James Swallow - Deus Ex - Icarus Effect

He wasn’t listening. “We are already dead!”

“Not yet,” she said. “You’re my proof.”

He went to the desk and tore through the papers scattered across it. “You want proof? Here. You came back for it, so take it\ ” Temple thrust something into her hands, and she realized it was the flash drive he had taken from her back at the office. “See how far you get!” He was blinking back tears.

Somewhere above them, she heard the crunch of broken glass. Anna grabbed Temple’s arm and twisted it. “I don’t give a damn what you say. You’re coming with me. Move!”

She went back to low-light mode as they emerged into the kitchen. Temple gasped at the carnage and she saw him lurch toward a knife block. He pulled out a butcher’s blade and cradled it in his hands, his breathing fast and shallow.

Across the room, a door opened onto the garden beyond. Anna heard movement in the lounge and she made for the exit. Her hand closed around the latch and she tested it: locked.

From the other room came a metallic click and an egg-shaped object rolled over the threshold, rattling as it came to a spinning halt on the tiled floor of the kitchen.

“No—!” Temple cried out just as Anna’s mind caught up to what she was seeing; she rocked off her feet and slammed her shoulder into the door, wood splintering around the lock and frame. It came open as the grenade detonated with a shriek of combustion. A churning wall of heat and gas picked her up and threw her the rest of the way, sending Anna spinning into the soft, damp grass outside. She rolled as a torrent of glass and splinters rained down on her. Smoke and flame gushed from broken windows and the cracked doorway. Temple was still in there. Too late now.

Anna pulled herself to her feet, the hot stink of the fire choking the air around her; the blast had to have ruptured a gas line. Without looking back, she took off toward the trees flanking the house. As she sprinted away, two figures in matte black combat gear emerged from the smoke, panning their weapons this way and that.

Saxon swore as the explosion from the house caused his night vision to flare out, and he switched modes to ultraviolet. Crouching on one knee a short distance from the silent helo, he peered down the sight atop his rifle and tapped his comm pad. “White, this is Gray. Respond.”

“Don’t get your panties in a bunch ” came the terse reply. “We’re on the way out. Prep for dust off.”

“That’s your take on covert action? Blow the shit out of something?”

Hardesty ignored the comment. “If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you. Meantime, keep your eyes open. We got a possible runner, heading your way. Intercept and execute, if you can handle that.”

Saxon cut the channel without bothering to answer. Rising from the ground he came forward, the rifle at his shoulder, sweeping back and forth. He heard the woman before he saw her, a moment before she emerged from the tree line. She was running across open ground, the last stretch before the rear wall of the Temple estate. On reflex, Saxon pulled the FR-27 tight to his shoulder and flicked the fire selector to single shot; at this range, he couldn’t miss. The assault rifle would put a titanium-tipped flechette round directly on target, enough to tear open an unarmored human body.

Then she saw him and stumbled, staggered, almost lost her balance. Saxon’s finger was on the trigger. The smallest application of pressure and she would be dead; an unarmed woman, a civilian, executed in cold blood.

She stood, frozen, waiting for the kill shot to come.

Ben Saxon was not an innocent. There were more than enough deaths that could be laid at his feet, kills he had made in the heat of battle and through cold, calculating aggression. Lives he had ended from afar, and some so close he heard the escape of their final breath. But then he was a soldier, and that had been war. But this…

The realization crystallized for him. What he was doing now went against every moral code Saxon believed in.

He let the rifle barrel drop slightly, and the woman saw the motion. In a few moments, she was at the wall and scrambling up over it. Conflicted, he watched her disappear out of sight.

As he got back to the helo, the aircraft’s rotors were humming up to full power. Beneath the sound, he could hear the skirl of approaching sirens.

Hermann was already on board, and Hardesty stood waiting. “You get her?” he demanded.

“Nothing out there,” Saxon replied. “If you missed one, they’re long gone.”

“What?” the American grabbed him by the collar, his eyes wide with anger. “I gave you one simple order—”

Saxon said nothing, shook himself free, and climbed into the flyer.

Romeo Airport—Michigan—United States of America

After the helo returned to the barren, isolated airstrip, the rest of the night passed in sullen silence. Hardesty boarded the parked jet in the hangar for what he said would be his “debrief,” but until Namir and the others returned from the operation in Detroit, there was little any of them could do but wait.

The thought of getting back on the jet made Saxon feel claustrophobic, and he walked the apron of the airport, turning over his doubts and his fears, unable to make peace with the disquiet that continued to grow inside him like a cancer.

The unrest he felt was reaching critical mass—he could sense it. All the small details, all the little things he had let pass over the last few months, now they accreted into a mass of contradictions and challenges he could no longer turn away from. He had tried to convince himself that Namir had been right, back in the field hospital—that what the Tyrants were doing was making a difference to the world, holding back a rising tide of chaos; but the longer he went on, the less he believed it. Namir had assured him that they would find the men responsible for the failure of Operation Rainbird, the terrorists who planted the false data that led Strike Six to their doom. But aside from vague promises, nothing had been resolved.

Have I been played for a fool all along? It frustrated Saxon that he could not be certain of the answer to that question.

There was an annex at the side of the hangar building, a line of rooms. He went inside, fatigue dogging him. He felt it rise up; he wanted to rest, to close his eyes and make all of it go away, if only for a short time. But instead of solace he found Gunther Hermann, seated at a plain table with ordered lines of weapon components spread out in front of him. He recognized parts of a Widowmaker, still blackened from being fired hours earlier. A pistol, yet to be dismantled, sat within the German’s reach.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“Taking the air,” Saxon replied irritably. He studied Hermann for a few moments, trying to take the measure of him; but it was impossible to get a read from those eyes. They were dead, like a shark’s.

“You have something to say to me?” said the younger man. The challenge was clear in his manner.

The question came before he could stop himself. “How many people died in that house tonight?”

“All of them.” Hermann didn’t show the slightest flicker of concern.

“And you don’t have a problem with that?”

“Why should I?” He put down the cleaning rod in his hand and studied Saxon. “You heard what Hardesty said. They were targets. They were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Collateral damage.”

Saxon’s jaw set at the man’s matter-of-fact tone. “That’s how you see it, yeah? Black and white? Hardesty says kill and you do it, like a good little dog?”