Sam Fisher- Hansen Fight

  A well-laid trap, Fisher thought, as Hansen levered himself upright and spun on his heel, instantly cutting the distance between them by seven feet. Fisher brought the SC pistol up, but the motion of Hansen's lead arm, coming toward him in a flat, backhanded arc, told Fisher it was too late. The shot would go wide. The knife Hansen surely had concealed in his fist, its blade tucked against his inner forearm, was a half second from his throat. Fisher resisted the impulse to backpedal or duck. It would be what Hansen expected, and Fisher couldn't afford to find himself in a protracted, noisy wrestling match with the young Splinter Cell. It was a fight he couldn't win, especially when the rest of the team rushed back in to investigate the commotion.

  Instead, Fisher took a quick sliding step forward, his right hand coming up to block Hansen's knife arm, while his left hand, formed into a fist with his thumb extended, shot forward and plunged into the nerve bundle in Hansen's armpit. Hansen's eyes went wide with pain. His momentum faltered. Fisher clamped down on Hansen's knife wrist, then spun on his heel, around Hansen's back, using the momentum to pull Hansen around and off balance. He slid his left hand down, joined it with his right on Hansen's wrist, then pulled it toward him, torquing the wrist joint at the same time. Fisher could feel the bones and ligaments beneath Hansen's skin twisting, stretching. . . . Hansen gasped in pain. The knife clattered to the floor. Fisher kept moving, however, using his own momentum to keep Hansen stumbling forward until he spun once more, this time changing direction, swinging Hansen's arm back over his head, while side kicking his feet out from under him. He landed with a thud, back flat on the concrete. Fisher dropped his weight, jamming his knee into Hansen's solar plexus. All the air exploded from Hansen's mouth. His face went red as he tried to suck air.

  Fisher reached behind him and grabbed Hansen's knife. Even before seeing it, he knew the feel of its haft, its balance. . . . It was Fisher's own Fairbairn Sykes World War II-era commando dagger. A gift from an old family friend, the FS had for years been Fisher's lucky charm. After Lambert, he'd been forced to leave it behind.

  Now Fisher laid the FS's blade across Hansen's throat. "This is my knife, Ben. Why do you have my knife?"

- Conviction, Chapter 30