Arnette Barnwell

“My bad, Colonel. What do you need?”
“I want to report a homicide.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Homicide? Did you kill someone?”
His eyes narrowed at my poor attempt at levity.
“Me. I’m the one who was killed.”
“Colonel, Sir, with all due respect, I really don’t have time for this kind of humor.”
 ”
― Behcet Kaya, Deception: A Jack Ludefance Novel

“Ivan, the Russian sharpshooter, was sitting, gun in hand, behind one of Borg’s men on a motorbike further down South Eaton Place. The wooden barriers, the parked lorry and the elderly gentleman with the stick were all part of Isaac Walsh’s plan, aimed at hampering the policemen and giving Abbott a chance to escape.”
― Mark Ellis, Death of an Officer

“What seemed at first like an act of incandescent self-destruction turned out to be the onramp to a bleak treadmill, one that felt designed to eradicate my personality and identity. It didn’t end my self-recrimination and misery. Instead, it illustrated just how good I’d had it living on the street.”
― Alan Bradley, The Sixth Borough

“She cocked an eyebrow at me and said, “No. After the week I’ve just spent with you, there are going to be plenty of people that are gonna want to shoot you. You better get used to that.” Which hurt my feelings a little.”
― Michael Deeze, The Deathbed Confessions