James Swallow - Deus Ex - Icarus Effect

He studied the map as he came closer. On the flight in, Namir had discussed the next operation in brief. Detroit was home to a corporation called Sarif Industries; Saxon had heard of it, a cutting-edge cybernetics research and manufacturing concern that specialized in boutique tech off the axis of most people’s budget. According to Namir, Sarif had forcibly indentured a group of scientists, who were now being held against their will in the company’s main research and development facility. The Tyrants were going to go in and extract these people, and “restore the balance.” He wondered how much of that was true.

Barrett played around with the map control and shifted the image to a plan view of the Sarif facility. They were planning a rooftop assault, and the timing had to be perfect.

“We have a narrow window of opportunity to breach their perimeter,” said Namir. “Some of the Sarif staff are heading out to Washington for a meeting with the National Science Board, and there’s a weapons demonstration taking place on-site for a representative from the Pentagon. As such, their focus will be split on that and preparations for the trip. We also have an electronic interdict ready to deploy, but for now, we’ll wait here for the word before we move to the forward waypoint in the city.”

“Weapons?” echoed Saxon. “I thought Sarif was all neural implant tech and athlete-grade cyberlimbs.”

Namir gave him a long look. “That’s part of the reason we’re going in.” He pulled the map back out to a higher scale, and Saxon got the message that he wasn’t going to give him any more details. “Some of our… associates have secured a holding area for us here.” He pointed a slender steel finger at a location out in the city’s industrial wastelands. That’s our waypoint once we clear the objective and exfiltrate. There will be some postmission cleanup to go through at that location, then we’ll decamp and return here for departure.”

“What kind of threat force will we be facing?” asked Hermann.

Barrett answered before Namir could speak. “A bunch of rent-a-cops. Some embedded security tech. Nothing that’ll make you break a sweat.” He shrugged, the action exaggerated by his augmented arms. “Hell, I could do this number on my own. We could leave half of you on the bench for this one.”

Saxon met Namir’s gaze. “Is that right?”

The Tyrant commander released a sigh. “I’m still working out the tactical details. The information we have received on the objective so far has been… incomplete. I decided to mobilize the whole unit in case it is needed.” He smiled thinly. “After all, it’s better to have an asset and not need it, than to need an asset and not have it, don’t you agree?”

“Can’t argue with you on that score,” Saxon admitted. Next to the display there was a data slate showing what seemed to be personnel files. He picked it up and studied them. “These are the marks?”

Namir reached over and took the screen from him. “That’s right. Along with some other actives who may be encountered in the area of operations.” He hesitated, then called up a different file and showed it to Saxon. “Take a look at this. Give me your first impressions.”

“All right.” Saxon studied the screen, a little warily. Looking back up at him was a younger man with a narrow, angular face and hard eyes. A loop of footage a few seconds long ran past, perhaps snagged from a security camera feed. The guy had no visible cyberware, but the way he carried himself immediately set off a warning in Saxon’s mind. “This guy’s not a rent-a-cop,” he said. “Trained. I’d bet on it. Not military, though, not a spook either. A federal agent? Some kind of copper?”

“That’s a good read. He’s a former officer of the Detroit police department, Special Weapons and Tactics unit. Currently heading up physical security at Sarif Industries.”

Saxon read the man’s name out loud. “Adam Jensen.” He scanned the other pages in the man’s file. His eye dithered over marksmanship records, details of Jensen’s police career, and information about a discharge from the force that said more by what it left out than what it didn’t. What he read there crystallized his thoughts. “He’s no day-player.”

Someone made a spitting noise behind him, and Saxon turned to see Hardesty approaching.

“Jensen’s a flatfoot,” he sneered.

“An ex-flatfoot,” Barrett added, with a derisive snort.

“My point,” Hardesty replied, nodding. “He’s not even that. He’s just a broke-ass cop, out of his league. No threat to us.”

Saxon answered, keeping his eyes on Namir. “You shouldn’t underestimate this guy. Read the file. He’s tenacious. Men like that don’t go down easy.”

“Like knows like, is that it?” Hardesty came closer.

“I guess.” He shrugged and handed back the data slate, glaring at the other man. “Let’s just say I can tell the difference between someone who is a professional, and someone who pretends to be.”

For a long second, Hardesty balanced on the edge of the veiled insult; then he gave a humorless smirk. “Useful. You gotta teach me that sometime, limey.”

Namir blanked the holograph map with a wave of his hand. “Get your gear together and stand by. We need to be ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.”

U.S. Secret Service Headquarters—Washington, D.C.—United States of America

In the basement of the agency offices there was a holding area with cells and a processing office. It didn’t see much use on a day-to-day basis and it was a lot cleaner and well appointed than its NYPD equivalent, but the function was the same. A cell was a cell was a cell.

They took all her gear, including the flash drive, the doctored badge, and her car key; Agents Drake and Tyler were dogged but they were smart, and she guessed that sooner or later one of them would head outside to the parking lot to go looking for her vehicle. Anna found herself hoping that D-Bar had been quick enough to hot-wire her nondescript Navig sedan and get the hell out of there when he’d heard the scuffle over the headset; she’d left the line open all the way.

They took her watch, so she had no way to reckon the passing of time. Maybe under normal circumstances she might have sat there on the plastic mattress and fretted about what was going to happen; but the crash was on her and she surrendered to it. Anna let herself go and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

When Tyler woke her, it was like dragging herself up from the bottom of the ocean, as if her conscious mind were wrapped up in anchor chains that kept trying to pull her back to the dark and to sleep. Shrugging it off, she rose and followed him, grim-faced, down a corridor to an interview room. This, too, mirrored the one she’d been in at the 10th Precinct.

Inside: a plain table and a few chairs, the console of an audio and video recording system built into the wall, and Ron Temple. His arms were folded in front of him, and his face had an expression on it she’d never seen before. It wasn’t fear or anger, but some strange merging of the two.

Anna couldn’t help herself. The moment she saw him, she went for him. “You fucking bastard-!”

Tyler was right there to stop her, and he caught her in an armlock, twisting the limb back until Kelso grunted in pain. “Calm down, Anna.”

“Go screw yourself, Craig!” she retorted.

“Sir?” Tyler gave Temple a questioning look, and his superior nodded toward the other chair. In quick order, the agent pushed her into the seat. Anna’s cuffs slammed into the tabletop and were held there by an invisible electromagnetic inductor coil.

“I’ll take it from here,” said Temple. “Wait outside.”