She let the grenade launcher come out because she needed it out.
The gang leader's grip on the stock was reinforced by the servos in his armor, and trying to pry a weapon from a servo-assisted arm in a pure contest of strength was not something she cared to test.
She had something else in mind. She got both hands on the barrel, the metal hot from firing inside the hub, the drum magazine heavy at the receiver, and she did not pull it toward her.
She pushed. Up and right. Forcing the aim, pointing it at the load-bearing column at the base of the hub's eastern wall, the one that had been carrying the stress of the fight.
The servos drove back against her. He was large, and the armor made him larger, and the resistance was real.
She put her weight into the turn. His arm moved two degrees. Four. Six.
Enough.
She found the trigger guard with her right hand and pressed his finger into it.
