I dropped into a crouch and used the sudden dip in weight to drive a pile-driver fist into the hard meat on the outside of his thigh. That’s usually a deal closer. You put 80 percent of your body weight into a downward punch that concentrates all that speed and mass into the surface area of two knuckles and the other guy sits down and cries for mommy. If he’s lucky, and if he has friends to help him, in two hours he’ll be able to limp out to the car. That was the basic plan, and I hit him a doozy. I think the inventor of the side-thrust kick suddenly rose from the dead and yelled ouch. 

Agent Henckhouser winced. 

Didn’t fall down. Didn’t burst into girlish tears. 

He winced. 

Balls. 

And I remembered the thin Kevlar he was wearing. There are all sorts of new experimental body armor materials out there, and some of them could stop more than a bullet. Some were designed to slough off the foot pounds of impact. I had a bad feeling that Henckhouser’s longjohns were making my attacks feel like baby taps.

...

With a roar, Bunny swung a roundhouse left that caught Spinlicker in the stomach and lifted the man all the way off the floor and sent him crashing against the wall. The agent’s mirrored sunglasses flew off and shattered against the cinderblock. It should have ended the fight right there, but all it did was send the agent sprawling. 

“You’re making a mistake,” Spinlicker wheezed as he struggled to his feet. Blood trickled from his ear. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with.”

-Extinction Machine: Kindle Location 265-297