" POGUE AND I stood outside the closed door to the outbuilding. I observed him closely for the first time. The head beneath that sandy hair was long, a predator’s skull. His features were pinched—they’d circled in on themselves—and a scar curved forward from his chin, short and narrow, from a knife, not shrapnel. He didn’t smile or offer much expression and I doubted that he ever did. No wedding ring, no jewelry. I noted remnants of stitching where insignias had been removed from his green jacket. I supposed that it was a personal favorite and that he’d had the garment for years. His "

― Jeffery Deaver , Edge