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373 pages, Paperback
First published November 1, 1999
"Anne rose, moved to the the board. The next thirty minutes were technical: electronics, triggers, timers, remotes, materials. Rates of detonation, scope of impact."
"His voice carried the faintest whisper of France, like a sprinkle of thyme over broth."
"'When you finish being sixteen, Officer, map out the damn route.'
"You never stop being sixteen,' Peabody murmured...'Oh man, I want one of these.' Peabody grinned as the scenery blurred and flew by. 'How much do you think this honey goes for?'
This model retails for one hundred sixty-two thousand dollars, excluding tax, fees, and licenses.
'Holy shit.'
'Still feeling sixteen, Peabody?'"
Out of the dark, out of the delicate mist, the lady rose up.
"What's this?"
"I think it's a very sick, mutant rose. I bought it for you."
It was so rare to see Roarke taken by surprise, she nearly laughed. His gaze met hers and she thought - hoped - it might have been baffled pleasure she saw there before he looked down at the rose again.
"You brought me a flower."
"I think it's sort of traditional. Fight, flowers, make up."
"Darling Eve."
She'd never lived through war. Not the kind that killed in indiscriminate masses. Her dealings with death had always been more personal, more individual. Somehow intimate. The body, the blood, the motive, the humanity.
What she saw now had no intimacy. Wholesale destruction accomplished from a distance erased even that nasty bond between killer and victim.
All we can do is move forward and try to stop the next.