The 220-grain match-grade projectile struck the blued-steel slide of Arthur Sterling’s Walther PPK at two thousand eight hundred feet per second with three thousand foot-pounds of kinetic energy:
KABOOM.
The pistol was obliterated in his hand.
The steel receiver shattered into microscopic metal filings, the force of the impact ripping the weapon from Arthur’s grip, dislocating his right wrist, spinning his two-hundred-pound frame forty-five degrees across the living room carpet.
He collapsed onto his knees on my hardwood floor, clutching his bleeding, broken hand to his chest, screaming with the wet, pathetic, sniveling terror of a coward whose ultimate weapon had just been turned into dust by a phantom on a hill.
CRASH.
The front door and the rear patio sliders were breached simultaneously by eight tactical operators from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team:
“FEDERAL AGENTS! DOWN ON THE FLOOR! HANDS ON YOUR HEADS! DOWN ON THE FLOOR NOW!”
