Harry whirled to face Logan. "Your friends," he snarled, eyes unfocused. "They think they're so smart, they think they can outsmart me. Well, they can think again." He was fumbling with the safety on the .44, his fingers unable to get a grip on the slick oiled metal. Logan began to squirm, frantically trying to free his hands. The fibres of the ropes cut into his raw flesh, and there was the slippery feeling of blood lubricating his efforts to escape. But the knots were tight. So tight...
"You think I'm crazy." Harry, gasping for breath, had finally managed to flick off the safety and was now trying to control his hands long enough to get a finger around the trigger. His arms were shaking violently. "Don't you?"
"No, Harry, you're not crazy," Logan said desperately. Now he too was sweating. There's no time...Bobby...
Harry shoved the muzzle of the gun against the side of Logan's head with both hands, but despite the obvious effort to steady the weapon, the end of the barrel beat a nervous tattoo on Logan's left temple. "Liar, liar, liar!" he screamed, spit flying from his mouth. "Everyone lies to me, it's all you ever do!"
The gun went off.