The first attacker—a stocky man with a Ravager rifle trained on Second Squad's position—never saw Lucas coming. One moment he was preparing to fire, the next moment Lucas's fist connected with his solar plexus with enough force to lift him six inches off the ground. The sound was like a gunshot, a sharp crack that spoke to ribs separating from cartilage. The man folded around Lucas's fist and flew backward fifteen feet, hitting the ground hard enough to leave a small crater in the packed earth.
Lightning arced between Lucas's fingers as he spun toward the next target—the woman who'd been leading the conversation. She was fast, trained, professional. She managed to bring her weapon around and actually pull the trigger.
