Hit by Fomor

It takes an attacker about two seconds to close a gap of thirty feet and get within range for a strike with a knife or fist. Nothing was about five feet closer than that. Eight shots, all of them hits, was damn solid combat shooting.
It just wasn’t enough.
Nothing plowed into me like a runaway truck, sending me sprawling. We both hit the concrete. Pushing against him, I barely managed to keep his weight from coming down on my chest so that it came down somewhere around my hips instead. He seized my right hand and squeezed.
Pain. Tendons tearing. Bones cracking. He shook his arm once, and my Sig went tumbling away.
I didn’t hesitate. I just doubled up, leaning toward him, and rammed the blazing end of the flare into the open flap of his gills.
He screamed, louder than a human being could have, and both hands flew to his throat to clutch at the flare. I got a leg free and kicked him in the chin, hard, driving down with all the power of my leg behind a crushing heel. I heard something crack, and he screamed, flinching. I freed my other leg and scrambled away from him, clutching awkwardly at my right ankle with my left hand.
Nothing tore the flare out, his pale eyes nearly luminous with rage, and came after me, roaring.
I had never been more frightened in my life. I couldn’t get to the damn holdout gun before he reached me, so I did the only thing I could. I ran, blind, into the dark, and he came after me like a rabid locomotive.


Side Jobs, Aftermath, page 410-411