Deus Ex - Icarus Effect (22 page)

The house hadn't changed much since she had visited it, and she concentrated, pulling up her memories of that day. Temple had shown Matt

around; she remembered him mentioning something about the basement...

Anna found a doorway in an alcove, behind a privacy curtain. In the dark, it would be easy to miss. Slipping inside, she followed the weakest

sliver of light her optics could detect, and with care, descended a shallow set of steps. She blinked back to a normal vision mode. There, half

hidden behind a few wine racks reaching from the concrete floor to the low ceiling, was a work area. A desk, a monitor, a rudimentary office. It

was cool down here, and the carnage above seemed miles away.

She was two steps into the room when she heard a faint breath. "Temple," she whispered. "I know you're here."

There was a gasp of surprise, and he gingerly emerged from behind the desk, a small pistol in his trembling hand. "You ..." he whispered. "Are

you ... Was this a test?" Temple's face was a mess of conflicting emotions. "Did ... Did I fail?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" she hissed, throwing a worried look at the stairs. If the hit team heard them, it would be all over.

He kept muttering to himself, thinking aloud. "No ... No, it's not that. It's you. It's all your fault!" Temple rose up and aimed the gun at her.

"You should be dead! How did you get away?"

"I had help," she admitted, holding her hands open to show she was unarmed.

"That's why they're here ... Because of you, you stupid bitch! They know! You compromised me and they know it! I'm worth nothing now!

Nothing ..." He choked off in a sob. "Oh god. Everyone is dead. They're coming for me ... They're cleaning house."

Temple's self-pity grated on her and she stepped toward him. "This is the price you pay for betrayal. I'd kill you myself if I could, but that

would let you off easy!"

"You can't know what it was like ..." Temple looked down at the pistol and studied it, turning it toward himself. "They'll find me ..."

"No!" Anna lunged at him and backhanded the man across the face. For a moment they wrestled, and then she knocked the gun away, sending

it skittering out of reach under the wine racks. "I need you alive, you bastard. We have to get out of here!"

"And go where?" He met her gaze and Kelso saw a side of the man she'd never seen before. He was falling apart before her eyes. "You can't run.

You can't hide." Temple snorted. "What do you think is going to happen, Kelso? That you'll get your day in court like all good citizens? They

won't let the Killing Floor be exposed!"

"The what?" She'd never heard the term before.

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.

CHAPTER EIGHT

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?"

A tiny flicker of emotion crossed Hermann's face. "I am a soldier. I follow orders."

Saxon shook his head. "I didn't sign up for this. Not to butcher civvies."

"What did you expect?" Hermann replied, confusion in his tone. "Did you come to the Tyrants expecting to keep your hands clean? That is not

what we do." He tapped the table with an iron finger. "I had thought a man of your experience would have no illusions, Saxon. We do the worst

of deeds in order to protect the world from itself. Because no one else can."

"And who gets to decide?" he shot back. "Don't you ever wonder about that? About who calls the shots?" Saxon leaned closer. "You were GSG

9, right? German police, antiterror unit. When you followed orders then, you were following the law—"

Hermann snorted softly. "When I was with them, the law was a rope around our necks. It kept us from making any progress." He shook his

head. "Do you know what Namir said when he recruited me in Berlin, what made me decide to go with him? He told me that the Tyrants did

not concern themselves with laws. Only justice. The group erased all my connections to the police force and I was happy they did." He nodded.

"What we are doing is right. The ends are justified."

Saxon tried to find an answer that didn't stick in his throat, but before he could frame a reply the door opened and Barrett entered. He

shrugged off his combat armor and gave them both a level look. "Miss me?"

"It's done, then?" said Hermann, his conversation with Saxon dismissed. The other man was almost eager to hear what had taken place in