Sam Fisher- Shot and Drove Off Cliff

  But as Fisher concentrated on the blurry patch of black road rolling out ahead of the truck’s headlights, his body began to dump the adrenaline from the firefight and the escape – and with that came the hot bloom of pain across his lower back.

  A sickly wave of fatigue swelled and his head swam. Fisher grimaced as he reached down and probed the center of the agony, finding a hole ripped through his clothes just above his left kidney. His fingers touched a mess of slick, sticky blood and torn shreds of paper, bits of pages ripped from the hardcover books he’d used as makeshift body armor. At least one round had hit hard enough to penetrate, a ragged through-and-through.

  Had it struck anything vital? He had no way to tell. But blood loss and sepsis and the rest of it would be bad enough. The only thing Fisher could be sure of was the wash of coppery fluid leaking out of him, soaking down his leg and into the seat.

 If I stop to patch myself up, they’ll be on me. And then…

  He made the grim calculation in his head of risk versus reward, and swallowed the pain, keeping the pedal pressed right to the firewall.
...

  The rider screamed in terror, but his comrade the gunner answered with fire, even as the sidecar hung out into open air. The machinegun’s funnel-mouth muzzle vomited flame and at point-blank range the 7.62mm rounds savaged the truck’s front tires and ripped into the engine compartment.

  Black oil smoke washed back into the cab and Fisher felt the steering wheel lock up. With a grinding crunch of compacted metals, the truck finished the business of shunting the motorcycle off the cracked asphalt, and it fell toward the trees, tipping out the soldiers as it went. Fisher pressed the brake pedal again and it sank uselessly into the floor. The wheel wouldn’t shift an inch, and the truck thundered across the apex of the turn.

  Wounded and pushed beyond fatigue, Fisher’s reactions were too sluggish to get him out of the cab before the vehicle left the road and followed the motorcycle into oblivion.

  With a sudden, gut-twisting lurch, he experienced a giddy moment of freefall as the truck roared into open air and tumbled front-first toward the dark mass below.
...

  For the third time in as many days, Fisher had blacked out, this time in a collision as the truck he was driving crashed into the floor of a wooded valley. Part of him had never expected to wake up, but here he was, alive and intact. More or less.

  He probed the parts of his body where he had been wounded, finding a grubby field bandage over the bullet hit in his side. He peeled back a layer and grimaced at the ruddy mess of sutures beneath. Someone had sewn him back up, someone with meatball surgeon skills and little consideration of the niceties.

  Moving made his head swim, but slowly Fisher sat up – and it was then he realized that a cannula line was in his arm. The tube extended away, and to his surprise, it ended in the arm of a middle-aged Korean man in shabby civilian clothes. He dozed in a threadbare chair at the head of the cot beside a wood-burning heater.

- Dragonfire, Chapter 22, 23