Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(21)

They stayed on the topic of various types of paintball, which gave them something relatively easy to talk about for the duration of the drive. Frank tried not to let it show how relieved he was that they’d stuck to a lighter subject. Nothing quite like being a captive audience during a more awkward discussion, particularly when they still had to ride back together.

When they arrived at the field, several of the guys were already there. Naturally, Geoff and Mike were there, calibrating people’s guns and handing out bags of paint.

As Frank got out of the car, he met Geoff’s eyes. Then Geoff looked past Frank, and his jaw dropped. He stared at Frank again, silently asking, Wait, what the f*ck?

The minute Stefan stepped away from where they were laying out their gear, Geoff materialised beside Frank. No surprise there.

“You guys talked, right?”

“Yes, we talked.” Frank shot him a pointed look. “And I gave him a ride in because he doesn’t have a car.”

“So, there’s nothing . . .”

Frank shook his head.

“Oh.” Geoff gave a sharp nod. “Okay. I—”

“Would it be a problem if there was?”

“No, of course not.” Geoff put up a hand. “I was merely surprised to see you here together. Wasn’t sure how he’d handle things, so I didn’t expect to see both of you. Driving in, I mean.” Geoff pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Okay, I’m sounding like an arse here.” He dropped his hand. “You get what I’m saying, right?”

Frank nodded. “I follow, don’t worry.”

“Thank God.” Geoff watched Stefan, who was drooling over some pricey paintball toys with one of the other guys. “Things not work out with him and Chris or something? Thought those two would be shacking up by now.”

Frank chuckled. “He didn’t say anything except that Chris’s driving scares him.”

Geoff laughed. “So Yankee Doodle Arsef*ck has an Achilles’ heel after all.”

Sniggering, Frank glanced at Stefan. “Somehow I don’t think Chris’s driving will help any of us out on the field.”

“Yeah. Death-wish vehicle support is out.”

“Also a waste of extremely fine arse, if you ask me.”

Geoff slapped his shoulder, and Frank was glad that that conversation had drifted away from the unpleasant stuff.

“You’ll ref?” Geoff squeezed his shoulder.

“Yeah.”

“Sweet.” Geoff moved on to calibrate weapons and prepare for the game.

Frank stretched his shoulders and legs to loosen up. The other guys were arriving now, greeting and kitting up before they all headed to the ready area. Stefan was greeted back into the red team, and the suggestion that the teams should be “mixed up a bit” was rebuffed with sarcasm. The reds had to be quite pleased to have added a secret weapon against Chris to their arsenal. Probably wouldn’t be too long before they elected him team leader and put up a monument in his honour. Though half the team was likely inwardly groaning that they had no chance to get a piece of him.

Frank slipped down his mask and jogged out onto the field for the first battle of the day, feeling a great deal more positive than he had. Maybe getting stuff out in the open had, in the end, been good. They could both think clearly, since straight was out of the question.

The teams took their positions and the siren sounded. Frank found a place up the hill, closer to the blues, because he liked seeing Stefan advance and assumed he’d use the bunkers for cover when he made for the blue flag.

Meanwhile, some * nearly shot him in the head and Frank ducked, tempted as always to beat the hell out of the trigger-happy bastard, but he managed to suppress the reflex. Barely.

There, the blues were advancing over the right flank, and the reds were responding with everything they had.

Again paint splatted against Frank’s cover, exploding high up enough to speckle his visor and spray his lips. He stepped back and peered out from behind a bunker at the back, when he saw two things: a blue shooter aiming at him and squeezing the trigger, and then a grenade that exploded between the shooter’s feet, drenching him in paint while two paintballs exploded high up on Frank’s right thigh, a hand’s breadth away from his groin.

“Fuck!” The blue—now really more yellow—cursed and lifted his hands. “I’m out.” Chris? Wow.

Chris kept his weapon over his head and tried to wipe paint off his mask, but succeeded only in smearing it. “Goddamn motherf*cking grenades.”

Frank chuckled, but then Chris stumbled. “Can you see well enough to get off the field?”

“I can’t see a motherf*cking thing!”

Frank blew his whistle twice. All activity on the field ceased. “Dead man walking! Mask off. Everyone hold your fire. Is everyone clear?”

A chorus of yeahs and roger thats came from all over the field. Chris stripped off his mask. Some paint had made it through the vents and splattered on his face, and he scowled as he left the field. Once he was clear of the boundary, Frank blew the whistle again, and play immediately resumed.

He crouched behind the bunker. Chris and whoever had shot him out had been the only players in this area, so there was no point in—

A hand on his shoulder startled the f*ck out of him.

“Dead.”