The first team rushed him. Six men in full tactical gear, moving in a tight formation. Standard protocol for a dangerous, unarmed target.
Adam didn't move until they were three steps away. Then he smiled and raised his hand, palm open.
The lead man's rifle didn't fire. It unfolded. The metal components separated in mid-air like a toy taken apart by an invisible hand. Screws, the barrel, the trigger assembly, the magazine—all hung in the air for a split second before dropping uselessly to the ground.
The man stared at his empty hands.
Adam closed his fist.
The man's body armor crumpled inward with a sickening metallic crunch, pinning his arms to his sides. He gagged, eyes bulging, and dropped.
The second man fired. Bullets tore through the space where Adam had been. Adam wasn't there. He'd simply… sidestepped without moving his feet. It was like the space around him shifted. He appeared beside the shooter, placed a hand on the man's helmet, and gave a gentle push.
