Turnball seemed a little irritated and not at all scared. “Mr. Butler, as
a manservant to a great strategist, didn’t it occur to you that another
great strategist such as myself might have anticipated this moment, or
one like it?”
Butler’s stomach sank. Turnball is armed.
Butler’s only option was to cover the remaining distance before
Turnball managed to aim his weapon. He almost made it, but then
almost in a fight is about as useful as rubber needles in a knitting
contest.
Turnball unclipped the stumpy weapon on a lanyard behind his back
and shot Butler eight times in the chest and head. The bodyguard’s
eyes rolled back in his head, but his momentum drove him forward,
and Turnball had to skip smartly to one side to avoid being crushed.
Ark Sool and Unix were not so lucky. Butler landed on them like a
meteor, driving every last gasp of air from their bodies and breaking
several ribs.
“Olé!” said Turnball, who had made a point of attending the
bullfights whenever he was in Spain, not seeming too upset by the loss
of his crew.
The vibrations set off one of the fire-extinguisher powder packs,
which must have been on a hair trigger, and filled the umbilical with
floating white powder.
“‘Oh, the weather outside is frightful,’” sang Turnball, pointing his
gun at Foaly, who was trying to at least look brave. “Do you like my
weapon? It was developed for crowd control during the first goblin
riots. Purely chemical. Shoots Zolpidem tartrate knockout pellets. Gas
powered, with dissolvable shells. No sparks. Sometimes low-tech is
the way to go.”

- The Atlantis Complex, Chapter 9