"Here," Desmond said simply. He placed the phone on Rebecca's desk with a small clunk.
"Awesome work, Dez!" she said. Desmond was irked by her chipper attitude.
He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it, and grabbed a cold can of beer. It let out a loud, fresh hiss and he chugged it. Finishing about half, he set it back down and closed the door. He went for his cot. He lied down.
He started at the ceiling angular ceiling. He reflected on his victim's last moments, all the blood...Here was Desmond Miles, across the ocean, a killer, in a life he had long ago tried to escape.
He remembered his old enclave in rural America. So many of those people, his family, were now dead. What would have happened if he had stayed? He would probably be dead, killed in a firefight with Templar thugs not unlike those who had come to warehouse. He could just imagine, loud bangs, his fellow Assassins falling, a P226 in his hand (the gun he had held right before he had decided to run away).
It was an ugly, ugly world.
Desmond closed his eyes. But he did not see the man he killed or see his parents. He saw something else.