The roar of the gun was like a hurricane, a mountain flood, the wrath of God. One moment the church stood atop the ridge as it had for generations, silent, vine-strewn, a cheery glow pouring from the windows. The next it was exploding outward, its bright, warm light a shower of biting points raining down on the captives. Enormous blocks of stone slapped down in the sodden road around them and shot up tall plumes of wet black mud.
-From Broken Glass: Prologue
