Chương 16: The Problem Named Tom

"We've got two objectives, guys!" Charlie snapped the words out, raising his voice over the roar of the ventilation a minute before the start.

"Protect our flag and rip theirs out. John, Harry, take heavy defense, dig in like concrete. Alex, Tom, you're with me on the assault. Move fast, don't give them a second to breathe."

"Yes, sir!" we shouted in unison. At that very second, a siren howled above the arena, signaling the start of our local war. The sound was so piercing it felt as if the bones themselves vibrated.

"Let's go!" Charlie barked and dashed forward, waving his hand mid-run to signal Alex and me to split off in different directions. The tactic was clear: a fan-shaped spread to cover maximum ground and avoid friendly fire. I gave Alex a short nod, pointing him to the left flank. The guy obeyed without hesitation, without a trace of arrogance. It seemed my story about being some mysterious government agent had knocked all the pride out of him. In his eyes, I had become an unquestionable authority, almost a demigod.

I sprinted to the right. The arena greeted me with the smell of dust, old rubber, and paint soaked deep into the wood. Makeshift cover was everywhere: nailed planks, concrete blocks, and the skeletal remains of various structures. For the local veterans, this was home turf. I had to adapt on the fly. But I had a trump card, something the veterans in training videos and my instructors kept repeating: speed. I caught a glimpse of the opposing team, solid guys in black, walking mountains of muscle.

They were good, but their bodies were built for heavy lifting, not for explosive sprints. My muscles, enhanced by the [Trainer] system, were developed across the board. A shadow in a black vest suddenly emerged from around the corner. My reaction was instant. As Parker taught: do not wait, do not aim forever, just shoot. I raised my rifle and fired a short three-shot burst. A sharp "pak-pak" sound, and a bright yellow mark bloomed across the opponent's helmet. One down.

"Damn it…" came from under the helmet of the "dead" player. He began to slowly get up and leave the game, but I was already moving. Parker was stingy with praise, but he drilled knowledge properly. His main rule: never look an enemy in the face. Do not search for human traits there, do not waste precious milliseconds thinking about age, gender, or nationality. There is only a target and the direction of the barrel. If the barrel is pointed at you, you shoot first.

A dozen yards ahead, just past a sharp concrete corner, I almost collided with another opponent. The distance was critical, too late to shoot. That was when the body trained by Master Santiago took over. His jiu-jitsu was not about flashy tournaments, spectators, or gold trophies, it was about surviving in war. Reflexes moved faster than thought. I caught the opponent's arm, unbalanced him with a short, precise motion, and threw him over my hip. A dull thud as his body hit the ground, his rifle flying aside.

Before he could even process what happened, my foot was already pinning his chest to the ground, and my rifle was aimed straight at the center of his visor. Two shots point-blank. Yellow paint covered his view. Parker always said, "If you're not saving ammo, shoot twice. After one shot, there is still a small chance the enemy survives and hits you from behind. After two, revenge is something he can only dream about from the afterlife."

"You son of a bitch!" the opponent shouted, low and oddly melodic. The voice made it clear, it was a woman. I did not care. In combat, there are no genders, only those still in the game and those already out. I pushed off and kept moving. Every flicker of shadow, every rustle fed into my peripheral vision. The horizon stayed clear. Soon I reached the enemy base, a squat concrete box with hollow window gaps. By the wall, I spotted Charlie. He was boosting Alex up so he could climb onto the ledge and grab the flag.

When he saw me, Charlie broke into a satisfied grin.

"How many?" he asked shortly.

"Two," I replied, catching my breath.

"Nice. I got one too," Charlie's eyes gleamed with excitement.

"Two left inside. Dug into the corners, waiting for us to grab the flag and turn our backs so they can shoot us in the head. We need to flush them out." I nodded. We took positions on either side of the doorway. Charlie quickly flashed a series of complex military hand signals. To my embarrassment, I only understood half of them, but the overall idea was clear.

"Let's go!" he roared and charged inside first. At that same second, bursts of fire erupted from the dark corners. Charlie took the full hit, his vest instantly splattered with green marks. But he bought me those two seconds. I slipped in right behind him and, using his body as a living shield, methodically stitched both shooters.

"Game over!" Charlie announced cheerfully, pulling off his helmet.

"That is it, guys, base is clear! Alex, no need to grab the flag, we wiped them out. High five, Tom!" Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. We slapped palms hard. The impact was so strong my hand rang.

"Charlie, what the hell was that?" one of the "dead" players grumbled, stepping out of the corner.

"We agreed on realism, not kamikaze plays! What was that stunt?"

"Heh, do not complain if you do not understand strategy," Charlie replied smugly, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"It is called self-sacrifice for mission success. I chose the hero's path so my squad could win. Just like in real life!"

"In real life, there would not be anything left of you after a run like that," the loser snapped, brushing paint off his camouflage. I listened to their argument in silence, and somewhere deep inside I agreed with the guy from the black team. In reality, I would never be able to send someone to certain death for the sake of a "flag", and Charlie's move carried a bit too much reckless excitement.

"Who the hell is that?!" A woman stormed toward us like a hurricane. Strands of red hair had slipped out from under her helmet liner, her eyes shooting lightning straight at me.

"Where the hell did this damn Rambo come from?!" Oh. It seemed that I was the one who had stepped on her chest with my boot. The redhead was not a heavyweight like her male teammates. She could even be called attractive, if her face were not twisted with rage.

"You mean Tom?" Charlie leaned casually against a concrete block while I did my best impression of the most unbothered statue in the world.

"What's the problem, Rachel? The guy's just playing."

"Just playing?!" She shook her helmet, thick yellow paint dripping off it.

"He knocked my rifle out, slammed me onto concrete, and shot me point-blank! I am going to have a bruise on my chest the size of a boot print!"

"Well, he didn't just mess up your helmet," one of the flag defenders chimed in, gloomily inspecting his paint-splattered goggles.

"Why the hell shoot twice? One hit is enough by the rules, this isn't Iraq." I stayed silent. What was I supposed to tell them? Sorry, my instructor is a paranoid man who teaches me to kill for certainty? Or that in their place I saw mercenaries who wanted my head? Admitting that would get me a straight ticket to a psychiatric ward.

"Come on, what's the big deal," Charlie raised his hands in a calming gesture, though his eyes were dancing with mischief.

"Tom's just got shaky hands from nerves, so he keeps pulling the trigger until his finger locks up. He's a newbie, I literally found him through a Facebook ad. First time he's ever held a rifle."

"He's a newbie?" Rachel let out a short, dry laugh full of sarcasm.

"He moves like a veteran with three deployments!"

"You're imagining things, Rachel. Paint got in your eyes, that's all," Charlie gave me a subtle wink.

"Tom's an accountant or something, right, Tom? Never lifted anything heavier than a computer mouse in his life. Beginners just get lucky."

"With luck like that, he should be buying lottery tickets, not playing paintball," she snorted, clearly unconvinced, but she did not push the argument further.

"So, fighters, another round?" Charlie glanced at his watch.

"We've got fifty minutes. If we move, we can squeeze in one more slaughter, maybe even two." People started heading toward the staging area to swap helmets, reload magazines, and wipe off paint. Charlie, after his "heroic self-sacrifice", looked like a paint bomb had gone off on him and had to change completely. While we waited, John and Harry questioned Alex about the assault. Those poor guys had spent the entire round on defense and missed all the fun.

Alex, practically choking on excitement, described my shooting against the defenders, inflating the story to the scale of a Hollywood action movie. I could only sigh, realizing my reputation as an "undercover CIA agent" in this group was now set in stone forever.

"Ready, suiciders?" Charlie returned, clean and refreshed.

"Tactics: Alex, John, and Harry go on the attack. Tom and I hold the base. Classic wall." The siren wailed over the field, and our assault team rushed off into the maze of barriers.

"I'll stay down here and cover the entrance," Charlie ordered.

"You head up top. Sniper post is yours." He was about to offer his hands to boost me onto the concrete roof of the base, but I politely refused. The enemy was still far away, there was no need to rush. I grabbed the edge, smoothly pulled myself up, and rolled onto the flat surface. There I immediately lay flat on my stomach, pressing into the concrete the way Parker had taught me. It was incredibly uncomfortable. The plastic armor dug into my ribs, and the helmet kept trying to slide off. But I endured it.

Up on the roof, I was nearly invisible. White clothing against gray concrete under the dim hangar lighting worked as decent camouflage. I could not see the entire arena, but my hearing picked up the sounds of battle. Short bursts of fire, shouting, the thud of boots. It seemed the enemy had decided not to hold back and threw all their forces into the assault, quickly crushing our guys in the middle of the field.

"Tom, no mercy!" Charlie's muffled voice came from below. He was clearly enjoying himself.

"If we go down, we're taking these bastards with us! We're not going to hell alone!" I did not know what rank Charlie held in the army, but he made for an entertaining commander. And then it started. A shadow leapt out from behind a barricade about twenty yards away. I recalled Parker's lessons: a sniper does not shoot where the enemy is, but where he will be in the next moment. I pulled the trigger, aiming at empty space ahead of the runner.

The paintballs cut through the air and met his head exactly as he lunged forward.

"Son of a bitch! Again?!" Rachel's furious shout made it clear she was out of the game once more. Then, as if on cue, three more burst out from different pieces of cover. My hands moved on their own, ahead of thought. This was the muscle memory Santiago had talked about. Shift the barrel, fire. Shift again, fire. The first target was down, the second froze as paint splashed across his head, and the third one I did not have time for... Charlie's marker clicked dry from below.

Two solid hits to the stomach of the last attacker ended the charge. The guy immediately tore off his mask, leaving the game. Too quick, in my opinion. In a real fight, he might have fired back before shock and blood loss shut his brain down. But this was only a game.

"Game over!" Rachel shouted, waving her paint-covered helmet.

"What, already?" Charlie sounded surprised as he climbed out of his cover.

"Where's your fifth?"

"Our guys dropped him in the middle of the field. One for three trade."

"But just now the two of us took out four of you," Charlie raised his rifle triumphantly.

"Told you, Tom brings us luck."

"Fucking good luck charm..." Rachel stood below, glaring up at me.

"Session's not over yet. I want one more round. Final one." I looked down at her, and a chill ran along my spine. Judging by how tightly she clenched her fists, I strongly doubted she would calm down if I "killed" her one more time.