Sam Fisher- Karambit Desc

  Fisher gestured for Briggs to go left, take out those two quietly. Fisher slipped off across the snow and toward the other three, holstering his pistol and drawing the karambit from its sheath attached to his waistband just behind the holster.

  The knife was a curved blade variant, a “tiger’s claw” endemic to Sumatra, Central Java, and Madura. Over his long career, Fisher had studied with many close-quarters combat experts, among them world-renowned edged weapon master Michael Janich, who’d taught Fisher to use the blade with expert and deadly efficiency. The karambit’s design made it more easily concealable in the hand as well as offering more leverage while dragging it across the neck, with the ultimate goal of opening an enemy’s head like a PEZ dispenser. The karambit’s outside edge was sharpened, its back blade nearest the handle heavily serrated to be flipped and used to hack through thicker objects or pieces of flesh. By slipping your pinky or ring finger through the ring attached to the bottom of the knife’s hilt, you could switch between forward and reverse grips in a lightning-fast 180-degree stroke. Fisher owned two karambits, one with a silver uncoated blade, the other featuring a DLC, or diamond-like carbon, coating that gave the blade a matte black appearance for better camouflage and protection against reflections that could betray his position.

  Knowing most of this op would be run at night, he’d taken the black blade—which now jutted from the bottom of his fist.
...

  As he came toward Fisher’s tree, Fisher cautiously maneuvered to the side so he could still attack from the rear. Again, the most important part of the assault was getting the troop’s finger away from his trigger. After that, the karambit would communicate Fisher’s will in a way words could not.

  Fisher rose and came up on the troop like a camouflaged extraterrestrial, once part of the mountainside but now morphing into a lethal, three-eyed combatant.

  In that half second when Fisher sensed the troop would whirl around, he reached out and seized the man’s right wrist, yanking it away from the assault rifle.

  The blade was already tearing across the man’s throat before he could yell, and as he fell back toward the snow, Fisher eased him silently to the ground. While grisly, it was necessary to stab him twice more in the heart before he was sprawled out on his back and flinching involuntarily.

  Men did not die instantly from knife wounds the way Hollywood producers wanted you to believe. It took a while to bleed out, but flooding an enemy’s throat with blood ensured he wouldn’t be screaming for his brothers as, in the minutes to come, he finally, inevitably, drowned.
...

  Fisher took the man’s rifle and slung it over his shoulder. He was about to open the man’s belt pouch to draw some spare magazines when he spotted movement farther up the mountain. He dashed off, the thumping of the Black Hawk much closer and certainly welcome. With that racket concealing his footfalls, he wasted no time rushing up on the next troop and working the knife the way a symphony conductor instinctively works his baton. The troop saw nothing, felt only a hand, the edge of the blade, the warmth of his own blood spilling down his chest.

  As Fisher silently finished the job with two more blows, he caught sight of the man’s painfully young eyes, and that youth reminded him of a moment after he’d had a few drinks and his guard was down. His daughter, Sarah, had asked, “Is it easy to kill a man?”

  He’d considered the question for a long time, then finally told her, “When it’s for our country, I try not to think about it. But most of the time I do. And it’s never easy. Or fun. Or anything that should be glorified.”

- Blacklist Aftermath, Chapter 9