James Swallow - Deus Ex - Icarus Effect

Hardesty’s expression changed. If anything, he seemed reassured. “Well. That’s different.”

“Sir,” insisted Hermann, “we have an objective here, in Detroit. We’ve planned and prepared for it.”

“And now you have a new one. Adaptability is something I require from all my operatives, Gunther. Circumstances on the ground are always fluid. We meet the mission needs as they occur.” Namir’s tone made it clear he would brook no questioning of these orders. He offered Hardesty a data slate. “This isn’t something we can trust to hired hands. Details are here. Transport has already been dispatched for the rest of us. The helo is at your disposal.”

Hardesty nodded, scanning the data. “It’ll be tight. We’ll have to do this quick and dirty.”

“I made that clear to the group,” Namir replied. “It’s not an issue.”

“Fine.” Hardesty passed the slate to Hermann and walked away to brief the pilot of the flyer.

Saxon broke his silence. “This… asset. You want a straight recovery?”

Namir shook his head. “No. Locate, terminate, and sanitize the area.”

Terminate and sanitize. He had just handed them an assassination mission. Hermann passed Saxon the slate and asked another question. “There’s little suggestion of what kind of resistance we can expect.”

“Minor” Namir replied. “Nonlethal embedded security. Perhaps one or two threat vectors, including the target himself. The primary concern is that the asset does not escape and no materials are left behind in any recoverable state.”

Saxon read, and he kept his expression neutral. The location was an expensive gated community, part of a suburb of Washington, D.C., called Great Falls. In the helo, flying full tilt, he estimated they could reach it in less than ninety minutes. The target’s residence was a large home set in grounds and woodland; he ran his finger over the surface of the slate to reveal the next page, and found the face of the person Namir wanted them to kill looking back at him. He read on, and his eyes narrowed. “This man is a federal agent.”

Namir came closer. He nodded, making no attempt to show any disquiet over Saxon’s concern. “Correct. As such, he may be armed. He’s certain to be on alert, given the situation.”

“Which is what?” Saxon insisted. “I’d like to know what requires the murder of a ranking officer of the United States Secret Service.”

“Ben,” said Namir, his human and synthetic eyes measuring him carefully. “You need to believe me when I tell you that this is necessary. You have to trust me. The Tyrants have a mission, and sometimes that mission requires that we make choices that are difficult, ugly… bloody. But I know you understand that.”

“Why does this man need to die?” He didn’t flinch from Namir’s gaze. “What’s the reason behind all this, Jaron? I’ve followed your orders… the group’s orders without question now for months. But blind faith in your CO only goes so far.”

Namir nodded. “I respect your honesty. It’s part of the reason I recruited you. So I’ll give an answer, but it will be the last time, know that. Because I cannot afford to have men under my command who continually question me at every turn.”

The ghost of a threat hung in the air between them, the Israeli face-to-face with him. Saxon tensed, feeling the edges of ready menace coming off the other man; once again he found himself wondering who would prevail if they went against each other. He didn’t like the odds.

“The group has been observing a… situation. This man has been classified as a liability,” Namir went on. “He can expose us to our enemies. What he knows could severely impede our objectives if it were to be revealed to the wrong people. Ronald Temple is a serious threat to stability.”

“And we can’t have that,” said Saxon, without weight.

Namir gave the slightest of smiles. “I knew you’d understand.”

Great Falls—Virginia—United States of America

Configured for stealth and speed, the helo flashed over the countryside at treetop level, ducted blades chopping the air in a low, droning thrum. The pilot kept them off the line of any major population centers or highways, following power lines or river courses as they raced eastward. The radar-transparent polymers and sleek, blended lines of the hull gave the craft the detection footprint of a bumblebee, and in tandem with infrared and ultraviolet baffles cloaking the engines, the flyer was virtually invisible.

“Two minutes ” said the pilot, the words resonating through Saxon’s head over the mastoid comm. He began his final premission ritual, losing himself in the simple, robotic motions, trying not to think about the job he had been sent to do.

Weapons. Equipment. Armor. All secure. He zipped open a gear pouch to check the contents and hesitated; something inside was emitting a soft glow. Hardesty and Hermann were busy with their own checks, so Saxon reached inside. His gloved fingers found the lozenge shape of the disposable phone; the morning they had left London, he had stuffed it into his kit and thought no more about it. He was certain he had deactivated it. Turning the device to conceal it from the others, Saxon tapped the screen.

An error display told him the vu-phone’s digital mailbox was full. He scrolled down and found hundreds and hundreds of text messages, all of them sent from the number he had seen on the side of the advertisement blimp, all of them the same five words: What master do you serve?

Uneasy, he hit the mass delete tab, opened the phone’s case, and disconnected the battery before concealing it once again.

“Will we need electronic support for this engagement?” Hermann was asking, loading heavy-gauge rounds into the magazine of a Widowmaker tactical shotgun.

Hardesty’s tone was dismissive. “Namir said digital interdiction is being handled by other assets, so don’t fret about getting caught on camera. Just do what I tell you.” He sensed Saxon looking at him and met his gaze. “You got a question, too? Make it fast.”

“Ninety seconds to deployment” called the pilot. “ Thermograph can’t get an accurate read… At least ten-foot mobiles inside target structure”

Saxon glanced out the window and saw the flicker of lights below, the soft glow of streetlamps amid patches of darkness. He looked back. “We can do this without collaterals. Cut the power, go in quiet, hit the mark, and extract.”

“Like a ghost, huh?” Hardesty snorted. “It’s funny. You bitched to me that I didn’t have the stones to get my hands dirty in Moscow, but here I am going in at the sharp end and suddenly you wanna soft-pedal it?” He gathered up his FR-27 assault rifle, securing the ammo magazine in place. “How about that. All of a sudden, you’re gun-shy.”

“This is different. There are civilians in there.” The helo dropped into the low grass with a bump and the engine note fell as the rotors went to idle. Through a stand of trees Saxon could make out the house.

Hardesty shook his head. “There’s only targets.” He pulled a lever to let the hatch slide open and thumped Hermann on the back. The German vaulted out into the darkness. Hardesty went next and Saxon followed him, but he’d barely taken a step before the other man placed the flat of his palm on his chest. “Where you going?”

“Namir—”

“Is not in command of this engagement,” Hardesty replied. “I am. And I’m telling you to wait here and hold the landing zone. Y’know, in case a troop of Girl Scouts tries to sneak up behind us, yeah?” He gave a snort and set off.

Saxon stood there, watching the two men melt away into the shadows, his hands tense around the grip of his rifle, a nerve jumping in his jaw. For a second, his finger rested on the FR-27’s trigger. A single three-round burst would put that son-of-a-bitch down…