Not that much makes him truly angry anymore. When Mack had been taken, that had been something, but the terror and the desperation had masked the rage. Now there's nothing to mask it at all and it's stunning and huge and immediate. Once he wouldn't have batted an eye at this kind of talk.

Once I used to talk like that.

His hand is already moving towards his hip and his gun, though he knows it might be the second stupidest thing he's ever done, but there's a soft touch on his arm and he swallows it all back, feeling it pressing against the inside of his skin like magma against a rock dome, still threatening to blast free at any time.

It's been three years since he's killed anyone. He doesn't want to pick up the habit again. But now he's pretty damn sure he could.

He digs in his pocket for a second or two and brings up five rounds, tossing them at the man with a single careless gesture. Careless, though it's all an act. Once he was a good actor, too.

"We'll take a night," he says coldly. "Together." And let them think what they want. He reaches into his other pocket and tosses down three more rounds, leaning in closer and dropping his voice into a smooth growl. "We aren't here. And if anyone fucking touches him, if anyone looks at him funny, you got a whole fucking world of trouble."