Sam Fisher- Fighting Stolen Splinter Cell Gear

  Fisher pressed himself flat to the pillar and weighed the assault rifle in his hands, trying to gauge how much ammunition remained in the sickle-shaped magazine. He guessed it had been full when he grabbed it from the dead soldier, but in the first engagements of suppressing fire, he had to have burned off at least two thirds of the rounds.

  Need to make every one count. Fisher flicked the Type 88’s fire-selector to single shot and drew the rifle’s butt close in to his shoulder. The gun only had iron sights, but that would have to be enough.

  His opponent had the technical advantage, by leaps and bounds. Not just the Splinter Cell’s tri-goggles turning the near darkness of the atrium daylight bright, but the highly accurate rifle loaded with hollow point rounds that could rip open an unarmored body with a single hit.

  He tags me, I’m done. The equation was as simple and as lethal as that.

  The way the bigger man had moved made it clear to Fisher the shooter had a plate carrier vest, so even if he got rounds on target at center mass, there was no guarantee Choi’s man would go down and stay down.
...

 Fisher rocked on his heels, and then like a sprinter at the starter’s pistol, he burst out of the shadows and stormed across the atrium, away from the man with his rifle.

  The thickset soldier tracked Fisher with the weapon, leading his target, firing and missing. but close enough that the buzz of the bullet seemed to go right through Fisher’s hearing.

  The soldier flinched and cursed as Fisher’s path took him straight in front of the hot plume of fire from the burning helicopter. Fisher had counted on the man with the rifle being too fixated on his objective to see it coming, and his gamble paid off. He kited the shooter into staring right at the flames through the tri-goggles, giving him a shock like someone looking straight into the midday sun.

  Briefly dazzled, the shooter reached up and tore the goggles from his head and threw them aside, backing away, one hand rubbing at his eyes. With the rumbling fire-glow behind him, Fisher stood out as a black silhouette, but the light falling past illuminated the atrium and gave him the exact position of his attacker.

  The other man knew what was coming and dropped down to one knee, reducing his profile as he fumbled along the side of the marksman’s rifle to ratchet another bullet into the breech. With zero cover between them, even half-blinded, the shooter would not miss this time.

  Fisher ran at him, firing the last three rounds from the Type 88, hearing the dull clack as the breech locked open and the magazine emptied. The first and second shots flashed off the tiled floor in yellow sparks of impact, but the third hit meat and bone, striking the shooter in the thigh with enough shock force to throw him backward.
...

  Blood jetted from the ugly wound in the soldier’s leg, and Fisher knew it was a death sentence. The tumbling round from the Type 88 had ripped through the man’s thigh and opened his femoral artery on the way out. He’d have minutes at best, before he bled out on the cold floor.

  But rather than surrender to it, the assassin was still desperately trying to work the bolt of the marksman rifle, even as Fisher walked up to him. The weapon had jammed in his inexpert hands, a shell casing glittering where it had caught in the ejector port.

  Growling like a dog, the soldier saw Fisher coming and let the gun drop, grabbing at a battle knife sheathed at his hip.

  “No.” Fisher dropped his boot heel on the man’s hand, grinding it against the tiles, then glanced at the fallen rifle. “That doesn’t belong to you.”

- Dragonfire, Chapter 30