Rm w/a Vu(95)
Splitting up is a smart move, I’ll give them that, but I’m not going to abandon Callie and Daphne until I’ve had a chance to go over some kind of plan. We move along, crouched low behind the obstacle, and when I hear the turf being disrupted several yards away, I hold up a fist to stop them so I can listen. The footsteps stop for a minute but then pick up again before fading, so I signal for us to move again, pumping my arm up and down to indicate we speed up—well, the hand signal is clear to me, anyway.
“What does that mean?” Daphne asks.
“I don’t know,” is Callie’s reply. “Juliette, what does that mean?”
I can’t help but feel slightly exasperated—mainly because they’re talking loud enough to get us noticed—so I turn around and lift my mask. “It means talk really loud so that they find us,” I snap, immediately regretting it, because it’s not like they knew what I was trying to say; my competitive nature often tends to manifest less than desirable bursts of anger. “Sorry. Just, come on. We need to be quick.”
My words come a little too late, though, as Toby launches himself over the barricade we’re hiding behind like some kind of super ninja and starts shooting. We all return fire, but are too late to save Daphne—thankfully we each hit him with one or two rounds ourselves.
“Son of a BITCH!” she cries out, clutching her thigh where Toby hit her with three paintballs. “Okay, I knew it was going to hurt, but I didn’t think it was going to feel that bad!”
“Damn,” Toby exclaims, sounding surprisingly enthused. “I just got nailed by three chicks!”
Callie lifts her mask and tries to fight a smile, failing when she starts to laugh. “Oh, grow up.”
Toby’s smile widens. “What? That’s totally how I’m going to tell this story.”
We all laugh before I remember we’re still in the middle of a game. “Okay, you two, get out of here. This’ll be over soon.”
Toby slings his rifle over his shoulder and slaps his hands together. “Oh, man. I can’t wait to see this.”
The minute Toby and Daphne are off the field, I turn to Callie. “You okay if we split up? If we stay together, we’re sitting ducks.”
The look in her eyes is slightly unsure, but there’s also a glimmer of excitement in them—likely from the adrenaline of taking Toby out of the game. “You bet.”
“Okay,” I tell her with a nod. “I don’t know how good Greyston is, but I suspect Xander’s probably got target practice of some sort under his belt. Keep your eyes peeled and your hearing tuned. Stay low and stay hidden.”
We part ways, and as I move quickly, looking all over for any sign of Greyston or Xander, I hear Callie cry out; she’s been hit, and now I’m on my own. I turn in the direction I heard her, and I see Xander retreating about thirty yards away. He’s not quick enough to duck behind the huge column, and I fire three shots, hitting his lower leg once and his upper body twice.
I take a minute to listen to my surroundings. Hearing nothing, I move to peek around the corner. A paintball whips by, missing my shoulder by a fraction of an inch, and I throw myself back against the wall. Where the hell is he hiding? Adrenaline pumps through my veins, my heart beating faster and faster, and my breathing increasing.
I take a couple of deep breaths in an effort to calm down so I can hear more than just the blood pumping through my body, and also so I can move to a new location without my heavy breathing giving me away.
I take another glance around the corner, not finding any sign of him anywhere, and I bolt out into the open, throwing myself behind another obstacle and scanning the area. I see movement several yards away, and I open fire, splattering five orange paintballs against the far wall.
“He’s fast,” I mutter under my breath.
As soon as he’s found cover, I see a flash of dark hair above his mask, and then hear the rapid firing of several paintballs in my direction. I feel the sting of the first one as it grazes my arm, but it doesn’t explode until it connects with the obstacle behind me. It’s a close call; one that fuels my desire to win.
The game goes on for a while longer, each of us escaping the other’s attack by a fraction of an inch time and time again, and I’m beginning to wonder if Greyston hasn’t been faking his nervousness over the last couple of days. I wouldn’t put it past him. Strategic bastard.
Out of breath from my latest sprint, I hide behind a pillar and duck down before moving along out of sight. He’s over by the entrance to the arena, and I make my way toward him silently in hopes of a sneak attack.