Sharpshooter Quotes

This coffee falls into your stomach, and straightway there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move like the battalions of the Grand Army on the battlefield, and the battle takes place. Things remembered arrive at full gallop, ensign to the wind. The light cavalry of comparisons deliver a magnificent deploying charge, the artillery of logic hurry up with their train and ammunition, the shafts of wit start up like sharpshooters. Similes arise, the paper is covered with ink; for the struggle commences and is concluded with torrents of black water, just as a battle with powder.

Snipers must make themselves calm in order to succeed, and that is why women are good at sharpshooting. Because there is not a woman alive who has not learned how to eat rage in order to appear calm.

We're married. I will protect you. I will die for you. Better than that. I will live for you.

He dared a glance at Jesper now. The sharpshooter was seated at the table, hunched over his cards. He wore a battered navy waistcoat embroidered with small gold stars, and his rumpled shirt shone white against his dark brown skin.

Matthias nooded, and the bronze girl took a knife to the ropes binding him. “I belive you know Nina,” Brekker continued. “The lovely girl freeing you is Inej, our thief of secrets and the best in the trade. Jesper Fahey is our sharpshooter, Zemeni-born but try not to hold it against him, and this is Wylan, best demolition expert in the Barrel.

Leaders need to correct for cognitive biases the way a sharpshooter corrects for wind velocity or a yachtsman corrects for the tide.

My memoir, the unofficial version: Snipers must make themselves calm in order to succeed, and that is why women are good at sharpshooting. Because there is not a woman alive who has not learned how to eat rage in order to appear calm.

Strontium chloride,” the sharpshooter murmured. “My favorite.

Novyi Zem,” Hanne said instantly. “I’d get a job, make my own money, hire myself out as a sharpshooter.

With a great sigh, Jesper removed the gun belts at his hips. She had to admit he looked less himself without them. The Zemeni sharpshooter was long-limbed, brown-skinned, constantly in motion. He pressed his lips to the pearl handles of his prized revolvers, bestowing each with a mournful kiss. “Take good care of my babies,” Jesper said as he handed them over to Dirix. “If I see a single scratch or nick on those, I’ll spell forgive me on your chest in bullet holes.” “You wouldn’t waste the ammo.” “And he’d be dead halfway through forgive,” Big Bolliger said as he dropped a hatchet, a switchblade, and his preferred weapon—a thick chain weighted with a heavy padlock—into Rotty’s expectant hands. Jesper rolled his eyes. “It’s about sending a message. What’s the point of a dead guy with forg written on his chest?” “Compromise,” Kaz said. “I’m sorry does the trick and uses fewer bullets.” Dirix laughed, but Inej noted that he cradled Jesper’s revolver’s very gently. “What about that?” Jesper asked, gesturing to Kaz’s walking stick. Kaz’s laugh was low and humorless. “Who’d deny a poor cripple his cane?” “If the cripple is you, then any man with sense.

This was their favorite place to meet. It always felt hidden, forgotten. The gold-lettered World Book encyclopedias from the 1980s. The smell of old glue and crumbling paper, the industrial carpet burning her palms. It reminded her of what you did when you were a little girl, making little burrows and hideaways. Like boys did with forts. Eli and his friend, stacking sofa cushions, pretending to be sharpshooters. With girls, you didn’t call them forts, though it was the same.

Good idea. I'll do it.

Louis said, "There ought to be a comic book about geeks." Dr. McNaughton said, "There are books about geeks." He said, "There are?" Dr. McNaughton said, "I'll read you some Faulkner sometime. I'll read you some Eudora Welty, some Flannery O'Connor. Geeks, midgets, anything your heart desires. Better than comic books." Louis looked at his father. He said, "You'll read to me? Really?

Last winter, she’d walked this path with Min, heading for the Christmas Fair--there’d been a ferris wheel and skating, mulled wine, minced pies. At an air-rifle booth, Min had missed the target five times in a row. “Cover”, he’d said. “Don’t want everyone knowing I’m a trained sharpshooter.

Don’t make me come out there and spray you, blanco. I point at my one eye. “Better have some sharpshooter fucking aim you want that shit to do any good.

Archer "These sharpshooters like to keep their distance on the battlefield and in life. Nothing makes them happier than single-mindedly taking down their target.

Always keep moving. The Fates are master sharpshooters, and the easy target is the one who’s standing still.

The Fates are master sharpshooters, and the easy target is the one who’s standing still.

My memoir, the unofficial version: Snipers must make themselves calm in order to succeed, and that is why women are good at sharpshooting. Because there is not a woman alive who has not learned how to eat rage in order to appear calm

By my twenty-second birthday, you know, I had killed eight men. Eight that I was certain of, eight that I could plainly count. That information was stuffed deep within my gut, and if anyone ever asked if I killed someone during the war, particularly if a child ever asked, I vowed I’d shake my head no, that information was never coming out."--SHIFTY'S WAR

Didn't at least one of them miss when they shot at you?' [Sumi said to Dancer][...] 'Yeah, I always wanted to be that hero in a movie where no one can shoot straight except me. Never happens. I seem to always walk into the school of award-winning sharpshooters.' [Dancer replied.]

I shouldn’t have let myself, because I was going to have to go back out there, and I’d have a swollen, red nose and pink eyes and everyone would know — but I couldn’t stop. It was like they were choking me, my tears. I had to gasp to breathe around them. My head was full of Jack sitting at the table, being a jerk, the sound of my father’s voice talking about the sharpshooters in helicopters, the idea that Grace had nearly died without me even knowing it, stupid boys throwing stuff into my shirt, which was probably cut too low for a family dinner anyway, Cole looking down at me on the bed, and the thing that had set me off, Sam’s honest, broken text about Grace. Jack was gone, my father always got what he wanted, I wanted and hated Cole St. Clair, and no one, no one would ever feel that way about me, the way that Sam felt about Grace when he sent that text.

We’re going to climb out. Straight up, honey. Whitney’s boys aren’t going to shoot you or Sebastian.” “Are you out of your mind? We’re going to go up a rope into a helicopter with the backwash from the blades, sharpshooters taking potshots, and a baby?” He grinned at her. “Sounds like a fun date, doesn’t it?

My memoir, the official version: Snipers must be calm in order to succeed. My memoir, the unofficial version: Snipers must make themselves calm in order to succeed, and that is why women are good at sharpshooting. Because there is not a woman alive who has not learned how to eat rage in order to appear calm.

THE FIGHTING IN THE PEACH ORCHARD AT GETTYSBURG PROLOGUE "The same young men who crowded each other as they faced the recruiters' tables now crowded each other as they died.

I will make it my personal mission in life to squash you and your department like a horse turd under my boot heel.

He was lost in thought, vividly imagining scenes of battle and victory. He was a Boy Scout. He and his friends would form a group of volunteers, sharpshooters who would defend their country to the end. In a flash, his mind raced through time and space. He and his friends: a small group bound by honour and loyalty. They would fight, they would fight all night long; they would save their bombed-out, burning Paris.

Wylan—and the obliging Kuwei—will get the weevil working,” Kaz continued. “Once we have Inej, we can move on Van Eck’s silos.” Nina rolled her eyes. “Good thing this is all about getting our money and not about saving Inej. Definitely not about that.” “If you don’t care about money, Nina dear, call it by its other names.” “Kruge? Scrub? Kaz’s one true love?” “Freedom, security, retribution.” “You can’t put a price on those things.” “No? I bet Jesper can. It’s the price of the lien on his father’s farm.” The sharpshooter looked at the toes of his boots. “What about you, Wylan? Can you put a price on the chance to walk away from Ketterdam and live your own life? And Nina, I suspect you and your Fjerdan may want something more to subsist on than patriotism and longing glances. Inej might have a number in mind too. It’s the price of a future, and it’s Van Eck’s turn to pay.” Matthias was not fooled. Kaz always spoke logic, but that didn’t mean he always told truth. “The Wraith’s life is worth more than that,” said Matthias. “To all of us.” “We get Inej. We get our money. It’s as simple as that.” “Simple as that,” said Nina. “Did you know I’m next in line for the Fjerdan throne? They call me Princess Ilse of Engelsberg.” “There is no princess of Engelsberg,” said Matthias. “It’s a fishing town.” Nina shrugged. “If we’re going to lie to ourselves, we might as well be grand about it.” Kaz ignored her, spreading a map of the city over the table, and Matthias heard Wylan murmur to Jesper, “Why won’t he just say he wants her back?” “You’ve met Kaz, right?” “But she’s one of us.” Jesper’s brows rose again. “One of us? Does that mean she knows the secret handshake? Does that mean you’re ready to get a tattoo?” He ran a finger up Wylan’s forearm, and Wylan flushed a vibrant pink. Matthias couldn’t help but sympathize with the boy. He knew what it was to be out of your depth, and he sometimes suspected they could forgo all of Kaz’s planning and simply let Jesper and Nina flirt the entirety of Ketterdam into submission. Wylan pulled his sleeve down self-consciously. “Inej is part of the crew.” “Just don’t push it.” “Why not?” “Because the practical thing would be for Kaz to auction Kuwei to the highest bidder and forget about Inej entirely.” “He wouldn’t—” Wylan broke off abruptly, doubt creeping over his features. None of them really knew what Kaz would or wouldn’t do. Sometimes Matthias wondered if even Kaz was sure. “Okay, Kaz,” said Nina, slipping off her shoes and wiggling her toes. “Since this is about the almighty plan, how about you stop meditating over that map and tell us just what we’re in for.

Mr. Raney named the porpoises - Sister Woman, and Renford, and Lamar, and St. Elmo - and could recognize them, and call each by its name, even at night, six feet long, some of them, with a million sharp teeth and a naughty grin. Often when he floated past in the boat and watched their playful wheeling, in and out among the cypress knees, he called out to them, "Lamar, we are all alone in the world!" or "Renford, cork is an export product of India!

I'm coming with you.” Riley insisted. “I've got a bulletproof vest and I'm a better sharpshooter than you. Don't mess with me.” Riley pushed past them and out the sliding exit doors. Stella turned to Stan, horrified. “Don't give me that look, Stells.” Stan muttered, following Riley. “Look at it this way, if the whole sharpshooter thing turns out to be a lie, she can pinch the hell out of anyone.” ~Riley Pembroke, Stan Darrow, "Sugar and Spies: Spy Sisters Book 1

I prefer the war of the forest to the war of the plain; I have no wish to set a hundred thousand peasants in line, and exposed to Carnot's artillery and the grape-shot of the Blues. In less than a month I mean to have five hundred thousand sharpshooters ambushed in the woods. The Republican army is my game. Poaching is our way of waging war. Mine is the strategy of the thickets. Good; there is still another expression you will not catch; no matter, you will seize this: No quarter.

Hollywood has colored our view of sharpshooters. We imagine them as militarized serial killers; at best they’re the odd man out on a squad of regular guys, the one described as having ice water in his veins—see Barry Pepper’s Scripture-quoting sniper in Steven Spielberg’s Saving Private Ryan. And the idea persists that killing from a distance, from hidden nests, is somehow dishonorable or unfair . . . but skilled marksmen have been used by every army since the invention of firearms (and before that the bow and arrow: think of the English archers bringing down French knights at Agincourt, or Robin Hood’s Merry Men downing royal soldiers from hidden forest hideouts!). The use of snipers isn’t a violation of the Geneva Convention, but the stereotype persists: snipers are cold-blooded, remote, pitiless. As Eleanor Roosevelt said when meeting Lyudmila Pavlichenko: If you have a good view of the faces of your enemies through your sights and still fire to kill, how can ordinary people approve of you?

You're no grenadier. Grenadiers are big, stalwart souls, the first into battle, or so I've been told." He raised his eyebrow at her, unsure if he was being insulted. "No," she concluded, "you must have been captain of the light infantry company. The quick-witted ones, the sharpshooters." "How ever did you guess?" "I know these things," she said with a sage look, then turned and walked on, entirely pleased with herself. Lucien gazed after her with a smile on his face. God help him, he was utterly charmed.

THE SHARPSHOOTER AT GETTYSBURG As he grew more and more parched, waiting near the Emmitsburg Road that reached up to Gettysburg, Jake thought of peaches and water, until he saw movement across the way, near a pile of wooden fence rails. Rebel skirmishers had been using those rails as cover all morning. Jake set the rear trigger of his Sharps. He prepared to barely caress its forward trigger, the hair trigger, as he waited for a chance to kill someone Jake knew, in all likelihood, was not so different from himself.

Probably, it was when I noticed the guy standing next to me at VR sharpshooters. He was about thirteen, I guess, but his clothes were weird. I thought he was some Elvis impersonator’s son. He wore bell-bottom jeans and a red T-shirt with black piping, and his hair was permed and gelled like a New Jersey girl’s on homecoming night. We played a game of sharpshooters together and he said, “Groovy, man. Been here two weeks, and the games keep getting better and better.” Groovy? Later, while we were talking, I said something was “sick,” and he looked at me kind of startled, as if he’d never heard the word used that way before.

Let us consider some of the most important Anarchist acts within the last two decades. Strange as it may seem, one of the most significant deeds of political violence occurred here in America, in connection with the Homestead strike of 1892. During that memorable time the Carnegie Steel Company organized a conspiracy to crush the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers. Henry Clay Frick, then Chairman of the Company, was intrusted with that democratic task. He lost no time in carrying out the policy of breaking the Union, the policy which he had so successfully practiced during his reign of terror in the coke regions. Secretly, and while peace negotiations were being purposely prolonged, Frick supervised the military preparations, the fortification of the Homestead Steel Works, the erection of a high board fence, capped with barbed wire and provided with loopholes for sharpshooters. And then, in the dead of night, he attempted to smuggle his army of hired Pinkerton thugs into Homestead, which act precipitated the terrible carnage of the steel workers. Not content with the death of eleven victims, killed in the Pinkerton skirmish, Henry Clay Frick, good Christian and free American, straightway began the hounding down of the helpless wives and orphans, by ordering them out of the wretched Company houses.

Instead, Sebastian is the patron saint of athletes and archers. So, to recap: he never played a sport, was shot with a ton of arrows and then beaten to death with clubs and bats, and the Church made him the patron saint of athletes and archers! Essentially, we made him the patron saint of people who brandish clubs, bats or bows. That means someone trying to shoot something with an arrow or hit something with a bat, may actually pray to Sebastian for help. Why would we do that to him? If I were Sebastian, I would never want to see an arrow, archer or bat again. That’s like making JFK the patron saint of sharpshooters, or Elvis the patron saint of bacon cheeseburgers.

So now the sky was falling. Maybe the end of the world. Maybe Jesus coming again. That suited her. White lights shot across the sky. She lost count. She stood and watched through Sidney's telescope and felt. For the first time in a year she wasn't ice cold all the way to her soul. It was as close as she could be to free in her stronghold of a home. Logic told her that the world probably wasn't coming to an end. That would be too easy. She hadn't had an easy day in her life. She pulled the telescope away from her eye and watched white slices of heavenly light. Content with the goosebumps of fear, her spirits rose. Assuming the world wasn't ending, she'd come to a good place out here. Her children were safe. She was safe-- bitterly lonely but safe.

Sharpshooters Yeomanry Museum who, with his fellow trustees, have allowed me to use a number of their photographs in this book. I wish them the best of luck as they establish their regimental museum at Hever Castle. I would also like to thank the staff at the Air and Army historical branches who have also been particularly helpful in allowing me to access and use their crown copyrighted images. I would particularly like to single out Jo Bandy and Bob Evans in the Army Historical Branch and Mary Hudson in the Air Historical Branch. I feel I have been blessed in finding an excellent publisher in Helion. Duncan Rogers and his team have been helpful and enthusiastic about the book and made generous allowances for photos, diagrams and maps. I should add that George

The whole world knew about the piracy case of the tanker Maersk Alabama, which three Navy SEAL sharpshooters saved the imprisoned ship captain. Those SEALs spent a full day lying in wait with their weapons trained on the pirate boat, waiting for the kill command. When the order came down, they instantly fired their sniper rifles, with their own vessel bobbing at a different rate from the pirates’ boat, having no room for error if the captive was to survive. The snipers took out all three pirates in a single shot while sparing the kidnapped victim. Captain Richard Phillips was freed unharmed from the close quarters of that little boat, while the dead bodies of the three armed pirates slumped around him. Details of DEVGRU training are not available to explain this feat of timing and marksmanship, but the results testify to its deadly effect. SEAL Team Six founder Richard Marcinko has said that his budget for ammunition for his men’s training was greater than that of the entire Marin Corps. The comment might be dismissed as braggadocio if not for undeniable results produced under intense and deadly pressure. Consequently, by the time Jessica Buchanan was being marched into a pitched-black desert to her own mock execution two years later, the same people at the White House who took note of her disappearance had reason to wonder if it might be time for another visit to the region from the men you don’t see coming.

Speaking of shooting, my lady,” Mr. Pinter said as he came around the table, “I looked over your pistol as you requested. Everything seems to be in order.” Removing it from his coat pocket, he handed it to her, a hint of humor in his gaze. As several pair of male eyes fixed on her, she colored. To hide her embarrassment, she made a great show of examining her gun. He’d cleaned it thoroughly, which she grudgingly admitted was rather nice of him. “What a cunning little weapon,” the viscount said and reached for it. “May I?” She handed him the pistol. “How tiny it is,” he exclaimed. “It’s a lady’s pocket pistol,” she told him as he examined it. Oliver frowned at her. “When did you acquire a pocket pistol, Celia?” “A little while ago,” she said blithely. Gabe grinned. “You may not know this, Basto, but my sister is something of a sharpshooter. I daresay she has a bigger collection of guns than Oliver.” “Not bigger,” she said. “Finer perhaps, but I’m choosy about my firearms.” “She has beaten us all at some time or another at target shooting,” the duke said dryly. “The lady could probably hit a fly at fifty paces.” “Don’t be silly,” she said with a grin. “A beetle perhaps, but not a fly.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she could have kicked herself. Females did not boast of their shooting-not if they wanted to snag husbands. “You should come shooting with us,” Oliver said. “Why not?” The last thing she needed was to beat her suitors at shooting. The viscount in particular would take it very ill. She suspected that Portuguese men preferred their women to be wilting flowers. “No thank you,” she said. “Target shooting is one thing, but I don’t like hunting birds.” “Suit yourself,” Gabe said, clearly happy to make it a gentlemen-only outing, though he knew perfectly well that hunting birds didn’t bother her. “Come now, Lady Celia,” Lord Devonmont said. “You were eating partridges at supper last night. How can you quibble about shooting birds?” “If she doesn’t want to go, let her stay,” Gabe put in. “It’s not shooting birds she has an objection to,” Mr. Pinter said in a taunting voice. “Her ladyship just can’t hit a moving target.” She bit back a hot retort. Don’t scare off the suitors. “That’s ridiculous, Pinter,” Gabe said. “I’ve seen Celia-ow! What the devil, Oliver? You stepped on my foot!” “Sorry, old chap, you were in the way,” Oliver said as he went to the table. “I think Pinter’s right, though. Celia can’t hit a moving target.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she protested, “I most certainly can hit a moving target! Just because I choose not to for the sake of the poor, helpless birds-“ “Convenient, isn’t it, her sudden dislike of shooting ‘poor, helpless birds’?” Mr. Pinter said with a smug glance at Lord Devonmont. “Convenient, indeed,” Lord Devonmont agreed. “But not surprising. Women don’t have the same ability to follow a bird in flight that a man-“ “That’s nonsense, and you know it!” Celia jumped to her feet. “I can shoot a pigeon or a grouse on the wing as well as any man here.” “Sounds like a challenge to me,” Oliver said. “What do you think, Pinter?” “A definite challenge, sir.” Mr. Pinter was staring at her with what looked like satisfaction. Blast it all, had that been his purpose-to goad her into it? Oh, what did it matter? She couldn’t let a claim like this or Lord Devonmont’s stand. “Fine. I’ll join you gentlemen for the shooting.” “Then I propose that whoever bags the most birds gets to kiss the lady,” Lord Devonmont said with a gleam in his eye. “That’s not much of a prize for me,” Gabe grumbled. She planted her hands on her hips. “And what if I bag the most birds?” “Then you get to shoot whomever you wish,” Mr. Pinter drawled. As the others laughed, Celia glared at him. He was certainly enjoying himself, the wretch. “I’d be careful if I were you, Mr. Pinter. That person would most likely be you.

JAKE BAKER JOINING THE UNION ARMY IN NEW ORLEANS "I'd prefer to be back in Texas, taking aim at the Rebs..., but I just can't do that," said Jake. ..."So, I'll just do what I can do, I guess." "I suspect that goes for all of us," said the Colonel. "Maybe we should make that the unit's motto. 'The First Texas Cavalry of the United States of America: We'll just do what we can do, we guess.' It does have a ring to it, but I expect that we need somethin' a bit more inspirational and less true.

I might not be a sharpshooter yet with a gun, but I could aim the hell out of a flashlight.

I'm a sharpshooter. I still don't like to kill a man. It's too damn easy to wipe one out and too damn hard to grow one.

God intended women to be outside as well as men, and they do not know what they are missing when they stay cooped up in the house. —Annie Oakley (1860–1926), American sharpshooter and women’s rights advocate W

there lived a young spirit of a lagoon so deep in the rain forest that even now only monkeys live there. He called himself Ikne, and all the world loved him. The nearby trees grew their greenest leaves, flowers unfurled their brightest petals and exhaled their sharpest scents. If a fish was lucky enough to live in the lagoon, it grew sleek and fat and happy, and spent every day singing of Ikne to his less fortunate fishy friends. If Ikne wasn’t always happy, he was more often than most. His life was good. Bright. He could live a long time like this, become an ancient spirit like the ones of caves and mountains, live to complain about kids these days and play arthritic peteca on the municipal courts. And so Ikne walked away from his idyll and got a job sharpshooting for the Pernambuco guerrillas in Salvador. It wasn’t an easy life, and one day he got shot in the stomach by a lead bullet. The bullet fell in love with him, of course, but she couldn’t stop the slow bleed of his gastric cavity into his pancreas, and she felt terrible, which was too bad, since he’d known all along what would happen. He died; he always said he would. Someone had to take out the bullet.

What those women do in the name of literature. It gives reading a bad name.

Texas sharpshooter fallacy. This model is named after a joke about a person who comes upon a barn with targets drawn on the side and bullet holes in the middle of each target. He is amazed at the shooter’s accuracy, only to find that the targets were drawn around the bullet holes after the shots were fired. A

Rex opened her bedroom door, letting a warm draft into the corridor. “I’ll light your candles,” he said, gesturing her to precede him into her sitting room. “You are doing more than performing a service, Eleanora. You allow me to raise difficult questions with absolute faith that my confidences will not be betrayed. You take my interests to heart. You instruct me on matters nobody has seen fit to include in my ducal education. I am indebted to you.” He was also attracted to her, and not in the casual sense he was attracted to any comely female. He liked watching her mind work. He liked arguing with her. He liked hearing the click of the abacus beads because she moved them around with the brisk speed of a sharpshooter wielding a favorite weapon. She closed the door, plunging the room into deep gloom. “Somebody kept my fires built up,” she said. “You cannot imagine what a luxury that is for me.” She wore a plain wool shawl when he wanted to wrap her in cashmere and silk. Her bun was drooping, and he yearned to unravel the lot and learn how long her hair was, learn the feel of it in his hands. He wanted…her. To cherish, explore, appreciate, and indulge. “The bedroom candles, if you please, Elsmore. I’ll not be using the parlor tonight.” A man intent on observing propriety would pass her the candle, bow, and wish her sound slumbers. Rex thought back over the day, when Eleanora had slept so trustingly against his side in the coach. She’d come to dinner with the barest minimum of a fuss. She’d patted his hand. She’d toed off her house slippers in his presence. She’d taken his arm as she’d traversed the steps. Now, she was inviting him into her bedroom on the most mundane of pretexts.

Approaching White Oak Swamp from the north, he sent a crew to rebuild the bridge over the creek. When Union artillery and sharpshooters prevented this, Jackson lay down and took a nap.

Boldt glanced up to check the sharpshooter: The man had changed positions, and now hid behind the chimney where it would be easier to steady a rifle barrel. It occurred to Boldt that in the next few minutes they might kill a man—might get several more killed if they were not careful. For what? To appease the legal process?

He then pointed to the right, and I turned to look. Exactly on cue, something massive came around the corner: a snaking, vehicular army that included a phalanx of police cars and motorcycles, a number of black SUVs, two armored limousines with American flags mounted on their hoods, a hazmat mitigation truck, a counterassault team riding with machine guns visible, an ambulance, a signals truck equipped to detect incoming projectiles, several passenger vans, and another group of police escorts. The presidential motorcade. It was at least twenty vehicles long, moving in orchestrated formation, car after car after car, before finally the whole fleet rolled to a quiet halt, and the limos stopped directly in front of Barack’s parked plane. I turned to Cornelius. “Is there a clown car?” I said. “Seriously, this is what he’s going to travel with now?” He smiled. “Every day for his entire presidency, yes,” he said. “It’s going to look like this all the time.” I took in the spectacle: thousands and thousands of pounds of metal, a squad of commandos, bulletproof everything. I had yet to grasp that Barack’s protection was still only half-visible. I didn’t know that he’d also, at all times, have a nearby helicopter ready to evacuate him, that sharpshooters would position themselves on rooftops along the routes he traveled, that a personal physician would always be with him in case of a medical problem, or that the vehicle he rode in contained a store of blood of the appropriate type in case he ever needed a transfusion. In a matter of weeks, just ahead of Barack’s inauguration, the presidential limo would be upgraded to a newer model—aptly named the Beast—a seven-ton tank disguised as a luxury vehicle, tricked out with hidden tear-gas cannons, rupture-proof tires, and a sealed ventilation system meant to get him through a biological or chemical attack.

And so Ikne walked away from his idyll and got a job sharpshooting for the Perambuco guerrillas in Salvador. It wasn't an easy life, and one day he got shot in the stomach by a lead bullet. The bullet fell in love with him, of course, but she couldn't stop the slow bleed of his gastric cavity into his pancreas, and she felt terrible, which was too bad, since he'd known all along what would happen. He died; he always said he would. Someone had to take out the bullet.

You’re the best sharpshooter in the Navy. Who the fuck cares how fast you run? And it could have happened to anyone. And I would have gone over that ridge for anyone on the team, but you...sure as hell wasn’t losing you.” Maddox’s

Organize competitions to let the local people see that your sharpshooters shoot well. But don't allow the bodies of dead terrorists to be robbed. Don't show damaged bodies of terrorists in the village square to try to show 'this is what we can do'. This behavior may frighten the people but damages the image of a caring state.

A helpless elephant hunted by sharpshooters waiting by the water hall, a deer fleeing the hunter or dying on a highway, a pig or lamb or calf trapped amid the bedlam, - they cannot draw a meaning from their hardship, or find refuge in God, or pray for deliverance. That still leaves the enduring of it, the deprivation and fear and panic and loneliness. We know those feelings too.

I perceived winning Lochan Féyes’ heart, and making him mine, not as a goal—but an imperative. Spending the next five years serving in the same unit was the way I intended to go about it. So, just like that, I became a sharpshooter.

With each new primary color coat of paint, I suspected there would be no grand finale just as there had been no goodbyes with the Bucks. There must have been a last day that Joey and I played melt the ice in a cup while riding our tricycles as fast as we could around the dining room table. A last fort set upon by Indians. A last crack of our sharpshooters. A last wham bang of a roll of caps beneath a rock. A last voyage around the world in the sailboat that Mr. Bellamy built with his sons that won races and now sits in the Bellamys’ yard.

A helpless elephant hunted by sharpshooters waiting by the water hall, a deer fleeing the hunter or dying on a highway, a pig or lamb or calf trapped amid the bedlam, - they cannot draw a meaning from their hardship, or find refuge in God, or pray for deliverance. That still leaves the enduring of it, the deprivation and fear and panic and loneliness. We know those feelings too.

Anger provides the No. 1 difference between a fist-fight and a boxing bout. Anger is an unwelcome guest in any department of boxing. From the first time a chap draws on gloves as a beginner, he is taught to "keep his temper"-never to "lose his head." When a boxer gives way to anger, he becomes a "natural" fighter who tosses science into the bucket. When that occurs in the amateur or professional ring, the lost-head fighter leaves himself open and becomes an easy target for a sharpshooting opponent. Because an angry fighter usually is a helpless fighter in the ring, many prominent professionals-like Abe Attell and the late Kid McCoy- tried to taunt fiery opponents into losing their heads and "opening up." Anger rarely flares in a boxing match. Different, indeed, is the mental condition governing a fist-fight. In that brand of combat, anger invariably is the fuel propelling one or both contestants. And when an angry, berserk chap is whaling away in a fist-fight, he usually forgets all about rules-if he ever knew any. That brings us to difference No. 2: THE REFEREE ENFORCES THE RULES IN A BOXING MATCH; BUT THERE ARE NO OFFICIALS AT A FIST-FIGHT. Since a fist-fight has no supervision, it can develop into a roughhouse affair in which anything goes. There's no one to prevent low blows, butting, kicking, eye-gouging, biting and strangling. When angry fighters fall into a clinch, there's no one to separate them. Wrestling often ensues. A fellow may be thrown to earth, floor, or pavement. He can be hammered when down, or even be "given the boots"- kicked in the faceunless some humane bystander interferes. And you can't count on bystanders. A third difference is this: A FIST-FIGHT IS NOT PRECEDED BY MATCHMAKING. In boxing, matches are made according to weights and comparative abilities. For example, if you're an amateur or professional lightweight boxer, you'll probably be paired off against a chap of approximately your poundage-one who weighs between 126 and 135 pounds. And you'll generally be matched with a fellow whose ability is rated about on a par with your own, to insure an interesting bout and to prevent injury to either. If you boast only nine professional fights, there's little danger of your being tossed in with a top-flighter or a champion.

Prepare drones," Metatron commanded. Nephilim grabbed her backpack and put it on the ground beside her feet. She opened it and revealed a black metallic cube. It made a soft click as it came to life. Within seconds it enfolded itself and turned into a flying drone—slightly resembling a black firefly—that was about the size of a small eagle. It hovered next to Nephilim's head, humming softly. Each one of the soldiers had unique drones, directly linked to their neural system. Some drones had flying capabilities, others resembled ground predators in the form of insects or mammals. To be able to simultaneously, mentally control a drone during actual combat was difficult, required years of practice, and brought the term multi-tasking to a whole new level. However, once mastered, it was an incredibly effective combat tool. Nephilim held still and waited for the commander to order the assault. She wasn't excited or scared that she was about to go into battle. Her artificially augmented heart didn't beat faster. Her lungs, securely sealed through a silicate membrane from any kind of poison or chemical warfare attack, didn't enhance their pace. Her mind was focused and clear. So were her ice-cold, artificially blue eyes, studying the target area. She came here to do her job, her duty. What she had been created for. The righteous thing. Furthermore, it was something she was very good at. Adriel had stated, prior to leaving Olympias, that they should be back by breakfast. The target area ahead was in shabby condition. Shacks and makeshift houses built in and around the ruins of old, overgrown industrial premises. The location was partly hidden by the remains of an old Highway bridge, its old asphalt cracked, with weeds growing everywhere, and some of its circling sidearms had collapsed. The ancient roads and self-made paths were covered with mud. It had been raining a lot, as it almost always did in this area. This was only one of the reasons why any sane person would never understand that people actually chose to live here. The small settlement was surrounded by some archaic plantations and little fields, hidden in between old buildings. Everything here was designed to stay unnoticed, to not be found. And yet they had been discovered. Eventually, all of them were. Metatron was right. These subjects here were completely oblivious of what was coming their way. Only a few guards were on duty, sitting on two of the old chimneys of the facility. They would have no chance to spot the attacking troops before sharpshooters took them out. After that, they would ambush those that remained in their sleep. Standard procedure, requiring a minimum of time, resources, and casualties. Nephilim's scanner showed one hundred twenty-six human life forms in the settlement. There wouldn't be any left when the sun rose in less than an hour. *** Jeff woke up from a bad dream. He couldn't remember what it was he had dreamt, but it had left him with this uneasy feeling

The Fates are master sharpshooters, and the easy target is the one who’s standing still.’ By ‘keep moving,’ he also meant keep telling the truth, keep doing what’s right, keep believing what you do matters, because when you give up on the truth, you become one of them.

I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little woozy. Must not have gone in deep enough.” I scanned the ridge, and I caught a flicker of light reflecting off metal. “Sharpshooter,” I whispered. “But you can’t do that with tranq darts.” “These people can resurrect extinct supernatural races, Maya,” Daniel whispered. “I think their technology goes a little beyond the norm.” “Right. Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Follow me.” I started crawling through the brush. I’d gone only a few steps when I realized Daniel wasn’t behind me. I turned to see him on his stomach, blinking hard. “Nope,” he said. “It went in deep enough.

Daniel and I kept running. We could see the ridge now. Safety. Just get-- Something whizzed past me. “Dan--!” I whirled, shouting a warning, only to see him stagger backward, a dart embedded in his shoulder. Another zinged past my arm. Daniel yanked me to the ground. We crawled into thick bushes. I tugged the dart from his shoulder. He blinked hard, eyes unfocused. He shook his head to clear it. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little woozy. Must not have gone in deep enough.” I scanned the ridge, and I caught a flicker of light reflecting off metal. “Sharpshooter,” I whispered. “But you can’t do that with tranq darts.” “These people can resurrect extinct supernatural races, Maya,” Daniel whispered. “I think their technology goes a little beyond the norm.

I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little woozy. Must not have gone in deep enough.” I scanned the ridge, and I caught a flicker of light reflecting off metal. “Sharpshooter,” I whispered. “But you can’t do that with tranq darts.” “These people can resurrect extinct supernatural races, Maya,” Daniel whispered. “I think their technology goes a little beyond the norm.

I’m fine,” he said. “Just a little woozy. Must not have gone in deep enough.” I scanned the ridge, and I caught a flicker of light reflecting off metal. “Sharpshooter,” I whispered. “But you can’t do that with tranq darts.” “These people can resurrect extinct supernatural races, Maya,” Daniel whispered. “I think their technology goes a little beyond the norm.” “Right. Okay.” I took a deep breath. “Follow me.” I started crawling through the brush. I’d gone only a few steps when I realized Daniel wasn’t behind me. I turned to see him on his stomach, blinking hard. “Nope,” he said. “It went in deep enough.” I scrambled back to him. “Go on, Maya,” he said. “No.” Ignoring his arguments, I tried to lift him, arm over my shoulders. When that failed, I tried dragging him from the bushes, pleading with him to help me, to just get himself a little ways away from where he’d fallen, please just a little ways. But he was almost unconscious, fighting just to keep his head up. “Go on, Maya,” he said, words slurring. “Remember what we said. Only one has to get away.” “Then it’ll have to be Rafe or Corey. I’m not leaving--” “They got Rafe and Corey. You know they did. Go.” I shook my head. “I won’t.” “One of us has to get away.” He managed to look up at me, his eyes so unfocused I knew he couldn’t see anything. “Please, Maya. Go.” He dropped then, a dead weight, falling on his side. I could hear a team coming. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll make it up to you.” I bent and kissed Daniel’s cheek. Then I left.

The Origin" of what happened is not in language— of this much I am certain. Six degrees south, six east— and you have it: the bird with the blue feathers, the brown bird— same white breasts, same scaly ankles. The waves between us— house light and transform motion into the harboring of sounds in language. Where there is newsprint the fact of desire is turned from again— and again. Just the sense that what remains might well be held up— later, as an ending. Twice I have walked through this life— once for nothing, once for facts: fairy-shrimp in the vernal pool— glassy-winged sharp-shooter on the failing vines. Count me— among the animals, their small committed calls.— Count me among the living. My greatest desire— to exist in a physical world.

Not many people traveled this close to the Blackened Forest—a vast swath of the Rockies where the trees were black as soot and hard as stone, petrified for all eternity, frozen in time—but those that did were precisely the kind you’d expect in this hostile world: calloused, alone, and harboring a death wish. Most importantly, however, it was home to dozens of contract Slayer teams, one of which she was here to find.

Always keep moving. The Fates are master sharpshooters, and the easy target is the one who’s standing still.’ By ‘keep moving,’ he also meant keep telling the truth, keep doing what’s right, keep believing what you do matters, because when you give up on the truth, you become one of them.

The phenomenon is called the Texas Sharpshooter Fallacy.

My dear sir,’ said Jack to Stephen, measuring the Sophie’s increasing speed and the distance that separated her from the embattled cat – in this state of triply intensified vitality he could perfectly well calculate, talk to Stephen and revolve a thousand shifting variables all at once – ‘my dear sir, do you choose to go below or should you rather stay on deck? Perhaps it would divert you to go to into the maintop with a musket, along with the sharpshooters, and have a bang at the villains?

On one occasion, for instance, when his position had been " spotted" by enemy sharp-shooters, he got a bullet through his cap, one through his shoulder-strap, one through the inside of his sleeve close to his heart, and fifty-three others near enough for him to hear them pass—all in less than an hour.

boots right off his feet. There were stories of men sucked down into the muck never to be seen again. Victor didn’t know if the stories were true, but he did think it possible. The mud was everywhere. In their hair under their helmets, flavoring their food, between their toes in their boots, layering their canteens, permeating their very souls. They couldn’t get away from the mud. They slept in it, fought in it, lived in it. Died in it. Sometimes after a hard downpour a new body part appeared out of the mud. Victor told himself it didn’t matter. Whoever he was, the man was dead, gone from his body to meet his Maker. What was left was just bone, sinew, and skin. And if Victor was ordered over the top and got hit by enemy fire to end up one of those bodies sunk down in the mud, what difference would it make if the soldiers lucky enough to still be breathing used his hand sticking out of the side of the trench to hold something up out of the mud. That’s how they were using Oscar’s. Nobody really knew the dead man’s name or even his nationality, but it only seemed right to name him, to make him part of their company when his hand emerged from the side of the trench. That’s how war was. A man had to survive as best he could. He couldn’t worry about what he’d left back home. He couldn’t worry about how long he was going to live. A man just had to follow orders and give all he had to win the war and save democracy. War wasn’t a thing like Victor had expected or maybe anything like anybody back in the States had expected. Back there, they’d taught them to march. Wasn’t much use for marching in the trenches. It was just hunkering down and hoping a sharpshooter didn’t spot your helmet if you forgot and lifted your head a few inches too high. Or that your gas mask would work when the Germans launched their mustard gas barrages. Or that you wouldn’t get the order to go over the top. Up

Texas sharpshooter fallacy: Imagine that you are driving down a country road in Texas. You see a barn that has six targets painted on it, and a bullet hole at the very center of each target. “Yes sir,” says the owner of the barn, “I never miss.” “That’s right,” says his spouse, “there ain’t a man in the state of Texas who’s more accurate with a paint brush.” Got it? He fired the six shots, and then painted the targets around them.

During World War I, Oakley offered to train a regiment of women sharpshooters, but the government ignored her. Instead, she set out to assist the war effort by performing at army camps to fund-raise for the Red Cross.

Sedgwick’s death came in dramatic fashion in May 1864 near Spotsylvania. As he positioned his troops, Confederate sharpshooters began finding their range. When his men dodged the bullets, Sedgwick chided them, saying, “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.” Shortly afterward, a sharpshooter proved Sedgwick wrong as his bullet found its mark, striking the general just under his left eye and killing him instantly. H-21: George Weikert Farm 39º48.127’N, 77º14.072’W On July 2, Brigadier General John C.

Commander Peary is too well known for me to describe him at length; thick reddish hair turning gray; heavy, bushy eyebrows shading his "sharpshooter's eyes" of steel gray, and long mustache. His hair grows rapidly and, when on the march, a thick heavy beard quickly appears. He is six feet tall, very graceful, and well built, especially about the chest and shoulders; long arms, and legs slightly bowed. Since losing his toes, he walks with a peculiar slide-like stride. He has a voice clear and loud, and words never fail him.

What they don't want are a lot of angry deer hunters and ex-military sharpshooters taking pot shots at them.

Once Papa had said, "All accidents are freak accidents. All dangers are hidden dangers, by the very meaning of the word. Look out for the Indian sharpshooter where there's no cover to hide him. Watch out for the badger hole, far from where any badger should be. A man can ready himself for anything on earth, if he knows it's there.

He was a sharpshooter like that. Bullet straight to the heart.

They had riled a hornet’s nest. In the next few hours the Sharpshooters, reinforced by more of their own men and the 3rd Maine, played havoc with the Confederates who had been massing to the rear of Pitzer’s Woods. They did not have it all their own way, though. Private Bailey George McClelen of the 10th Alabama was lying down with the rest of the regiment listening to the racket between our skirmishers and the enemy. The orders were to reserve our first shots until the enemy advanced close enough to make our shots effective.

A deadly infection is spreading all through the world creating human change and undermining our specie with eradication. Presently the overcomers of this plague have joined the Global Resistance and must battle against this relentless human contamination with all that they have. Prepare for the strike: It is the ideal opportunity for you to ascend and battle for your survival in a zombie end of the world in this heart-ceasing first individual shooter experience! Look over a crazy arms stockpile of FPS sharpshooter battle firearm weapons and shoot against the insidious strolling undead attack in frightening situations around the world! Submerge yourself in various kinds of tasks including Story, Global Mission and Side Quests. Dead Trigger 2 praises 100 Million Downloads with unconditional presents and offers for you! Enormous, CONTINUOUSLY UPDATED CONTENT. Developing SHOOTER STORYLINES. • Battle your way through ten areas and plan a methodology for 33 diverse field front lines. This zombie shooting FPS is loaded with underhandedness activity! • Become a zombie shooter with 50 kinds of firearm weapons. Hone your objective point shooting abilities and take out each dead zombie rival with a slug to the head! • Trigger the activity with more than 600 ongoing interaction war situations, including Solo Campaign, Global Mission and Side Quests. Complete FPS expert sharpshooter accomplishments in this survival fight against death! • Learn military squad strategies for the battle in the zombie end of the world FPS battleground! MOUTH-WATERING BATTLEFIELD ACTION GRAPHICS Investigate target areas, shoot and execute the undead awfulness in survival conditions with various marksman weapons. It is pressing to stop the demise slaughter: Plan your FPS shooting assault system in the field and transform yourself into a saint against the unkilled zombie attack! TEETH-RATTLING FPS STRATEGY SURVIVAL • Brutal dead zombie rivals activity experience - Some of the simpler to slaughter dead zombies may be an easy prey for a shooter to assault, however you'll require more than one shot for a considerable exhibit of dead supervisors. • Awesome FPS expert sharpshooter firearm shooting weapons to fight against unfairness. Your main goal is to endure this malevolent end times! • Zombie shooter time story improvement - Join the Global Resistance against zombies and check out remain educated as the worldwide interactivity creates, where the activities of each and every battle can legitimately impact the tide of war. Remain alive and unkilled as much as you can in this activity experience! Huge amounts OF FEATURES • FPS Zombie War Tournaments for Real Prizes - Get prepared for some demise battle activity in our expert rifleman shooting front line! Do battle with players from everywhere throughout the world in the human first individual shooter Arena! • Choose between a touch control target shooter framework, an upgraded virtual joystick for FPS zombie survival troopers or comfort gaming. • Explore your own den and meet the Gunsmith, Scientist, Smuggler and Engineer. They will focus on the rifleman assault in this shooter zombie survival intrusion as you can open unfathomable firearm weapons and devices. Is it true that you are prepared to face those abhorrent dead strolling professional killer adversaries and battle for your survival in this first individual shooter battle? The undead flare-up is basic. Begin murdering and shooting dead zombies without squandering any slug and remain unkilled!

Katie finishes by saying, “We can’t give in to evil, to those who do such things, because what they want is us to go still and quiet and never speak back to them. These past two years, I’ve been trying to figure out how to speak back and haven’t been doing a good job of it. My Avi used to say, ‘Always keep moving. The Fates are master sharpshooters, and the easy target is the one who’s standing still.’ By ‘keep moving,’ he also meant keep telling the truth, keep doing what’s right, keep believing what you do matters, because when you give up on the truth, you become one of them.

At first, the Army was all that McVeigh hoped. Soon after he arrived in basic training, his skill as a marksman earned him a commendation as a sharpshooter.

All three of the North brothers enlisted as soon as we turned nineteen. I was pulled into special ops for my cold, calculating mind and my sharpshooting. The poison—that, I learned on the job. There are only two reasons the government needs to hide what a soldier does. One, because he’s going to kill someone. Or two, because he’s going to gather secret information. A spy, basically. That’s what they recruited Josh for. He’s a fucking chameleon when he wants to be.

The scientific basis for separating neocortical from limbic brain matter rests on solid neuroanatomical, cellular, and empirical grounds. As viewed through the microscope, limbic areas exhibit a far more primitive cellular organization than their neocortical counterparts. Certain radiographic dyes selectively stain limbic structures, thus painting the molecular dissimilarity between the two brains in clean, vivid strokes. One researcher made an antibody that binds to cells of the hippocampus—a limbic component—and found that those same fluorescent markers stuck to all parts of the limbic brain, lighting it up like a biological Christmas tree, without coloring the neocortex at all. Large doses of some medications destroy limbic tissue while leaving the neocortex unscathed, a sharp-shooting feat enabled by evolutionary divergence in the chemical composition of limbic and neocortical cell membranes.

the town. But, with the enemy massing beyond the river, the position ceased to be tenable after the 13th when a partially masked battery was disclosed commanding the broken bridge. General Paget’s small force had no alternative but to withdraw in haste, leaving the French free to cross. A battle under the walls of Corunna could no longer be avoided. Fortunately on the evening of the 14th the missing transports arrived, 110 sail strong, bringing the total at anchor in the harbour to 250. With them came a squadron of battleships – Ville de Paris, Victory, Barfleur, Zealous, Implacable, Elizabeth, Norge, Plantagenet, Resolution, Audacious, Endymion, Mediator – a glorious spectacle, thought an onlooker, had it been possible to forget the service for which they had come. Yet it was one which brought relief to thousands of British hearts. That night Moore, not daring to waste an hour lest a sudden change in the wind should enable the French artillery to destroy the fleet at anchor, embarked the remainder of his sick, all but eight of his guns and, since the rocky terrain did not admit of their use in battle, the whole of his cavalry. Only a thousand horses could be taken. The remainder, having foundered during the retreat – not for want of shoes but for nails and hammers – were shot on the beach. During the morning of the 15th Soult, forcing back Paget’s outposts, occupied the heights round the town, overlooking and partially enclosing the inferior British positions on the slopes of Monte Mero. Sharpshooting and cannonading continued all day, about a hundred men falling on either