With the others covering them, two Mogs stalk towards the front of the bank. They stay low, weapons at the ready, looking for something beyond the reach of the Skimmer’s spotlight.

When they reach the bank’s threshold, both Mogs toss their blasters into the air. The entire squad pauses, frozen, stunned by this development.

It’s telekinesis. Someone just disarmed those Mogs with a Legacy.

I give Sam a wide-eyed look. “Nine or Five,” I say. “They’re pinned down.”

Spurred to action, the rest of the Mogs open fire on the darkness of the bank. The two disarmed warriors are lifted off their feet, again by telekinesis, and used as shields. They disintegrate in the flurry of their squad’s blaster fire. Then a desk comes flying out from within the bank. Two Mogs are crushed by the airborne furniture, and the rest backpedal for better cover. Meanwhile, the Skimmer maneuvers closer to the street, its guns coming around, angling for a shot inside the bank.

“I’ll take the ship, you take the warriors,” I say.

“Let’s do it,” Sam replies, nodding once. “I just hope it’s not Five holed up in there.”

I spring out from behind the truck and run toward the action, firing up my Lumen as I go. The nerve endings in my hands feel fried. I can actually feel the heat from my own Lumen, like I’m waving my hand over a candle. The pain is bearable, an obvious side effect of overdoing it today. I push through, quickly tossing a fireball at the Skimmer. My first attack explodes their spotlight, darkening the street. The ship is knocked off course just as it unloads on the bank, the heavy blaster fire carving chunks off the brick side of the building. With the main gun distracted, I hope to see Nine charge out from the bank and join the fray.

No one comes out. Maybe whichever Garde is inside is injured. After a long day of fighting each other and the Mogs, they’re probably more worn out than me.

I hear a sizzle of electricity behind me—Sam firing off his blaster—and watch as the two closest Mogs go up in clouds of ash. Seeing us coming from behind, another Mog tries to duck behind a parked car. Sam yanks him out of cover with his newfound telekinesis and lights him up.

One of the Mogs screams a burst of grating Mogadorian words into a communicator. Probably radioing for help.

Broadcasting our location—that’s not good.

I bound up the hood of an SUV parked conveniently beneath the Skimmer. On my way, I lob a fireball at the Mog with the communicator. He’s engulfed by flames and is soon nothing more than ash pooled around some melted gear. Even so, the damage is done. They know we’re here. We need to get out of here quick.