Failing that, if contact was absolutely necessary, a series of thumb jabs to the nerve cluster at the base of the neck would be his chosen modus operandi—quiet as a whisper.
Like their American counterparts, German officials frowned on interracial sexual fraternization.
The asylum inmate muttered some doggerel about chains and pains to himself, over and over.
The snow burst through the trees with no warning but a last-second whoosh of sound, a two-story wall of white and Chris Rudolph’s piercing cry: “Avalanche! Elyse!”
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