They didn’t know I was in the game, which perhaps gave me an unfair advantage, but I decided to go with the old philosophy that all’s fair in love and war. Especially paintball war. My game plan was to work my way around to a point farther down the trail, from where I could see the planted flag. Then, when either of them got close to it, I’d blast ’em. I took tentative aim at a clump of leaves up ahead, just for practice, and astonished myself by dead-eying it with a pink blob. Hey, that was kind of fun! After snagging my mask on bushes and getting whopped with one branch after another, I changed tactics. I slung the carrying strap on the paint gun over one shoulder, got down on my belly, and slithered under most of the brush. Being small, scrawny, and semi-invisible does have its occasional advantages. When I came to the trail, I cautiously got to my feet. Yes, there was the flag some twenty-five feet back toward the clearing around the house. I couldn’t see anyone, but somewhere in the brush I heard the occasional click of a trigger, the whoosh of a firing gun, sometimes the splat of a paintball hitting something.
