“And leave bruises. But Carly has a bunch of brothers. If she didn’t paintball, she’d have to miss their birthday parties.”

“My sister wouldn’t much care about that. She wouldn’t go paintballing if I paid her,” Luka says.

“Well, your sister only has one brother, so maybe she doesn’t feel as much pressure to paintball. Carly, on the other hand . . .”

“How many brothers?”

“Two older. Two younger.”

Luka looks away for a second, then back. “Maybe we should all go sometime.”

“Um . . . yeah . . . I guess.” I glance at Jackson. He’s been unnaturally quiet. I would have thought he’d break up social time before it got started. He’s watching us with his head tipped slightly to one side, his expression indecipherable. If I were forced to put a name to it, I’d say he looked wistful. Sad. But I can’t think why that should be the case.

“So what do you think, Jack?” Luka asks. “Good place to camp?”

“Would be, Luka, if the Drau were going to come looking for us,” Jackson says. “But they aren’t.”

“Why not?” I ask. “You said they know we’re here. Why haven’t they sent any security patrols to stop us? It isn’t like Vegas, where they don’t want to risk people seeing them. There’s no one else down here. Only us.”

Neither boy looks at me. They’re too busy glaring at each other. At least, Luka’s glaring, and I assume Jackson’s glaring even though I can’t see his eyes. I step back, leaving them a clearer sight line. Who am I to get in the way of macho posturing?

“For one thing, why expend the energy to hunt us down when they know we’re coming straight to them?” Jackson asks.

Comforting thought.

“They’re waiting for us to come to them so they can pick us off like a trash mob,” Tyrone says, sounding disgusted.

I glance at him. “Trash mob?”

“MMO term—”

“Massively multiplayer online,” Luka interjects. “Virtual game world. Gajillions of players.”

“Thanks. Actually knew that one already,” I say. “But still waiting for the explanation of trash mob.”

“Enemies that are just annoying because they travel in bunches and are too easy to kill.” Tyrone jumps in. “Not much of a challenge.”

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” I say with a grimace.

“Just like.”

“And nothing like us.” Jackson’s tone is soft but laced with steel. “The Drau aren’t going to pick any of us off. We’re not so easy to kill.”

Maybe not easy, but still killable. The thought is sobering. I turn toward Tyrone. He’s leaning back against the wall watching us, one knee bent, the sole of his boot pressed to the stone. His gaze slides to Luka, then Jackson, his expression deadpan. “You done with the chatty-chat?” He lifts his brows. “We moving, or what?”

“If by moving you mean walking, I’m up for it,” I say. “Crawling through more of those tunnels? Not so much.” I put my hands on my lower back and arch, easing the strain. “It feels like we’ve been down here for days.”

Tyrone pushes off the wall. “How long have we been down here?” he asks Jackson.

“Six, maybe seven hours.”

“What?” I gasp, stunned that we’ve been moving that long and I didn’t notice the passage of time.

“When we’re on a mission, we can run longer and harder. We’re faster. We don’t have the same physical requirements that we usually do,” Luka says.

I remember him telling me that in Vegas. He said it had something to do with our cons. “Physical requirements like eating or drinking.”

“Or taking a leak,” Tyrone chimes in, with a ghost of a smile.

“Thanks for that.” I roll my eyes at him, trying not to make a big deal of how pleased I am that he’s offered up a joke, however lame. I know how hard it is to do that when your heart is broken in a million pieces and every word uttered takes a billion pounds of effort.

Then I remember something else Luka said, the first time I was in the lobby. Something about how we’re not really alive during the game. My good mood sours because some of us might not be alive at the end, either.

I swallow and look away, not wanting any of them to read my expression.

“Rest time’s over. We split up here,” Jackson says.

“Split up?” The thought sends a bolt of panic through my heart. “That sounds like a crappy plan. We should stay together.”

“No.” He doesn’t sound negotiable. “Luka, you’re with Tyrone. Miki, you’re with me.”

“I don’t think we should split up.”

“Not open for discussion.”

“This is a dictatorship, not a democracy?” I ask.

The muscles in Jackson’s jaw tense. He doesn’t usually bother to explain himself, so I’m surprised when he says, “There are two main entry points to our target. One at the north, one at the south. We need to clear both. It’ll take half the time to send a separate team to each rather than hitting one together, then moving on to the next. So what do you suggest?”

The way he asks that . . . it’s as if he actually wants my opinion. As if he wants me to make the call. I feel like my answer’s important, but I can’t imagine why. I’m not the one in charge here.