Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(7)

“Correction, mi amigo.” Stefan put a hand on Frank’s shoulder. “I promised to kick your pensioner ass.”

“Hey!” Mike gestured at him and Geoff. “What are we? Chopped liver?”

Stefan shrugged. “Collateral damage?”

Mike huffed sharply. Crumpling the wrapper from his sandwich, he eyed Stefan. “Only collateral damage out there is going to be your Yank ego.”

Stefan puffed out his chest. “Bring it, Brit.”

Geoff laughed. “I like this guy already, and I ain’t even shot him yet.” His affected American drawl sounded pretty convincing, too.

Mike and Frank laughed.

“Yet?” Stefan snorted. “Keep dreaming.”

“Uh-huh.” Geoff reached into his car. When he straightened again, he was holding a small box. “Here, Stefan. You’ll need these.” He tossed it to Stefan.

Stefan caught it. “What the—” He glared at Geoff. “Band-Aids? Really?”

Frank smothered a laugh. Oh, yes, this was exactly the kind of crowd to introduce to Stefan.

Stefan held up the package of plasters. “I’ll hang on to it. Might be good to have around when I come to help your ass off the field.”

The guys laughed, and Frank and Stefan pulled their equipment out of the boot of the car. Stefan had an impressive gun—paintball gun—that almost immediately gave Geoff a gear boner. All the shit-talking was forgotten as Geoff drooled over the tricked-out piece. Stefan had gone all out on the thing, with added toys and gizmos Frank didn’t even recognise, but apparently Geoff did.

“You mind if I try her out?” Geoff extended a hand.

Stefan shrugged and let him have it. “Sure.”

Geoff’s face lit up. They grabbed their masks, some paint, and an air tank, and headed over to the calibration area.

Mike watched them go. “Now that’s quite the pair.”

“Figured they’d get along.” Frank opened his bag and started getting kitted up. “No idea how good this kid is on the field, but I figure he at least knows which end the paint comes out of.”

“I’m not too concerned about his paintball savvy, mate.” Mike unzipped his case and pulled out his own marker. As he unscrewed the barrel, he watched the other two. They were behind the protective netting, backs turned and masks on as Geoff aimed Stefan’s gun into the paint-splattered trees.

Frank chuckled. “Didn’t figure you would be.”

“Where’d you find this one?” Mike turned to him. “He’s not one of your boys, is he?”

Frank nodded. “New guy.”

“Oh yeah?” Mike ran a squeegee through his barrel, tugging it free before glancing over towards Geoff again. “He good at his job?”

Frank scoffed with mock indignation. “You think I’d hire a man who wasn’t?”

“You’ve said yourself you’ve had a few bad apples.” As he screwed the barrel back on, Mike threw another look at Stefan, who was gesturing over the gun as Geoff nodded at whatever he was saying. “This isn’t one of ’em, eh?”

“Not from what I’ve heard.” He smirked at Mike. “You’ll have to tell me how he turns out.”

Mike grinned, saluting sharply with two fingers. “I’ll have a full report to you by sundown.”

A few more cars pulled in, and within half an hour, the entire group had arrived. Fifteen today, which meant teams of six and three refs. Perfect.

Stefan, who’d been assigned to red team, had no trouble fitting in with the group. He flirted, he talked shit, and he oohed and ahhed over the impressive kit some of the boys had brought along. Most of them didn’t have markers quite as tricked out as his own, but they weren’t off-the-rack pieces of crap either.

At some point, Stefan managed to get a handful of grenades from Chris, the hot guy everybody wanted to get their hands on, but Frank didn’t know—and didn’t ask—if he’d bought them or exchanged a promise of a favour. That was the preferred means of currency out here, after all. And Chris and Stefan were on opposite teams, which meant they were both there for the other’s taking.

Frank’s mouth watered. That was a pair he’d pay good money to watch. Chris was former military himself. RAF, and without much in the way of ground combat experience, but he had the attitude and the physique. Didn’t keep his blond hair cut so short anymore, not like Stefan did, but he still had that gleam in his eye that came with the kind of hotshot ego a man needed to get into the cockpit of a fighter jet. Too bad it wasn’t a cold day; he sometimes wore his flight suit under his camouflage for a little extra warmth. Frank would have offered up a severed limb to watch Stefan pin that motherf*cker down and make him come all over that.

Once everyone had their equipment together—air tanks full, hoppers loaded up with paintballs, masks in hand if not already on—Geoff called the group together.

“Most of you have been here before, so you know the rules.” He turned to look everybody in the eye. “You take a paintball? You’re out. Hold up your weapon, yell ‘out,’ and get the f*ck off the field. Guy captures you with a barrel tap”—he tapped Mike’s shoulder with the barrel of his marker to demonstrate—“or you surrender?” He grinned. “Well, you’re his prisoner. Going out on this field, you’re consenting to do whatever your captor tells you to do. Universal safeword is ‘Geneva.’ Everyone’s here to have a good time, so let’s keep it as safe and sane as it can be out there. Any questions?”