Chương 17: Among Professionals

"Guys, listen up! We've got exactly fifteen minutes left until the end of the session," Charlie swept us with a heavy, almost leaden gaze, where excitement mixed with harsh discipline.

"We've gotta snatch this victory before the timer resets. Otherwise Rachel'll nag us to death, pushing for a rematch and insisting our success was a fluke. Bring me her flag. At any cost!"

"Yes, sir!" we barked in unison. Our voices echoed off the high vaults of the paintball hangar, sending adrenaline rushing faster through our veins.

"There's no time for tactical courtesies or a drawn-out siege," Charlie made a sharp gesture, sketching the plan right in the air.

"Alex, John, Harry, and I are going on the offensive. We hit them head-on, fast and aggressive. Tom, you've got the most critical task, you stay and guard our flag. I know holding defense alone against an entire group is a lousy assignment, but I trust only your eye and your composure. Don't let me down."

"Understood, sir!" I snapped a salute. A pleasant warmth spread through my chest. The military aesthetic, the harsh tone, the weight of the gear on my shoulders, all of it made me feel exactly where I belonged.

"You can rest easy. As long as I'm alive, they won't touch the flag." A sharp, ear-piercing signal marking the start of the third and final round tore through the silence of the arena. My teammates, like dogs unleashed from chains, charged forward, disappearing behind piles of concrete blocks and crudely assembled wooden barricades. I wasted no time and slipped inside our base, a grim concrete cube with gaping window openings and the smell of construction dust.

I took position in the shadows, pressing the stock against my shoulder. Outside, the world dissolved into the cacophony of battle. I could not see anything from my cover, but my hearing sharpened to its limit. The crisp, dry impacts of paint pellets hitting concrete, the muffled swearing of those already eliminated, and the triumphant shouts of those who had managed to push further. Did it bother me that all the action was happening elsewhere while I counted dust particles in beams of light? Not at all.

I had given everything in the first two rounds, thoroughly rattling the enemy and racking up a solid score. This brief pause was even welcome, I was recovering my breath, analyzing mistakes, and absorbing this invaluable experience that would one day serve me in a real fight. Suddenly, I caught movement in the corner of my eye. From behind the edge of a gray concrete block, a black barrel snapped into view.

A millisecond later, several bright green paintballs smashed against the edge of my cover with a wet smack, splattering everything around with sticky sludge. How naive. Did they really think I would take the same position as in the previous round? My instructor, Mr. Parker, had drilled a golden rule into my head on the very first lesson: a detected sniper is a dead sniper. The enemy, assuming they had suppressed my firing position, leaned out from behind the corner to check the result. That was their last mistake.

I squeezed the trigger smoothly, and two yellow pellets struck cleanly, almost as if drawn by a ruler, hitting him, or rather her, directly in the temple area of the protective mask.

"Damn it!" The outburst of rage was instant. Rachel tore off her mask, ignoring the rules, and hurled it onto the packed floor with full force. Her eyes flashed with fury, and a yellow streak marked her cheek.

"You're seriously getting on my nerves! You're everywhere! How do you do that?!"

"Quiet," I cut her off without even looking in her direction. My barrel continued to scan the perimeter slowly, searching for other shadows.

"The dead don't speak. Leave the arena." She hissed something through clenched teeth, probably throwing a few less than flattering epithets in my direction, but she did not argue. Turning sharply on her heel, Rachel stormed off, angrily wiping paint from her jumpsuit. Time seemed to freeze afterward, turning into a thick, viscous resin. I stood motionless, becoming part of the concrete wall. The tension was almost tangible.

I watched every flicker of shadow, listened to the faint crumble of plaster, expecting another attack. But silence in my sector became absolute.

"Tom, you copy?" Charlie's voice came unexpectedly close, from behind the corner of a neighboring structure.

"All clear? Don't shoot, it's us!"

"Affirmative. One infiltrator eliminated. Sector is clear."

"Excellent, cover us. We're moving out, and we've got the flag!" I did not relax for a second, keeping my barrel trained on the source of the sound. Different scenarios ran through my head. Everything sounded logical, but what if the rules allowed taking hostages? Excessive caution in my line of work had never been a flaw. A moment later, Charlie and John appeared from around the corner.

Their white camouflage jackets were generously splattered with yellow and green paint, apparently the center of the arena had turned into a real hell. They were breathing heavily, but triumphant grins lit up their faces.

"John, plant the flag in the nest, now!" Charlie ordered, leaning his shoulder against the frame.

"We'll cover you. The last rat from their team is hiding somewhere nearby, I can feel her presence in my skin." I could not help but admire the scale of this field. It was incredible. In these artificial stone jungles, you could run straight toward each other and simply pass within a couple of yards without noticing the enemy. Moments like this made you truly understand why the capture-the-flag mode exists, it forces opponents to collide instead of playing hide-and-seek forever.

While John was fiddling with the mount, the silence was cut by the sound of heavy, hurried footsteps. Someone was charging straight through, not caring about stealth. Apparently, the last survivor from Rachel's team had discovered the missing flag at the base and was now rushing here in a desperate attempt to save the game.

"Take him down!" Charlie shouted, raising his rifle and unleashing bursts into the entrance. A huge number of pellets went into empty space. The tactic was questionable in terms of accuracy, but it worked perfectly as psychological pressure, buying us precious seconds.

"Flag is set!" John shouted triumphantly from above, raising his fist.

"That's it, guys! We won!"

"Yee-ha!" Charlie yanked off his helmet, exposing his face to the cool air pushed in by the ventilation. His hair was soaked with sweat.

"Eat that, Rachel! That's how we do it!"

"This isn't over! We'll meet again!" a furious roar came from the direction of the exit. Rachel slammed the heavy metal door of the arena so hard that the echo lingered under the ceiling for a long time. A long final horn followed. That was it, the session was over. Time to return to the real world or pay to keep the party going. If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The male part of our group poured into the locker room, filling it with noise and laughter.

Rachel, as the only girl in this testosterone-heavy domain, disappeared into a separate room. Changing turned into a spontaneous rally. Everyone talked over each other, waving their hands and recounting their feats. I, on the other hand, tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible. I quickly took off my gear and changed into my own clothes. Noisy groups had always made me want to disappear into silence as soon as possible.

"Hey, Tom, slow down!" Charlie, looking extremely pleased with life, slapped me on the shoulder hard enough to almost make me stumble.

"Where're you rushing off to? The most important part starts after the game! You can't miss it, you were our lucky charm today!" I paused, weighing my options. On one hand, I wanted to go home and rest. On the other hand, Charlie had a point. Fine, I decided, I would stay for a bit. If it all turned into a typical drinking session or a nightclub visit, I could always slip away quietly and politely.

"Thank you for visiting our club," the receptionist forced a professional but clearly tired smile.

"We hope you enjoyed everything. We'll be glad to see you again." Outside, dusk had already taken over. Los Angeles breathed a coolness that pleasantly chilled the skin after the stuffy hangar. Now we were all in regular civilian clothes, jeans, hoodies, T-shirts. Even so, our group gave off a noticeable aura of threat. Short haircuts, developed muscles, confident gait. We looked either like a platoon of soldiers on leave or a gang heading for a showdown.

As a group of ten, we crossed the street, heading toward a café right across from the club. It was a spacious place styled like an old tavern: heavy oak tables, massive sofas with worn upholstery, dim lighting. As soon as we stepped inside, the staff, without waiting for instructions, began pushing tables together. It seemed that visits from this group after paintball had long since become a local tradition, something they were as used to as California sunsets.

"What would you like to order?" a waitress appeared by the table. Large, with powerful shoulders and forearms that many weightlifters would envy, she looked surprisingly natural in her peasant-style uniform dress, as if she were part of this heavy interior.

"Order whatever catches your eye," Charlie said with a grin, nudging a thick menu toward me.

"It's a special night. The losing team pays for the whole feast, that's the tradition." I opened the menu, and lines of my internal interface flickered before my eyes. As soon as I focused on the items, system notifications appeared above each one. The drinks section brought disappointment. [Trainer Analysis: The hops contained in beer negatively affect the Familiar's condition. Causes micro-intoxication, slowing metabolism and tissue recovery. Full abstinence is recommended.] I let out a quiet sigh.

So much for the cold beer that looked so tempting on the neighboring tables. The main course section, however, was pleasing. The food here was truly masculine and rustic: honest portions, plenty of protein and complex carbohydrates. Perfect fuel after running around the field in full gear for over an hour. My gaze caught on lamb in a thick blackcurrant sauce. The picture looked divine, but the price… I glanced discreetly at Rachel's team.

The guys were sitting with such wolfish expressions that it seemed they were ready to go for our throats right across the table. Driving them into crushing debt at the very first meeting would be a strategic mistake. I still had to play with them. The rest of our group rattled off their orders quickly, barely looking at the menu, apparently they knew it by heart. Then it was my turn.

"I'll take two large pitchers of lemonade with mint. And three portions of meat with baked potatoes. Put it all on one plate, please."

"Whoa, now that's what I call a serious calorie load! And not a drop of alcohol?" Charlie gave me a conspiratorial wink.

"What, some kind of special diet to stay in shape?" My appetite had indeed flared up hard. I needed to eat constantly to support muscle growth. My order would definitely cost the losing side a fair amount, but even so, it would still be cheaper than if I had decided to order a couple of whole calves. The waitress quickly wrote everything down in her notepad and disappeared toward the kitchen. By my estimates, this feast would come out to around four hundred dollars. Impressive.

If fortune had turned against us today, a bill like that would have hit my budget hard.

"Well, while we're waiting for our prize," Charlie leaned back on the sofa, casually eyeing the opposition, "maybe someone here wants to discuss exactly how we wiped the floor with you today?" Rachel snapped. She slammed her palm onto the oak table, making the utensils jump, and stared straight at her teammates.

"Are you all seriously just going to sit there and stay quiet?! You're really going to listen to this fraud while he leads you by the nose?!"

"What're you talking about, darling?" Charlie put on a flawless expression of innocent surprise, even widening his eyes.

"The victory was completely fair, within the rules."

"I'm talking about him!" She jabbed a finger at me, almost touching my nose.

"Tom isn't an amateur. He's a professional paintball player you hired from outside just to humiliate us!"

"I see..." Charlie sighed with mock offense and pulled out his smartphone.

"See this? Just a regular Facebook post. I was looking for a free player for a session. Tom was the first to respond, we didn't even know each other. If you want, read the messages. I've got nothing to hide." Rachel practically snatched the phone from his hands. She studied the screen with the thoroughness of someone reviewing a criminal case file. Judging by her finger movements, she even opened my profile. There, however, she found nothing of interest. I was not a fan of digital exhibitionism.

The account had been created purely for work communication with office colleagues. One neutral photo, a couple of subscriptions, and a dry line about my place of study, that was the entirety of my digital footprint.

"Pff… An accountant?" Rachel handed the phone back with a disappointed snort. She did not argue further, but her entire posture, pressed lips and arms crossed over her chest, made it clear she was not convinced.

"Don't take it personally, Tom," Charlie said, giving me an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

"Rachel isn't an easy person. She graduated from the FBI Academy with honors. She's used to being the best at everything and simply doesn't know how to lose."

"It's not about losing!" she flared up again.

"I just can't stand it when someone tries to feed me bullshit!" At that moment, Alex, who was sitting next to her, leaned in and whispered something in her ear. I saw her expression shift from anger to sharp surprise, then a knowing smirk appeared on her lips, the kind that said she had expected it all along. Apparently, the story about me being a deep-cover CIA agent had just gained new details.

"Are you all from the FBI?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation away before they started interrogating me about things I knew nothing about.

"Not exactly. Let me enlighten you about the kind of company you've joined," Charlie leaned forward.

"About five years ago, it all started with a Los Angeles police SWAT team. The guys wanted to train outside of duty. But time passed, the roster changed. Some got bored, some moved away, some no longer had time for a hobby. In the end, only John remained from the original lineup. The vacant spots were gradually filled by new people looking for adrenaline and conditions as close to real combat as possible. Now we've got a mix: FBI, NSA, city police, a couple of former military... and now you, Tom.

Our first, well, accountant." I sat there, silently processing what I had just heard. So much for a casual paintball game. I had accidentally stumbled into a closed circle of law enforcement and intelligence personnel. A thought flashed through my mind. If I simply wrote down the numbers of everyone sitting at this table, I could probably get out of almost any trouble in this city and would not have to rely on my handler Danny anymore. That was what I called real luck.

Besides, it was easier for me to communicate with them than with Stephanie, whose behavior I still did not understand. Naturally, when they mentioned in passing that they met twice a month and invited me to the next game, I agreed without hesitation. It was useful not only in terms of connections. The atmosphere itself and the level of the participants gave me a massive boost in skill development. And, to be honest, it was simply fun as hell.

After the mountain of meat and potatoes was finished, and mutual promises to meet again in two weeks were exchanged, we headed for the exit. I was already walking toward my car, breathing in the night air of the City of Angels, when Alex caught up with me.

"Hey, Tom, got a favor to ask. Can you give me a ride downtown? It's on your way anyway." I gave him a quick look. My instincts told me Alex did not just need a ride. Most likely, a new round of questions was about to begin, along with attempts to figure out what kind of miracle steroids I was using.