Sam Fisher- Doucet Gang Fight

  Fisher let the half smile he'd been wearing fall from his face. "Stop running your mouth, Lurch, and let's get to it."

  Fisher barely got the words out before Doucet stepped forward, grabbed the arm of the couch, and tossed it aside as though it were a plastic chaise lounge. Fisher heard the distinctive snick of a switchblade opening a split second before Avent charged. The man was fast, but predictable, telegraphing his moves with his shoulders. He slashed wide at Fisher, who stepped back far enough to feel the blade's passage under his chin but close enough that a quick step forward brought him inside Avent's circle. He grabbed the knife arm at the wrist and the elbow, then dropped his own hips and twisted, putting all his weight into the torque. Avent's arm shattered at the elbow. From the corner of his eye, Fisher saw movement--two smaller figures, Georges and Andre--so he spun again, levering the screaming Avent's arm until he came around into their path. Fisher kicked Avent in the back of the knee, dropping him, then shoved him into Georges's legs. Georges stumbled forward. Fisher met him, sidestepping left to keep Georges between himself and Doucet. As he drew even with Georges's head, Fisher lashed out with a side fist that landed on the point of his jawbone, just below the ear. There was a muffled crack as the bone shattered. Georges gasped and went down, writhing. Seeing his two comrades down, Andre hesitated, but only for a moment before he, too, charged in, arms flailing in windmill punches. Fisher took a step back, waited until Andre's weight was on his lead foot, then toe-kicked him in the kneecap, shattering it. As he pitched forward, Fisher rammed his knee forward, catching him on the point of the chin. His head snapped back and he slumped backward, unconscious.

  For a long ten seconds Doucet stared at Fisher, his chest heaving, the veins in his beefy neck pulsing. He glanced around, gave Fisher a sneering grin, and then walked over to one of the recliners. Beside it lay a cricket bat. Doucet hefted the thirty-eight-inch, three-pound length of white willow and squared off with Fisher again.

  "Want to run now, asshole?" Doucet asked.

  "No, thanks. In fact, that bat will suit my needs perfectly. I'm going to take it away and use it on you."

  "How do you figure?"

  Fisher let the smile drop from his face. "You're still running your mouth."

  Doucet charged. He hadn't taken two steps before Fisher's Gerber was out of its sheath. Doucet's left leg was just coming forward when the dagger slammed, hilt deep, into his thigh. The left foot came down and immediately slipped from under the Frenchman as though he'd stepped onto an ice rink. He went down, knife hilt first, into the concrete. Then came the screaming.

- Conviction, Chapter 1