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Authors: John O'Brien
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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
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
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