St George’s fire breath reaches a few yards / he can crush brickwork with one hand

St. George breathed in a last mouthful of air and sent a cone of fire down onto the street. The tongues of flame lashed down and spun in the air. He swung his head and let it wash across the mob.
He couldn’t actually reach them. The burning chemicals went a few yards from the rooftop and sputtered out a dozen feet above the ground. He didn’t have the lung power for anything more. But it got their heads down and let him leap across the street to the top of the ivy-covered building. He sent another curtain of fire over the intersection and the crowd scattered a bit. Some of them fired into the air.
The flames died and their eyes found him. His bare chest gleamed in the sun above the dark, bullet-scarred jeans. The wind spread his hair behind him like a mane. “If you come to the Mount,” St. George roared, “we will fight.”
He reached down, never taking his eyes from the crowd, and tore a basketball-sized chunk of brickwork from the edge of the building with one hand. He held it up for them to see and then brought his fist around to shatter it.

Excerpt From Ex-Heroes, pg 362
Peter Clines
https://books.apple.com/us/book/ex-heroes/id585738407