Read Online A New World: Conspiracy by John O'Brien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John O'Brien
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observe the vehicle and wait.
“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
“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
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