Chapter 147: Meeting an Old Friend on the Paintball Field
"That tactic is disgusting," Ron frowned. "And what about lunch? Who wants to eat while smelling like a restroom?"
Everyone shook their heads.
The rules of the game were that all teams were thrown into the oversized playing field together, each carrying a flag. If their flag was captured, or if all members were eliminated, they would be disqualified. The team with the most flags would win.
"How about this? We split into two squads. Sheldon, Leonard, Raj, and Howard, the four of you will form the defensive team. You'll find some cover, hide your flag, and try to survive as long as possible."
Without waiting for Sheldon to object, Ron took command. "Jessica and Penny, you and I will form the strike team. We'll go capture the other teams' flags."
"Hey, that's not fair! Why are they the strike team?" Howard objected. "I suggest leaving the offensive to the men, natural warriors like me."
Howard flexed his modest biceps, and Penny tactfully looked away.
Howard's thigh muscles weren't even as thick as her arms.
"Easy there, Rambo," Ron patted Howard like a big brother. "Believe it or not, Penny alone could take on all four of you. Okay, here's the plan, let's move out!"
Ron clapped his hands and headed into the woods with the two women, leaving the four scientists, fully geared up, staring at each other.
"Shouldn't we find cover first?"
Sheldon nodded in agreement. "Excellent tactical thinking!"
...
"Have you two ever handled firearms before?" Ron asked, carefully stepping through the fallen leaves. It was autumn, and although the temperature was still comfortable, the trees were already shedding their foliage.
"I used to shoot all the time back home in Nebraska. Real guns, not these toy markers," Penny said dismissively, testing the weight of the weapon in her hand.
Jessica replied: "Leigh Anne made me take an IPSC course, so I think I can contribute."
IPSC, short for International Practical Shooting Confederation, might sound tactical, but to a seasoned professional like Ron, it was essentially sport shooting.
This discipline may have originally been about combat training, but as it evolved, it became increasingly focused on competition, featuring modified ultra-light triggers, low-recoil ammunition, and added weights for stability.
Imagine carrying a gun like this in a duty holster? It'd probably discharge after just a few steps, taking off something important.
Taking it into real combat would be suicide, but it was perfect for a paintball game. To give the two of them an enjoyable experience, Ron simply took on the support role.
Whenever he spotted opponents, he'd deliberately fire a few random shots to draw their attention, then use tactical positioning to ensure his shots missed while Jessica and Penny flanked around and delivered the eliminating hits.
Ron only had to occasionally watch their backs and provide covering fire.
Since most participants were weekend warriors, this strategy worked brilliantly, and they quickly collected four flags, sweeping north from the southwest corner of the field.
In the opposite direction, another skilled player advanced rapidly toward Ron, leaving behind dejected individuals who'd been shot and eliminated from the game.
This was a two-person team, a man and a woman. The man had defeated almost every opponent single-handedly, leaving the woman with little to do.
"Freeze!" Ron, sensing the unusual quiet ahead, immediately stopped the two with a hand signal.
As soon as he moved, a barrage of paintballs erupted toward him, fired from clever angles with expert precision. Ron avoided them with a combat roll, pulling Jessica to cover.
"Looks like we've got a professional. You two stay put, I'll go dance with him," Ron whispered from his position, his breath tickling Jessica's ear.
Jessica blushed, "Copy that," like a wife sending her husband off to war.
What's with this atmosphere? It's just a paintball match, is it really that intense?
Ron quickly moved away from Jessica and fired a burst of paintballs at the source. Without waiting for a response, he leaped behind a tree like an agile cat.
Just as Penny was wondering about Ron's actions, a volley of shots peppered the spot where Ron had fired from.
So Ron was actually drawing fire! Penny was thoroughly impressed. He truly was a professional operative.
If Ron could hear Penny's thoughts, he'd definitely chuckle. "Drawing fire? That's what you call professional?" Then you don't know what professional really means.
Did you really think Ron's last shot was just a diversion?
Of course not. Based on the different locations of the two firing positions, if you connect the two points from an overhead view, the resulting line represents the shooter's direction of movement.
And according to the field map Ron had memorized before entering the arena, there are three firing positions along this line that could target his current location!
Finally, the distance between the two firing points, combined with the timing, indicated that the shooter was running at full speed while firing. So, his next position should be...
Ron suddenly emerged from behind a tree and instantly raised his marker, aiming directly at a gap in cover straight ahead.
There was nothing there, but Ron had already squeezed the trigger.
"Pop, pop, pop."
In a tight burst, three paintballs shot from the barrel, arriving almost instantly. Just as the paintballs seemed about to miss, a figure suddenly emerged from behind cover, almost as if deliberately running into the shots, and was splattered with paint.
Then he stood there in shock.
"YES!" Penny and Jessica jumped up and cheered, and the eliminated player, after seeing the true identity of the shooter, his initial disbelief transformed into an awkward but respectful smile.
"Instructor Ron? What are you doing here?"
"Oh for crying out loud! I thought it was some weekend warrior having fun, but it turns out to be you, Tucker." Ron walked over, shaking his head.
Is Hobbs psychic? Just as he mentioned it, the guy appears right in front of him.
"After all these years, your movement patterns are still as predictable and unimaginative as ever. If this were a real battlefield, you'd have been KIA a thousand times over."
Ron adopted his instructor posture. Although he lowered his marker, he remained alert. His finger stayed near the trigger, ready to fire instantly, just in case some unsporting fool attempted a cheap shot.
"Where's Roosevelt? Why isn't he with you?"
(End of Chapter)
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