Contagion Option. Don Pendleton
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Reader mentioned.
“Yeah, I see the tungsten cores. Since when do street gangs need that kind of firepower?” Graham asked.
“Tungsten cores?” Marrick asked. “I thought you needed Teflon to make an armor-piercing bullet.”
“Teflon on a tungsten-core bullet keeps it from chewing up the guns shooting it. Other than that, the really dangerous material is the heavy tungsten core, which is harder than any other metal,” Graham stated.
Marrick nodded. “So they were Teflon-coated?”
“At least on the tip before they were scoured clean by interaction with the engine block,” Reader responded. “Interestingly, though, the Commonwealth of Independent States don’t use that type of ammunition.”
“Why not?” Marrick asked. “Isn’t it the best?”
Reader took a deep breath. “The former Soviet Union doesn’t have the money to make large amounts of ammunition out of tungsten, both for the base resource metals, which are highly expensive, and the machine tooling necessary to form the bullets. It’s cheaper to use standard steel cores, even though they have a smaller penetration coefficient.”
Marrick nodded. “Who does make a lot of tungsten-core ammo?”
“This is customized ammunition,” Reader responded. “There are several smaller firms that deal with individual, specialized military units. I could narrow it down with about a half-hour’s search to see who makes 5.45 mm ammunition, but off the top of my head, I’d have to say we’re talking Eastern European production.”
“So, black market, which is Russian mafiya, but not Russian military,” Marrick concluded.
Reader scanned the building again with his scope. He looked at the upper floors and stepped past the perimeter.
“Stretch!” Graham growled, pulling his friend back.
“The snipers aren’t up there,” Reader replied. “Something’s going on.”
He lowered the lens to look at the lobby, his jaw clenching. “Kirby.”
Graham looked at the cops on the perimeter who had been paying attention to them. “What’s in the lobby?”
“The gunmen are backing out,” Reader answered. “But, you said the whole building’s cordoned off.”
“Right. The alley has a tactical team at either end. They got in there under ballistic shield cover,” Graham replied. He reached under his jacket, pulled out a Colt .45 and snicked off the safety. “Stretch, we don’t have permission to move in.”
“Damn, it can’t see through the street,” Reader said. “The Koreans are disappearing downstairs, into the basement.”
The scientist unplugged his scanner and set it on the ground. He quickly shrugged out of his battery pack and let it clunk to the asphalt, then ran toward the bank doors. Police ran out to intercept Reader, but Graham’s FBI blazer and his outstretched hand held them up.
Reader reached under his sweatshirt and drew a revolver, taking one side of the bank entrance.
Special Agent in Charge Lieber rushed forward, bellowing for Graham to hold his ground as Salt Lake police officers stacked behind him and Reader.
“Graham! Stop!” Lieber shouted.
Graham looked at Reader. “If we get into a firefight in the lobby…”
“We won’t,” Reader answered.
“So why do you have your gun out?” Graham asked.
“We might get into it in the sewers,” Reader replied. “Or wherever they came out.”
“Sewers?” Graham asked.
Reader kicked the lobby door, and with the violent opening, screams from hostages filled the air. “Everyone stay on the floor!”
“Police!” Graham echoed, following on his friend’s heels. Police officers swarmed into the lobby, spreading out and looking for hostile enemies.
“Graham!” Lieber’s voice followed.
Reader didn’t stop as he crossed over the prone figures of frightened hostages. Graham followed closely after and they reached a door marked Employees Only.
“Let me take the point, Stretch,” Graham replied. “I’ve got my armor, you—”
Reader lifted his own sweatshirt, displaying a shiny blue ballistic nylon shell covering his stomach. “It’s a new design I’ve been working on. Will yours stop 5.56 mm?”
Graham grinned. “Yeah, it will.”
He kicked the door open and charged through. Off to one side, a stairwell stood open and he took two long strides toward it before stopping short, teetering. Reader grabbed the back of his armor and tugged him back before he fell forward.
“Trip wire,” Graham warned.
Reader hopped over it and knelt by the device. “Crude. A grenade in a tin can.”
He snicked out his knife and snipped the fine string. “You got a paper clip?”
Graham handed it to him and Reader fed the metal wire into the hinge. The scientist took it out and pocketed the minibomb. “Okay, it’s safe, Kirby. Call the others in.”
Graham turned and bellowed through the door, “They went this way!”
Reader chuckled. “Who needs bullhorns with you around?”
Graham grinned and followed his friend down the stairs. The two men were cautious for any more trip wires, but the gang had to have anticipated one booby trap would slow down any pursuit.
They hit the basement running, their boots slapping concrete. The Salt Lake SWAT team was still clomping down the steps as Reader and Graham continued. When they turned a corner in the basement hallway, they saw a gaping hole in the foundation wall.
Graham’s sharp eyes noticed the demolition charges ringing the entrance and he grabbed Reader like a rag doll. The big ex-football player hurled them both back behind the cover of the intersection as the shock wave cracked down the hallway, hurling stones at bullet-like velocities.
“Thanks, Kirby,” Reader said, his head ringing.
Marrick was among the SWAT cops who finally showed up. “What the hell happened?”
“They cut us off,” Graham snapped.
“Must have used low-velocity explosives to cut that entrance hole. That’s how they got the whole gang in here,” Reader added. “Then when it was time to—”
“We have to get out of here, sir,” a SWAT officer interjected. “The building’s foundation has been compromised.”
Reader shut up and joined the exodus from the bank. As they reached the lobby, they saw that the hostages were already being moved out, but broken glass rained outside the windows. The large panes looking out onto the street were cracked, and Reader and Graham could both see a huge crack through the ceiling. Plaster filtered down through the newly made fissure.
“Hurry up!” Reader shouted.
The SWAT cops were already past, and Marrick and Graham were bringing up the rear.
“Anyone on the upper levels?” Reader asked.
The last of the SWAT cops, a lieutenant who believed in “first one in, last one out” leadership, paused. “I was going to send a team up the stairs, but when the explosion sounded, I told them to pull back. Did you see anything on that crazy camera of yours?”
“Just the snipers, and they were already gone,” Reader replied.
The SWAT commander nodded. “Get going. I want this place cleared—”
That’s