The gates open and I don’t waste a single second, charging inside.
I run along the left perimeter line, using the fence as cover while my eyes adjust to the layout. The tanker is dead center, completely blocking the line of sight through the middle of the space, but it means anyone coming through the main path is visible from at least three angles. I make a mental note of that and keep moving.
Bunkers line the left side of the field, and a watchtower is situated in the far-left corner. I run toward it and climb the stairs, as from up here I can see the entire ground level. The gates swing open, and I drop down behind the tower wall before any of them clear the entrance.
Footsteps sneak below me and sound like they head off behind the nearby camo mesh hanging between two trees, which ripples subtly in their wake. I see a shadow near the bunkers that materializes into Brawley as he moves to peer inside one, but he isn’t my target, so I let him pass.
I have only one target in mind.
I cautiously exit the tower and move through the course with stealth until I’m at the back of the tanker, where I locate Clay, whose facing away from me. After checking my surroundings, Ifollow quietly behind him. As he sneaks toward the back of the largest bunker, I raise my gun, but he must sense me. Right as he turns, I pull the trigger, and a paintball hits him square in the chest. A giant blue patch of paint explodes right over his heart.
Clay looks down at the paint spreading across his camo shirt and then at me.
I lower the gun and smile, gloating at my win.
He pulls his bandanna down and smirks at me. Then, before I can say anything, I hear the click of three guns behind me, and I close my eyes, bracing for the hits.
“Don’t move,” Vero says, and I know has a massive grin on his face. “Hands where I can see them.”
I raise both my hands slowly and turn to see Vero, Brawley, and Ares standing in a semi-circle behind me, all their guns raised, and the three of them are covered in varying amounts of paint—which means they have been taking shots at each other.
“You set me up,” I accuse.
Vero lowers his gun and presses it to his chest. “We lured you in. But you got Clay, and I want it noted that he owes me forty dollars now.”
Behind me Clay reloads, and I turn back around to find him looking at me.
He raises his gun and shoots me directly in the shoulder. “Now we’re even,” he says.
Not even close, but for now I will let him think he has won this round.
Brawley
Kayla takes a few steps backward as the impact of Clay’s shot registers, red dripping down her shoulder. She smirks and lifts her gun as she fires toward us, then turns and runs.
“First to catch my paper-cut princess gets to fuck her,” Vero says and takes off after her.
“Catch me if you can, suckers,” Kayla yells out from somewhere in the darkness.
Clay, Ares, and I all look at each other, then we must all have a fuck-it moment at the same time. I’m surprised Clay joins us, though he has complained so many times that the women he fucks bolt when he gets a little rough. I get it, but though I love violence and it turns me on, I am capable of fucking without it. Clay is wired differently and has convinced himself that if he lets his guard down and catches feelings, it will make him weak.
He has it completely wrong. I am head over fucking heels in love with Vero, though god knows why, as he’s a lot to deal with. Every day when I open my eyes and see his face staring up at me, my heart skips a beat. Loving him doesn’t make me weak. If anything, it makes me stronger, but since I live for violence, it works out well for me.
I don’t follow the others; I already know where she is heading. She will go where she thinks Vero will go, as he is her safe space amongst us.
I make my way to the tanker, keeping an eye out for her and the others, though so far I see no one. The hatch to the tanker is already open, and as I pull myself up and inside, Kayla spins around.
Her back hits the curved wall, paintball gun raised and aimed directly at my chest.
I hold up both my hands slowly.
Kayla’s chest is heaving—she is clearly not a runner—and the red paint has dried in streaks down her shoulder and across her collarbone. She looks absolutely feral, and I understand now why Vero is so infatuated with her.
“Not who you were expecting?”
“No,” she admits, not lowering the gun.
“You can put that down,” I say, but she just raises a brow at me, mistrust written all over her face.
