Wanted (Hostage Rescue Team Series Book 8) by Kaylea Cross

scared to come out, or what?” he taunted. “Is there a maze in there you got lost in? Or maybe you found a baseball diamond?”
    “If you build it, they will come,” Evers mocked, hunkered down beside him.
    “Says the leader of the pussies hiding behind a barricade!” Cruz yelled back.
    “Whatever, Cruzie. We took you out like, ten minutes ago, so you’re supposed to be dead anyhow,” Clay called out from behind the cover of the barricade he’d constructed of old tires earlier.
    “Fuck you, they’re just flesh wounds,” Cruzie shot back from somewhere across the empty cornfield. “I’m still in the fight. Man up and come out from behind your little hiding place over there, and I’ll show you. Got a round waiting here with your name on it.”
    With an evil chuckle Clay nudged Evers. “He’s so easy to rile.”
    Evers snickered in delight. “I know. All that passionate, Puerto Rican blood, I guess.” He added his voice to the trash talk. “Come on, you chicken shits, get out here and meet your paintball makers like men.”
    “Brave talk, coming from a bunch of pussies cowering behind the only real cover out here,” Tuck fired back.
    “ Smart pussies,” Clay countered, immensely pleased with himself.
    “Whatever man, you were the one who put that thing there in the first place last night, so you knew exactly where it was all along. Totally unfair tactical advantage,” Blackwell accused.
    Clay grinned, loving everything about this. He hadn’t had this much fun in a long time. Well, he definitely had fun with Zoe, but it was a different, private and extremely fucking hot kind of fun. He shifted his grip on his weapon, itching to attack. “Come out and tell me that to my face, Blackwell.”
    “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine,” his teammate answered.
    He turned to Evers. “Whaddya think? Should we go for it?”
    Evers shrugged. “Why not? I’m starving. Let’s get this over with so we can eat.”
    He looked past Evers to Vance, who was at a distinct disadvantage with his right arm strapped across his chest. “What about you, man?”
    “I could eat a whole freaking cow by myself right now man, and those steaks are smelling pretty damn good to me.”
    “Yeah. Okay then. On three.” He faced the edge of the pile of tires again and called out to the enemy team. “All right, you pansy-asses. Let’s do this. Molṑn labé .” A classic expression of defiance that loosely translated to come get some, motherfuckers . That King Leonidas must have had titanium balls when he’d said that to the Persians at Thermopylae.
    “Bring it, assholes! We’re ready,” Tuck answered.
    “Wait, so we’re going Rambo mode?” Evers asked.
    “Rambo on steroids,” Clay responded. “Three,” he called out to the others. “Two. Go!”
    Roaring their battle cries, Clay and his two teammates rushed out from behind cover just as Tuck and his team emerged from the dried cornstalks.
    Immediately they opened up on each other, firing everything they had. Whoops and war cries filled the night, along with the rapid thunk-thunk-thunk of hundreds of paintballs finding their targets.
    Rounds hit Clay in the torso, the arms. One smashed into his right cheekbone, and then someone played dirty and began firing straight at his groin.
    Since he’d been smart enough to wear a cup the impacts didn’t put him into the fetal position like they would have without protection, but he still roared and turned to face his attacker. In the light of the fire behind him in the fire pit he saw Schroder running straight for him, cackling like a maniac as he fired round after round right between Clay’s legs.
    Clay lowered himself to Schroder’s level and returned the favor, firing until his weapon was empty. Schroder hit the ground and cupped his balls, groaning as the rest of Clay’s shots slapped into his prostrate body.
    “Bet you wish you had a cup on right now, huh, Doc?” he yelled over the noise.
    Schroder groaned and