You've got a thing for Donovan Caine. You have ever since you killed Ingles, his partner, and he went all dogged and determined on you.

Oh, baby. You have no idea what I’d do to get through those layers and down to the good stuff.

Keep the change, Gin," McCallister said in a smarmy, mocking voice. "Consider it an early Christmas present." "Aw," I drawled. "A whopping thirteen cents. You're too kind, Jonah. Why, you'd put Ebezener Scrooge to shame with your bighearted generosity.

You do realize that the cost of that bracelet is within spitting distance of my going rate as an assassin, right?” “You mean your going rate back when you were actually killing people for money,” Finn said. “Or as I like to call them— the good ole days.

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

They’d played “Sweet Home, Alabama” so many times I wanted to crash the party, kill the radio, and knife whoever was selecting the music.

And that's when I snapped up my left hand and smashed him in the face with the hammer I'd grabbed.