It took a tremendous effort, but somehow the burned man managed to mutter four faint words in feeble protest through his scorched lips. "That...war...is...over."
Saren stood up and pulled his pistol in one smooth motion. "Tell that to our dead brothers." He fired two shots into the turian's head, ending the conversation.
Pistol still in hand, he resumed his inspection of the bodies. He noticed two human corpses near the back wall of the warehouse, noticeably less gruesome than the others. The grenades had detonated up near the front of the building and these mercs had taken less damage. Even the poison would have dissipated by the time it reached all the way back here, explaining why the bodies weren't twisted and contorted like the others. They must have been killed by friendly fire.
He approached the first one carefully, then relaxed when he saw clear evidence that the man was truly dead: six finger-sized holes in a tight pattern showed where the close-range blast of a scatter gun had torn through the front of his protective vest, creating a single fist-sized hole as the rounds exited his back.
The final corpse had fallen facedown in a pool of his own blood. The scatter-gun that must have inadvertently killed the man beside him lay on the ground...a hair's breadth away from the body's limp, lifeless hand.
Saren froze, suddenly wary. Something wasn't right. His eyes scanned the motionless figure, seeking out the lethal wound. There was a gaping hole in the side of his upper thigh, the likely source of all the blood, but because of how he'd landed, no other injuries were visible.
His eyes snapped back to the thigh: blood still should have been dripping from the wound, but the flow was staunched. As if someone had sealed it with a quick application of medigel.
"Move your hand away from your weapon and roll over," Saren called out, raising his pistol and holding it in both hands as he aimed it at the corpse, "or I'll shoot you right now."
After a second, the hand slowly drew back from the scatter-gun. The man rolled onto his back, gasping loudly for air: he'd been holding his breath as Saren approached, trying to play dead.
"Please don't kill me," he begged as Saren took a step toward him, the pistol trained on the spot right between his eyes. "I didn't even fight in the First Contact War!"
"Some Spectres arrest people," Saren said, his tone casual. "I don't."
"Wait!" the man screamed, scrambling back until he was pressed up against the wall. "Wait! I have information!"
Saren didn't say anything. Instead, he lowered the gun and gave a short nod.