Chapter 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 airsoft 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.

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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.”