"Fuck," said Fontaine, pulling the Smith & Wesson from his pocket, its blue steel warm with his body heat. He opened the cylinder and ejected the five cartridges into his palm. Fragile bits of brass less than the thickness of a pencil, each one tipped with its copper-coated, precisely swaged and hollowed segment of lead alloy. "This is it, right? All the ammunition I've got." He passed the man the revolver, barrel pointed at the ceiling and cylinder open, then the cartridges.