A New World: Conspiracy (8 page)

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 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 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.

Through his sobs, Drescoll utters, “Oh,
Allie…why? You were the only bright light in this world. Why did
you have to leave?”

Drescoll places his arms underneath Allie’s
limp form, and gently, with great tenderness, he scoops her up. His
tears splash on her vest and, turning, he carries her slowly to his
Humvee.

Watching, I feel my heart fill even more
with a great sadness, grabbing hold of it and squeezing. More tears
fill my eyes and spill out, marching down my cheeks. Gonzalez wipes
her tears away, leaving more dirty streaks, and joins Drescoll
where he is laying McCafferty’s body in the vehicle. Gonzalez
helps, smoothing out Allie’s hair and, together, with gentleness
and caring, they make her seem more at peace.

I watch as Drescoll falls to his knees
outside of the Humvee and takes Allie’s hand. He holds it to his
face and I see his shoulders begin to shake anew. Gonzalez remains
with him with her hand on his shoulder.

I look down at our prisoner. I kept him here
hoping that the scene would appeal to his humanity in some regard –
that he would see what he caused and for his façade crumble, but he
just looks on with the same expressionless face.

Drescoll gingerly, and ever so gently,
places Allie’s hand in her lap and turns in our direction. The
incredible sadness etched across his face turns into a storm of
rage when he sees our prisoner – the transformation startling.
Pulling his sidearm, he marches across the waist high grass, making
a beeline in our direction.

Gonzalez catches up to Drescoll and grabs
his arm. He shucks her off, but she reaches out again, more firmly
this time. He turns angrily toward her and she begins talking.
After a moment, he lowers his head and holsters his Beretta. He
then resumes his march, coming to a halt directly before the
kneeling prisoner.

“You are on borrowed time. You get to live
for now but, know this, at some point, I will hurt you. I will hurt
you bad!” Drescoll states.

The man, staring defiantly at Drescoll,
utters his first words. “We all die sometime, mate.” The accent is
unmistakable.

“Who said anything about dying?” Drescoll
says with soft menace.

Drescoll stalks back to the Humvee, stands
next to it, and strokes Allie’s hair.

Climbing into the helicopter a short time
later with Lynn in the left seat, I call back to the compound and
give them a brief synopsis that includes Lynn’s rescue, the loss of
McCafferty, and the subsequent capture of her killer. As the rotors
spin up overhead, I look over at Lynn and give her a smile. I’m
thrilled beyond measure that she is safe and back with us. I don’t
know what I would have done if I had lost her. I feel like
everything is hanging on edge as it is. To say the last few months
have been stressful would be the understatement of the century. I
know the others feel it as well and it’s only a matter of time
before that spills into our group.