Stolen Shots Quotes

Her lips found his and a stab of exquisite desire shot through him. This is what he's been waiting for all this time. Not a stolen embrace. A gift, freely given. One that he would keep forever in some small part of his soul.

When does Agent Briggs get back?” I asked. “He’s never going to let you work on this,” Michael told me. “Is that your way of telling me that you don’t want him to know we hacked a stolen jump drive?” I shot back. Michael snorted. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind taking out an ad in the paper or hiring a skywriter to announce that he and Locke were outsmarted by three bored teenagers.

He tells me in the way he knows melts me into a puddle—with a song. “You have stolen my heart with one look of your eyes.

The troop commander's name was Rich...[and] he was one of the best leaders I've ever known. His motto, which I've stolen from him, is, 'Nobody ever worked for me. They worked with me.

Was he a sentiment hanging unspoken or a path not taken or a closed door left unopened? Or was he a deer, glimpsed amongst the trees and then gone, disturbing not a single branch in his departure? The stag is a shot left untaken. An opportunity lost. Stolen like a kiss. In these new forgetful times with their changed ways sometimes the stag will pause a moment longer. He waits though once he never waited, would never dream to wait or wait to dream. He waits now. For someone to take the shot. For someone to pierce his heart. To know he is remembered.

Yet my father remained hopeful and believed there would be a day when there was an end to the destruction. What really depressed him was the looting of the destroyed schools - the furniture, the books, the computers, were all stolen by local people. He cried when he heard this.

Immediately next door to Yossarian was Havermeyer, who liked peanut brittle and lived all by himself in the two-man tent in which he shot tiny field mice every night with huge bullets from the .45 he had stolen from the dead man in Yossarian's tent.

This wasn't a practice anymore; it was a fight. Andrew was trying to cut Kevin off at the pass, and Kevin was daring Andrew to keep up somehow. Exy had been a raw point between them since they'd met. It was the critical part of their friendship Andrew refused to acknowledge and Kevin couldn't fix, a dream Andrew wouldn't believe in and Kevin couldn't give up on. This was a shootout years in the making, and Neil could barely breathe as he watched them struggle. Neil was relegated to the sidelines still, but tonight he didn't mind as much. He saw his future in every shot fired and deflected, every point stolen and thwarted, and he could barely breathe through his excitement.

[on Springsteen's "Stolen Car":] A kind of mystical film noir, written by Kafka and shot by Polanski.

At the onset of the Civil War, our stolen bodies were worth four billion dollars, more than all of American industry, all of American railroads, workshops, and factories combined, and the prime product rendered by our stolen bodies—cotton—was America’s primary export. The richest men in America lived in the Mississippi River Valley, and they made their riches off our stolen bodies. Our bodies were held in bondage by the early presidents. Our bodies were traded from the White House by James K. Polk. Our bodies built the Capitol and the National Mall. The first shot of the Civil War was fired in South Carolina, where our bodies constituted the majority of human bodies in the state. Here is the motive for the great war. It’s not a secret.

Through a misunderstanding one native visitor was shot on board one of the ships, and a dozen others were shot ashore, while the Europeans got off with the loss of one tablecloth and of a few hats which were stolen while they had them on their heads.

We came back [from Mars]," Pris said, "because nobody should have to live there. It wasn't conceived for habitation, at least not within the last billion years. It's so old. You feel it in the stones, the terrible old age. Anyhow, at first I got drugs from Roy; I lived for that new synthetic pain-killer, that silenizine. And then I met Horst Hartman, who at that time ran a stamp store, rare postage stamps; there's so much time on your hands that you've got to have a hobby, something you can pore over endlessly. And Horst got me interested in pre-colonial fiction." "You mean old books?" "Stories written before space travel but about space travel." "How could there have been stories about space travel before - " "The writers," Pris said, "made it up." "Based on what?" "On imagination. A lot of times they turned out wrong [...] Anyhow, there's a fortune to be made in smuggling pre-colonial fiction, the old magazines and books and films, to Mars. Nothing is as exciting. To read about cities and huge industrial enterprises, and really successful colonization. You can imagine what it might have been like. What Mars ought to be like. Canals." "Canals?" Dimly, he remembered reading about that; in the olden days they had believed in canals on Mars. "Crisscrossing the planet," Pris said. "And beings from other stars. With infinite wisdom. And stories about Earth, set in our time and even later. Where there's no radioactive dust." [...] "Did you bring any of that pre-colonial reading material back with you?" It occurred to him that he ought to try some. "It's worthless, here, because here on Earth the craze never caught on. Anyhow there's plenty here, in the libraries; that's where we get all of ours - stolen from libraries here on Earth and shot by autorocket to Mars. You're out at night humbling across the open space, and all of a sudden you see a flare, and there's a rocket, cracked open, with old pre-colonial fiction magazines spilling out everywhere. A fortune. But of course you read them before you sell them." She warmed to her topic. "Of all -

When they will have shot their wads, Oh, stolen heart, how will you react? There'll be a Bacchic accolade When they will have shot their wads! My stomach will surely contract If my sad heart they degrade! When they will have shot their wads, Oh, stolen heart, how will you react?

In Minneapolis, tires were slashed and windows smashed. A high school student getting off a bus was hit in the face and told to “go back to China.” A woman was kicked in the thighs, face, and kidneys, and her purse, which contained the family’s entire savings of $400, was stolen; afterwards, she forbade her children to play outdoors, and her husband, who had once commanded a fifty-man unit in the Armée Clandestine, stayed home to guard the family’s belongings. In Providence, children walking home from school were beaten. In Missoula, teenagers were stoned. In Milwaukee, garden plots were vandalized and a car was set on fire. In Eureka, California, two burning crosses were placed on a family’s front lawn. In a random act of violence near Springfield, Illinois, a twelve-year-old boy was shot and killed by three men who forced his family’s car off Interstate 55 and demanded money. His father told a reporter, “In a war, you know who your enemies are. Here, you don’t know if the person walking up to you will hurt you.

(a paper star folded from a page removed from a book) There is a stag in the snow. Blink and he will vanish. Was he a stag at all or was he something else? Was he a sentiment hanging unspoken or a path not taken or a closed door left unopened? Or was he a deer, glimpsed amongst the trees and then gone, disturbing not a single branch in his departure? The stag is a shot left untaken. An opportunity lost. Stolen like a kiss. In these new forgetful times with their changed ways sometimes the stag will pause a moment longer. He waits though once he never waited, would never dream to wait or wait to dream. He waits now. For someone to take the shot. For someone to pierce his heart. To know he is remembered.

As he ran, he thought about everything and anything, about the life he’d led, the children, the snatches of time frozen in his mind: a moment when he’d gotten shot in an alley, and the flash of the man who’d shot him; the first sight of a newborn daughter; his mother’s face, crabby with an early morning slice of toast in her hand, her image as clear in his mind as it had been twenty-five years earlier, on the day she died…. They all came up like portraits and landscapes hanging on the wall of his memory, flashes of color in the black-and-white night.

When we relinquish our inner Nazi, we disarm the internal and external forces that have been holding us back. “Half of you is your father,” I told Alex. “Throw white light his way. Wrap him up in white light.” It’s what I learned in Auschwitz. If I tried to fight the guards, I’d be shot. If I tried to flee, I’d run into the barbed wire and be electrocuted. So I turned my hatred into pity. I chose to feel sorry for the guards. They’d been brainwashed. They’d had their innocence stolen. They came to Auschwitz to throw children into a gas chamber, thinking they were ridding the world from a cancer. They’d lost their freedom. I still had mine.

Death is the one great certainty in life. That’s what my dad used to say. Nothing else is certain. Not love. Not happiness. Not your health. If you’re lucky enough to be gifted with these things, which isn’t a sure thing by any shot, they can all be taken from you in an instant, like toys snatched by a jealous child. Or maybe that’s not true. Maybe sometimes the signs are there and you just miss them. Maybe it’s actually your fault if things are taken from you. Maybe love slipped through your fingers because you didn’t seize it with both hands when you had the chance. Maybe happiness was stolen from you because you thought you didn’t deserve it so you pushed it away. Maybe you lost your health because you ignored the glint of sunlight on a windshield.

She scuttled back from his approach and held up a hand. “No!” Eversley stilled, his eyes widening at the words. “I beg your pardon?” He was going to smell her. “Don’t come any closer!” “Why not?” “It’s not appropriate.” “What isn’t?” “You. Being here. So near. While I am abed.” One black brow rose. “I assure you, my lady, I’ve no intention of debauching you.” She had no doubt of that, considering her current situation, but she couldn’t well tell him the truth. “Nevertheless, I must insist on the utmost propriety.” “Who do you think nursemaided you for the last day?” Bollocks. He was right. He’d been close. He’d had to have noticed her odor. But it didn’t mean he had to any longer. She straightened her shoulders, ignoring the twinge in the left. “My reputation, you see.” He blinked. “You were shot on the Great North Road while wearing stolen livery—

It’s hard to imagine calling the dairy industry anything but “inhumane” when you consider that on dairy farms, cows are artificially inseminated and forced to give birth, only to have their beloved babies torn away from them so the milk that nature intended for them can instead be consumed by humans. Both mother cows and their calves are emotionally traumatised when forcibly separated from one another. The mother cows bellow in desperation, and their calves bawl in distress. They cry out for each other for days – in vain. The male calves – often referred to as “by-products” – are either shot at birth or destined to become veal. The female calves, like their mothers, face a lifetime of repeated forcible impregnation and anguish over their stolen babies. Their bodies are strained to the limit in order to squeeze out every last drop of milk. Today, British cows typically produce 10 times more milk than they would naturally in order to feed their calves.

This was an unprecedented moment in American history as well. For the dead of the Tulsa massacre were hardly alone. Over the course of four centuries, thousands of African Americans had been the victims of murderous racism. Slaves had been shot, stabbed, and tortured to death, their bodies tossed in unmarked graves. Lynchings had claimed hundreds more, as Black men and women had their life force stolen from them beneath railroad trestles, telephone poles, and ancient oak and elm trees, their limbs creaking and swaying beneath the extra weight. And then there were the one who simply disappeared, into labor camps and county jail cells, or patches of wood and swamp, lit only by the pine knobs and kerosene lamps of their executioners. The victims of racism weren't few. They were legion. But here, in this aging cemetery in the heart of the country, was the first time than an American government -- federal, state, or local -- had ever actively set out to locate the remains of victims of American racism.

Highwaymen?" she asked, and couldn't hide the hopeful note from her tone. "In the middle of the day?" "So they're desperate." Being robbed wouldn't be pleasant, but it would actually be preferable compared to an angry criminal running them down from his stolen property. "That would be the logical assumption, Becca,if we didn't just leave the house of a confirmed mass murderer." "So you did find the evidence you were after?" "It's in the book I asked you to smuggle out. Considering how quickly we left,my guess would be that Mary Pearson immediately mentioned to her husband that she'd put you in their bedroom, and that I entered it as well. Samuel would have gone straight upstairs in that case to check on the imcriminating ledger he'd carelessly left lying on the desk." "And found it gone," she said with a resigned sigh. "Don't sound so aggrieved. We'll be fine." She could have screamed at him like a harpy for that ridiculous assessment. With two more shots fired at them, her fear was rising fast. It had been the same back at the Pearson house. The moment Rupert had warned that he'd disabled one of the servants,meaning they could be found out at any moment, her nausea had abruptly ended. Incredible. Did the sudden rush of fear do that? Not that she was going to seek out things to frighten her just to get through this pregnancy a little easier, but it as an interesting side effect. She could at least test the theory at home by having Flora try to startle her or...what the deuce was she doing thinking about things that might never happen when she could end up dead in minutes?

At its height, the rebellion can best be described as an insurrection. Large crowds of looters in the early part of July 23 gave way to roving bands of looters and fire bombers, who were much harder to control. Some coordinated their tactics by shortwave radio. Apparently, the rebels saw all government officials as the enemy, and they attacked firemen as well as policemen. By 4:40 P.M. on July 24, rebels had stolen hundreds of guns from gun shops. As police began to shoot at the looters, black snipers started shooting back. Hubert Locke, executive secretary of the establishment Committee for Equal Opportunity, called it a “total state of war.” Police officers and firemen reported being attacked by snipers on both the east and west sides of the city. Snipers made sporadic attacks on the Detroit Street Railways buses and on crews of the Public Lighting Commission and the Detroit Edison Company. Police records indicate that as many as ten people were shot by snipers on July 25 alone. A span of 140 blocks on the west side became a “bloody battlefield,” according to the Detroit News. Government tanks and armored personnel carriers “thundered through the streets and heavy machine guns chattered. . . . It was as though the Viet Cong had infiltrated the riot blackened streets.” The mayor said, “It looks like Berlin in 1945.”55 The black uprisings in Detroit and Newark were the largest of 1967 but by no means the only ones. Urban rebellions rocked cities large and small all across America. According to the Kerner Commission, 164 such rebellions erupted in the first nine months of the year.56

Colonel Fedmahn Kassad shouted a FORCE battle cry and charged through the dust storm to intercept the Shrike before it covered the final thirty meters to where Sol Weintraub crouched next to Brawne Lamia. The Shrike paused, its head swiveling frictionlessly, red eyes gleaming. Kassad armed his assault rifle and moved down the slope with reckless speed. The Shrike shifted. Kassad saw its movement through time as a slow blur, noting even as he watched the Shrike that movement in the valley had ceased, sand hung motionless in the air, and the light from the glowing Tombs had taken on a thick, amberish quality. Kassad’s skinsuit was somehow shifting with the Shrike, following it through its movements through time. The creature’s head snapped up, attentive now, and its four arms extended like blades from a knife, fingers snapping open in sharp greeting. Kassad skidded to a halt ten meters from the thing and activated the assault rifle, slagging the sand beneath the Shrike in a full-power wide-beam burst. The Shrike glowed as its carapace and steel-sculpture legs reflected the hellish light beneath and around it. Then the three meters of monster began to sink as the sand bubbled into a lake of molten glass beneath it. Kassad shouted in triumph as he stepped closer, playing the widebeam on the Shrike and ground the way he had sprayed his friends with stolen irrigation hoses in the Tharsis slums as a boy. The Shrike sank. Its arms splayed at the sand and rock, trying to find purchase. Sparks flew. It shifted, time running backward like a reversed holie, but Kassad shifted with it, realizing that Moneta was helping him, her suit slaved to his but guiding him through time, and then he was spraying the creature again with concentrated heat greater than the surface of a sun, melting sand beneath it, and watching the rocks around it burst into flame. Sinking in this cauldron of flame and molten rock, the Shrike threw back its head, opened its wide crevasse of a mouth, and bellowed. Kassad almost stopped firing in his shock at hearing noise from the thing. The Shrike’s scream resounded like a dragon’s roar mixed with the blast of a fusion rocket. The screech set Kassad’s teeth on edge, vibrated from the cliff walls, and tumbled suspended dust to the ground. Kassad switched to high-velocity solid shot and fired ten thousand microfléchettes at the creature’s face.

When she was a girl, Eleanor had completely believed the tale. That Zephyr brought her back from Africa with him, a pearl that he'd swallowed, that had remained hidden deep within his jaw when he was shot, skinned, sold, and shipped, during the decades his pelt was put on proud display at the big house and through his subsequent repair to reduced circumstances at the Lake House. It was there, one day, when the tiger's head was tilted just so, that the pearl rolled out of his lifeless mouth and became lost in the long weave of the library carpet. It was trodden on, bypassed, and all but forgotten, until one dark night, while the household slept, it was found by fairies on a mission of theft. They took the pearl deep into the woods, where it was laid on a bed of leaves, studied and pondered and tentatively stroked, before being stolen by a bird, who mistook it for an egg. High in the treetops, the pearl began to grow and grow and grow, until the bird became frightened that her own eggs would be crushed and she rolled the argent orb back down the side of the tree, where it landed with a soft thud on a bed of leaf fall. There, in the light of the full moon, surrounded by curious fairy folk, the egg began to hatch and a baby emerged. The fairies gathered nectar to feed her and took turns rocking the babe to sleep, but soon no amount of nectar was enough, and even fairy magic could not keep the child content. A meeting was held and it was decided the woods were no place for a human child and she must be returned to the house, laid on the doorstep in a wrap of woven leaves. As far as Eleanor was concerned, it explained everything: why she felt such an affinity with the woods, why she'd always been able to glimpse the fairies in the meadows where other people saw only grass, why birds had gathered on the ledge outside the nursery window when she was an infant. It also explained the fierce tiger rage that welled up inside her at times, that made her spit and scream and stomp, so that Nanny Bruen hissed and told her she'd come to no good if she didn't learn to control herself. Mr. Llewellyn, on the other hand, said there were worse things in life than a temper, that it only proved one had an opinion. And a pulse, he added, the alternative to which was dire! He said a girl like Eleanor would do well to keep the coals of her impudence warm, for society would seek to cool them soon enough.

DURING THE RIDE back up to Telluride, among tablelands and cañons and red-rock debris, past the stone farmhouses and fruit orchards and Mormon spreads of the McElmo, below ruins haunted by an ancient people whose name no one knew, circular towers and cliffside towns abandoned centuries ago for reasons no one would speak of, Reef was able finally to think it through. If Webb had always been the Kieselguhr Kid, well, shouldn’t somebody ought to carry on the family business—you might say, become the Kid? It might’ve been the lack of sleep, the sheer relief of getting clear of Jeshimon, but Reef began to feel some new presence inside him, growing, inflating—gravid with what it seemed he must become, he found excuses to leave the trail now and then and set off a stick or two from the case of dynamite he had stolen from the stone powder-house at some mine. Each explosion was like the text of another sermon, preached in the voice of the thunder by some faceless but unrelenting desert prophesier who was coming more and more to ride herd on his thoughts. Now and then he creaked around in the saddle, as if seeking agreement or clarification from Webb’s blank eyes or the rictus of what would soon be a skull’s mouth. “Just getting cranked up,” he told Webb. “Expressing myself.” Back in Jeshimon he had thought that he could not bear this, but with each explosion, each night in his bedroll with the damaged and redolent corpse carefully unroped and laid on the ground beside him, he found it was easier, something he looked forward to all the alkaline day, more talk than he’d ever had with Webb alive, whistled over by the ghosts of Aztlán, entering a passage of austerity and discipline, as if undergoing down here in the world Webb’s change of status wherever he was now. . . . He had brought with him a dime novel, one of the Chums of Chance series, The Chums of Chance at the Ends of the Earth, and for a while each night he sat in the firelight and read to himself but soon found he was reading out loud to his father’s corpse, like a bedtime story, something to ease Webb’s passage into the dreamland of his death. Reef had had the book for years. He’d come across it, already dog-eared, scribbled in, torn and stained from a number of sources, including blood, while languishing in the county lockup at Socorro, New Mexico, on a charge of running a game of chance without a license. The cover showed an athletic young man (it seemed to be the fearless Lindsay Noseworth) hanging off a ballast line of an ascending airship of futuristic design, trading shots with a bestially rendered gang of Eskimos below. Reef began to read, and soon, whatever “soon” meant, became aware that he was reading in the dark, lights-out having occurred sometime, near as he could tell, between the North Cape and Franz Josef Land. As soon as he noticed the absence of light, of course, he could no longer see to read and, reluctantly, having marked his place, turned in for the night without considering any of this too odd. For the next couple of days he enjoyed a sort of dual existence, both in Socorro and at the Pole. Cellmates came and went, the Sheriff looked in from time to time, perplexed.

Col. James N. Rowe, a United States Army officer who spent five years as a prisoner in Vietnam before escaping in 1968, was shot to death yesterday (April 21, 1989) by gunmen near Manila, where he was a military adviser to the Philippine armed forces. He was 51 years old. Colonel Rowe was being driven to work at the Joint United States Military Advisory Group headquarters in Quezon City, a suburb of Manila, shortly after 7 A.M. when at least two hooded gunmen in a stolen car fired more than 20 bullets into his vehicle. His driver, Joaquin Vinua, was wounded but was reported out of danger. Colonel Rowe was pronounced dead at a nearby military hospital. Communist Rebels Suspected No group immediately claimed responsibility for the attack, but Philippine officials said they believed the killers were Communist rebels. The rebels have threatened to attack American targets unless the United States closes its military bases in the Philippines and ends its support of the Philippine military's fight against the insurgency.

He crossed his arms. “You know, it is exceedingly rude to stare.” I flinched and began an intent examination of the carpet at my feet. Apparently I could scratch the charming bit as well. “Be pleasant, Tristan,” the Duchesse said. He sniffed. “She’s the rude one, Aunty. First she stares and now she refuses to look at me. I’m quite convinced I have greens or something worse stuck between my teeth.” I glanced up, hoping to catch a glimpse of said teeth. He caught me and grinned. “Were you expecting them to be pointed?” My face burned and I fixed my eyes back on the carpet, determined never to look up again. I immediately caught myself glancing through my eyelashes at him once more. “Pointed teeth would give one an appearance of ferocity,” he said, tapping a straight white tooth. “Although that might require one to follow through with biting someone from time to time, and the thought is enough to make one feel ill. I don’t even like my meat cooked rare.” “You bit Vincent once,” Marc said from behind me. “So you can’t be entirely opposed to the idea.” Tristan shot a vitriolic glare in his direction. “Curse you for bringing up such vile memories, Marc, and in the presence of a girl. In my defense, lady, I was only three and Vincent was sitting on my head. I rather thought I was about to meet my end suffocated between his bum cheeks. Anyone would have done the same. Wouldn’t you agree, mademoiselle… what did you say her name was again?

The pictures of her taped to the wall, shots of her leaving the supermarket. Hundreds of photos of her sleeping, showering, exercising. There are news clippings regarding her kidnapping. Some pieces of her clothing, including panties that I’ve stolen so I could touch them unseen. Hold them to my face. Use them on my cock.

Fuck it, at that point, she would rather they murder her. At least being shot or stabbed would be a relatively quick and clean death versus slowly succumbing to a demise from humiliation after being bent over and spanked by Caden fucking Ashford.

Deputy Ennis Dickhead tipped back his stupid hat and smirked at me. “Hello, Bailey.” “What do you want?” “I came to talk to your friend here. Just wondering if he’d seen his dad?” Nick showed no reaction, but I was pissed to have an asshole ruining my good mood. “If his dad was smart, he’d have run the fuck away once out of jail.” Dickhead tried intimidating Nick with a dark glare. When that didn’t work, he focused on me. “Bailey, I want to talk to you alone.” “No way. Nick and I are going home to have lots of sex. Now go away.” “Why are you slumming it with this loser?” Dickhead asked, poking his thumb at Nick. “You’ve got options and here you are settling.” “Fuck the hell off, asshole!” I yelled, gaining the attention of a lot of people who immediately looked away when I glared at them. Focusing my rage back on Dickhead, I growled, “You need to learn your place, loser. The only time I was slumming it was when I dated a rent-a-cop.” “Listen here, bitch...” I never saw Nick move. One moment, he was a few feet away, looking passive then his fist made contact with Dickhead’s face. The cop toppled back against his car as Nick stood in front of me. Since he looked hotter than sin, I wanted to feel him up. I was thinking naughty thoughts when Darling forced his cuffs on Nick’s wrists and shoved him against the car. “I guess I’m the one who gets restrained this time,” Nick said, trying to keep the moment light. Dickhead was going to ruin Nick’s chances at teaching and I refused to allow anyone to steal my man’s dream. Love made people do weird shit and I was no exception. The Taser from Dickhead’s belt felt good in my hand as I aimed it at his ass. The idiot cop didn’t even realize I’d stolen his weapon until the volts surged through his system. My ex-nobody fell to the ground and twitched. A cuffed Nick stepped back and looked between Dickhead and the Taser. “He wet himself,” I said to Nick. “I see that. Now what? You just assaulted a cop.” “So did you.” “True. We’re both fucked.” “No way,” I muttered. “He attacked me and I was defending myself.” “You shot him in the ass with that thing. I don’t know how you make self-defense stick, babe.” “What a pessimist,” I said, digging the keys out of Dickhead’s pocket. “Let’s throw on some Jerry Reed and race home like the cops are on our asses.” “They might be soon enough,” Nick said, rubbing his wrists before cupping my face. “My hero.

He had been working on damage control ever since Twelve had limped out of the church hall and called for emergency pickup. He had taken the response team himself to ensure that there was no trace of Twelve ever having been there. The blood from his leg had been scrubbed away and footage from local CCTV cameras had been deleted. The dead man—Rutherford—was left where he was. Twelve had explained what had happened. The surprise of Rutherford’s appearance had saved Milton’s life, so now, in death, he would have to pay back the damage that he had caused. His body would prove to be useful. It was easy to fabricate the story. CCTV footage placed Milton at the scene and showed Rutherford arriving moments before he was shot. A camera at the entrance to the park had footage of Milton heading north. He was wounded, too, a bullet to the shoulder. They had immediately checked local hospitals for admissions, but it was perfunctory; Milton was much too savvy to do something as foolish as that. An hour later they had intercepted a call to local police of a break-in. A couple had returned to their house on the edge of the nearby park to find that someone had forced the door to the garden. Their car and a few clothes had been stolen. That, in itself, would have been enough for Control to have investigated, but they had also reported that their first aid cabinet had been ransacked, that a lamp had been moved onto the kitchen table, and that kitchen utensils had been found covered in blood.

You want what your parents have, my lord,” Anna said, rising. “Children who refuse to marry—assuming they remain extant?” the earl shot back. “Your parents love each other,” Anna said, taking in the back gardens below as moonlight cast them in silvery beauty. “They love each other as friends and lovers and partners and parents.” She turned, finding him on his feet directly behind her. “That is why you will not settle for some little widgeon picked out by your well-meaning papa.” The earl took a step closer to her. “And what if I am in need, Anna Seaton, not of this great love you surmise between my parents but simply of some uncomplicated, lusty passion between two willing adults?” He took the last step between them, and Anna’s middle simply vanished. Where her vital organs used to reside, there was a great, gaping vacuum, a fluttery nothingness that grew larger and more dumbstruck as the earl’s hands settled with breathtaking gentleness on her shoulders. He slid his palms down her arms, grasping her hands, and easing her toward him. “Passion between two willing adults?” Anna repeated, her voice coming out whispery, not the incredulous retort she’d meant it to be. The earl responded by taking her hands and wrapping them around his waist then enfolding Anna against his body. She had been here before, she thought distractedly, held in his arms, the night breezes playing in the branches above them, the scent of flowers intoxicatingly sweet in the darkness. And as before, he caressed her back in slow, soothing circles that urged her more fully against him. “I cannot allow this.” Anna breathed in his scent and rested her cheek against the cool silk of his dressing gown. He shifted, easing the material aside, and her face touched his bare chest. She did not even try to resist the pleasure of his clean, male skin beneath her cheek. “You cannot,” he whispered, but it didn’t sound like he was agreeing with her. “You should not,” he clarified, “but perhaps, Anna Seaton, you can allow just a kiss, stolen on a soft summer evening.” Oh

I'm a time traveler. I travel to far-off lands, places, and times you can only dream of. With a snap of a finger, a gasp, a blink, I am there. I've skinny-dipped in the sixties, robbed a steam train in the 1800s, run from gangsters during Prohibition, climbed to mountains outside Beijing. I don't know how many reincarnations I have left. I don't know my first parents, my first family. All I know is that I'm an orphan of the stars, born to countless families with countless sisters and brothers and lovers and friends. Countless enemies, I suppose, as well. I've toured Dante's castle in Limbo. I can speak Chinese and Danish. I've stolen treasures worth millions, turned them over in my hands. I've been shot twice. I broke a boy's nose at school. I know kung fu. I'm dying. I don't know how to trust. I'm angry, and I'm bitter, and you are the only bright spot in all of it.

On April 19 Tamerlan Tsarnaev was killed during a gun battle with police in the streets of Watertown, Massachusetts. He had been shot several times by police and then run over by his brother, who was fleeing in a stolen SUV. One MBTA police officer was shot and nearly died from blood loss. The surviving brother, Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, was found later hiding in a boat in the backyard of a Watertown home and apprehended. Scores of law enforcement officers from federal, state, and local agencies had flooded into the area and cooperated in the search. When it was all over, local residents—who had voluntarily heeded the police request to “shelter in place”—emerged from their homes, gathered on street corners, and spontaneously applauded as buses full of law enforcement officers passed by.

You have stolen my heart with one look of your eyes.

Caduan’s face fell, as if already bracing for bad news. “What is it?” “The wayfinder,” the messenger said. “It has been stolen.” The room collectively muttered curses. “How?” Luia barked. “How did we let that happen?” “Who took it?” Caduan said. I watched his fingers curl. His face and voice were calm, but his knuckles were white. “The humans,” the messenger said. “Which humans?” “The Threllians must have double-crossed us,” Luia muttered, but Caduan shot her a warning glance that made her go quiet. “It was not the Threllians,” the messenger said. “It was the rebel slaves. Tisaanah Vytezic.” I stopped breathing. The sound of Tisaanah’s name shook me. There was still a part of me that felt like a part of

I leap forward, tray outstretched. The gun goes off like a cannon. I feel the jolt as it hits me, simultaneous with the noise. I plow into Nessa, knocking her to the ground and covering her with my body. I don’t know where the first bullet hit. I expect to feel several more, riddling my back. There’re three more shots, but I don’t feel any pain. I smother Nessa, keeping her trapped beneath me so nothing can hurt her. All through the screaming and stampeding of people trying to get away, I cover her up, keeping her safe.

The next Israeli experiment was tested in real time during the Great March of Return, when Gazans protested alongside the fence with Israel. Starting in March 2018, it gained massive global attention as Palestinians peacefully demanded an end to the siege on Gaza and the right to return to lands stolen by Israel. Between March 2018 and December 2019, 223 Palestinians were killed, most of whom were civilians, and eight thousand were shot by snipers, some left with life-changing injuries. The IDF tweeted (but then deleted) on March 31: “Yesterday we saw 30,000 people; we arrived prepared and with precise reinforcements. Nothing was carried out uncontrolled; everything was accurate and measured, and we know where every bullet landed.

A single shot rang in my ears with the haunting revelation that the little boy who’d once held stars in his gaze had become nothing but darkness.

The early experience of Elisabeth Elliot, widow and biographer of a martyred missionary husband, strikingly illustrates this. Confident of God’s guidance, she went to an Ecuador tribe to reduce their language to writing so that the Bible might be translated for them. The only person who could or would help her was a Spanish-speaking Christian who lived with the tribe, but within a month he was shot dead in an argument. She struggled on with virtually no help for eight months more. Then she moved to another field, leaving her full file of linguistic material with colleagues so that they could carry on where she had left off. Within a fortnight she heard that the file had been stolen. No copy existed; all her work was wasted. That, humanly speaking, was the end of the story. She comments: I simply had to bow in the knowledge that God was his own interpreter. . . . We must allow God to do what he wants to do. And if you are thinking that you know the will of God for your life and you are anxious to do that, you are probably in for a very rude awakening because nobody knows the will of God for his entire life. (Quoted from Eternity, January 1969, p. 18) This is right. Sooner or later, God’s guidance, which brings us out of darkness into light, will also bring us out of light into darkness. It is part of the way of the cross.

At the onset of the Civil War, our stolen bodies were worth four billion dollars, more than all of American industry, all of American railroads, workshops, and factories combined, and the prime product rendered by our stolen bodies - cotton - was America's primary export. The richest men in America lived in the Mississippi River Valley, and they made their riches off our stolen bodies. Our bodies were held in bondage by the early presidents. Our bodies were traded from the White House by James K. Polk. Our bodies built the Capitol and the National Mall. The first shot of the Civil War was fired in South Carolina, where our bodies constituted the majority of human bodies in the state. Here is the motive for the great war.

The head of the Secret Army Organization—a provocateur in the pay of the FBI-drove past his house, and his companion fired shots into it, seriously wounding a young woman. The young man who was their target was not at home at the time. The weapon had been stolen by this FBI provocateur. According to the local branch of the ACLU, the gun was handed over the next day to the San Diego FBI Bureau, who hid it; and for six months the FBI lied to the San Diego police about the incident. This affair did not become publicly known until later. This terrorist group, directed and financed by the FBI, was finally broken up by the San Diego police, after they had tried to fire-bomb a theater in the presence of police. The FBI agent in question, who had hidden the weapon, was transferred outside the state of California so that he could not be prosecuted. The FBI provocateur also escaped prosecution, though several members of the secret terrorist organization were prosecuted.

But the fuzzy one touched my arm. And that quick—my alien had him in a headlock and snap! Neck broken, he dropped the six-armed furry freak. “You’re a badass!” I shouted, a shot of adrenaline hitting my system and making me weirdly giddy as I wrapped my arms around his hips.

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

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

They may have robbed You of Your trust but Your faith cannot be stolen. They may have shot down Your dreams but Your vision hasn't died. They may misappraised Your worth but You are valuable beyond measure; and They may have caused You to be delayed but You will not be denied. You possess a God given right to be do and have all that You desire from this life. Don't relinquish that power. Appreciate Yourself enough to exercise it.

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Looking back, the hardest part wasn’t just losing the money—it was convincing myself to ask for help. When I lost CAD 35,000 to an investment scam, I was devastated. I felt humiliated and foolish. I kept thinking, “Who falls for these things?” The shame was overwhelming. I wanted to move on and forget about it, but the thought of that money being gone forever kept eating at me. That amount meant so much to me. I had just graduated from university and was working hard to build a future. Losing it felt like a huge setback. At first, I tried to push the feelings aside, telling myself to just accept the loss and move forward. But the more I thought about it, the harder it became to let go. I felt stuck, like the situation was hopeless. That’s when my sister stepped in. She had heard about Tech Cyber Force Recovery, a service that helped people recover lost funds from scams, and thought it might be worth a shot. I was skeptical at first. I’d heard of services that promised to help but didn’t deliver, and honestly, I didn’t think anything could undo the damage done. But my sister wouldn’t let it go. She reached out to Tech Cyber Force Recovery on my behalf, and within no time, I was on the phone with their team. What happened next completely blew me away. The team at Tech Cyber Force Recovery was nothing like I expected. They were professional, understanding, and incredibly transparent about the entire process. There were no gimmicks, no high-pressure tactics. They didn’t try to push me into anything I wasn’t comfortable with. Instead, they laid out a clear, simple plan to recover my funds. It felt like a weight had been lifted just hearing them explain their approach. I followed their instructions and provided the necessary details. Within three days, I was informed that they had successfully recovered 100% of my stolen funds. I honestly couldn’t believe it. WhatsApp or text // +1 561 726 369 7 telegram // +1 561 726 369 7

If she decided to return. There was a chance that Blaze had stolen her happiness from that building. He’d fired off three shots that day. Two had missed wide. The third had gone through my shoulder.

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Mulling it over that evening, I had to agree with him. Dalin embodied the anarchic nihilist, a type that is not all that rare. What was special about him was that he not only reacted with a general malaise, he also thought about it. Of course it made a difference whether he shot someone from the front or from the back—a difference not in the effect, but in the self-affirmation. I have noticed that a cat will turn up her nose at a piece of meat if I hand it to her, but she will devour it with gusto if she has "stolen" it. The meat is the same, but the difference lies in the predator's delight in recognizing itself. The anarchic nihilist is not to be confused with the socialist revolutionary. His aversion is not toward one person or another but toward order per se. Asocial and apolitical, he represents the destructive workings of nature. He would like to accelerate them. Compared with even the modest methods of our tyranny, Dalin seems like a kind of Don Quixote tilting at windmills. What was accomplished when a train derailed, a bridge exploded, a depart­ment store burned to the ground? True, one has to see this in different terms—say, as a paltry sacrifice to the delight of the powerful Shiva. A chemist seldom knows precisely what he is doing.

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As a dedicated meme coin trader, I’ve been involved in the volatile world of cryptocurrency for some time now. Over the years, I’ve experienced the ups and downs, from thrilling gains to significant losses. But nothing could have prepared me for the heartbreak I encountered when I became a victim of a ruthless rug pull scam. It all began when I found what seemed to be a promising new meme coin project. The project was heavily promoted, and the ICO (Initial Coin Offering ) seemed like a legitimate opportunity. I was drawn in by the hype, excited by the potential profits that were being promised. I invested $10,000, believing this could be my next big break. However, it didn't take long before I realized something was wrong. After a few days, the value of the coin began to plummet. My once-thriving investment turned into a nightmare. The project's creators vanished, and all communication ceased. It was a classic rug pull an exit scam where the developers drained the liquidity, leaving investors like me with nothing. In an instant, my $10,000 was gone, and I felt completely helpless. I was devastated and unsure of how to recover. The emotional toll of losing such a significant amount of money was immense, but I refused to give up. I began researching recovery options, desperate to find a solution. That’s when I stumbled upon TRUST GEEKS HACK EXPERT .After reaching out to them, I was impressed by their professionalism and commitment. They explained the process clearly and assured me that they had helped many victims of cryptocurrency scams like mine. Despite being skeptical at first, I decided to give it a shot, and I’m glad I did. TRUST GEEKS HACK EXPERT worked tirelessly on my case. They tracked the stolen funds and took the necessary steps to reclaim my assets. It wasn’t an overnight process, but over time, I saw results. Thanks to their expertise, I was able to recover my $10,000. The experience not only restored my faith in the crypto community but also taught me a valuable lesson about staying cautious in the world of investments. If you find yourself in a similar situation, I highly recommend reaching out to TRUST GEEKS HACK EXPERT. They specialize in helping people recover lost funds from scams and frauds. Don’t let scammers take advantage of you there is help available, and recovery is possible. SUPPORT SERVICE INFORMATION Web-site. h ttp s :// trust geeks hack expert . c o m / E mail: Trust geeks hack expert @ fa st ser vice. com W h a t's A p p  +1 7 1 9 4 9 2 2 6 9 3 Te le Gr am: Trust geeks hack expert

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