Quiet Undertaking A Connor Westphal Mystery

How did I get myself into this? I wiped a clump of damp bangs from my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. Hunkered down beside a jagged volcanic rock, I cocked my gun, then low-crawled among the manzanita and Sierra thistle toward the safety of a cluster of trees. I squatted, waiting; my eyes scanned the underbrush. Nothing moved except a river of perspiration down my chest. Fear has a way of pushing the senses into overdrive. Suddenly I could see every blade of field grass quake. Feel the relentless pressure of the warm breeze against my overheated body. Smell my floral lotion fighting pungent sweat. Even my saliva tasted different--sticky, salty, sour. In spite of the density of the blue oaks and needle pines, and the camouflage of the rugged terrain, it was difficult to stay out of the line of fire. And I had lost track of the man who was stalking me with a loaded gun in his hand. Before I could find new cover, I saw something fly past my head, narrowly missing my ear. Ducking flat, I felt my black T-shirt stick to my sweaty skin like a giant Band-Aid. Damn! How had he spotted me? I'd been careful not to make any noise as I crept through the tangle of shrubs and soft pine needles. Not that I could be certain I hadn't made any sound, being deaf. But it felt like I was quiet. I scanned the overgrown grass, oak trees, and jutting rocks for movement. He was out there. With a gun. Determined to shoot me. A flicker. I became aware of movement next to one of the big oaks. My heart beat double time as I tried to leap behind a large, spiky bush, praying he didn't see me. The dive onto the rough ground cost me a scraped elbow and knee. My skin burned under my clothes. I rose halfway, panicked, searching for someplace to hide. Too late. A sharp sting pierced the back of my thigh as the impact of the shot knocked me back to the ground. I rolled over in the weeds and dirt, then pushed myself up, my leg searing from the pain. Twisting around, I checked the wound and winced at the sight of a bright red starburst. "Shit! I'm hit! I'm hit!" I screamed, as I forced myself to stand. I plugged the neon orange barrel into the nose of the gun and waved it back and forth, high in the air. "And no one told me it was going to hurt this much!" I rubbed the back of my leg where I'd been struck, trying to soothe the smarting skin, but I only managed to spread the sticky crimson color over my hands and my black jeans. Frustrated, I started toward the base, but before I could move more than a few steps, another shot hit me in the back. This one didn't hurt as much, but it pissed me off even more. "I said I'm hit, you idiot! Knock it off!" A man wearing camouflage fatigues and a fluorescent red armband waved an apology from the safety of his tree. I couldn't make out who it was, since a mask and eye protectors covered half his face, but I'd remember him. He had two blue circles on the front of his shirt from a previous battle, and I promised myself I'd hunt him down and kill him if it took the rest of the day. "Did they get you?" Jeff Pike, the teenaged referee standing on the sidelines, waved me in. He and his younger brother hosted the paint ball events every weekend. They both wore holey camouflage T-shirts and baggy cargo pants, along with the orange vest that was de rigeur for all the paint ball refs. The Day-Glo vests set them apart from the battling teams so they wouldn't be shot inadvertently. I could read Jeff's lips, since he only wore safety goggles, unlike the other players, who sported face masks. When I reached the base, I removed my face and eye protection. Jeff threw me a towel to wipe off the sweat. "He shot me in the back!" I said, using the towel to dab at the red paint on my pants. "After I'd already been killed. Is that fair?" "It was probaWarner, Penny is the author of 'Quiet Undertaking A Connor Westphal Mystery', published 2000 under ISBN 9780553763188 and ISBN 0553763180.