occasionally succumbed to their lower natures. What attracted Amelia’s notice was the third man, the would-be peacemaker, as he darted between the drunken fools and attempted to reason with them. He was every bit as well dressed as the gentlemen on either side … but it was obvious this man was no gentleman. He was black-haired and swarthy and exotic. And he moved with the swift grace of a cat, easily avoiding the swipes and lunges of his opponents. “My lords,” he was saying in a reasonable tone, sounding relaxed even as he blocked a heavy fist with his forearm. “I’m afraid you’ll both have to stop this now, or I’ll be forced to—” He broke off and dodged to the side just as the man behind him leaped. The prostitute cackled at the sight. “They got you on the ’op tonight, Rohan,” she exclaimed. Dodging back into the fray, Rohan attempted to break it up once more. “My lords, surely you must know”—he ducked beneath the swift arc of a fist—“that violence”—he blocked a right hook—“never solves anything.” “Bugger you!” one of the men said, and butted forward like a deranged goat. Rohan stepped aside and allowed him to charge straight into the side of the building. The attacker collapsed with a groan and lay gasping on the ground. His opponent’s reaction was singularly ungrateful. Instead of thanking the dark-haired man for putting a stop to the fight, he growled, “Curse you for interfering, Rohan! I would’ve knocked the stuffing from him!” He charged forth with his fists churning like windmill blades. Rohan evaded a left cross and deftly flipped him to the ground. He stood over the prone figure, blotting his forehead with his sleeve. “Had enough?” he asked pleasantly. “Yes? Good. Please allow me to help you to your feet, my lord.

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Being crazy is not a pre-requisite for joining black ops.” “No,” said Daniel, thoughtfully. “But I think it helps.

So this is the renegade running black ops in my Emirates,” Beecroft said. “I’m sorry: black ops?” Vance returned the scornful gaze, equally unimpressed with the ambassador. Beecroft sported a portly frame and ruddy complexion, the result of years on the cocktail circuit. “Yes, the CIA didn’t seek my approval for your little mission.” The ambassador’s voice was clipped and pompous. His chins wobbled as he spoke. “Last time I checked, the CIA didn’t work for the State Department,” Vance responded.

EXCERPT: THREE A.M.– …AND JARRED OUT OF SLEEP…. “Roan snapped awake. It took a millisecond for him to key his hearing. Moonlight filtered weakly through the semi-opaque curtains pulled across both windows. His six senses were online and he quietly moved out of bed. He wore only a pair of dark blue cotton pajama bottoms, his upper body naked. Twisting the door knob, the door quietly opened. Slipping like a shadow into the darkened hall, he sensed someone moving around out in the kitchen. Shiloh? He glanced at the watch on his wrist. Three a.m. Halting in the living room, he saw Shiloh in the kitchen, putting a copper tea kettle on the stove. Her hair was unruly and she was wearing pale pink silky pajama bottoms and a pink cotton tee that outlined her breasts to perfection. Hell. She looked sleepy, hair tangled and wasn’t exactly graceful with her movements. The sense that she could not really take care of herself came across strongly to Roan. It wasn’t that Shiloh was weak or stupid. And maybe because of his black ops training, he was at the other end of the spectrum; too alert and having that situational awareness that could help save his life. She was obviously sleepy, rubbing her eyes, yawning. There wasn’t anything to dislike about her and Roan’s mouth flexed downward and thinned. Shiloh wasn’t helpless, just not aware of her surroundings. Maybe he could help her open up her awareness a little more since she was being stalked. It could save her life some day.

You told your brother and some guy I don’t even know the things I told you in confidence.” “Yes.” She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m not sure this helps, but Charlie knows Logan.” “You talked to Charlie?” “Yes, he helped us with the details I didn’t know.” “So you went behind my back, talked to my friends, and told your brothers and some guy everything.” She pressed her lips together. “Yes.” “And you told them things about the blackmail that’s not public knowledge.” Maddie swallowed hard as her throat constricted. “I did.” “I trusted you with information about my family that nobody knows.” “Mitch, I’d never jeopardize you or your family. I’d never tell them if I didn’t trust them implicitly. You know that.” She had to make him understand. He leaned forward, putting elbows on his knees. “I want you to leave.” “What? No. Let me explain.” The blood rushed in her ears as a wave of hot dizziness engulfed her. Fear and desperation warred inside her. “I’m sorry, but you wouldn’t listen.” “You didn’t ask.” Flat. She wrung her hands. “You would have said no.” “I see,” he said, so coldly that it was like being doused with a bucket of ice water. “So that makes it right? You didn’t think I’d agree, so you went behind my back, talked to my friends, your family, and some black-ops guy, revealing the things I’ve told you in private, because you know best?” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Yes, the same way you went behind my back and stalled the repairs on my car so I wouldn’t leave.” His head snapped back. “That’s not the same thing, Maddie.” “You lied, just like me. You went behind my back. Just like me.” She hoped he could see reason, but his expression said otherwise. “I told you those things,” he said through gritted teeth, “because I thought I could trust you.” “You can.” Her stomach clenched. “The evidence says otherwise, now doesn’t it?” Cold, cold words. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Please understand, I did it for you.” “No, you didn’t. You did it for you,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Tell me something. Why are you so interested in meddling in my life when you have your own to worry about?” She reared back, stepping toward the door, unable to figure out how to handle this dead, cold Mitch who treated her like a stranger. “I wanted to help you.” “You know how you could have helped me?” There was a cruel twist to his lips. “By being the one fucking person who didn’t betray me.” “I didn’t. That’s not what . . .” She trailed off, feeling helpless. She hung her head and said softly, “I’d never betray you.” “Bullshit. If you thought what you were doing was right, you would have talked to me. ” This ice. She’d prepared for fire, for burning anger, not this. She had no defense. No plan. She walked over to him and fell to her knees, taking his hands in hers. He didn’t even flinch. It was like he was made of stone, and she met his eyes. Hard chips of gold. “Mitch, I’m sorry, I wanted to help.” He studied her as though she was a stranger. “You need to leave now.” The words were a crushing blow, threatening to break her. She did the only thing she could think of and confessed the truth. “I love you.” His mouth firmed. Eyes flashing, he pulled away and stood, moving around her and going over to the window that overlooked the nearly deserted parking lot. “I need you to leave.” Her heart shattered into a million pieces and desolation swept over her. She hadn’t felt anything like this since her father had died and she’d woken in a hospital bed. That same heavy weight crushed her chest, numbing her limbs. Tears spilled onto her cheeks and she wiped them away. Her voice trembled as she spoke, already knowing the answer but unable to keep from asking the question. “Is there anything I can do?” “Yes.” His tone was distant and unreachable. “Leave.” There

Othello had acquired Raego’s old apartment from a few months back – the scarily unhygienic one. I have no idea how. Maybe there was a Craigslist page for dicey Black Ops hideouts.

Gul character was behind that trouble in Afghanistan.

I was running, jumping, zigging, and zagging as crossbow boy fired arrow after arrow at me.

The lush greenness of the pastures infused Shiloh. Overhead, she saw a red-tailed hawk flying in higher and higher circles in the sky. There were bluebirds everywhere, many of them sitting on fence posts. When they took off, that flash of brilliant blue always made her gasp with delight; it was almost an unearthly gorgeous color.

Nothing can fix a broken heart except love. Love always repairs those fractures we get in our heart.

Giving him a wry look, Shiloh said, “I think you’re forcing me to look at myself, what I want, who I am.” “Good relationships always do that for both people, Darlin’. It’s just a natural progression between them. It can bring out our self-awareness. It’s not easy. But it’s rewarding.

She took his finger and placed a small kiss on the end of it. “You’re just full of surprises, Taggart.” She saw him give her a very pleased male smile. “Stick around, Darlin’, there’s more to me than meets your eyes.” “Should I be afraid?

He traced her arched eyebrow. “Every morning when I wake up with you at my side, you’re more beautiful than yesterday.

much time. * * * Racing around the outside of the square in his Afghan robes, face smeared with dirt and blood, he looked little different from many of the other men

Can you believe I’m pregnant, Lee?” “Honestly? I can’t say I’m shocked. I mean, it’s Cohen.” “What the hell does that mean?” I laugh. “The man wore a cape for, what . . . like, twenty years. He’s some super-secret black ops marine. I’m pretty sure he could kill me a million different ways—the man is just born to have super everything.” “We used a condom, Lee.” He gags. “I love you, Dani, but I don’t want to talk about that shit. Let’s just leave it at shit happens and his super sperm battered down the shield.” I slap his stomach. “God, you’re disgusting.” I settle back down for a second before I push up and spin to look at him. “Do you think Cohen will think the same thing my dad did?

The figure was clad head-to-toe in the same kind of matt black tactical gear utilized by the MI6 OpTeams, his head was hidden behind a mesh balaclava and clumsy night-vision goggles that gave the shooter a bug-eyed aspect. Marc recognized the long, heavy frame of the pistol in the man’s hand. A silenced Mark 23 semi-automatic, the same kind of weapon favoured by American SOCOM operatives. He had no desire to see the gun up close, however, and when the shooter turned away to look to the stern, Marc slipped down the stairwell and moved as fast as he dared past the doors of the passenger deck. At each compartment he paused for a count of three, holding his breath to listen. Nothing. Amidships, he came across an open door and used the muzzle of the Glock to nudge the gap a little wider. He swept left and right, finding no threats

Screams echoed through my head as I watched members of House Sinister being slaughtered via the Rite of Decimation.

He who seeks revenge should first dig two graves.

when

... wat een ogen en dat is ten slotte van groter belang dan iets anders, want ogen blijven mooi tot op het laatst en dat is soms een hele tijd...

Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become one.” Friedrich Nietzsche

When a room at the CIA headquarters is secret, a secret from people who spend their lives creating and breaking secrets, that’s some pretty serious black-ops shit.

Knight sighed loudly. “I know most people believe everything the government does, especially within Black Ops, is all about war mongering, for military uses only. But this isn’t true. Yes, the military gets first dibs and can elect to keep findings secret for a time, but many of the greatest tech advances in history came about as military projects that were initially covert. Secret

The passage revolved around arguably the first black ops mission in recorded literature. Odysseus is trapped in the cave of Polyphemus. Faced with certain death, he pioneers an escape through a textbook act of misinformation, lying his way to freedom.

He deems himself the devil, but I see the purity of his soul, the integrity of his beliefs, and the strength it takes to come from nothing, expect nothing, yet offer up everything you have.

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