Halo Evolutions: Palace Hotel, Chief running + gunning

The Spartan inched forward in uncanny silence, carefully gauging the distance between himself and the Jackal. He positioned his feet on the tunnel floor, assessing his footing and evaluating the strength of the concrete beneath him, He was less than seven meters away from the alien when its head snapped to the side with a start, inhaling sharply. John sailed forward- covering the distance in two strides, his left arm a blur shooting forward, index and middle fingers outstretched together to form a spike.
...
―Chief, I believe I can honestly say that even though you are an honest-to-Buddha one-man death squad, and that if you were to ask nicely I‘d give up my lucrative career in the Corps and start pumping out your babies as fast as you could put them in me, there is no way that I am gonna run across fifty goddamn meters of open terrain covered by three Jackal snipers that I can see just to jump into an open vehicle.
...
The concrete beneath the Spartan had turned to dust and gravel as he launched forward. Barely a half second had passed and he was already 10 meters away...[Palmer] looked up from her boots and saw that his hands were no longer empty-his right hand now held a massive hard-chromed M6D, and a spare magazine was in his left. 8 thunderclaps rang out so fast that they bled together into a single long roar...With one hand at thirty meters and a dead run, two shots apiece, each a hit to the head or neck, what the holy hell are my men even aiming at back there.
...
And then her view was blocked by a wall of green armor; there was a loud crack and a flash of golden light. The Spartan had spun to face her; she saw her own reflection in his visor for a fraction of a second, then he dipped slightly before popping into the air, sailing backward three and a half meters above the ground—smoke trailing from the inside of his right arm. Four more rapid-fire thunderclaps roared in her ears; the magazine dropped out of the Spartan‘s M6D, his left hand slamming the fresh magazine up into the well and flicking to catch the empty one as it fell, the huge pistol now latched onto his right thigh, the empty magazine stowed, and his knees tucked up to his chest as he continued through the air over the Warthog. Three fingers hooked the crossbar and the vehicle rocked as the Spartan swung down into the charred remains of the driver‘s seat