John O'Brien - Conspiracy

With a quick plan set up, Drescoll boards the two Humvees with his and part of Horace’s team. They need to do this quickly yet with caution. He doesn’t know if the shooter has a team for security or not, so they’ll need to proceed cautiously once they are on foot.

The idling vehicles are barely heard as Drescoll folds the map and prepares to move out. The sun’s rays shining down provide no warmth, its brightness in direct contrast to how he feels. Tension mounts with the upcoming operation and his stomach is churning, again wondering if Allie is okay. Drescoll isn’t really sure if not knowing is a good or bad thing. On one hand, not knowing gives him hope that she is okay, but on the other, it leads his mind down a very dark path. He has never been very good with not knowing things; they weigh heavier on his mind. His thoughts always tend to wander down the darkest path available. Climbing into one of the Humvee passenger seats, he looks at the clouds gathering on the horizon. That is more of how he feels — that there are dark clouds gathering.

Taking a long route around the area, Drescoll is antsy and has a difficult time not telling the driver to accelerate. Every fiber is pulled tight and he almost orders the group to the hospital so he can find out about Allie…to protect her. Of course, if she is with Jack and alive, she will be pissed beyond belief. He tried to be protective of her once and regretted that for the next several days. A memory enters of her smiling up at him, fueling his anxiety.

The two Humvees travel along a road adjacent to Capital Lake. The once pristine park surrounding it is now overgrown. The water is barely visible through the tall weeds as they make their way along its side and turn. Climbing a steep hill, they make another turn and begin heading toward the area where Red Team, Lynn, and the sniper are located.

Entering the edge of town and a shopping area, Drescoll has the driver slow to minimize the sound of their presence. Strip malls line both sides of the street which eventually lead to the large grounds that encompass the Capital Mall. Each shop emits a presence of being uninhabited for a long period of time. Where the glass isn’t outright broken, grime-covered windows stare mutely at the passage of the small convoy.

Drescoll directs them into a Taco Time parking lot where they disembark. The teams quietly gather their gear and check each other over. From here, they’ll proceed on foot, circumventing the building to the south, and begin setting up a perimeter on the far side. He would normally call, informing the others of his progress, but decides to maintain radio silence in case they are being monitored.

They set their intervals and, with a nod from Drescoll, they begin. The large team proceeds cautiously up one of the streets leading around the building circled on the map. With each step, a feeling of dread comes over Drescoll. He has to keep himself in check mentally lest he drive the team at a hasty pace. He gives his head a minute shake to clear it from the negative thoughts crowding it.

Not a sound accompanies their trek through the wide streets as they pass several apartment complexes. Debris is piled up against the curbs with a fine grit of dirt covering the roadways and sidewalks. Warmth streams from the sunlit sky and several birds leave nearby branches at their approach, crossing the street to perch on other limbs. The very air itself feels oppressive, but that is only the tension emanating from the team as they zero in on their prey.

Drescoll plans their route to ensure they won’t be spotted from the sniper’s perch, passing several blocks away from the building itself. He begins leaving teams of two at some of the cross streets, making sure they are well-covered before moving on. He has no doubt the shooter will flee at the approach of the Stryker and plans to set a cordon around the area to catch the person. Alive if possible, but he briefed the team not to take chances and shoot if necessary, especially if there is a security team in place. If they find themselves in a position where they would be outgunned, they are to regroup and report.

Turning down a street on the very edge of town, dilapidated houses to one side and a tangle of fields on the other, he places another team in thick bushes. Making sure the team is well-placed, Drescoll glances down the street to clear it before moving on. His eyes widen and he feels a small jolt of adrenaline. On the side of road, two narrow tracks proceed along the street, creating a barely discernible path through the grit on the surface.

He visually follows the path and notes they come to an end, turning off the street and into the bushes to one side. He signals the rest of them to the find and warily walks beside the path created by the tires. The narrowness of the tracks tells him that it isn’t a vehicle but either a quad or perhaps a golf cart…maybe even a dune buggy. Whatever it is, the tracks were created very recently, seeing as how the tread patterns are still well defined.

With his weapon trained on the spot where the vehicle exited the road, and making sure the others are covering the houses on the other side, Drescoll slowly advances. He fully expects the bushes to erupt in gunfire, but the single set of tires also indicates that whoever drove here didn’t arrive with great numbers.

The silence is almost overwhelming. A few birds call from farther back in the trees but are the only sounds — other than the steady drumming of his heartbeat in his ears. He looks toward the bushes looking for the barest tip of a rifle poking out. His heart almost leaps out of his chest at the flash of movement he catches in the corner of his eye. Looking quickly at the movement’s location, the barrel of his M-4 tracking with his eyes and his finger tightening on the trigger, he glimpses a black and gray striped cat as it disappears around the corner of one of the houses.

He feels like he’s walking on the edge of a razor blade. His nerves are stretched taut, and his breath comes quicker with the rapid flood of adrenaline overloading his body. Drescoll takes a few deep, calming breaths in order to restore his system. Sweat from his brow drips into his eyes and he wipes a hand across to clear them. All other thoughts leave as he is now focused on a single area. The bushes ahead become his entire universe. He looks for any abnormal movement of twig or leaf, listens for a tell-tale scruff of something shifting, an outline of someone hiding in their depths.

He nears where the tracks turn off, every muscle vibrating from tension, every sense highly-tuned. He feels the press of the folding stock against his shoulder, the warm breath across his upper lip as it is exhaled through his nose, the feel of his boot as he puts pressure down with each step, his finger resting on the trigger, ready to deliver violence at a moment’s notice.

Approaching the spot, even the birds have gone silent as if they are intently watching the drama unfold near them and holding their own breaths, ready to take wing. Nothing happens. The tracks lead through the bushes and Drescoll follows with the others behind. Not too far into the thick brambles, he finds a quad behind one of the bushes with branches over it concealing it further. A single set of footprints lead from the four-wheeler paralleling the street. Reaching down, he feels the motor to find it cool. Whoever was here arrived at least an hour ago.

A single set of prints is a good sign as long as this was the only vehicle. Keeping part of the team with him, Drescoll has the others take branches to sweep away evidence of their passage along the street. He then directs them to proceed up the street, erasing their tracks as they go, and take positions farther along. As they move out, he clears the tracks adjacent to the quad. He and his teammate settle into a dense thicket where they can still observe the vehicle and wait.