Sam Fisher- Skylight Shooting

Down in the hall, Kobin scrambled over a low ta­ble and sprinted deeper into the vil­la, head­ing to­ward the rear of the build­ing. He didn’t see the stocky guy with the PKM com­ing af­ter him, tak­ing his time, draw­ing a bead on the flee­ing crim­i­nal.

But Fish­er did. He raised his SC-IS pis­tol and fired three shots, the first to gauge de­flec­tion and shat­ter the glass, the se­cond and third in­stinc­tive­ly cor­rect­ing to strike the gun­man in the chest and head. In the cha­os, no one caught on to where the shots had come from, and the stocky man went down.

“You’re wel­come,” mut­tered Fish­er, as he broke into a jog, par­al­lel­ing Kobin’s move­ments be­neath him.

More sky­lights marked out the path of the long hall­way be­low, and Fish­er glanced down as he passed them, track­ing Kobin’s path. Oth­er armed thugs who had bro­ken in from out­side were fol­low­ing him, in­tent on fin­ish­ing the job their com­rade had started.

Mark­ing each threat in his mind’s eye, Fish­er took up a fir­ing po­si­tion and ex­e­cut­ed a se­ries of pin­point kills through the sky­lights, shoot­ing down into the hall­way, cross­ing off Kobin’s pur­su­ers in short or­der.
...

Clip­ping on to the oth­er end of the black rope, Fish­er flicked down his tri-fo­cal gog­gles and ac­ti­vat­ed the so­nar pulse func­tion, send­ing an in­vis­i­ble wave of en­er­gy down through the walls. The ga­rage in­te­ri­or was im­me­di­ate­ly re­vealed to him in a wash of gray, the gun-thugs stand­ing out as red out­lines against the sleek shapes of the cars.

He moved fast and smooth, jump­ing off the frame of the sky­light, boots-first through the glass. Shield­ing his face in the crook of his arm from any tum­bling shards, he dropped four me­ters down to the hood of a BMW road­ster, land­ing square­ly in the deepest shad­ows.

He killed two men with as many rounds in the first half-se­cond, go­ing for headshots to make sure his tar­gets went down and stayed there. The shock and sur­prise of the pow­er cut wore off and the oth­er crim­i­nals be­gan fight­ing back, but they were blind fir­ing, shoot­ing in eve­ry di­rec­tion and at eve­ry jump­ing shad­ow.

Ig­nor­ing the stark flashes of muz­zle flares, Fish­er ducked low and slipped be­hind the BMW, tak­ing down three more of the thugs with care­ful, ac­cu­rate hits. Sweep­ing right, he found the tall man cra­dling the heavy ma­chine gun, the one in charge. His men dead or dy­ing around him, the gang-lord swore in gut­ter Ar­a­bic and sprayed bul­lets in Fish­er’s di­rec­tion.

Fish­er dodged and lit off two snap­shots in re­turn, his SC-IS semi-au­to­mat­ic plant­ing rounds through the ma­chine-gun­ner’s thigh and bel­ly. The tall man fell scream­ing bloody mur­der, pinned to the floor by the weight of his own weap­on.

- Firewall, Chapter 10