“VADS: double nitro,” she said into the mike.
The new voice-activated, variable ammunition delivery system on her back recognized it was being addressed and responded. As it should: she’d spent enough hours patiently “training” it. It clicked softly as the tops of new magazines appeared in the arm sockets. She pressed the ambidextrous magazine release levers, ejected the empty fléchette magazines, and lowered her guns to her hip points where the fresh magazines waited in the crab arms. The fresh magazines slammed into the USP grips with a satisfying tschuck.
She aimed her custom guns, though if the shells did what Djbril promised, aiming wasn’t that critical. She squeezed the triggers.
The shells hit, exploding on impact, blowing fist-sized holes in the shed. She kept firing, enjoying the thunderous sound of the explosions magnified by the interior of the shed. When the military-only twelve-round magazines were empty, there was nothing left of the shed but its roof, resting in the torn metal nailed to the pallet.

The Lost Cult, Chapter 2