Sam Fisher- Brass Punch

  Zdrok holds a pair of brass knuckles. He makes a big show out of slipping them on his right hand, over black leather gloves. While he does this, Hendricks motions for me to stand. I have no choice so I do so. He then moves behind me and tightly wraps his arms around my chest, preventing me from going anywhere.

  “Don’t try any of your Krav Maga moves, Fisher,” Hendricks says. “I’m quite proficient in self-defense myself.” I know he speaks the truth.

  “Mr. Fisher,” Zdrok says as he approaches me, “you have seriously damaged my company over the last year. It gives me great pleasure to hurt you in this way.”

  With that, he carefully lifts his fist, aims at my stomach, and lets me have it with as much force as he can muster. When the brass knuckles connect to my solar plexus it feels as if my entire abdomen has exploded. The pain is worse than anything I’ve ever known and I’m overcome by a wave of nausea and blackness. I vaguely remember falling to the steel floor like a sack of rice.
...

  And my stomach hurts like hell. A horrendously ugly bruise covers my solar plexus and I fear there may be internal damage. For the first day or so there was blood in my urine and stool but that seems to have subsided. Nevertheless, the area of my body between my rib cage and hip bones is in constant pain and is incredibly tender to the touch. Those cracked ribs I sustained in Los Angeles don’t help either. Zdrok’s brass knuckles really did a number on me. I hope I don’t have a ruptured spleen or something like that, but then again I’d probably be much sicker than I am if that were the case. I’m no doctor. If any of those internal organs were indeed busted up, wouldn’t I be dying? I suppose I should be thankful I’m not worse off than I am.

- Operation Barracuda, Chapter 35