Where is OLIVER?
The freighter lurched again, a loud groan pulsing through the water. From the sound of it, the ship was mere moments away from going completely under, at which point the momentum would drag him to the ocean floor. He had to go. If Oliver had survived, he would make his way to shore. To Lian Yu. Slade would find him there.
Returning to the air pocket and taking a deep breath, he swam out through the gash in the hull, the hole through which Sara had been sucked. Straining against the riptide created by the vessel as it began to sink, he kicked his way up to the surface, toward the dying night sky.
Dawn was breaking over the horizon, illuminating the carnage. Emerging from the water amid floating debris, he spied the island, the rocky shoreline a half-mile away, alone in the middle of the North China Sea. Rocky peaks jutted out toward the early morning sky, their shadows stretching like fingers over lush, vibrant terrain. To an outsider the island must have seemed like salvation. Its postcard façade gave no indication of the horrors lurking in its interior.
Slade took a breath, then began to swim powerfully, an animal on the hunt.
* * *
Slade exploded from the waves and onto the beach. He rose, chest heaving, his body covered with abrasions, his blood leaving traces on many of the gray, inhospitable rocks. He pushed the pain to the back of mind. Whatever wounds the mirakuru couldn’t heal were rendered insignificant by his deep grief for Shado… and his hate for Oliver Queen.
He grabbed the stub of the arrow still protruding from his eye—Oliver’s failed murder weapon—and ripped it free, the arrowhead taking flesh with it. Tossing it behind him, he began his trek toward the island’s center.
“Oliver!” he bellowed as he cut through the Lian Yu foliage, a man possessed. He’d long given up any pretense of stealth. There was no place on the island that Slade wouldn’t search. Not the airstrip, not the burnt-out fuselage, not Yao Fei’s cave. Yet everywhere he searched, he found no trace of his prey. Not a scent, not a footprint… nothing.
* * *
Days passed, and soon there was nowhere left to search.
Did he perish with the ship? The thought infuriated Slade, but he refused to believe it. When he dies, I have to be the one who kills him. As this thought spurred him on, he emerged into a clearing and slowed at what he saw. His final destination—Fyers’ mercenary camp, or what remained of it after the Scylla rockets had burned it to the ground. Nature had begun her slow reclamation, long grasses and weeds overtaking machinery that had sat immobile for over a year.
Slade walked amongst the charred remains of tents, searching for any sign of his enemy, but all he found was death. Decomposed bodies were scattered about, their stench long since faded, swept away by time and the island breeze. Again, there was no sign of Oliver.
His frustration boiling over, Slade slammed his fist into the closest truck, the sound of the impact scattering skyward a flock of birds. The vehicle rocked back and forth from the impact as its door caved in, until finally it settled to silence. It was then he noticed another body in the grass, where the birds had been.
It was Bill Wintergreen, his one-time partner and betrayer, still outfitted in his black body armor, his face obscured by an orange-and-black mask that looked identical to the one that Slade had worn, a long knife still embedded in his eye—driven there by Slade’s own hand, he recalled with wry irony.
The bastard betrayed me, and he deserved to die.
The sight of Wintergreen pierced through the rage that had swallowed his mind, reminding him why he had been sent to this godforsaken island to begin with. Slade had arrived as an operative for the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, sent there on a covert mission to extract Shado’s father, Yao Fei, and learn what Edward Fyers was plotting. His plans had quickly unraveled, however, his partner betraying him and his hopes for a safe return slipping through his fingers.
With lucidity came a realization, clear and apparent.
Oliver Queen was no longer on the island.
No, his prey still lived—of that Slade was certain—but he would be found elsewhere. To do so, Slade would need the resources of A.S.I.S. to help track him down. It had been more than two years, however, since he’d set foot on Australian soil.
Perhaps it was time to return…
* * *
Before leaving Lian Yu, Slade paid a visit to Shado’s grave to say goodbye. It was as he remembered. The pile of heavy stones, the piece of wood acting as a makeshift tombstone, her name carved in the bark. Seeing it was enough to rip his soul anew.
“Don’t mourn for me,” Shado said. Just like that, she was by his side again. His beloved. Standing lovely in the morning sun. “Find him,” she said, moving closer, whispering in his ear. “Make him pay for his betrayal.”
Then she took his face in her hands, looking deep into his eyes.
“Avenge me.”
Slade’s hand curled into a fist, then began to shake as the rage within him grew. He wanted nothing more than to deliver Oliver’s head on a stake. To make him suffer as he did.
“Do you promise me?” Shado asked.
“I promise,” Slade said.
“And do you keep your promises?” She was so close now, Slade could feel her breath on his lips. He met her gaze, steel in his voice.
“I do.”
* * *
He stood alone on the beach, taking in the island for what he hoped was the last time. That’s when he saw it, caught on a rock, twirling in the receding waves. His mask, its orange and black visage unmistakable. He walked over and picked it up, examining it for damage. The bottom half was torn and charred, a sign of its journey from ship to shore. Not fit to be worn again.
Slade had a different use in mind.
He found a piece of driftwood, about four feet long and sturdy, round like a post. It would’ve been heavy for a normal man, but in Slade’s hand the wood was light as a feather. He gripped it tight then drove it into the Lian Yu shore, through clay and rock, embedding it deep and secure just beyond the tidal line.
Taking a moment and looking at his mask, he remembered how he and Billy had worn them when they were proud of their jobs, in that life of the distant past. Then, in an echo of his own injury, Slade secured the mask to the post by driving an arrow through its right eye. A message for Oliver, should he ever return.
Revenge is coming.
Then Slade headed toward the water, the mirakuru rage again fueling his momentum, driving him forward into a full-on sprint, launching him head first into the oncoming waves. He knifed through them and began to swim, his arms and legs churning the sea behind him into a frothy white.
A monster at sea.
3
For nearly two weeks Slade swam south through the cold Northern Pacific, navigating its treacherous waters without thought of sustenance or rest. With the serum in his blood, he believed himself a force of nature, invulnerable and unstoppable, but the same mirakuru rage that fueled his journey also blinded him, overriding the tactical judgment he’d developed over his many years at A.S.I.S:
Never underestimate the enemy.
Especially when that foe is nature herself.
Thirty miles off the northern Philippine coast a typhoon was building, transforming the sky above and the water below into a hell, yet Slade paid no mind to the clouds growing dark and angry on the horizon. He pushed forward, his mind twisted into a deathly tunnel vision. His only concern was exacting his revenge.
The storm hadn’t yet reached its apex, but even in its infancy it tested the limits of his enhanced strength. He gritted his teeth, plowing his arms into the growing waves, legs kicking furiously, swimming twice as hard for half the distance. The winds, so calm just an hour earlier, rose to a deafening roar, whipping rain in horizontal sheets against Slade’s face, making it difficult to breathe.
Still Slade swam forward, refusing to deviate from his path. His muscles strained as he was battered again and again by waves grown to the height of bui
ldings. The ocean tossed him about like a rag doll, thrashing his body, stealing his strength until it finally dragged him under.
He was pulled down into the ocean’s darkness, all sounds of the roaring storm muted to an eerie silence. He tried fighting against the pull, but exhausted as he was by the storm, he lacked the power to break free. The current slammed him into razor-sharp coral, and the edges of rock plunged deep into his flesh, cutting him to the bone. Blood bloomed red behind him as he kicked back up toward the surface, reaching it and grabbing a few gulps of air before being dragged under once again.
In an echo of Sisyphus, each time Slade fought his way back to the surface he was dragged under again by the relentless assault. His arms and legs burned, and he was no longer advancing through the storm. His rage was forgotten, and his determination to move forward was replaced by one simple goal—to survive.
His strength ebbing, he was driven toward another set of bony rocks. Too fatigued to avoid an impact, he crashed against them, his head smashing violently against an outcrop. His body went limp. As the mirakuru struggled to keep his systems functioning, Slade floated in and out of consciousness. Balanced as he was on the edge of life and death, the serum’s hold on Slade’s mind started to loosen.
Suddenly there was the vision of a boy in the darkness. Seven years old with auburn hair and a shy smile, his eyes the same color as Slade’s. His son, Joe, the boy he had left behind, so many years ago. The boy he had vowed to see again. His first promise, and one he’d nearly forgotten.
His eyes snapped open again. Summoning strength back to his arms and legs, with renewed vigor and determination he shot back to the surface, and emerged to find the sky above him clear. The water was impossibly calm.
He had found the eye of the storm.
And a reason to live.
* * *
A fisherman emerged from a seaside shanty, the water choppy around its pier but, luckily, only that. The typhoon had stayed fifty miles from shore while exhausting itself into an overcast sky. He stared off into the gray clouds on the horizon, the patch over his eye a reminder of a time when he hadn’t been so fortunate. He checked the knot anchoring his modest fishing boat to the shore, giving it a good, hard tug. It held fast as the boat bobbed with the waves.
Suddenly there was a figure emerging from the water nearby, set dark against the rising sun, staggering up from the beach. His clothes were tattered, his skin bloodied and his eye was missing from its socket. The fisherman froze where he stood on the edge of the dock.
“Do you have a radio?” the newcomer said in a voice that sounded more like an animal’s growl. When the fisherman didn’t respond, he repeated the question in Tagalog.
“Mayroon ka ng isang radio?”
Still the fisherman didn’t speak, but he pointed to his boat. Inside the vessel’s tiny cabin was a radio.
* * *
Dragging himself into the cabin, Slade clicked the radio’s power switch, the speaker coming to life with a burst of static. Recalling the frequency from memory, he adjusted the set and then hit the button to speak, this time in English.
“This is Wedgetail three-two-five, requesting evac. Repeat, Wedgetail three-two-five requesting evac. Over.”
Nothing.
Then the radio screeched back in response.
“Wedgetail three-two-five acknowledged. Identification.”
“This is agent One-Two-Seven-Juliet-Papa-Charlie.”
Another pause.
“Repeat that one more time?” The voice on the other end sounded wary, disbelief evident in his tone.
“One-Two-Seven-Juliet-Papa-Charlie.” He paused, then decided to ignore protocol. “It’s Slade Wilson. Bring me home.”
After a long moment the voice on the other end asked for his location. Finding the boat’s global positioning system, Slade gave the coordinates. The brief conversation ended, and he exited the vessel. Stepping from boat to dock, he staggered, bracing himself by clutching the rickety railing. The damage inflicted by the storm had taken its toll. He was exhausted and in pain, his wounds still open and bloody, his arms and legs heavy with fatigue.
For the first time since being injected with the serum, he felt mortal.
The fisherman, who hadn’t moved the entire time, stared with a mixture of awe and fear. He stepped toward the wounded man. As if making a sacrifice to the gods, he took off his eye patch, revealing a scarred white eye. He handed the patch to the creature risen from the sea.
Slade grimaced with a smile of sorts, silently accepting the gift. Placing the patch over the gaping hole in his face, he turned and stalked off toward his extraction point, ready to head back to Australia and A.S.I.S.
Back to his son, Joe.
4
The Australian Secret Intelligence Service maintained three regional offices located across Australia. Its tactical branch—headquarters for covert operatives like Slade Wilson—was located out west, just outside of Perth, in a nondescript gray brick building.
Hidden in plain sight, the outlying structure gave no sign of the activities that took place within its walls. Most of the city’s residents believed that the men and women who came and went peddled in life insurance, office supplies, or some other business too irrelevant to note. So no one was looking when the military-grade helicopter flew past overhead, and circled to land on the rooftop. Those who happened to see it would assume they were mistaken.
As the chopper made its approach, Slade peered out the open door, his mind clear of the effects of the mirakuru. A small welcoming committee awaited his arrival on the A.S.I.S. rooftop. Though mostly medical personnel, one man stood out. He wore a dark blue suit, the impeccable tailoring accentuating the sharp angles of his physique. He wasn’t massive by any means, but his presence was imposing nonetheless. His eyes, stern and discerning, were the byproduct of a decade’s worth of calculations, reducing the cost of human lives to their core statistics.
This was Wade DeForge, regional head of A.S.I.S., the man who initially deployed Slade to Lian Yu. He was the first to greet Slade when the helicopter finally touched down.
“I should know never to doubt your penchant for survival,” DeForge said. “You’re a bloody cockroach.”
“We recognize our own,” Slade responded. Then, remembering agency decorum, he added, “Sir.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not dead.” DeForge extended his hand, which Slade accepted. Then DeForge moved on to the question Slade had been expecting.
“Is Wintergreen still M.I.A.?”
DeForge was practiced in keeping emotions hidden, and to the assembled personnel on the rooftop, he had succeeded, coming off simply as a commander inquiring about the whereabouts of the other operative who had gone missing. Yet Slade had seen a flicker of vulnerability flash in his eyes. The dying embers of a hope not quite extinguished, despite the commander’s common sense.
Billy Wintergreen was DeForge’s half-brother. He had been the best man at DeForge’s wedding, and the godfather to his son. He was family, and they were close—as close as Billy and Slade had been before Lian Yu turned him into a traitor. But Slade wasn’t prepared to reveal that on the rooftop, it wasn’t for public consumption. There would be time for it later.
“No,” he said, and he was surprised to feel remorse.
DeForge nodded.
Suddenly, Slade staggered, his legs buckling beneath him. His eyes went wide with surprise. Even a day after the storm, the mirakuru had yet to regenerate his strength. The medical personnel moved to help him, but DeForge got there first, grabbing his elbow and helping him to his feet.
“Get some rest,” DeForge said, “then meet me for the debrief. Say, eleven hundred hours?”
Slade nodded. As the medicos took charge DeForge spun on his heels and headed back into the catacombs of A.S.I.S. All business, revealing none of the questions for which he would demand answers. What had happened on Lian Yu? How did he manage to survive?
How did Billy die?
Sl
ade had two hours to figure out just how much truth he was ready to reveal. But for now, one concern was upmost in his mind.
What had happened to the mirakuru?
* * *
The doctor peeled back Slade’s eye patch, visibly blanching at the sight of the damage left behind by Oliver Queen’s arrow. Slade could see hints of it reflected in the physician’s eyeglasses. What had been his right eye was now a gaping hole, its edges rough and ragged. The doctor voiced surprise that Slade was still alive after an injury of that magnitude. The arrow could have gone directly into his brain.
“Can you tell me how this happened?” he asked.
Slade stared the man down.
“Viciously,” he said.
Shrugging, the doctor knew better than to press the issue. He quickly cleaned out the wound, dressed it with some gauze and supplied a clean eye patch before moving on to the lacerations inflicted by the coral and rocks. He removed the temporary bandages applied by the extraction team, revealing the wounds underneath. Though they had made some progress since the storm, the gashes were still open, the flesh angry and red.
Slade hid his surprise. He had been nearly invulnerable since he had been injected with the mirakuru. The serum had never failed to regenerate his flesh and replenish his strength. After so many miracles, why was it failing him now?
The doctor stitched up the wounds and dressed them. Then he reached for a syringe, preparing to draw blood. Eyeing the needle, Slade turned toward the doctor, raising his hand and stopping him short.
“Why?” Slade asked.
“Standard procedure,” the doctor replied. “A blood panel, to make sure you’re healthy, not carrying pathogens, diseases.” There was a long silence as neither man spoke.
“Fine.” Slade thrust his arm forward, offering it up for the test. “But if you find anything, you tell me first.”
The doctor nodded and then plunged the needle into Slade’s vein.
As the vial filled with red, Slade wondered—was the mirakuru still in his blood? Or had it somehow been lost at sea?
Arrow--Vengeance Page 2