John O'Brien - Conspiracy

“Everyone, into the house. Move!” he calls over the radio.

The team rises and begins to back quickly into the yard, covering their sectors. Once they hit the waist-high grass, they turn and sprint. Franklin catches Krandle and runs alongside of him.

“Are we going inside?” Franklin says.

“That’s the plan,” Krandle answers.

“What about night runners?” Franklin asks.

“That’s a possibility versus a certainty. We need cover,” Krandle states, the grass parting as he rushes through.

The team plows through bushes lining the edge of the circular drive without slowing. Pounding across the concrete, they near the elegant front door. Gunfire erupts from across the street. Solid ‘thwacks’ hit the side of the house from rounds being directed at them. A window nearby crashes inward with a tinkling of glass. The team continues their mad dash amid rounds filling the air around them, intent on reaching the door.

Krandle hears the zip from rounds passing too close for comfort before they impact the wall just ahead. He and Franklin both lower their barrels as they mount concrete steps leading to the entrance. They fire into the door latch and jamb, splintering the heavy wood. Together they crash into the door shoulder first.

The door gives and the two of them stumble into the interior with the others hard on their heels. Clerestory windows set high on the walls coupled with picture windows sheds a lot of radiant light into the foyer they crashed into. A wide set of stairs, filling much of the entrance hall, leads upward, the top of them lost in darkness. Hallways along each side of the stairs lead farther into the house, the light transitioning to gloom until they also fade into an inky black. Arched entryways lead into rooms to the left and right. Rounds continue to impact the side of the house with compact thunks.

“Is anyone hit?” Krandle calls out, recovering.

The team does a quick pat over their bodies and signals that they are okay. Somehow, none of the bullets connected.

“Speer, Ortiz, take the left and cover our flanks. Franklin and Miller, take the right. Blanchard and I will take the immediate front,” Krandle says.

Speer and Ortiz dart through the archway to the left. Franklin and Miller dash into the room to the right. A loud, penetrating shriek erupts from somewhere in the darkened upstairs causing the hairs along Krandle’s arm to stand upright. They’re in the light, and as long as they keep it that way, they should be okay. That knowledge doesn’t make the fact that they are in close proximity to a night runner any easier. He kneels in broken glass by the side of the large window that was shot and looks out.

Across the street, flashes of light appear from the shaded areas under trees and from bushes. The fire is coming from more than a few locations, giving Krandle a picture that they are facing at least twenty people. The solitary twinkles of light tell him that only single shots are being directed at them from each location.

At least we don’t have to deal with auto fire , Krandle thinks.

“Okay, guys, talk to me? What do you see?” Krandle asks over the radio.

“I know what I hear,” Speer replies.

“Just stay in the light and we’ll be fine,” Krandle says.

As if to bring light to the subject, another loud scream echoes through the interior. Krandle turns sharply toward the sound but doesn’t see anything in the blackness.

“We’re taking fire from across the street. They’re at the back of the houses and in the bushes. Nothing from the sides so far,” Speer says.

“Same here,” Franklin states.

“Anything from our three friends who crossed the street?”

“Nothing as of yet,” Franklin answers.

“Okay, keep in mind that they’re there. Are you able to cover the sides from your position?”

“We have good lines of sight here,” Franklin replies.

“So do we,” Speer chimes in.

A round strikes one of the shards of glass hanging in the frame next to Krandle’s head. He instinctively ducks as the bullet streaks down one of the hallways.

“Motherfuckers,” Krandle breathes. “Okay, we need to take control of this situation. Suppressive fire.”

The sound of breaking glass comes from the other rooms causing the night runner, or night runners, upstairs to emit another piercing shriek. Muffled bursts of fire pour out of the house. Several tracer rounds streak outward and sail into the shadows between the houses across the street. Making sure to keep his barrel from poking out of the window, Krandle spins toward the opening and aims toward one of the bushes across the way. Easing back on the trigger, he feels the familiar push against his shoulder as he adds his fire to those of his team.

One of the rounds of his initial burst contains a tracer. He watches as it sails across the roadway and connects with the bush. Leaves fly up and he has the impression of something solid slumping to the ground in the dimness behind. Leaves slowly settle to the ground and are whisked away in the breeze. Seeing a flash, he moves his barrel just a touch and sends another burst downrange.

The return fire slackens but doesn’t stop. Krandle knows they can hold here for a while as long as they aren’t hit. Eventually, though, they will run low on ammo and be forced to make a break for it. They won’t be able to take down the numerous people arrayed against them. At some point, they’ll have to extricate themselves. So far as he knows, the only way out is the way they came.

With the slackened fire and the team having gained, if not the upper hand, then at least an equilibrium, Krandle has them switch to semi-automatic fire to conserve ammo. Keeping the three in mind, he wants to check out the rear of the house. The dark halls and presence of night runners will keep his immediate back side clear, but that doesn’t mean that others can’t approach from the rear outside.

To the front, five figures leave their concealment and start running across the road to the right. The lead person falls forward as if he were tripped, followed a split second later by another crashing sideways to the ground. The remaining three, seeing their comrades fall, make a mistake and slow. Tracers streak from Speer’s and Ortiz’ position to impact flesh and bone. Clothing ripples as rounds find their marks sending splashes of blood shooting outward. The remaining three are driven to the pavement under the withering fire, not having made it more than halfway across.

“Ortiz, Franklin? Do either of you have a route to the rear that’s lit?” Krandle asks.

“It looks like there’s a way to the back of the house from here that’s fully lit,” Ortiz answers.

“Franklin, while we can, join Ortiz and scout the back. Keep your eyes open and see if there is a route down the cliff from there,” Krandle says.

Krandle nods at Franklin as he passes behind on his way to Ortiz.

“Speer, Miller, keep up the fire. We need to keep their heads down.”

To his side, Blanchard is keeping up a steady stream of semi-automatic fire into the side yards. Every time a flash appears, Blanchard quickly shifts his aim and sends a few rounds at it. Sometimes the flash reappears and at others, the location remains clear of fire with the shooter either taking cover or down. Krandle delivers rounds of his own in an effort to keep their attackers at bay.

Projectiles from across the way continue to pelt the house. Krandle and the team can’t keep every head down, but they at least have a handle on the situation.

“Oww!!! Fucking dammit all the hell. You fucking bastards,” Speer yells from the side room.

“Are you hit?” Krandle shouts.

“I’ll kill every last one of you bitches,” Speer continues to rant, either ignoring or not hearing the question.