John O'Brien - Return

Black Team passes behind us on their way to the path. We, Red Team, rise and begin to slowly move along the tree line to our left, keeping the situation in sight at all times but without exposing ourselves. I do not want some gumbah to turn around and see us. Our advantage lies in stealth at this point. They may be likely to shoot the woman and child first if they see a threat approaching. Something I would like to avoid. At the end of the parking lot, the tree line ends at another street running perpendicular to us. We turn right and start down the side of the parking lot towards the parked cars. Crouching and moving slowly so as to not attract any undue attention. The group seems pretty concentrated on the woman and child but it only takes one to turn and see a group of armed soldiers making their way towards them.

“Stay away from me. I’ll shoot,” the woman yells out.

“Lady, just put the gun away and the child can go free. You want your child safe don’t you?” A voice from the group calls out.

“You killed my husband,” I hear her shout back.

It is then that I notice the body lying face down on the short concrete path leading from the parking lot to the door. Its arms are stretched out over its head and blood is pooling below the head. The conversation between the woman and men continue in this fashion as we approach the row of parked cars. Reaching them unobserved, I motion for the team to take positions behind them but maintain clear lines of fire into the group of men. If a firefight develops, our fire should carry away from the woman, her child, and Black Team across from us.

“We’re in position,” I hear Lynn say over the radio.

I look across to the tree line across the lot. Not a soul to be seen. Damn, they’re good , I think trying to see any sign of a face, gun, or clothing.

“You’re good,” I say back.

“Of course we are. What do you think? That you’re the only one who can sneak,” she says back.

“Thought I was but apparently not,” I shoot back. “Stand by. I’m going to initiate verbal contact shortly. Do not engage unless I do.”

“Copy that Ranger Rob,” she replies. She’s enjoying this far too much .

“Well look who came across a sense of humor in the woods. Did you find it or steal it from someone?” I say.

“Must have taken yours because you’ve obviously lost it,” I hear her say through the radio.

“Um, copy that,” I reply knowing when to say when. “You’re out of our firing line right?”

“We’re good,” she answers.

Peering over the trunk of the last car in line, I observe closer that the woman is in great distress. The hand that is indeed wielding a revolver is shaking, observable even at this distance. Her dark, straight hair hangs down to her shoulders like the flags and wind sock. Tears stream down her pale, fear-filled face but she also carries a look of determination. She is going to protect her child at all costs. The young boy, who looks to be about six, is clutching both of his arms around her waist, his eyes wide with fright and not knowing what to do. His dad is lying in a pool of blood on the concrete a short distance away from him and armed men are threatening his mom. Overwhelming fear and shock must be gripping his insides at his situation, regardless of what they must have gone through the past few days.

The banter continues between the woman and the men. From their conversation, it becomes quite apparent that the men want the woman and that want is not for her own good. They are obviously a marauding band, taking what they want and feeling powerful doing so. Great! Now we’re going to throw marauding bands into the mix. Oh yay! Can it get any better? I think determining the best approach here. We can open fire and take them down before they know what happened or we can try and defuse the situation and gather more for our group. I really do not want them included considering how they are acting, but with there not being many of us left, more may be better. On the other hand, they may introduce more trouble than it is worth.

I look on to see if any of them feel uncomfortable bullying the woman and the situation. They all appear to be comfortable with what they are doing with the exception of one younger man standing off to the side. His eyes dart around everywhere else but the situation in front of him, shifting his stance from side to side in apparent discomfort.

“Drop your weapons and move on assholes,” I say aloud standing from behind the car and aiming my M-4 into the central mass.

Well, I guess that decision is made . Defuse and get them out of here. Bullets flying through the air introduce a random variable to the equation that I would rather not bring about. One of the variables is ricochets; their random changes in direction of flight after impact cannot be adequately accounted for. Bullets are no longer friendly once they leave the barrel.

The startle amongst them is an amazing thing to see. I have never grown tired of watching people react to someone close by when they had no idea that someone was there. The shock is close to paralyzing for them. The trick is to keep them that way and not to let them recover; keep them off balance.

“Drop them or die, your choice but make it quick or I’ll decide for you,” I say seeing the group turn their gaze to one man in the middle; seeking an answer as to what they should do.

The one in question is a tall, lanky man in jeans and a blue t-shirt with a rip in the front. He’s sporting a red hat with a New England Patriot’s logo on the front; his longish, brown hair curling out from under it in a tangled mess. He has bully and coward written all over him judging from his cornering this family and exerting his control over them with seventeen others behind him. I have seen his type before. Seems strong with his buddies and superior numbers behind him, but take that away and he’ll cower and whimper in the corner. The uncertainty of what to do is written all over his pinched face, a face dominated by a rather large nose. He feels the need to be strong or lose the respect of the men with him, but his cowardice is coming to the surface. The quick change from dominating the scene to being faced with someone strong causes a conflict inside. He cannot yield nor can he bully. He is at a loss. A short time passes with his indecision.

“Everyone hold your fire but be ready, I’m taking one out,” I say into the radio.

I line my red dot up on the head of the apparent leader and flip my selector switch to semi. A small pull on the trigger and the M-4 jars slightly against my shoulder. The crack of the round firing and going supersonic, sending its deadly payload outward, startles the group further. The steel round connects with his head with a solid thunk, rocking his head backward and tossing the cap into the air. Blood sprays outward and to the rear, a brilliant pink mist lit by the sun. Bits of bone and clumps of brain matter add mass to the mist. His body stiffens and both the lever-action rifle he was carrying and his body falls straight to the ground, the rifle clattering on the pavement and his body hitting it with a fleshy thump.

“Last chance shitheads. Who’s next?” I call out moving my red dot to the man standing next to their fallen leader.

Every man stands with shocked expressions. See, most people expect the banter to continue and the one with the wittiest line wins. They think the war of words is the actual battle. They watch way too much TV. Or did. This is the last thing they expect or want. The realization that I am not kidding around, or that banter and talk will even be a part of this, dawns brightly upon them. They expected something like they were engaged in with the family to ensue. Nope, not going to happen. You cannot fuck around with mentalities like these. Especially when they are confused as to which choice they should make. You make it very clear what the right choice is and do it right from the start.