it can be cheaply mass produced.”
“How much did you put into it, Stretch?” Graham asked.
“Three million or so,” Reader replied, blushing sheepishly.
“For an advanced mathematician, you suck as an accountant,” Graham muttered.
Reader chuckled and adjusted his infrared scope. He turned it toward the bank and zoomed in on the upper floors. “Two snipers up there.”
“We figured three,” Marrick responded. “We should report this to Special Agent Lieber.”
Reader lowered the camera and swept the lobby. “Four men with assault rifles in the main lobby, and looks like about twenty hostages. Kirby, you know rifles better than I do.”
The Fed took the camera from his friend and looked at the lobby. “Kalashnikov design, basically. You’re right, though. The resolution sucks on these.”
“Magazines look off,” Reader stated.
Graham focused the lens, frowning. “Yeah. AK-47s have deeply curved magazines, but these are straighter, like AK-74s, or a similar 5.45 mm design.”
“You said that the Korean street gangs are utilizing top-of-the-line Soviet equipment?” Reader asked, accepting the scope from Graham.
“That’s what I figured. Here…I have samples of some of the bullets they took out of a wounded cop,” Marrick replied.
Reader handed off his scope and pulled out a pair of glasses with multiple lenses hinged against them. “Is the officer all right?”
“Yeah. He’ll be in surgery to repair the damage to his leg, but he won’t lose the limb,” Marrick responded.
“Presumably because the bullet’s velocity was lessened by intervening surfaces,” Reader replied. “Looking at the scratches on this bullet’s jacket, it had gone through something heavy and ferrous, not the sheet metal of a car door.”
Graham took the glasses from Reader and looked at the bullets in the plastic bag. “Show off.”
“High-velocity 5.45 mm armor-piercing ammunition,” 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
