When you see power about to collide with power, and you hear somebody yell for you to hit the deck, you'd better fucking hit the deck.

So Mercer threw himself at the ground and yanked his cap down over his eyes as the explosion hit.

And now he straightens, cautiously, pushing his hat back, blinking away the edges of afterimages. He still can't feel much in his left shoulder except a singleminded stabbing ow, but the sky seems to be clear -- and the weight of the Dark is gone.

Triumphant, he lets out a hoarse whoop like a sports match spectator and punches the air with his good arm.