John O'Brien - Conspiracy

“Horace, proceed,” Drescoll calls after giving the others of his team time to reach their positions.

Two clicks in his earpiece is the only response he needs. Horace should flush the shooter this way, and he’ll be ready. It’s already taken way too long, but they did it right. Unless the shooter rode with another and parked a similar vehicle at some other location, they should have some company soon.

The air within the thicket is oppressively warm. Drescoll, squatting in the bushes, feels trickles of sweat as they make their way down the middle of his back, over his brow, and from his temples down his jawline. A slow brush of his finger across his brow keeps his eyes clear — each movement exaggerated so as to not draw attention. His heart rate has calmed from the heavy, adrenaline-fueled beating of before. The only sound is the occasional buzz of flies being drawn to the moisture his body is producing. His senses are acute as he keeps a sharp eye on the houses across the street.

The prickly heat is annoying as he waits. He expects to hear the sound of the Stryker as it approaches the building several blocks away, but he hears only the continual buzzing as flies alight on his sleeves and bare skin only to take off and land again. A flicker of movement near one of the houses catches his attention. Looking to the location, he sees the outline of a head and shoulders peeking around the corner of one of the houses. Drescoll watches as the head turns slowly from side to side, carefully checking the area.

He feels his heart rate quicken at the sight of the other person and forces himself to be still. Triggering the ambush too early will increase the odds of the shooter escaping. Drescoll wants to alert the others via radio but there may be the chance that they are being monitored. Without warning, the figure steps out from the corner and darts across the road, heading directly for him. Feeling beads of sweat as they drip down his face, Drescoll forces patience.

Let him come to you , he thinks, tightening the grip on his M-4.

As the figure makes his way swiftly across the street, Drescoll sees the person is armed with a carbine and another, longer barrel of a rifle strapped across the running figure’s back. He hears the swish of branches sweeping across the person’s legs as he or she begins making their way through the dense bushes. Entering the small clearing with the quad, the shooter glances quickly around and then, sliding the M-4 style carbine in a long holster situated across the handle bars, he climbs on. Drescoll rises.

Hearing the sound of someone nearby, the shooter reaches for his side.

“That’s not a very good idea. You’ll be dead before it clears the holster. Slowly put your hands on top of your head,” Drescoll states, his red dot centered on the individual’s head.

The figure complies and, still sitting on the quad, laces his fingers on top of his head. Drescoll steps through the bush to have a clearer line of sight.

“Tie his hands behind his back,” Drescoll says, nodding at his partner.

His colleague lets his M-4 dangle from its sling and steps forward. The shooter, with lightening quick reflexes, turns and attempts to grab the teammate. Drescoll, anticipating something of this sort, steps in and, reversing his M-4, slams the butt into the back of the shooter’s head. The man falls forward, tumbling off the vehicle, and lands facedown with one leg hanging on the seat. The shooter doesn’t move.

With caution, Drescoll ties the man’s hands and calls the other teams, cautioning for them to keep a lookout for anyone else.

With Drescoll’s radio call of capture, I check the surrounding buildings through my scope and, seeing nothing, we cautiously ease out of our cover. I immediately head to McCafferty. Looking closer at her wound, I see that there wouldn’t have been anything we could do for her even if we’d administered first aid right away. The round hit her in the throat and tore a large portion of it out. The only redeeming facet is that she wouldn’t have known what hit her. Looking down at her, she seems even smaller. I feel the deep pain of grief grab my heart, and the first hot tears come. Barely hearing Drescoll call again, I have him make his way to the hospital.

With the others looking on with saddened faces, Gonzalez and I clean Allie’s wound as best we can. Faint screams of night runners drift out of the hospital and across the area. I look up at the arrival of the Stryker and Humvees several minutes later. I begin to rise to meet Drescoll when I feel Lynn’s hand on my shoulder.

“I’ll handle this,” she says, rising and walking across the tall grass to meet the arriving teams.

As Lynn heads over to meet Drescoll, Horace and her team half support and half drag a man to where we are gathered around Allie. Arriving, they release him and he drops to his knees. His hands are tied behind his back and he appears groggy. As his knees hit the ground, he raises his head and stares at me expressionless.

He appears only a little younger than me and is clean cut with a few days stubble showing. It only takes one look for me to know two things. This man is a professional and is the type that puts his skills to use for someone else. That means someone sent him. We need to figure out whom; but just as importantly, why. The presence of the quad indicates he had to come some distance, but that distance is also a limited one. We need to find out how far away the camp is. I’m surprised to find that he is alone; shooters usually work in teams. We could have missed his partner or partners, but I have no doubt that there are others nearby. That leaves two options — they either have an established outpost somewhere close or that their major encampment is. Regardless, there are others out there that we need to find.

Looking down at the man, I know this guy didn’t come from any ordinary group of marauders. If he did, he would be leading them and more than likely not running missions. Yes, there is a lot that can be gleaned from a three-second look. The question running through my mind is how they tracked us and found us at the hospital — that they knew to meet us here.

There is the possibility that we were a target of opportunity but, in my mind, the scales tip toward a planned operation judging from the skillset I am assuming the shooter has and the fact that the quad was found camouflaged. I’ll know more once I look through his gear, but if this was a planned operation, then it has much larger ramifications. This camp or outpost must be found almost as urgently as destroying the remnants of the hospital night runner lair. We may be able to do both this afternoon. If we can locate the camp/outpost, there is the chance we can capture the others. However, I won’t risk more of our teams in an all-out assault if it looks to be too difficult. More people to interrogate would be nice because, looking at the man staring defiantly at me, he won’t be talking anytime soon. He has the appearance of knowing the game. We’ll have to make the call when we see what we are dealing with. We may just have to use the Spooky and take them out.

With the distant shriek of night runners for company, our eyes lock for a few seconds.

“You missed,” I state.

It pains me to say this because his miss is why Allie is lying on the ground near my feet. However, the tone with this man needs to be set. He won’t be showing any weakness and neither can we.

Breaking eye contact with him, I look to where Lynn is talking with Drescoll. I watch with deep sorrow as Lynn delivers the news. Drescoll’s head falls and Lynn puts her arm around his shoulder. They stand that way for several moments before slowly making their way to us.

Gonzalez is kneeling by McCafferty’s side with one hand on her shoulder, her head down and tears falling to the ground. Drescoll arrives, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and kneels down. Gonzalez meets his eyes, pats his shoulder, and rises.