Sam Fisher- Stun Baton Guards

It was the same pair from ear­li­er, the Rus­sians with the Vympel train­ing and the Mos­cow ac­cents; one tall with a flat-top hair­cut, the oth­er broad-shoul­dered and rat-faced. They pulled their stun ba­tons as they came at Fish­er, each half-me­ter rod end­ing in a pair of met­al tines that sparked with elec­tric­i­ty.
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The guy with the broad pro­file had been first through the door and he closed the dis­tance, swing­ing his ba­ton down and to the right. Fish­er took ad­van­tage of the slop­py, re­ac­tive open­ing, rush­ing into the at­tack. With one open palm, he de­flect­ed the weap­on away, and with the oth­er hand he struck at the man’s neck with a fang choke, grind­ing his thumb into the soft tis­sues of the guard’s throat and ap­ply­ing crip­pling com­pres­sion to his col­lar­bone.

The guard grunted in pain and tried to jab him with the flail­ing ba­ton, but missed, in­stead stab­bing it through the pro­tec­tive pan­el over an­oth­er of the serv­ers. In­creas­ing the pres­sure, Fish­er felt bone break in his iron grip, and he hooked the broad-shoul­dered man’s an­kle, pull­ing a foot out from un­der him. The guard crashed back­wards, stumbling over an of­fice chair on cas­tors, and went down.

His taller com­rade danced back out of Fish­er’s range and reached up to tap the ra­dio mike clipped to his jack­et, in­tent on call­ing in a warn­ing. Fish­er re­acted, kick­ing an­oth­er chair, send­ing it spin­ning across the room and into the oth­er man.

Knocked off-kil­ter, the guard let go of the ra­dio to steady him­self, and in those split se­conds, Fish­er crossed the dis­tance be­tween them and ex­e­cut­ed a flaw­less Krav Maga hook punch. The blow land­ed, but the guard chewed down the pain and stood his ground. The glow­ing tines of the stun ba­ton came up at Fish­er’s chest in a stab­bing mo­tion.

He blocked with his fore­arm and felt a tin­gle as the aura of the elec­tric charge raced over his tac­ti­cal suit’s pro­tec­tive out­er sheath. The ba­ton strike failed to con­nect, the sharp tines skidding off his arm. Fish­er re­versed the move, grab­bing his op­po­nent’s wrist and break­ing it. The taller guard howled and lost his grip on the prod, the weap­on fall­ing to dan­gle from its lan­yard.

Fish­er used an el­bow strike to knock the man into a serv­er stack, and he kept up the mo­men­tum, hit­ting him again and again un­til the guard’s eyes rolled back, and he slumped for­ward.

Move­ment flick­ered at the cor­ner of Fish­er’s vi­sion, and he grabbed his semi-con­scious op­po­nent, swing­ing him into the path of what­ev­er was com­ing. The oth­er guard, one arm hang­ing limp­ly where his right col­lar­bone had been bro­ken, re­acted too slow­ly to stop him­self from jab­bing his ba­ton into his com­rade’s bel­ly. Blue sparks crackled and Fish­er smelled burnt cot­ton as he slammed the se­cond guard into the first.

“Bas­tard.” The guard with the cracked bone spat the ep­i­thet in gut­ter Rus­sian, and he went at Fish­er again, us­ing the ba­ton like a short sword.

Fish­er let the man come in close. Duck­ing a wild swing, he planted a hard blow from his palm heel right into the bro­ken col­lar­bone.

This time the guard screamed as the jag­ged edges of the split bone ground against one an­oth­er, but not for long. Fish­er sent an­oth­er hit into the man’s throat and this time he went down and did not rise again.

Fish­er knelt next to the un­con­scious guard and pulled the ra­dio loop from his ear, hold­ing it up to lis­ten.

- Firewall, Chapter 15