Sam Fisher- Ming's Nightclub Fight

  The Sikh goes inside and I wait nearly three minutes before I become impatient and step into the club. Two Chinese thugs in suits are waiting for me. With no questions being asked first, thick strong arms grab me from behind and hold me with a viselike bear hug. It’s the Sikh and he’s a walking lump of muscle. Once I’m sufficiently immobile, “Joe” and “Shmoe” move forward and take turns delivering spear-hand chops to the sides of my neck. On top of the injuries I suffered in the L.A. limo crash, the pain is immense.

  “Hey! What’s this about?” I gasp.

  “Who are you? Why are you here?” Joe asks in English.

  “I was invited. My name is Fisher.”

  He says, “You were the man at the warehouse. You are an enemy of the Lucky Dragons.” The thug gives me another spear-chop that sends shock waves down my spine.

  At first I don’t know what he’s talking about—there have been so many warehouses in my life. Then it comes to me. The time they had the device that wreaked havoc on my implants. I ended up killing a handful of their men.

  “That’s before I was on your side.” I cough.

  “We don’t believe you,” Shmoe says. He moves in to hit me again but I use the Sikh’s arms as leverage, raise my legs, and kick the man in the face. Before Joe or the Sikh can retaliate, I swing my legs back, bend my knees, and ram the soles of my boots into the Sikh’s knees. He bellows in pain and releases me. That gives Joe time to perform a jump kick, hitting me squarely on the sternum and knocking me backward into the Sikh. The two of us tumble to the ground. The Sikh is pretty much out of the game—I may have broken his kneecaps—so I concentrate on the two Chinese hoods. As Shmoe moves in to kick me in the ribs, I roll toward him like a log and manage to trip him up. He falls into his partner, allowing me the opportunity to jump to my feet. I immediately spin, thrust out my right foot, and connect the heel to Joe’s chin. I follow through, place my right foot on the floor, bend the right knee, and spring forward with my left foot pointed at Shmoe. Bull’s-eye, right in the solar plexus. I drop back, assume a defensive stance, and wait.

  “Stop!” Jon Ming stands a few feet away. He looks at me and says, “I’ve seen you before.”

- Operation Barracuda, Chapter 32