Sam Fisher- Gunfight with Vitali and Georgy

Then the odds shifted again as a fa­mil­i­ar, dis­tinc­tive sound reached Fish­er’s ears, a sharp me­tal­lic click fol­lowed by the high-pitched whine of elec­tron­ics pow­er­ing up. The gunmen pulled down vi­sion rigs, bulb­ous crim­son-eyed sen­sors that cov­ered one side of their face – Voron-is­sue gog­gles, as ca­pa­ble as Fish­er’s own tri­ad op­tics.

He threw a glance in the di­rec­tion of the gan­try. They’ll nail me for sure if I make a run for it. Fish­er took a si­lent breath and steeled him­self. So, we do this the hard way.
...

There! From the cor­ner of his eye, the gun­man saw part of the crim­son shad­ows break off and drift away. He turned sharp­ly on his heel, bring­ing in the SR-2 high and tight to aim the weap­on’s bar­rel in the di­rec­tion of the ghost­ly shape.

A man in black, a face hid­den be­hind glow­ing op­tics; that was all Vitali had time to reg­is­ter be­fore the an­gu­lar shape in the in­trud­er’s hand re­leased a brief jag of muz­zle flare.

He tried to veer away, but the mass of his gear slowed his re­ac­tions. Two bul­lets smacked into Vitali’s body ar­mor above his left breast, and dis­tant­ly he knew that the rounds would have hit his throat and face had he moved a heart­beat slower.

Re­flex­ive­ly, Vitali jerked the trig­ger of his weap­on, spray­ing a burst of fire in his at­tack­er’s di­rec­tion. The rush­ing hiss of the rain swal­lowed the sound of the muffled dis­charge, the bul­lets spark­ing off the met­al walls.

Heat and pain bloomed across Vitali’s chest where he took the hits, but the rounds had not penetrated. The rain sizzled as it spat­tered against the dam­aged ar­mor, and he re­cov­ered with a shaky, ag­o­nized breath. Through the op­tic, he saw noth­ing. The in­trud­er had van­ished.

“Re­port!” Georgy called out from the far end of the open deck, his voice com­ing over Vitali’s head­set.

“Sin­gle tar­get with sidearm,” he replied. “Come to me, we’ll trap him be­tween us.”

“Mov­ing!” He spot­ted a shape in the mid­dle dis­tance and saw the red glow of the Voron gog­gles as Georgy jogged back to­ward him.

Vitali went low, as an­oth­er shot came out of the dark­ness, ring­ing harm­less­ly off a steel sup­port post near his head. Once more, he fired two bursts in the rough di­rec­tion of his at­tack­er, but it was like try­ing to snatch clouds out of the sky.

In the wet and the dark, cradled by the roar­ing storm, eve­ry gun­shot was smoth­ered, eve­ry foot­step lost. Vitali’s senses prickled. He was breath­ing hard, la­bor­ing with the pain spread­ing down his chest. Find­ing cov­er, he dropped and probed his tor­so be­neath the dis­tort­ed ar­mor plate, find­ing sev­er­al cracked ribs.

“Where did he go?” Georgy whis­pered in his ear. “I have no tar­get.”

“He’s a man, not a ghost,” Vitali said firm­ly, chew­ing on his pain. Check­ing the re­main­ing am­mu­ni­tion in the SR-2’s mag­a­zine, he drew a deep breath of rust and ra­zors, and ven­tured out of his con­ceal­ment.

The storm cell was on top of the rig now. The light­ning flashed, the an­swer­ing rum­ble of thun­der bare­ly a half-se­cond be­hind it. In that brief mo­ment of sharp-edged il­lu­mi­na­tion, Vitali looked through his na­ked eye and saw the fig­ure in black atop a low mound of crates, train­ing a pis­tol in his di­rec­tion.

This time he wasn’t quick enough to save him­self from the shots that took him down. The first round hit him in the head, the shot shat­ter­ing his cheek­bone and rip­ping open the side of his face. The se­cond round went through Vitali’s neck and sent out a spray of ar­te­ri­al blood.

The wa­ter­logged deck came up to meet him and Vitali felt numb­ness gath­er­ing at the ends of his limbs. Burn­ing with ag­o­ny, he tried vain­ly to press his hand to the rag­ged wound in his throat, but hot flu­id flowed through his fin­gers, fill­ing his nos­trils with a cop­pery reek. He was bleed­ing out, fat­ed to a pro­tracted, ex­cru­ci­at­ing end.

Vitali’s at­tack­er came into view at the edge of his fogged sight, and the only clear de­tail vis­i­ble to him was three, un­blink­ing green eyes. The in­trud­er’s gun came up again, and the next shot was a mer­cy.
...

The in­trud­er had no­where to go, forced back be­hind a pile of crates by Georgy’s shots, into a blind cor­ner of the deck with no ex­its. The gun­man came around fast and ready, aim­ing with his SMG – and found his prey no­where to be seen.

Im­pos­si­ble. He swept left and right, be­fore catch­ing the sound of a low whis­tle over the rush of the rain. Georgy raised his head and the bar­rel of his gun.

The man in black was astride two tiny foot­holds up on the wall, bal­anc­ing like a gym­nast on the bars. He dropped, lead­ing with a balled fist, strik­ing a stun­ning knockback blow that smashed the del­i­cate elec­tron­ics of Georgy’s Voron op­tic into his face.

Howl­ing in ag­o­ny, he fired again and heard the in­trud­er grunt with the im­pact of a bul­let at point-blank range.

Georgy stag­gered back, his face wet with blood, and reached up to tear away the smashed vi­sion-rig. New flares of pain shocked through his skull, and by tou­ch alone he flicked the SR-2 over to its ful­ly au­to­mat­ic set­ting. Squeez­ing the trig­ger, he un­loaded the rest of the SMG’s mag­a­zine in a bray­ing flare of fire, carv­ing a line of lead in his at­tack­er’s di­rec­tion.

He couldn’t see the man in black drop to the deck, one hand clutch­ing at the wound in his side, the oth­er grip­ping a pis­tol. The gun chugged twice, and sent rounds through Georgy’s shin and an­kle.

His scream be­came a drawn-out moan, and he col­lapsed as his legs gave out un­der him. Georgy heard the SR-2’s breech lock open over the spent mag­a­zine, and he fought against a wave of ag­o­ny, fumbling to re­load the weap­on.

He heard heavy steps splash­ing to­ward him, but with his eyes gummed with fresh blood, he couldn’t see the man in black.

“Prashai,” said a flint-hard voice from close at hand.

Fish­er ex­e­cut­ed the se­cond merc with a fi­nal round through the fore­head, and then ex­haled hard, re­leas­ing the pained breath he had been hold­ing in.

- Firewall, Chapter 22, 23