“You sure didn’t,” Hernandez said. Besides the single moment in the locker room, the woman still hadn’t shown Kristen anything approaching kindness. It was vaguely comforting to see that at least she didn’t show anyone else much respect either. “Keith cried like a baby for a week. He said the welts were too painful on his pompis.” She slapped her butt—helping to translate from Spanish. The woman glared at her. “We’ll see if you do any better.”
“Do you really think I’ve never played airsoft before?” It was pure bluster, of course, but because she hadn’t didn’t mean she or anyone else had to know that.
“You look like the only exercise you did before this was Pilates and CrossFit,” Hernandez sneered.
She wasn’t exactly sure how that was an insult, but the woman chuckled as if it was so she tried to look offended.
“Don’t be scared of Hernandez. She’ll more than likely blow herself up out there,” said Butters.
“Oh, shut it, Butters. We both know you’re the easiest target to hit on the whole damn field.”
“What we all know is that —despite my love of all things fried—I’ll hit you long before you hit me.” He patted his big round stomach like it was only a joke but Kristen was eager to see the sniper in action, even if he would only use airsoft guns.
The stripped SWAT van stopped with a jerk and a moment later, Jonesy swung the door open with enough force to explain the state of disrepair his vehicle was in.
“Are you fuckers ready to rock or what?” The sergeant grinned.
“Watch your language, Jonesy, there’s a lady present,” Hernandez said and elbowed her way past Kristen as she did so.
Kristen climbed out of the back of the van. As she waited for Keith and Butters, Beanpole stepped out from the front seat.
“Are you ready to enjoy your evening?” he asked Kristen pleasantly. After a few days of working together, she already found his unceasing politeness to be at odds with everyone else.
“Battle Royale in five minutes,” a voice yelled over the PA.
“Wicked! We have enough time to get suited up,” Jonesy said as he hauled airsoft rifles from the back of the van and passed them out. “I’ll settle up with the greedy bastards while you guys get suited up. Which one of you pussies wants a canvas shirt?” He pointed toward the booth where they had to pay to use the course.
Hernandez hooked a thumb at Kristen. “White girl does.”
“Anyone else?” he asked.
Butters chuckled. “There’s no way they have my size.”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Beanpole said.
“Keith?” Jonesy raised an eyebrow.
“You know I’m with you, sir. I don’t need a shirt unless you advise…that is—” Keith stammered until the other man cut him off.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. For fuck’s sake, you little kiss-ass. I’m not gonna get one so you better not either. Only Red, then?”
“I’m fine,” Kristen said quickly.
He grinned. “Are you sure? These guns are right at the legal limit. The shit stings.”
“Tell me what rules you play by,” she said, hoping there were multiple sets of rules and she didn’t sound like a total phony.
“Everyone will have ninety seconds to get to whatever position you want to be in before I come to shoot you, then it’s a free for all,” he said. “If you are hit, you raise your dead-flag so no one will shoot you while you get out of our way and make for the sidelines.” Jonesy tossed her a red bandana. “Last man standing wins.”
“Or woman,” Hernandez grouched.
“Yeah, I’ll believe that when I see it,” Jonesy said and hurried off to pay for the round while the rest of the team checked their rifles and put goggles on.
A few minutes later, a claxon blared, and they all ran into the arena.
Kristen had to admit it was a cool space. About as big as a football field, the arena was filled with structures made of wooden pallets—one of which was multiple levels high—plus barrels, and even a pair of burned-out dumpsters in the center. It felt delightfully post-apocalyptic to run into the area, get away from her co-workers, and turn to try to hunt them.
Except she had never hunted anything that hunted her as well.
The claxon blared again, and the soft pop-pop-pop of airsoft rifle fire erupted in the arena. She had to dive and slide behind a pile of pallets to avoid being hit but rolled easily back to her feet. Thankfully, she’d played almost every sport there was, so sliding through the dirt was second nature to her.
She poked the barrel of her rifle out through the pallets and tried to get a feel for where everyone had gone. There were other people on the field too—teenagers, mostly, and a few hunter-types—but she didn’t really care about them as it quickly became obvious that her team was there to dominate the match.
A huge shadow moved through the upper level of one of the pallet structures. Butters?
It had to be. Anyone who approached the fort was picked off the second they raised their rifles.
Kristen would save him for later.
For now, she had to—
“Surrender!” Keith had his rifle trained on her back. He’d snuck up while she attempted to get a feel for the field.
“How does that work?” she asked and turned slowly to face him.
“You, uh…surrender?”
She smirked. Fat chance.
With the hope that she could catch him off guard, she dove into a roll and tried to bring her rifle to bear, but he had the drop on her. She had to still raise her rifle and aim while all he had to do was pull the trigger. He did so, of course, and fired dozens of tiny pellets that rocketed toward her at hundreds of feet per second.
Kristen blocked them with her gun—all of them. She simply held her weapon up and deflected the rounds until Keith—his jaw practically on the dusty ground—stopped firing.
While he stared in shock, she raised her weapon and shot him in the chest.
“Ow, shit! Okay, okay. You got me,” he said and rubbed his chest as he walked toward the side, muttering, “My fucking nipple. Ouch!”
Beyond her grin, she realized she had also learned her first lesson of airsoft. Much like an actual combat zone, it was suicide to sit still.
She didn’t know where the rest of them were, but because she knew Butters was probably in the tower, she headed that way and dodged from pallet to barrel, crouching and sprinting. It was a ton of fun. It was weird how she had basically done this all week—sprinting through cover while she infiltrated locations and pretended to face off against hostiles—and yet with a toy gun in her hand, it didn’t feel like work.
Perhaps halfway to the tower, she found more of her team.
“Fucking suck it, Beanpole!” Jonesy shouted as he leapt out of one of the dumpsters and fired at the other man, who tried to get a bead on his boss.
“Oh, dear, enough. Enough!” Beanpole protested as he was pelted with pellets.
“Hey, Sarg,” Kristen said, her weapon raised and ready.
The look on the skinny man’s face when he turned to see the force’s newest recruit already unloading pellets into his chest was priceless. It slid from shock to horror to a mere smidge of amazement before it settled into straight-up laughter.
“You fucking got me,” he said and rubbed his chest where the pellets had struck. “Two left. If you win this, you’ll officially be tougher than Keith or Hernandez.”
But she barely heard him and already ran toward the pallet tower where Butters was hiding. If she couldn’t get inside, there was no way she could beat him.
She dodged from a barrel to another stack of pallets, then low-crawled over.
Shots rang out and she scrambled behind a barrel. Damn it. He had seen her.
Still on her feet, she sprinted to the next available cover—two barrels with a third on top—but it was too far. Her opponent fired and led her expertly and Kristen—with nothing to hide behind—brought her gun up and used it once again to block the pellet
s.
The string of colorful profanities that erupted from the two-story pallet fort all but confirmed that the southerner was indeed in there. She didn’t think anyone else could possibly use the word “declare” with as much emotion and vitriol that he put into it.
Kristen made it to the three barrels and paused to catch her breath.
“Come on out and I’ll fry you like a battered drumstick,” Butters shouted from his hiding place.
“More like you should come to me. Isn’t that what a southern gentleman is supposed to do?” she yelled in response.
“Now why would I do a fool thing like that?”
“Because you’re cooked, Butterball.” Someone darted away from the bottom level of the fort. She had forgotten all about Hernandez. The woman dashed out from the two-story structure and laughed maniacally as what sounded like a string of firecrackers detonated inside.
Except firecrackers wouldn’t have been able to cause the entire structure to groan and finally collapse in spectacular fashion. A brilliant flash flared from the bottom floor, followed by the wood cracking loudly as the entire structure came down. Before the dust had even settled, Kristen darted in, found Butters amidst the wreckage, and aimed her rifle at his big belly. “Do you surrender?”
“Ha-ha, nope. Not to someone ʼbout to get shot in the back.”
“Shit!” She flung herself onto the pile of broken pallets beneath her as Hernandez opened fire. It had clearly been a mistake to assume that the explosives aficionado would wait for her destruction to be complete before she darted in, but she’d obviously underestimated the woman. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.
But what Butters had said earlier about Hernandez was true. Despite her having the advantage, she didn’t manage to hit her. Kristen again used her weapon to block—and drew the same confused look from the woman that she’d received from everyone else who’d seen her do so—and shot her.
“Okay, Okay. You fucking got me.” Hernandez threw her death-rag up in disgust.
Kristen didn’t take any time to gloat. Instead, she turned and shot Butters.
He grunted in pain but quickly began to laugh. They both knew he deserved it because he’d been reaching for his weapon while she was otherwise occupied.
She helped him to his feet and they made their way out of the airsoft arena.
They found the owner—or manager or someone who obviously cared about the place—chewing Hernandez out. “I told you not to come back here, goddammit. We’re holding you liable for the damage you caused.”
“What damage? She knocked a bunch of fucking pallets down,” Jonesy argued.
“Those fucking pallets were insured.”
“Show us the paperwork,” Kristen said. “I’d be interested to see how that structure passed inspection.”
The sergeant raised an eyebrow at her. That was as close as he’d come all week to actually saying she’d done a good job. But, as usual, he didn’t actually say anything complimentary and instead, turned to the pissed-off manager. “I have your paperwork right here,” he said and slapped a wad of twenties on the table.
“You already paid with a card for the first round…” the manager said cautiously.
“And for the second round too. This is only so you remember the night when a goddamn newbie beat what I thought was the best squad in SWAT in a private match.”
The man nodded and made no effort to count the twenties. The stack was thick enough that he didn’t need to. “This should cover the pallets—”
“It fucking better,” Hernandez said.
He scowled at her. “But it doesn’t cover her entry. We’ve been over this, Mr Jones. She can’t bring bombs in there.”
“You call those bombs? If I’d brought a bomb, you would’ve known it,” the woman protested.
“It’s fine. I was gonna sit this one out anyway. You can keep me company,” Jonesy said.
She scowled but she didn’t object.
“What do you say? Do you boys want a rematch?” Kristen asked. Despite the intense gameplay, she wasn’t really winded, merely warmed up. It felt way too good to shoot the people who’d shown her what she’d done wrong all week long.
Butters shot a look at Beanpole, who nodded. Both men looked at Keith, who glanced indecisively from one man to the other until Butters finally cleared his throat suggestively.
She understood what they had in mind before Keith did—haze the new kid and all that. That was fine with her. She’d known she’d get this kind of treatment as both a rookie and a woman but simply hadn’t thought she’d be armed when it first happened. As things stood, she almost pitied them.
“Unless you boys are chicken?”
“The only one of us who is chicken is me, and that’s simply because I ate some for lunch.” The rotund man chuckled but it sounded hollow. Oh yeah, they definitely intended to team up and take her down a peg or two—or try to, anyway.
The claxon sounded and they sprinted into the same arena. It was unchanged except for the pile of rubble at one end.
The boys immediately separated, and she had no doubt of their strategy. Butters would try to get into position while the other two attempted to distract her.
For now, she kept an eye on the sniper. He vanished among the dumpsters, some of the only cover in the arena big enough to hide his bulk completely.
The other two hastily found suitable positions. Keith ducked behind a couple of barrels and Beanpole behind a wall of pallets that in no way hid his height. She would have thought him foolish if she hadn’t known they had a deliberate intention to lure her to attack.
Well, the best way to defeat an enemy was to use their strengths as weaknesses, so Kristen played into their little ambush. She approached in a crawl until Keith caught sight of her and opened fire. Quickly, she rolled behind a pile of pallets, found a loose one, and picked it up with her left arm and wielded it like a shield.
The man gasped—actually gasped—when she held the pallet with one hand. She used the opportunity his astonishment provided to pepper him with pellets. Her accuracy was slightly out with only one hand free to fire the rifle so instead of a tight circle on his chest, she delivered the barrage to his entire torso, legs, and face.
He fell and moaned in pain.
One down. She made a mental note to get him a beer later. While her successful “kill” was satisfying, she hadn’t meant to shoot him in the face.
Beanpole fired at her before she could raise the pallet to block, and one of the pellets bounced off her arm. Did that count as a hit? It hardly hurt at all. Surely it was merely a glancing blow.
Kristen brought the pallet into position before the tall man landed any further shots but of course, that was what Butters had waited for.
A line of pellets rocketed toward her. She barely had time to drop prone and go beneath the fusillade.
“That’s downright impossible,” the sniper yelled.
She had no idea what he was talking about—the pellets hadn’t been that fast and she assumed his gun must have been low on air or something—but she didn’t waste his surprise.
On all fours, she scrambled toward Beanpole, came up in a crouch, her gun aimed, and fired at her tall teammate.
“I surrender, please! We always do this to newbies, not only girls,” he said and held his gun and his death-rag together in one hand. He touched the growing welts on his neck and chest tenderly with the other.
In that moment, she honestly didn’t care about that. She simply wanted to win and there was only one person left.
“To the death,” Butters shouted.
Kristen shook her head at his mistake. His voice had echoed, which meant this would literally be like shooting fish in a barrel.
She approached the dumpsters and found—unsurprisingly—that Butters was not positioned between them.
“Gee. I wonder where Butters is?” she said as loudly as she could without it sounding obvious.
“Right here, ya Yank—” He wasn’t abl
e to finish. As soon as he’d darted up from the dumpster she’d already guessed he was hiding in, she sprayed his giant belly with pellets.
He immediately collapsed into his hidey-hole with a clang that rang through the arena.
The sound was quickly swallowed by Jonesy’s uproarious laughter. “That was pretty damn good, Red! I’m glad I sat that one out.”
Kristen smiled and started for the exit.
Butters caught up to her. “Hey, no fair,” he said. “You were hit.” He pointed to the welt on her arm.
“I thought you said it would hurt.”
“It does,” Beanpole said. He and Keith waited for them at the exit and both were covered in welts.
“Next time, I think I’ll go for the canvas shirt,” Keith said weakly.
Jonesy laughed even louder at that.
She merely smiled. Their antics tonight—and her success—made her think she’d make it with this team after all.
Chapter Eight
A little stiff, Kristen dragged herself out of bed on Friday morning. As she limped through her early-morning routine, she wondered if she was in better or worse shape than anyone she’d faced during the week.
She made her way to work, parked, and headed past the front desk and to the lounge for a dose of coffee. There hadn’t been time to make herself a cup at her apartment as she’d slept in.
Keith, Beanpole, and Butters had gathered in the lounge, all slumped together on the couch and nursing cups of coffee. Butters had a donut.
“Well, look who it is, the bringer of welts,” he said by way of greeting.
“Good morning,” she replied brightly as she selected a mug with a bulldog wearing a police hat and fixed herself a cup of coffee.
The peppy greeting had been the right response. Keith and Beanpole both glared at her and she could understand why. Their arms were basically all welts. Ah…nothing tasted as sweet as gloating with kindness.
“Be a dear and get me more coffee?” Beanpole asked her.
“It’s right there.” She nodded at the coffee maker.
“I know, I know. Forgive me for asking.” He shoved himself to his feet and groaned mightily as he did so. The movement was pained and he looked about as limber as an eighty-year-old. He bumped into Keith, who uttered an equally pitiful moan of protest.
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