Makarov Quote Novels & Stories

Crow said as he stepped back. “You wanted to see me?” “Yeah, for two reasons.” Crow walked over to his PC setup. “One was, how the fuck did you let that Russian shoot you?” “I was sleeping, man. Then I heard him come in and grabbed my weapon.” “You’re fast with a gun or a knife, Mav. We all know this.” “Yeah so?” Maverick didn’t like the way this questioning was going. “So? I have training, lots of it and you are almost as fast as I am.”

“Is it a good or bad name?” “Good, I think. Karan is a pencil,” Doris said, holding up an invisible pencil. Her brows crunched. Alek was stronger than a pencil. Why would he let them call him that? Maybe she could ask him. “Mr Mak kill someone with pencil. He stab neck. Stab. Stab. Stab. Blood everywhere. If he go out now to places, they say no gun. He take no gun. But he take pencil and pencil is not weapon. For him, it is. He stab with it.”

"Deliver my product, or you deliver my money with interest. Twenty percent." Twenty?? This man must be crazy. I held his gaze without saying a word. “And if you fail..." He said, reaching into his jacket. Marco's hand moved toward his holster, but Dmitri only pulled out a pistol. It was a sleek, custom piece with ivory grips. He then set on the table between us. The barrel faced me. It was an old gesture of the Volkov family. A loaded gun, offered in peace but left pointing toward the person being warned. It meant: I could have used this. Next time, I will.

Though I don’t think any of us would celebrate after with a bunch of woman but he’d have to suck it up. Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the AK in my hands, ready to move. “Odin…dva…try!” Marek shouted and suddenly the only thing you could hear with glass shattering and shots firing.

I take what I want and destroy what stands in my way. Destroy. That's exactly the problem, mudak. The familiar weight of my Makarov presses against my ribs as I lean back in the leather chair, a reminder of who I really am beneath all this pathetic sentiment. The gun has never failed me. Never left me. Never— My phone slices through the silence, its shrill ring bouncing off the mahogany-paneled walls of my office. I glance at the screen, and my jaw sets so hard I hear my teeth grind together. Viktor fucking Kozlov.

You know you never miss your shot, you're a real sniper! And I see this idiot puffing out his chest as if he'd just won a prize—the prize for idiots, I'd say. He replies boastfully: · If you want lessons on how to make two or three children at once, I'm here, you can come see me. · Isn't this over yet? I'm tired and I want to go inside, so you'll excuse me for the inconvenience, but move out of my way. Marco steps toward me and holds me close:

Noticing my interest, Astakhov pushed the box towards him with a fork. - A familiar little thing? - he asked slyly, turning in his hands the submachine gun, which lay in the box along with the spent cartridges. - My friend Uzi (a family of submachine guns capable of both single and automatic fire - author's note). Alyosha and I exchanged worried glances. It was with such handsome men that they took the jewelry store on the evening when the diamonds were stolen. “The barrel is not to my taste,” Astakhov continued, as if not noticing our reaction, “but I cannot but recognize its effectiveness in some circumstances. What do you say, Alyosha?