Deus Ex - Icarus Effect (6 page)

"Okay, nurse, thank you." Someone else coughed and she heard the familiar shuffle of expensive Italian loafers, a door closing. "Hey, Anna. It's

me, Ron. I'm here with Hank Bradley from Division. Just take it easy."

"Ron?" Agent-in-Charge Ronald Temple was Kelso's supervisor, a decent guy with a long career in the Secret Service. She hadn't expected to

hear him. "What's wrong?"

"Agent Kelso ..." The next voice was Bradley's. Anna didn't know the man as well as Temple, just by hearsay and reputation as something of a

hard ass; he was a senior agent working liaison with the Secret Service and the Department of Justice. His presence underlined the gravity of

what had happened. "I'm afraid we had to take your eyes."

"What?" Her hand automatically reached upward. Pads of gauze covered her face, and in a sickening moment of understanding, she realized

that the orbits of her skull were empty. Something hard and plastic protruded through the bandages from one of the sockets.

"We can't talk like this. Wait a second." Bradley came closer and Anna heard the whisper of a cable uncoiling. Something connected with a snap

and she felt a sudden giddy rush of vertigo as an image exploded before her.

She saw a strange figure swaddled in bandages and crowded by electronic devices, like a hi-tech mummy. Monitors and an oxygen cylinder

framed a bruised, puffy face. "I can see again." The figure mimed the words as she said them, and then the point of view shifted, taking in Ron

Temple at the window, framed by sunlight. His round face was tight with concern. "Me. I'm looking at me."

The view bobbed. "I'm running you a feed from my optic implants," said Bradley. A thin, brassy cable extended from inside his right-hand cuff

and into a socket on the temporary eye interface.

"I look like shit," she managed, swallowing a sob.

Temple came to the bed and perched on the edge, taking her hand. "Yeah, sweetheart, you do. But you'll be okay. The doctors got the round

out of you, it didn't hit anything vital. Tissue damage mostly. The Kevlar took the brunt of the impact, slowed it down some."

The next words fell from her in a breathy rush. "Matt's dead. Byrne and Connor, too ..."

Temple gave a shallow sigh. "Anna ... They're all dead. You're the only one in the detail to make it."

"We hoped Hansen, the Belltower guy, might pull through," said Bradley. "They lost him on the operating table."

"How long have I been in here?" She gripped Temple's hand hard.

"Four days."

"The senator?"

Bradley's point-of-view nodded again. "She's okay. We already got a statement from her. That, plus imagery from the traffic cams, and we're

assembling a model of the incident. But that's why we had to subpoena your optics. You're the only one who got a good look at a face. I had tech

forensics from the FBI reconstruct a few stills from the data in the image buffer."

"We'll get you replacements," Temple noted. "Good stuff, new Caidins or maybe Sarif..." He handed her a sip-bulb of water. "I'm sorry you had

to wake up blind ..."

"Thanks for being here, sir," she said, taking a drink of the cooling fluid. "Has someone—" Anna took a shaky breath and started again. "Has

someone told Jenny?" Jennifer Ryan was Matt's wife of some sixteen years. They had two girls, Susan and Carole. She remembered their house

as a warm, welcoming place.

Temple nodded gravely. "She knows. I'm sorry, Anna."

"I understand you and Agent Ryan were close?" asked Bradley.

The other man answered before she could. "Ryan was her ... mentor."

"Something like that," said Anna, the words barely a whisper. She swallowed and straightened up. "Do you have the images with you? Can I see

them?"

Bradley and Temple shared a look. "Okay," said the agent, and he drew a folding Pocket Secretary PDA from his jacket; it opened up, blooming

like a metallic flower. Bradley hesitated, then held it in front of him, tabbing through the virtual pages. "We're sifting through witness statements at the moment, still building the picture."

"Leads are coming together," Temple offered. "We don't have any suspects as yet... These creeps just melted into thin air."

"We had a report about an unmarked helicopter putting down briefly in Montrose Park, but D.C. air traffic control have nothing on that," noted

Bradley distractedly.

"I never saw anything," said Anna, her thoughts churning. "What about evidence at the scene?"

Temple shook his head. "No shells—they used caseless ammo. Fiber traces are a dead end, too. We did get a line on the car they used, though.

License was fake, most of the registration marks were lasered off, but we got a partial from the engine block. Turns out it was listed as stolen

from a shell company that's a known front for the Red Arrow triad."

"I killed one of them," she insisted.

"They torched the corpse before they left," he said. "Thermite grenade. All we got left is a heap of burnt scrap metal and some biological traces

that come up blank on the Interpol register."

Bradley gestured with the PDA. "Here's the picture of the shooter."

Anna studied the grainy, ghostly image through the other agent's eyes. The blond hair, the hard, pitiless gaze of the man who killed Matt Ryan

caught in midturn.

Suddenly she was back there again, collapsed in the street, wet with blood, racked with agony. Waiting for death. A shudder ran through her.

"Why ... Why didn't he kill me?" she breathed.

Temple squeezed her hand. "Best guess is, you lucked out. Black-and-whites from the Georgetown precinct were maybe ten seconds away at

that point. Blondie there probably thought you weren't going to survive a gut shot and decided to buck out instead of hanging around to make

sure."

"But he didn't kill Skyler," she insisted. "Matt, Byrne, the rest of the team, even the guy the senator was meeting, Dansky ... They murdered all

of them, but not her. If it was the triads, why the hell is she still breathing?"

"A warning," said Bradley. "This is the Red Arrow telling Skyler to back off from chasing down the harvesters in SoCal. They're showing her

that she can be got to, no matter where she is, or who's protecting her..." He trailed off and ran a hand through his hair. "This whole thing is a

mess. These people have made the Service look incompetent. Even Skyler's started distancing herself."

"Sure she has. This is Washington," said Temple, with an irritable snort, as if that were explanation enough.

"No," Anna shook her head. She placed her hands flat on the bed and tried to gather her thoughts, tried to screen out the howling emotional

pain clawing at the inside of her, forcing herself to think like a federal agent and not like a woman who had seen one of her closest friends

brutally gunned down in front of her. "You saw that creep in the picture. He's whiter than I am. I worked on a counterfeiting investigation

against the Wo Shing Wo triad in Detroit, back in 2021. Those guys don't hire contractor muscle to send messages, and the Red Arrow are no

different."

"You can't be certain of that, Agent Kelso." Bradley was studying her closely. "Skyler's people have already had the Red Arrow taking shots at

them back in Los Angeles. This is an escalation." She saw her own expression tighten as he spoke.

In her mind's eye, the moment was unfolding again, and she grimaced. "He shot Dansky," Anna insisted. "There was no reason to do that. The

man was unarmed, no threat, not like the rest of us. And then the shooter went back, and he finished him off He executed him."

Bradley was quiet for a moment. "We've already interviewed the staff at Caidin."

Temple nodded. "It was like someone kicked over a hornet's nest in that place ..."

Bradley continued. "Garrett Dansky was meeting with Senator Skyler to discuss some details of..." He drifted off, glancing down at his PDA

again. Anna saw panels of notes, the words "United Nations" and "rumors" leaping out at her. He looked away before she could read more.

"Apparently, the Caidin corporation are concerned about the possibility of some discussions going on at the UN. Something to do with the

regulation of augmentation technology production. Pretty dry stuff. I don't see the Chinese mob having much stake in that kind of thing. Right

now, we don't have anything to suggest that Dansky's death was anything more than just a collateral."

"The fact is," Temple said, "we've got to work to keep on top of this. And you surviving is a break, Anna. I've got a couple of techs outside ready

to debrief you if you're up for it. The more you can tell us, the more we can do about getting these guys. Okay?" He gave her a supportive smile.

Anna tried to return it, and she felt a sob rising in her throat again. Perhaps if they hadn't taken her eyes, she would have cried right then and

there. She hated herself for feeling like this, barely able to control her emotions—the rage and the fury, the anguish and the sorrow that swept

about her like a silent hurricane.

Matt Ryan is dead. The one person she trusted more than anyone else in the world, the man who had saved her life. The man who had given

her a second chance. He had died and Anna had been unable to do a thing to stop it. Her hand instinctively reached for the pocket where the

brass coin would be; but it wasn't there, and her fingers tensed. She thought about the call she'd made, the night before the incident. Matt had

always been there for her, and asked for nothing in return.

"The Service will not stand to let this pass, Agent Kelso," said Bradley. "We will not let these men walk free."

She took a shuddering breath and gave a long nod. "Yes, sir. I'll do everything I can to assist the investigation."

"Good—" Bradley leaned in to remove the wire, but she halted him.

"Before we do that, could I... Can borrow a cell? I need to talk to Jennifer Ryan. She needs to hear it from me."

Temple handed her his vu-phone. "Go ahead. Take your time."

When she was alone, and everything was dark again, she spoke the number for the Ryan household into the device and listened to it dial.

Inside her thoughts, something hard, cold, and beyond anger began to crystallize, like black diamond.

Station November—New South Wales—Australia

He remembered bits of what happened in the time between the drone exploding and awakening in an SAF field hospital just south of the

redline.

He remembered drowning, or something near to it. The slurry of muddy orange-brown water in the fouled creek smothering him like the shock

foam. He remembered the horrible ripping sound of Sam Duarte's execution at the guns of some autonomous robot predator. And he

remembered the shadow, the hulking shadow that waded into the river and dragged him out over the rocks. The voices, talking in languages he

didn't understand.

Saxon lost a lot of time there, or so it seemed. Days and nights blurred into one another. He found it hard to keep the passage of them straight

in his head. Dimly he was aware that they had medicated him. The doctors talked about how the burns that the crash had inflicted on him were

severe. They talked about the damage his cyberlimbs had suffered from the fall into the creek. The Hermes leg augmentations were shot, little

better than scrap metal now; and then there was the litany of malfunctions with his internal implants, the optics and the reflex booster, the

commo and all the rest. All this, without even a mention of how the meat, the human part of him, was faring.

All these things seemed faint and far distant, though. Each time he slept—if you could call it sleep—there were ghosts waiting.

Sam, Kano, all the others from Strike Six, all watching him. They never spoke, they didn't curse him or cry out. Sometimes they were intact,

the black tri-plates of their flexible armor vests pristine and bloodless, gold-faced helmets raised visor-up as if they had just walked in off the