He holds the pistol southpaw and quickly cocks the slide, ejecting an unspent cartridge like a downed fighter pilot. Mayday. He traces the bullet’s arc with his right hand and catches it mid flight between thumb and finger, circles down and flourishes it in front of my face. ‘I can do that ten times out of ten,’ he says with smug aplomb. ‘Imagine how easy it’d be for me to put one into you.’ Inches from my eyes the bullet mocks me, steely and resolved. I push my wrists against their bindings, hoping the ropes break before I do.

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