Lindas angle was all wrong to hit the gunman, so as the window lowered — FN Five-seven

"The Five-seveN has been loved and hated in the years since its introduction. It is one of the most controversial handguns of our time, and was so even before the Fort Hood atrocity... There was some brilliant use of polymer applied, and the result is a physically large pistol which, with magazine removed, weighs only 20.5 ounces on my scale. That’s less than the weight of a snub-nose Colt Detective Special, but depending on the magazine, the Five-seveN carries ten, twenty, or even thirty rounds of 5.7mm, compared to six rounds of .38 Special in the snubbie... Suffice it to say that from the pure "gun" side of it, the Five-seveN is a fascinating design that deserves a place in modern gun collections, and which has written a fascinating and complex chapter in the evolution of modern handguns."

"[...] He had the pathologists report in hand. He glanced over the details to where it described the bullet wounds. There were two more to the chest. He gestured. "Show me." The mortician looked around nervously before carefully gripping the white stain-proof sheet. He folded it backward from the bodys neck to reveal the torso. Alvarez examined the two neat holes in the sternum. "They look small caliber to me. Twenty-twos?" "No," the mortician answered. "All three wounds. Two to the chest, one to the head. 5.7 mm rounds." "Interesting." Alvarez leaned forward for a closer look. "What kind of range are we looking at?" "No powder burns so it wasnt point blank, other than that I cant tell you. Listen, Im just an assistant here. Im not a ballistics expert. I... I dont know very much." No shit, Alvarez thought. He considered for a moment. That the rounds were 5.7 mm meant an FN Five-seveN, one of the worlds slickest and most expensive handguns. He pictured the scene in his head. Double-tap to the heart, then, as the victim was prone, head to one side, the killer put one extra through the frontal lobe. Not taking any chances. Alvarez was no stranger to professional killings, and this execution was about as professional as they came. He blinked the image away."

"[...] At the entrance to the alleyway Ozols glanced over his shoulder, an amateurish move, too obvious to trip up a shadow, too quick to register one if he did. In Victors experience people often paid more attention to what could be behind them, instead of what lay ahead. Ozols didnt see the man standing in the shadows just a few yards away. The man who was there to kill him. Victor waited until Ozols had passed out of the light before squeezing the trigger with smooth, even pressure. Suppressed gunshots interrupted the early morning stillness. Ozols was hit in the sternum, twice in rapid succession. The bullets were low powered, subsonic 5.7 mm, but larger rounds could have been no more fatal. Copper-encased lead tore through skin, bone, and heart before lodging side by side between vertebrae. Ozols collapsed backward, hitting the ground with a dull thud, arms outstretched, head rolling to one side. Victor melted out of the darkness and took a measured step forward. He angled the FN Five-seveN and put a bullet through Ozolss temple. He was already dead, but in Victors opinion there was no such thing as overkill. The expended cartridge clinked on the paving stones and came to rest in a puddle shimmering with sodium-orange light. A quiet whistling from the twin bullet holes in Ozolss chest was the only other sound. Air was escaping from the still-inflated lungs—the last breath he never had a chance to release."

"Joey loved firearms. He adored the feel, the smell, the added weight a gun lent to his hand. His current preoccupation was the new Five seveN pistol, a twenty-round Fabrique Nationale offering that chambered the miniscule 5.7-millimeter round. He was busily polishing its Glock-ish contours when Merendino called."

"Bolan set his AKMS rifle on the stony ground and drew his FN Five-seveN pistol. One of his cargo pockets gave up a six-inch suppressor, threaded to fit the weapons muzzle. Once he had it snug in place, Bolan duck-walked around Gorshani, toward the right side of the boulder that concealed them from the lookout. It took a minute, but he found the vantage point that he was looking for. Water and wind had worn the boulder smooth, and some calamity in bygone aeons had chiseled a round corner off the stone, tumbling its pieces down to form a series of natural steps. Bolan mounted that rude staircase, testing each step before committing his weight, and soon reached a point where he could observe the guard without being seen. Thirty feet was close to point-blank range for the Five-seveNs high-powered 5.7 mm cartridge. All Bolan had to do was aim and fire. He aimed. He fired."

"Check this out," his partner said. "Its an FN Five-seven. Dont see these every day." "Good thing, too," Ric said. The gun was nicknamed the "cop killer" because of its ability to penetrate Kevlar. Black passed the pistol to Ric. He admired the olive drab finish, the tightly checkered grip, the tactical light beneath the barrel. Ric had never seen one of these up close, but he knew a lot of SWAT guys who liked them. "Nice," Ric said, although everyone in the room knew that was a gross understatement. He handed back the weapon."