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"You're out of here on the count of three, or I shoot the three of you. One."

What's he waiting for? He can't think I'm not going to shoot. I apply more pressure. Make it clear I'm not messing around.

"I'm going shoot your daughter first."

I take aim on the center of the five year old's forehead. His new wife's face drains of all color and she looks ready to faint.

"Two."

Why the hell is he smiling?

"Three."

I brace myself. I hate it when this happens. You bring yourself in a situation where you lose control, and you have to do things you don't want to.

The hammer clicks home on the empty chamber.

"Don't get yourself into a situation where you have to do things you don't want to," he says.

The quote is so familiar, from years ago, it almost brings a smile to my lips. Brief memories of shared in-jokes and friendly discussions take me back to a less complicated, happier time. All the fight goes out of me.

I have to beat them to death with the butt of my empty gun now. It will mean life imprisonment for me, at the least, if I don't. I've seen it done, but I can't bring myself to do it.

"Damn it, dad." I say, dropping my gun onto the thick carpet.