Crackshot: Book three of the Cocaine Trilogy

The Brown Bag Bandit was feeding OO Buck into a Sage Sidewinder. Five fat magnum shells, each containing twelve copper-jacketed pellets instead of the standard nine. On fully automatic the stubby shotgun could put sixty chunks of lead into the air with devastating firepower.
The Bandit held the shotgun vertical, the pistol grip braced against his knee as he picked up each of the cartridges set out beside him and slid them carefully into the pump magazine slung beneath the short barrel. The action could be racked for single shot or with the trigger held depressed each new shell would spring into the breech as the spent cartridge ejected. The shotgun was just 24 inches long, ideal for concealment.
‘I sure as hell don’t know what’s happening to this town, ' the girl continued her onesided conversation as the Bandit remained absorbed in the ritual of loading the weapon. - - - - - - - The Bandit ran his lingers lovingly down the length of the weapon and continued his meditation - - - - - - - Looking sleek, the Brown Bag Bandit came out of the lobby of the Martinique and paused under the canopy, pockmarked with sockets from which light bulbs had long since disappeared. The Bandit had dressed carefully in a conservative grey business suit; blue button-down Brooks Brothers shirt, a striped club tie and tasselled loafers. Armed robbery, he concluded, was an art form, a hitherto unexplored tributary of show business, and he determined to become its finest exponent, relishing each thirty-second performance on the security cameras like a Hollywood premiere. - - - - - - -Just inside the smoked glass armoured door an overweight guard leaned against a pillar and stifled a yawn. Without hesitating, the Bandit walked across the business area to the nearest teller’s position behind which sat a black girl with a tight afro and a welcoming expression on her face. As he approached her, the Bandit glanced up and saw the eye of the security camera give him the once-over and then move on. As the lens tracked away he stood in front of the girl.
The Bandit came out of the bank holding the bulging brown bag in the crook of his arm. The instant he saw the flash of the tin, the Bandit dropped his bag, his right hand snaked inside his coat and snatched out the Sidewinder, his left hand grasping the slider,very fast. Byrne was still tugging his revolver from its holster when he saw the trenchcoat flap open and the weapon swing around towards him. Instinctively he shoved his partner aside with a yell:‘Shotgun! Get down!’ Knowing it was already too late.The Bandit’s lips twisted into a sneer as he opened fire.On automatic the Sidewinder delivered all five shells in rapid succession, the ripple recoil jerking the Bandit into a marionette jig as his fusillade raked the hot dog stand with buckshot, shredding its flimsy panels.
Thrown off balance, the Bandit stumbled over his booty lying where he had dropped it at his feet. - - - - - In the same split second Patti Hennessy recovered from Byrne’s shove and found that her police issue .38 Smith was somehow in her hands, held out in front of her in a two-handed shooter’s grip, her knees bent, body crouched forward and a voice rising above the keening in her ears was shouting: ‘Police! Freeze or I’ll shoot!’ - - - - - - - The Bandit lay still and as fright subsided she willed herself to ease off the trigger. Reality was returning and with it a new nightmare.