Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(50)

The team broke apart and jogged in pairs towards different sides of their end of the field. Brandon used his boot to erase whatever he’d drawn in the dirt, and then he trotted off too, keeping his head down and moving almost silently across the ground.

The siren sounded, and the players were in motion. Frank watched the middle of the field, keeping an eye on any players he could see. He glanced in the direction Brandon had gone.

Surprise, surprise: Brandon had vanished.

Even though it was completely impossible short of inventing teleportation, Frank glanced behind himself. The skin on his neck prickled from being unable to see Brandon. The man’s skill for moving on the battlefield made him paranoid, and he was glad for the ref job, even if Geoff as field owner was more than happy to bet his arse, too, as amply proven. However, a player had to deal with a great many more factors. Opponents. Paint left. Moving through the territory. The objective of capturing the flag or a player from the opposing camp. Whereas he only kept an eye on the players. The ones he could see.

Far to the left, the first heated exchange started, pretty close to the red team’s base. Frank immediately peered right, assuming it might be a distraction from what was really going on. In any case, it seemed the reds were going for all-out assault on the blue team’s position, rolling right over them before Chris could lead his team out into the field. Chris wasn’t much of a leader anyway—too keen to score his own point; people followed him not out of loyalty but because he was a very good player and some people moved in his wake, like weak players often rallied around strong ones. Not an example of the spirit of a small combat unit, but it worked for a while.

There. Chris crawling along the left side, as expected.

Frank moved closer along the right side to get a better look at what was going on, keeping low, though, so people taking potshots at Chris wouldn’t hit him instead. Chris briefly aimed at him, and Frank wagged a finger. Shoot me, and there’ll be hell to pay.

Chris saluted him with two fingers.

Right behind Chris, a player appeared, marker low but ready, and crept up on him.

Holy shit, one of the reds must have walked straight through the blue camp, either evading the other blues who’d attempted to protect it, or maybe finished them off, and was now creeping towards Chris from the back. The way he moved gave away it had to be Brandon. Frank noticed another ref creeping up in the back. Mike, likely getting a huge kick out of watching Brandon playing counting coup.

Frank grinned behind his mask, but didn’t do anything. No nod or other signal that would have given away what was going on to Chris.

Just then, Brandon lifted up a bit, reached out with his marker, and tapped Chris on the shoulder. Frank could almost hear it: Dead.

Startled, Chris twisted around, coiled and ready to run, and Frank’s instinct told him the movement was all wrong before he saw Chris lash out with the marker. A pure reflex. Much, much too fast to be premeditated, completely fuelled by surprise and tension and a primal animal self-preservation, but those f*ckers were heavy, solid metal.

In a movement that was equally swift, Brandon brought his marker up and defended against the blow that could have cracked his mask or even cost him a row of teeth if it had landed.

Frank was too surprised and shocked to blow the whistle, but he ran towards them.

Brandon and Chris stood facing each other, breathing so heavily their chests were visibly moving.

“You’re dead.” Brandon’s voice was muffled in the mask.

Chris growled. “Fucking arsehole.”

Lowering his marker, Brandon glanced at Frank. Mike was coming up from the rear.

“Bran— Stefan, you okay?” Frank drew closer. When Brandon nodded, he turned to Chris. “I did not just see that. Are you f*cking out of your mind?”

“It’s all right.” Brandon lifted a hand. “He didn’t hit me.”

Chris tucked his marker under his arm. “He startled me. I wasn’t out to hit him.”

Frank and Mike exchanged glances. Mike shrugged.

“All right.” Frank inhaled deeply to calm himself. “Take it easy, all right? No one’s out for blood out here.”

Brandon laughed. Chris didn’t.

Mike gestured at the two of them. “You boys play nice.” Then he put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, and they started to walk back out towards the rest of the game.

“Don’t even think about it.” At Chris’s snarl, both Mike and Frank stopped dead in their tracks.

When Frank turned around, Brandon had both hands up in a show of defensiveness.

“Uh, what about the rules?”

“Fuck the rules.” Chris turned to go. “You can shoot me all you want, mate, but you’re not capturing me.”

“Whoa, whoa.” Mike turned and stepped in Chris’s way. “Hang on a minute.”

Chris faced him and Frank, his stance echoing the impatience that was visible even through his tinted visor.

“Chris, everybody wants everything to be consensual out here, but if you’re gonna play . . .”

“And I was fine with that.” Chris lifted his mask just enough to spit the words out. “Totally fine. And totally fine letting him capture me and do whatever he wanted to me.” He pointed sharply at Frank. “Until he started f*cking him.”

Frank’s throat constricted and his blood turned to ice water.