Killer Instinct Quotes

You've got the killer instincts of a houseplant.

Just another part of that Spartan killer instinct. I can slay the ladies just as well as I can reapers.

It's not the bad memories that tear a person apart. It's the good ones.

Maybe, to do what you and I do, we have to have a little bit of the monster in us.

When the odds are bad, you change the rules.

None of us had normal childhoods," Sloane said quietly. "If we had, we wouldn't be Naturals.

Sterling turned to Michael. I expected her to ask him something, but instead she just held out her hand. "Keys." "Spatula," Michael replied. She narrowed her eyes at him. "We aren't just saying random nouns?" he asked archly.

if there’s one thing I’ve learned from being in the Selection, it’s that some girls have a frightening killer instinct. Don’t let the ball gowns fool you,” she finished with a smile.

If there's one thing I've learned from being in the Selection, it's that some girls have a frightening killer instinct. Don't let the ball gowns fool you," she finished with a smile.

But I respected his instincts as a killer and I liked the honesty of the man. And who was I to judge? I'd F'ed a necromancer and killed a Pope within the space of a week.

He was the kind of young man whose handsome face has brought him plenty of success in the past and is now ever-ready for a new encounter, a fresh-experience, always eager to set off into the unknown territory of a little adventure, never taken by surprise because he has worked out everything in advance and is waiting to see what happens, a man who will never overlook any erotic opportunity, whose first glance probes every woman's sensuality, and explores it, without discriminating between his friend's wife and the parlour-maid who opens the door to him. Such men are described with a certain facile contempt as lady-killers, but the term has a nugget of truthful observation in it, for in fact all the passionate instincts of the chase are present in their ceaseless vigilance: the stalking of the prey, the excitement and mental cruelty of the kill. They are constantly on the alert, always ready and willing to follow the trail of an adventure to the very edge of the abyss. They are full of passion all the time, but it is the passion of a gambler rather than a lover, cold, calculating and dangerous. Some are so persistent that their whole lives, long after their youth is spent, are made an eternal adventure by this expectation. Each of their days is resolved into hundreds of small sensual experiences - a look exchanged in passing, a fleeting smile, knees brushing together as a couple sit opposite each other - and the year, in its own turn, dissolves into hundreds of such days in which sensuous experience is the constantly flowing, nourishing, inspiring source of life.

Some people said that broken bones grew back stronger. On the good days, I told myself that was true, that each time the world tried to break me, I became a little less breakable.

Absolutely nothing brings out the killer instinct in the upper crust of New York Society like a charity function.

Most people built walls to protect themselves. Dean did it to protect everyone else.

Akshay is charming and stylish minus the oomph quotient. He is sexy and good looking, minus the killer instinct. He was good at teamwork and presentations, minus the fire in the belly kind of guy.

She was ten years old, after all. Alone and helpless and afraid. But here is truth, gentlefriends, no matter the number of suns in your sky. At the heart of it, two kinds of people live in this world or any other: those who flee and those who fight. Your kind has many terms for the latter sort. Berserker. Killer instinct. More balls than brains. And it shouldn’t surprise you, knowing what little you know already, that in the face of this thug and his blade, and laden with memory of her father’s execution never flinch never fear instead of wailing or breaking as another ten-year-old might have, young Mia gripped the stiletto she’d fished from the darkness, and slipped it straight up into the puppy-choker’s eye. The

I still don’t believe it. It’s not in him. Yeah, and you are delusional. Babe, news flash, with the exception of you and the pirate, we’re all animals here. And we all have a killer’s instinct.

Only a demon would prevent a person from saving lives or fulfilling their life mission. There is no reasoning with the devil. Stand with pride because your heart is filled with the goodness of helping others, while theirs is filled with helping themselves.

Whether hunting is right or wrong, a spiritual experience, or an outlet for the killer instinct, one thing it is not is a sport. Sport is when individuals or teams compete against each other under equal circumstances to determine who is better at a given game or endeavor. Hunting will be a sport when deer, elk, bears, and ducks are... given 12-gauge shotguns. Bet we'd see a lot fewer drunk yahoos (live ones, anyway) in the woods if that happened.

The purpose of bayonet training is to awaken your killer instincts. The killer instinct will make you strong. If the meek ever inherit the earth the strong will take it away from them. The weak exist to be devoured by the strong. Every Marine must pack his own gear. Every Marine must be the instrument of his own salvation.

And most people who claim to have killer instinct rarely do, because when you have that kind of power, you don’t talk about it. You don’t think about it. You just use it.

If one starts with the anatomical difference, which even a patriarchal Viennese novelist was able to see was destiny, then one begins to understand why men and women don't get on very well within marriage, or indeed in any exclusive sort of long-range sexual relationship. He is designed to make as many babies as possible with as many different women as he can get his hands on, while she is designed to take time off from her busy schedule as astronaut or role model to lay an egg and bring up the result. Male and female are on different sexual tracks, and that cannot be changed by the Book or any book. Since all our natural instincts are carefully perverted from birth, it is no wonder that we tend to be, if not all of us serial killers, killers of our own true nature.

The Killer instinct is not perceived by words, but by look.

I will do everything in my power to keep you safe, but it’s not a guarantee because no matter how much you trust me, you should never, under any circumstances trust anyone fully. In the end, you can only trust yourself. I am not your hero. I am not the other half of your soul who could never let anything bad ever happen to you. Trust your instincts first always, and me, if you choose, last

He loved them with a complete and undeniable love, the love of a father. The best he could do was try to turn their killer instincts on those other monsters out there in the night who deserved it, and in a twisted and sickening way maybe they would be making the world safer from the same darkness they each carried. The

I was taught that candles are like house cats - domesticated versions of something wild and dangerous. There's no way to know how much of that killer instinct lurks in the darkness. I used to think the house-burning paranoia was the result of some upper-middle-class fear regarding the potential destruction of a half-million-dollar Westchester house the size of a matchbox. But then I realized the fear stemmed from something far less complex: we're not used to fire. Candles are a staple of the Judaic existence and, like many suburban residents before us, we're pretty bad Jews.

Even those who want to go to heaven would rather kill than be killed.

To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering

This was what I came to found. The conquest of loneliness was the missing link that was one day going to make a decent novelist out of me. If you are out here and cannot close off the loves and hates of all that back there in the real world the memories will overtake you and swamp you and wilt your tenacity. Tenacity stamina... close off to everything and everyone but your writing. That s the bloody price. I don t know maybe it's some kind of ultimate selfishness. Maybe it's part of the killer instinct. Unless you can stash away and bury thoughts of your greatest love you cannot sustain the kind of concentration that breaks most men trying to write a book over a three or four year period.

Me? I was obsessed with serial killers. More specifically, I was obsessed with the idea of female serial killers. Hear the phrase serial killer, and most of us probably picture a man. It’s not surprising—let’s be real, men are responsible for at least ninety-two percent of the evil in the world. For centuries, women have been socially programmed to be the nurturers, after all—the protectors, the emotional bridges—so when we hear of a woman who takes life instead of creating it, it’s instinctively shocking.

At the heart of it, two kinds of people live in this world or any other: those who flee and those who fight. Your kind has many terms for the latter sort. Berserker. Killer instinct. More balls than brains.

I don't want you to think about anyone in your past. No now, not ever again. You deserved a hell of a lot more than any of those bastards gave you." "If it helps," she said with a faint smile, "I killed most of them.

If your instincts are telling you that something just isn't right listen to it. The life you might be saving may be your own.

You can talk to me, you know. I'd never give away your secrets." "What's that saying about secrets?" she said lightly. "Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead.

Quite frankly, I thought that tools who lived in tool houses probably shouldn’t throw stones.

Never in her wildest dreams would she have pegged this man as a dirty talker. Just went to show that you should never underestimate the quiet ones - and never let your guard down around them either.

I take it you’re Michael,” she said. “The emotion reader with the attitude problem who’s continually doing stupid things for girls.” “That’s hardly a fair assessment,” Michael replied. “I do plenty of stupid things that aren’t for girls, too.

Bailey went quiet, her expression softening. "You're right," she finally said. "It wouldn't have been smart." "Well, fuck me -- are you actually admitting that I was right about something?" "It's like an eclipse," she muttered. "Happens every so often.

I was now privy to how a calm, average , peace-loving individual can suddenly get infected with a special kind of crazy. Higher reasoning is replaced with killer animal instincts.

As much as I’m enjoying this verbal foreplay,” he said abruptly, “what do you say we just skip to the part where you ride my dick?

Where’s our man?” Holy shit, she’d just sounded like a total badass. She was tempted to sneak a peek at D and check if he was impressed, but she didn’t dare risk it.

You're so beautiful," he told her. Her laughter tickled his ears. "You realize you're looking at my back, right?" "Mmm-hmmm. And it's a very beautiful back.

Are you going to put some clothes on?" she blurted out. "No. Are you going to take yours off?" "No." "Right. Of course not.

We’re heading out into the most dangerous place on earth with killers after us?” “Yeah.” He couldn’t help a grim smirk. “Better hit the road.

No matter how angry she was at him, she didn’t want to see that cocky bastard eliminated from the face of the earth.

a killing was exactly what he didn’t want to make because to make a killing you had to kill, and he lacked the killer instinct.

To him, that wasn't tough but, rather, a sign of insecurity, and he viewed the killer instinct that he lacked as a bogus prerequisite for good leadership.

Is this seat taken?" The deep, gravelly voice jolted Noelle from her blood-thirsty thoughts. When she laid eyes on the man it belonged to her breath caught in her throat. She blinked, wondering if maybe she'd dreamed him, but then he flashed her a captivating grin and she realized that he must be real - her mind wasn't capable of conjuring up a smile this heart-stoppingly gorgeous. A pair of vivid blue eyes watched her expectantly as she searched for her voice. "There are lots of other seats available," she finally replied, gesturing to the deserted tables all around them. He shrugged. "I don't want to sit anywhere but here." She moistened her suddenly dry lips. "Why?" "Because none of those other seats are across from you," he said simply.

When he thought of the old man he could see him suddenly in a field in the spring, trying to move a gray boulder. He always knew instinctively the ones you could move, even though the greater part was buried in the earth, and he expected you to move the rock and not discuss it. A hard and silent man, an honest man, a noble man. Little humor but sometimes the door opened and you saw the warmth within a long way off, a certain sadness, a slow, remote, unfathomable quality as if the man wanted to be closer to the world but did not know how. Once Chamberlain had a speech memorized from Shakespeare and gave it proudly, the old man listening but not looking, and Chamberlain remembered it still: 'What a piece of work is man...in action how like an angel!' And the old man, grinning, had scratched his head and then said stiffly, 'Well, boy, if he's an angel, he's sure a murderin' angel.' And Chamberlain had gone on to school to make an oration on the subject: Man, the Killer Angel. And when the old man heard about it he was very proud, and Chamberlain felt very good remembering it. The old man was proud of his son, the colonel.

It's instinct," he said then. "For centuries, it's been our job to protect our home, our women, and our children. We're emotional cowards. We don't talk about our feelings, we're not comfortable putting our soul into words. So we give of ourselves the only way we know how. We protect. We smother those we love in protection, fight for ways to keep them always safe, even from what we deem as a threat from themselves. It's in our genes, Kira. Right or wrong. Emotions are harder for a man to voice, strength is much easier for us to show. It's not an insult, it's the way men show their emotions for those they love. You can't change it." "I can protect myself.

Swallowing, he peered down at Noelle, floored by the sheer calm reflecting back at him. "You okay, babe?" She rolled her eyes. "Of course. What do you think I am, a pansy-ass damsel who weeps at the first sign of trouble?

Kane..." she hesitated. "I lied to you last night." His green eyes searched her face. "What did you lie about?" "When I said... when I said I didn't want to kiss you again." Her breath came out in an unsteady puff. "I lied.

She poisoned my life with a secret. One that must be guarded with lies. But I read once in a poetry book that a lie is but the truth in masquerade, so I am not afraid, for this past year I have survived by subterfuge and pretence.

I know you,’ Touars said again. Damen’s sword went in, and instinct pushed forward and drove it in further. ‘Damianos,’ Touars said. ‘Prince-killer.’ It was the last thing he said. Damen pulled the sword out. He took a step back. He

If you've never shot a gun, You can’t understand how it feels in your hands. Cool to the touch, all its venom coiled inside, deadly, like a steel-scaled serpent. Awaiting your bidding. You select it’s prey… paper, tin, or flesh. You lie in wait, learn that patience is the killer’s most trustworthy accomplice. You choose the moment. What. Where. When. Decided. But the how is everything. You lift your weapon, ease it into place, cock it, to load it, knowing the satisfying snitch means a bullet is yours to command. Now, make or break, it’s all up to you. You aim knowing a hair either way means bull’s-eye or miss. Success or failure. Life or death. You have to relax, convince your muscles not to be tense, not to betray you. Sight again. Adjust. Don’t become distracted by the heat of the hunt. Instincts take over. You shoot and adrenaline screams as your target shreds or the flesh drops. And for one indescribable moment you are God.

Isabel, do you really think I'd sleep with someone who..." He trailed off, suddenly feeling awkward. "Someone who what?" Trevor let out a ragged breath. "Who isn't you." Her mouth formed a cute little O. "You are the one I want," he reiterated.

He pressed a kiss on her shoulder, enjoying the way she shivered. "What is it?" There was a long pause, then a wobbly breath. "Why can't I resist you?" "Because you don't want to." Before she could reply, he spun her around and kissed her again.

Oscar-winning triumph. The New York Times called it “a disturbing revelation of the savagery that prevailed in the hearts of the old gun-fighters, who were simply legal killers under the frontier code.” It was that and more. The hero acts precisely as many Americans believe their country acts in the world. He is an enforcer of morality and a scourge of oppressors; he comes from far away but knows instinctively what must be done; he brings peace by slaying wrongdoers; he risks his life to help others; and for all this he wishes no reward other than the quiet satisfaction of having done what was right. Shane reinforced a cultural consensus

Sloane?” Lia turned to her next. Sloane stared at Lia, a blush spreading over her cheeks. “I’m not undressing until we establish a conversion rate,” she informed us tartly, gesturing toward her mountain of chips. “Sloane,” Michael said. “Yes?” “How would you feel about a second cup of coffee?” Forty-five seconds later, Sloane was in the kitchen, and neither of the boys was wearing a shirt.

Can I go down on you?” She blinked, fighting equal doses of shock and humor. Had he seriously just asked her that? “I, uh, don’t usually like foreplay,” he added when she didn’t answer. His expression was sheepish. “Mostly because I’ve never cared about making anyone else feel good.

We do not own the land we abuse, or the lakes and streams we pollute or the raccoons and the otters we persecute. Those who play God in destroying any form of life are tampering with a master plan too intricate for any of us to understand. All that we can do is to aid that great plan and to keep part of our planet habitable. The greatest predator on earth is man himself, and we must look inward to destroy the killer instinct which may yet atomize the human race. Our morality must be extended to every living thing upon our globe, and we must amend the Gold Rule to read: ’ Do unto other creatures as you would have them do unto you!

We do not own the land we abuse, or the lakes and streams we pollute or the raccoons and the otters we persecute. Those who play God in destroying any form of life are tampering with a master plan too intricate for any of us to understand. All that we can do is to aid that great plan and to keep part of our planet habitable. The greatest predator on earth is man himself, and we must look inward to destroy the killer instinct which may yet atomize the human race. Our morality must be extended to every living thing upon our globe, and we must amend the Golden Rule to read: ’ Do unto other creatures as you would have them do unto you!

Vanessa Michael Munroe was a killer with a predator’s natural instincts; she could take care of herself. What scared him—terrified him—was what would happen if she was pushed too far. He’d seen that place of destruction, had witnessed firsthand what the darkness could do to her mind, and if whoever had taken her had also taken Logan …

Holy hell, Derek Pratt was . . . cute. So fucking cute that it summoned a laugh from her throat.

You think if you know what happened to me you’ll magically be able to figure me out? Fix me? Baby, nobody can fix me. I’m broken beyond repair.

There's nothing childish about me, sweetheart.

God, you don't have a romantic bone in your body, Sean." He flashed a cocky grin. "Maybe not, but there's definitely one in my pants.

instinct is telling me that this could be our killer. And

I won’t hurt you,” he said quietly. “For once in your life, lower your guard and let yourself feel something, damn it.

Sean’s face turned beet red. “No bloody way, Macgregor. Lay a hand on her and I’ll kill you.” His enraged gaze traveled to D. “Same goes for you, you psycho. You’re not touching her.

Stop. Talking." Her whisper was muffled against his lips, and his answering chuckle was muffled by hers. "What would you have me do instead?" "For starters? Put your mouth to better use.

It's a really nice house..." "Yeah, full of booby traps and cameras and little robots that pop out of the closets at night and murder you in your sleep." She burst out laughing. "Good point.

Is he always like this?" she said irritably. "Flying by the seat of his pants?" "Pretty much, yeah." Oliver grinned. "He's not a planner. But he happens to be the best improviser I've ever known.

Monk worked on his remaining Intertect cases at his dining table while I tried to hone my detecting instincts by reading the Murder, She Wrote novel he bought in Mill Valley. I can't say that I learned much about investigative procedure but I discovered that you should stay far away from Cabot Cove. That tiny New England village is deadlier than Beirut, South Central Los Angeles, and the darkest back alley in Juarez combined. Even though every killer eventually gets caught by Jessica Fletcher, I still wouldn't feel safe there. I'm surprised the old biddy walks around town unarmed.

You say you care about Dean,” she told me, her voice low. “You say you want to help. This will help. I’d lie to you about a lot of things, Cassie, but helping Dean isn’t one of them. I wouldn’t do this for you, or for Michael, or even for Sloane. But I would waltz into hades and make nice with the devil himself for Dean, so either you put on the damn dress or you get the hell out of my way.

C.J. had once believed that he understood who he was, what he was about, what he was capable of. But when the moment came to act upon these convictions, he discovered that his knowledge of self was faulty. Had his lack of killer instinct been a momentary lapse, first time jitters? Or was there more to it than that? If not the fearless, remorseless man he supposed himself to be, then just who was he?

Kane couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real conversation with a female. His chats with women consisted of sentences like "Do you like that, babe?" or "Roll over, I want to screw you from behind.

The purpose of the bayonet training, Sergeant Gerheim explains, is to awaken our killer instincts. The killer instinct will make us fearless and aggressive, like animals. If the meek ever inherit the earth the strong will take it away from them. The weak exist to be devoured by the strong. Every Marine must pack his own gear. Every Marine must be the instrument of his own salvation. It's hard, but there it is.

You know, you'd do a better job of convincing the men if you dipped your wick in a pussy or two." Cillian's low voice made him tense. The man stood next to Sean's barstool, watching the sexual festivities in boredom. "I have a girlfriend," he mumbled. "I'm sure she won't mind." Sean glanced at the naked women littering the room, picturing the look on Bailey's face if he admitted to "dipping his wick" in a prostie. "She'd rip my balls off," he said dryly.

Evening, lads.” The redhead curled her fingers around the back of Sullivan’s neck and pulled his head in for a quick kiss. “Hey, baby, I missed you.” It took a few head-scratching seconds to realize that he was looking at Isabel Roma.

How's this for honesty?" Luke said abruptly. "I want you..." "I don't have sex with men I've just met," she murmured. He rested his hands on her hips, the warmth of his touch searing her flesh. "Would you consider making an exception?

She rubbed her lips over him, then lifted her head to meet his eyes. "Tell me what you like." "Everything," he choked out. "I like everything you're doing." "Tell me," she insisted.... Although it nearly killed him to say it, he mumbled, "Start slow. Make me beg for it.

She shook her head and said," If there's one thing I've learned in my life, it's that shitty things happen. You can't always stop them. They just happen. And yeah, you can let them destroy you, but what's the point? Might as well learn to deal with all those shitty things and move on." "Is that what you did?" "Yes." She paused. "And you will too. You just have to accept your loss and try your best to live out the rest of your life without letting the loss destroy you." "Easier said than done," he muttered. She laughed. "Who said life was easy?

My years of struggling against inequality, abusive power, poverty, oppression, and injustice had finally revealed something to me about myself. Being close to suffering, death, executions, and cruel punishments didn't just illuminate the brokenness of others; in a moment of anguish and heartbreak, it also exposed my own brokenness. You can't effectively fight abusive power, poverty, inequality, illness, oppression, or injustice and not be broken by it. We are all broken by something. We have all hurt someone and have been hurt. We all share the condition of brokenness even if our brokenness is not equivalent. The ways in which I have been hurt - and have hurt others - are different from the ways Jimmy Dill suffered and caused suffering. But our shared brokenness connected us. Thomas Merton said: We are bodies of broken bones. I guess I'd always known but never fully considered that being broken is what makes us human. We all have our reasons. Sometimes we're fractured by the choices we make; sometimes we're shattered by things we would never have chosen. But our brokenness is also the source of our common humanity, the basis for our shared search for comfort, meaning, and healing. Our shared vulnerability and imperfection nurtures and sustains our capacity for compassion. We have a choice. We can embrace our humanness, which means embracing our broken natures and the compassion that remains our best hope for healing. Or we can deny our brokenness, forswear compassion, and, as a result, deny our own humanity. I thought of the guards strapping Jimmy Dill to the gurney that very hour. I thought of the people who would cheer his death and see it as some kind of victory. I realized they were broken people, too, even if they would never admit it. So many of us have become afraid and angry. We've become so fearful and vengeful that we've thrown away children, discarded the disabled, and sanctioned the imprisonment of the sick and the weak - not because they are a threat to public safety or beyond rehabilitation but because we think it makes us seem tough, less broken. I thought of the victims of violent crime and the survivors of murdered loved ones, and how we've pressured them to recycle their pain and anguish and give it back to the offenders we prosecute. I thought of the many ways we've legalized vengeful and cruel punishments, how we've allowed our victimization to justify the victimization of others. We've submitted to the harsh instinct to crush those among us whose brokenness is most visible. But simply punishing the broken - walking away from them or hiding them from sight - only ensures that they remain broken and we do, too. There is no wholeness outside of our reciprocal humanity. I frequently had difficult conversations with clients who were struggling and despairing over their situations - over the things they'd done, or had been done to them, that had led them to painful moments. Whenever things got really bad, and they were questioning the value of their lives, I would remind them that each of us is more than the worst thing we've ever done. I told them that if someone tells a lie, that person is not just a liar. If you take something that doesn't belong to you, you are not just a thief. Even if you kill someone, you're not just a killer. I told myself that evening what I had been telling my clients for years. I am more than broken. In fact, there is a strength, a power even, in understanding brokenness, because embracing our brokenness creates a need and desire for mercy, and perhaps a corresponding need to show mercy. When you experience mercy, you learn things that are hard to learn otherwise. You see things that you can't otherwise see; you hear things you can't otherwise hear. You begin to recognize the humanity that resides in each of us.

It’s all right. You can be angry.” D slid toward the wall and leaned his head against it, his demeanor reverting back to what she was used to—hard and detached. “I wish I could say the words you want to hear. I really do. But that’s not who I am. I . . .” He slowly met her eyes. “I can’t lie to you.

But Talin was scared of him. She had told him that to his face, and the sharp knife of it was still buried in his heart. The man wasn’t sure he wanted to chance another rejection. Keeping the animal’s instincts in check, he finally stepped out of the shadows. “Do you want to be held, Talin?” Her damp eyes widened at the blunt question, then she nodded in a little jerking motion. Something in him quieted, waiting. “Then come here.” A pause during which the entire forest seemed to freeze, the night creatures aware of the leopard’s tense watchfulness. “Oh, God, Clay.” Suddenly her arms were wrapped around his back, her cheek pressed against the white cotton of his T-shirt. Hardly daring to breathe, he closed his own arms around her feminine warmth, blindingly aware of every inch of her pressed into him, every spot of wetness soaking through his T-shirt. She was so small, so damn soft, her humanity apparent in the delicacy of her skin, the lightness of her bones. The Psy might be fragile in comparison to changelings, but they had powers of the mind to compensate. Humans had the same fragility but none of the psychic abilities. A wave of protectiveness washed over him. “Shh, Tally.” He used the nickname because, at this moment, he knew her. She had always had a heart too big for her body, a heart that felt such pain for others while ignoring its own. “I’ll find your lost one.” She shook her head against him. “It’s too late. Three bodies already. Jonquil is probably dead, too.” “Then I’ll find who did this to them and stop him.” She stilled against him. “I didn’t come here to turn you into a killer again.

The only scorecard that ever gets tallied in the real world is how many times you walk away from the fight and leave your opponent dead in the dust. I can shoot damn straight when the occasion calls for it, but I’m not a bulls-eye expert. The difference is, I can hit a man on the other side of the street while I'm running, ducking, and dodging automatic weapons fire. Sacrificing pinpoint accuracy for shooting fast and on the move may mean you burn a little more ammo, but in the end, it's going to keep you alive a lot longer. Gunfighting isn't a biathlon. It's an ugly business that rewards dirty tricks and being faster and meaner and more ruthless than the other guy. It's the only way you're going to win.

My hero is the mayor in Jaws. He's a fantastic guy, and he keeps the beaches open, if you remember, even after it's demonstrated that his constituents have been eaten by this killer fish. Of course, he was proved catastrophically wrong in his judgment, but his instincts were right.' Boris Johnson is the mayor of London. Taken from Time Magazine interview: June 25, 2012; page 76.

When I'm feeling this way, there're only two activities that calm me down." He shrugged. "Fighting's one of them." "What's the other?" she asked, then cursed herself for opening her stupid mouth. Because his green eyes were gleaming now, smoldering with sin. "What do you think, luv?" Several seconds ticked by as their gazes held. "It's fucking," he drawled. "Pure, hard-core fucking.

I have an idea,” Lia said in an overly innocent tone that I recognized immediately as trouble. “We could always take things to the next level.” She unknotted the white kerchief around her neck and tossed it to me. Her fingers played with the bottom of her tank top, raising it up just enough to make it crystal clear what the “next level” was. “It is my understanding that the rules of strip poker specify that only the loser is required to disrobe,” Sloane interjected. “No one has lost yet, ergo—” “Call it a show of solidarity,” Lia said, inching her shirt up farther. “Cassie’s almost out of chips. I’m just trying to even the playing field.” “Lia.” Dean was not amused. “Come on, Dean,” Lia said, her bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. “Loosen up. We’re all friends here.” With those words, Lia pulled off her tank top.

Did you know that the average life span of the hairy-nosed wombat is ten to twelve years?” Apparently, Sloane had decided that when I said I was fine, I was lying. The more coffee my roommate ingested, the lower her threshold for keeping random statistics to herself—especially if she thought someone needed a distraction. “The longest-living wombat in captivity lived thirty-four years,” Sloane continued, propping herself up on her elbows to look at me. Given that we shared a bedroom, I probably should have objected more strenuously to cup of coffee number two. Tonight, though, I found Sloane’s high-speed statistical babbling to be strangely soothing. Profiling Sterling hadn’t kept me from thinking about Locke. Maybe this would. “Tell me more about wombats,” I said. With the look of a small child awaking to a miracle on Christmas morning, Sloane beamed at me and complied.

Mine is not the first voice to suggest that as patients, as families, and even as doctors, we need to find hope in other ways, more realistic ways, than in the pursuit of elusive and danger-filled cures. In the care of advanced disease, whether cancer or some other determined killer, hope should be redefined. Some of my sickest patients have taught me of the varieties of hope that can come when death is certain. I wish I could report that there were many such people, but there have, in fact, been few. Almost everyone seems to want to take a chance with the slim statistics that oncologists give to patients with advanced disease. Usually they suffer for it, and they die anyway, having magnified the burdens they and those who love them must carry to the final moments. Though everyone may yearn for a tranquil death, the basic instinct to stay alive is a far more powerful force.

“It makes you feel powerless, doesn’t it? You want me, you can’t fight it, and it makes you crazy.” … “Maybe I just don’t treat sex as casually as you do.” “Oh no, it’s all about control.” He dipped his head so that his breath tickled the bridge of her nose. She didn’t know where he was going with this, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. “Kane.” “Control can be a very good thing to have, but sometimes you need to let go. Why don’t we try to see if you can let go, Abby?

He possessed uncanny instincts about how much time had to pass before precautions weakened. Keeping communities and victims uncertain about his presence gave him a strategic advantage, of course. The blindfolded victim tied up in the dark develops the feral senses of a savannah animal. The sliding glass door quietly shutting registers as a loud, mechanical click. She calculates the distance of ever fainter footsteps. Hope flickers. Still, she waits. Time passes in tense perception. She strains to hear breathing other than her own. Fifteen minutes go by. The dread sense of being watched, of being pinned down by a possessing gaze she can't see, is gone. Thirty minutes. Forty-five. She allows her body to slacken almost imperceptibly. Her shoulders fall. It's then, at the precipice of an exhale, that the nightmare snaps into action again - the knife grazes the skin, and the labored breathing resumes, grows closer, until she feels him settling in next to her, an animal waiting patiently for its half-dying quarry to still.

When I made it to the living room, I wasn’t surprised to see that the only one actually taking a practice GED was Dean. Lia was filing her nails. Sloane appeared to be constructing some kind of catapult out of pencils and rubber bands. Lia caught sight of me first. “Good morning, sunshine,” she said. “I’m no Michael, but based on the expression on your face, I’m guessing you’ve been spending some quality time with the lovely Agent Sterling.” Lia beamed at me. “Isn’t she the best?” The eerie thing about Lia was that she could make anything sound genuine. Lia wasn’t fond of the FBI in general, and she was the type to flout rules based on principle alone, but even knowing her enthusiasm was feigned, I couldn’t see through it. “There’s something about that Agent Sterling that just makes me want to listen to what she has to say,” Lia continued earnestly. “I think we might be soul mates.” Dean snorted, but didn’t look up from his practice test. Sloane set off her catapult, and I had to duck to keep from taking a pencil to the forehead.

Are you in the bath?" Luke demanded. Heat suffused her face. "Yeah. Why?" "So you're naked." Olivia couldn't help but laugh. "That's what usually happens in a bathtub. Or do you keep your clothes on when you bathe?" "No, I don't keep my clothes on." He sounded frazzled. "And I don't do baths. I shower. "Baths take too long." "And you're the kind of guy who can't waste time, right? You need the action." "Pretty much." There was a suggestive pause. "You don't like action?" She grinned to herself. "You're incorrigible.

Lia eyed me. She eyed Michael. She eyed Dean. “Honestly,” she said, “I doubt that anyone is as happy as Cassie is at this exact moment.” I was getting better at ignoring Lia’s suggestive little digs, but this one hit its target, dead center. Squished in between Michael and Dean, I blushed. I was not going to go there—and I wasn’t going to let Lia ruin this. A grim expression on his face, Dean stood and marched toward Lia. For a moment, I thought he might say something to her about spoiling the moment, but he didn’t. He just picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. “Hey!” Lia protested. Dean grinned and threw her onto the sofa with Michael and me and then resumed his perch on the edge of the couch like nothing had happened. Lia scowled, and Michael poked her cheek. “Admit it,” he said again. “You’re just as happy as we are.” Lia tossed her hair over her shoulder and stared straight ahead, refusing to look any of us in the eye. “A little girl is going home,” she said. “Because of us. Of course I’m as happy as you are.” “Given individual differences in serotonin levels, the probability that any four people would be experiencing identical levels of happiness simultaneously is quite—” “Sloane,” Michael said, without bothering to turn around. “If you don’t finish that sentence, there’s a cup of fresh ground coffee in your future.” “My immediate future?” Sloane asked suspiciously. Michael had a long history of blocking her consumption of caffeine. Without a word, Michael, Lia, and I all turned to look at Dean. He got the message, stood up, and strode toward Sloane, giving her the exact same treatment he’d given Lia. When Dean tossed Sloane gently on top of me, I giggled and almost toppled onto the floor, but Lia grabbed hold of my collar. We did it, I thought, as Michael, Lia, Sloane, and I elbowed for room and Dean stared on from his position, just outside the fray.

She glanced at the bathroom door once more, her cheeks growing warm as the glass door slid open and Kane emerged from the steamy shower stall. Naked. She swallowed, unable to tear her eyes away from his nude, dripping-wet body. He had the kind of rock-hard physique that would make other women drool. His broad chest tapered to a trim waist, and his legs were thick and dusted with golden hair. He was lean, not bulky, with perfectly sculpted muscles that looked like they'd been carved out of marble. He was hard. Everywhere. "I'm afraid it's too late for you to join me in the shower," he said in a silky voice. "Though we could still make good use of the bed.

Beside me, Sloane looked at Lia, then at Michael, then at Dean. Then she bounced closer to me. “There’s a forty percent chance this ends with someone getting punched in the face,” she whispered. “Come on, Dean-o,” Lia called. “Join us.” Those words were part invitation, part challenge. Michael’s body moved to Lia’s beat, and I realized suddenly that Lia wasn’t putting on a show for my benefit—or for Michael’s. She was getting up close and personal with Michael solely to get a rise out of Dean. Based on the mutinous expression on Dean’s face, it was working. “You know you want to,” Lia taunted, turning as she danced so her back was up against Michael. Dean and Lia had been the program’s first recruits. For years, it had been just the two of them. Lia had told me once that she and Dean were like siblings—and right now, Dean looked every inch the overprotective big brother. Michael likes pissing Dean off. That much went without saying. Lia lives to pull Dean off the sidelines. And Dean… A muscle in Dean’s jaw ticked as Michael trailed a hand down Lia’s arm. Sloane was right. We were one wrong move away from a fistfight. Knowing Michael, he’d probably consider it a bonding activity. “Come on, Dean,” I said, intervening before Lia could say something inflammatory. “You don’t have to dance. Just brood in beat to the music.” That surprised a laugh out of Dean. I grinned. Beside me, Michael eased back, putting space between his body and Lia’s.

Despite the gloom she could make out enough of his finely chiseled features to fleetingly rethink the CPR issue. The man was a knock out, with cheek bones sharp enough to cut cheese on, an arrow straight nose, a strong jaw, and a well cut mouth that subjected both cruelty and sensuality. He stirred groaning softly, hands flailing as if he was searching for something. Mary moved out the way as he rolled towards her coming to rest on his back. As she lent over him to get another look dark eyelashes flickered, opened. His eyes were pale and striking, something flashing in them like lightning cutting through turbulent storm clouds. A pair of fey owlish brows slanted down in to a perplexed frown as he stared up at her. Mary let out a startled yelp when she was grabbed, and then rolled beneath a larger body, his heavy weight, her arms pinioned above her in just one of his large hands. Her hat yanked off and her features quickly scanned. Outrage quickly turned in to fear. The glacial scrutiny made her tremble as if an arctic wind had caressed her body, not that the shear brute strength the stranger wielded alone was not frightening enough. “I’m just trying to help you.” Mary breathed, fighting down the rising panic as his gaze bored in to her. “You must have fallen of your bike.” She had worked Crown defense long enough to have encountered more then a few clients who were nothing more then malicious, ill tempered, brutal thugs. This man Mary knew on an intuitive level was far more dangerous, because he was a killer, because he was devoid of all those things. There was a detachment to his inspection of her, considering if she was pray or a pet. Not human. Something deeply buried stirred. An ancestral memory whispered through her mind like the scent of wood smoke on the night air, instinctive as the fear of the falling, and things that lurked in the dark.