COUNT ON SAM COLT
“You sound scared,” Weston said quietly.
Angered beyond his endurance, the killer pulled his gun. His hand moved faster than an eye could follow, but there was an almost undetectable hitch in the smoothness of his much-practiced draw.
Nine times out of ten, his slug would have hit dead-center. There were dead men to prove it. This time, his speed was no slower. It was that burst of anger that spoiled his aim.
Gene Weston was nowhere near as fast, and he didn’t trust his aim to do the job with just one bullet. He fired last, but his hand was steady and his mind was calm as he triggered three bullets into the heaving, bucking body of a gunman who had lost his temper.