Page 79 of Better Hate than Never

“Wait.” Toni eases upright, glancing around. “Have any of you seen signs of the catapult?”

We all blink at him.

“Thecatapult?” Christopher asks.

Toni nods. “I overheard Hank ask one of the other employees if he’d moved the catapult from the last session—”

“And you’rejustnow mentioning that!” Margo yells.

Another paintball whizzes by us. We all duck. Toni swears loudly in Polish, which is apparently when you know he’s truly worked up. Still cursing, he loads his slingshot and snaps a paintball toward one of the guys, who narrowly avoids it, falling out of view. “As you can see,” Toni says, breathing heavily, “I’ve been a little busy trying not to turn into a human Jackson Pollock painting to share that anecdote.”

“Regardless of how late it’s being mentioned,” Jamie says diplomatically, “if we find that catapult, we have a legitimate advantage on our hands.” He blows out a breath, surveying the range, a disaster zone of paint splatters marring tree bark and boulders, knee-high grass and looming haystacks.

“I suspect it’ll be midsized,” he says thoughtfully. “Something a single person or maybe a duo could operate. We get that catapult, lure them into the right spot for an attack, then we can take out a number of them at once. We just might beat them.”

“What if they have it already?” Margo asks.

“They don’t,” Jamie says. “We’d know it. We’d be getting beaned in clusters. I imagine you load the bucket with as many paintballs as possible, then launch it. They’re coming one or two paintballs at a time.”

“All right.” Christopher nods. “Given that, what do you think we should do?”

Jamie clears his throat. “Well... I mean, who am I to say?”

Bea peers up at him and grins. “Jamie. Now is not the time to be bashful about all those history of ancient battles and medieval weaponry books you nerded out on in middle school.”

Jamie blushes. “I might have nerded out on a book or two.”

“Let’s hear it.” Margo wipes sweat off her forehead, arms braced on her knees. “Whatever helps us beat these assholes.”

As Jamie talks, I fight a shiver, trying my best to focus on his voice rather than how hard my teeth want to chatter. The plastic dome surrounding us still has its sides open, allowing the wind to tear across the field. With the sun sinking toward the horizon, the temperature’s begun to drop, and sweat’s settled on my skin, damp and chilly. I’m freezing my ass off.

A shiver finally wins the battle and shakes me. I manage to keep my teeth from clicking, though.

Christopher doesn’t look at me, eyes on Jamie, but he moves closer, so my whole side is wedged against his. It feels like cuddling up to a radiator. I lean in even more and soak up every ounce of heat he’ll give me.

After Jamie’s brief tactical plan explanation comes to an end, we split off, first Jamie and Bea deeper into the small gathering of trees to look for the catapult. We’ve deduced from our collective surveillance of the field, that’s the one area none of us has covered and is thus likely hiding it.

Toni and Margo split off next, army crawling toward the large boulder that we can see from here is now empty, ever since Jamie and Margo nailed two of the goons hiding there.

Now it’s only Christopher and me, sneaking toward the high ground, where four out of the remaining six creeps are stationed.

The plan is Margo and Toni will wait for Jamie’s whistle signal that they’ve found the catapult and are in good position for an attack, or a different whistle if they haven’t found it but they’re in close enough range to use slingshots. Then Margo and Toni will draw the douchebags’ attention from their place of protection behind the boulder, Jamie and Bea will catch them from the front, with the woods offering them coverage, and then Christopher and I will ambush them from behind.

The nerve-wracking part is we have no idea where the other two guys are.

“Nothing like a little wildly stressful paintball combat with a bunch of wannabe GI Joes to round out your week, huh?”

I’m nervous-blabbing, and I know it. Since his brief explanation before we walked out onto the field, Christopher hasn’t spoken to me, hasn’t acknowledged me but for that offering of warmth while we strategized. For my pride’s sake, I wish I could stop talking to him.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t answer me, just creeps ahead, surveying the area as we sneak toward the high ground.

I don’t want to blab and beg for his attention. I know Ishouldn’tbe blabbing if we don’t want to give ourselves away. But it needles me that I’m once again in that old familiar territory of being ignored.

Would it be so hard to just say something to me already?

From behind, I flick his ear. Christopher glares over his shoulder at me and sets a finger to his mouth. I stick out my tongue.

His gaze flicks to my mouth and darkens.

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