192
" Familiar was good. Unfamiliar was bad. A soft scuffing came from beyond the old female’s crate. Maggie instantly lifted her head, and cocked her ears toward the sound. She recognized human footsteps, and understood two people were coming up the drive. Maggie hurried to the French doors and pushed her nose under the curtain. She heard a twig snap, brittle leaves being crushed, and the scuffing grow louder. Tree rats stopped moving to hide in their stillness. Maggie walked quickly to the side of the curtains, stuck her head under, and sampled more air. The footsteps stopped. She cocked her head, listening. She sniffed. She heard the soft metal-to-metal clack of the gate latch, caught their scent, and recognized the intruders. The strangers who had entered their crate had returned. Maggie erupted in a thunder of barking. She lunged against the glass, the fur on her back bristling from her tail to her shoulders. Crate in danger. Pack threatened. Her fury was a warning. She would drive off or kill whatever threatened her pack. She heard them running. “Maggie! Mags!” Scott came off the couch behind her, but she paid him no mind. She drove them harder, warning them. “What are you barking at?” The scuffing faded. Car doors slammed. An engine grew softer until it was gone. Scott pushed aside the curtains, and joined her. The threat was gone. Crate safe. Pack safe. Alpha safe. Her job was done. “Is someone out there?” Maggie gazed up at Scott with love and joy. She folded her ears and wagged her tail. She knew he was seeking danger in the darkness, but would find nothing. Maggie "
― Robert Crais , Suspect (Scott James & Maggie, #1)
193
" Jon had spent most of his career gathering intelligence, providing security, rescuing hostages, and, one way or another, in direct, boots-on-the-ground combat with individuals identified as terrorists by the United Nations, the United States government, and the civilized world. This being Nigeria, Jon knew the people responsible for the bombing would be members of Boko Haram, an Islamist militant group with ties to al-Qaeda, or a Boko Haram splinter group known as Ansaru. Both were big on suicide bombings, and often employed women and children as their designated suicides. Neither group had claimed responsibility, but Jon knew this meant little. So many dipshits with ties to al-Qaeda were running around that part of the world, you couldn’t keep track with a scorecard. The shot caller who ordered the bombing would probably never be known, and was likely already dead. More’s "
― Robert Crais , The Promise (Elvis Cole, #16; Joe Pike, #5; Scott James & Maggie, #2)
199
" Jon Stone spoke thirteen languages and was fluent in six, French being one. He spoke it so well the girls thought he was a native Parisian pretending to be an American. This ability to blend with the natives was a valuable tool when Jon plied his trade. Jon eased from the bed. Floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors lined the back of his house, ten-foot-tall, custom-designed monsters so Jon could Zen on the view. Golden lights glittered to the horizon, ruby flashes marked ghetto-bird prowlers, jets descending toward LAX were strung like pearls across a tuxedo black sky. The doors were heavy as trucks, but silent as silk when they slid open. Jon stepped out and went to the pool. Pike was a silhouette cutout, backlit by the city as Jon swaggered close. “What "
― Robert Crais , The Promise (Elvis Cole, #16; Joe Pike, #5; Scott James & Maggie, #2)
