He was half out of his chair, his hand reaching for a bulge under his leather coat. I rapped the barrel of my Browning on the underside of the table—I'd pulled the heat from my waistband while he was busy with his vodka—and when I knew I'd got his attention I thumbed the safety off. The way his eyes widened at the metallic snick, I knew he recognized the sound. Slowly, he moved his hand away from his heat, and he settled back into his chair. His eyes didn't leave my face though, and I could feel the rage he was fighting back.