"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter"

He pressed the side of his gun's barrel to his head, letting the cool metal relieve the throbbing in his head.

"You gonna come out of there, or make us come in?" Durell shouted. His voice echoed as it passed through the windows and into the concrete room.

"Can I get back to you on that?" Rooter called out in response. He twised the gun against his sull, where it took on a new firmness.

Durell shifted his feet. "Fraid that won't do. See, some of the boys here want to make it home for dinner, you see." The "boys" participated in their henchman's chuckle, the one they used for dramatic effect even if what was said had no humor to it. Especially when there was no humor to it.

Rooter took a deep breath. "I'm gonna have to insist," he said. "Either I get my time to think things over, or you come in here anyway." He paused, trying to buy some time. "And the boys out there die slowly. One by one."

"I think that's rather unlikely. What've you got in there, a nine-millimeter with six bullets? Seven? There's fifteen men out here, Rooter. What are your seven bullets going to do against fifteen men?"

"Wasn't talking about the nine-millimeter," Rooter responed, rapid fire. This provoked a hesitation from Durell's end, and Rooter smiled in spite of the bleakness of his situation. Let them wonder what he might have in the bunker--it certainly didn't hurt Rooter at all to have them nervous about it.

Durell chuckled, too late to hide his concern at Rooter's confidence, but with time enough to salvage what morale there was to be spread around in such desperate times.