* * *
Slade walked down the sterile hallway toward DeForge’s office, metal and glass gleaming in the halogen lighting. He fought to keep his gait steady, and felt the curious stares of agents in the bullpen—glances snuck at him from behind computer screens and intelligence reports. They knew only that Slade was a field operative recently returned from a classified mission, the details of which fell beyond their clearance levels.
He continued onward, passing the training facility where he had first honed his combat skills so long ago. A large window revealed the space within, the gym equipped with every training apparatus imaginable. All potential field operatives were trained and tested here, shaped into warriors of stealth, serving their country with honor in the shadows. He watched the newest recruits being put through their paces by instructors, some of whom Slade recognized as veteran agents.
One of them, a man named Digger Harkness, Slade spotted immediately. The two had crossed paths before, during their rise up the A.S.I.S. ranks. Slade watched as Harkness, a flurry of motion, pulled two boomerangs from his bandolier. The weapons arced through the air, their dulled edges striking with unerring accuracy, disarming and subduing a pair of recruits, one even caroming off into a third opponent.
Not bad, Slade mused. Slick, even. Maybe better than the last time. He had always felt the boomerang to be a bit gimmicky as a weapon, but in Harkness’s hand, it became a lethal object—when he let it. The man gave Slade a nod of recognition, then turned back to the recruits who were helping their fellows up off the floor.
Nearing DeForge’s office, Slade saw a wall of framed pictures. The lead officials of A.S.I.S., arranged by rank, Wade DeForge’s picture at the top. Slade knew the hierarchy well. He traced a line down and over, a few ranks below DeForge. A man’s picture filled the space, but some years ago that hadn’t been the case. The occupant had been a woman. Slade felt an unexpected twinge of nostalgia, something normally foreign to him.
It’s got to be the weakness, he thought with a hint of panic. Where the hell is the serum? Then he quickly cast aside the pangs of a past long buried, and continued on down the hallway, mentally preparing himself for the debriefing. The boss was going to have questions—namely, what had happened to Billy Wintergreen? How could Slade tell DeForge the truth? That Billy had betrayed both him and his country?
How could he reveal that he had repaid that betrayal, with a knife through the eye?
* * *
Entering the office, Slade immediately noticed the small framed picture on the man’s desk. It was a picture of DeForge with his arm around a woman. The photo that once had been displayed in the hallway outside.
“I was wondering where that had gone,” Slade said, pointing as he sat. DeForge didn’t care to hide it, and Slade could respect that.
“I’d forget what she looked like if wasn’t for this,” DeForge replied, though Slade knew better. He stood next to the window. “You know Adie, keeping everyone at arm’s length.” He casually took his seat across from Slade, opening a folder. “I should probably thank you for that.”
Slade took it in stride. “You tell her I’m back?” he said.
“Yeah,” DeForge said, with the slightest bit of reluctance. “She’s expecting you. They both are.” Slade acknowledged the information with a nod. Reunions would have to come later. He steeled himself, ready for what was certain to come next. But he knew what he was ready to reveal, and what to hold back.
He couldn’t paint himself as a monster.
“How ’bout we get on with it then?”
“All right,” DeForge said. “How about we start with where you’ve been for the past three years?” He leaned in. “What the hell went wrong out there?”
Slade began with the basics. He and Billy had been sent to Lian Yu to find and extricate Yao Fei, a soldier who had been confined to the island by the Chinese military, to cover up a massacre. When they arrived, however, there was a military presence on the island, and he and Billy were shot out of the sky by a tomahawk missile, the rear of the plane disintegrating in the ensuing explosion.
“I managed to set us down alive, though by the skin of our teeth,” he said. “Billy and I were captured, and imprisoned.”
“But not by the Chinese,” DeForge noted.
“No,” Slade said. “It was an army of mercenaries, led by a man named Edward Fyers.”
DeForge’s eyes flashed recognition.
“And then what happened?”
“Torture,” Slade answered flatly. He explained how, for more than a year, he and Billy had been subjected to every manner of pain by Fyers and his men, in an attempt to get them to break and reveal for whom they worked. He offered enough detail to make a normal man cringe, and watched for the response. DeForge showed no emotion.
“How did you and Billy escape?” he asked.
Slade paused, considering how to proceed. The truth of the matter was that Billy had been turned, betraying Slade and his country to join Fyers’ army of mercenaries. But revealing that information would lead to too many questions he didn’t want to answer. So Slade lied.
“Me and Billy managed to escape, with the help of Yao Fei,” he said. “We hid in the forest, and managed to avoid capture while gathering intel on Fyers and his men. They were good, but we were better.”
“What were you able to find out?” DeForge pressed.
“Fyers was a hired gun,” Slade said, “and whoever was paying had big plans—Fyers had orders to shoot down a commercial aircraft headed for China. Then he’d pin the blame on the Chinese government, grounding all air travel in and out of the country, and destabilizing their economy.
“But you already knew this, didn’t you?” Slade added. He kept his own face unreadable.
DeForge smiled. “What tipped you off?”
“You sent us in dark, no extraction plan,” Slade observed. “As soldiers, we knew not to ask questions, but that level of secrecy, I knew something was up.”
The commander nodded. He revealed that, prior to sending Slade and Billy to Lian Yu, A.S.I.S. had been tracking a shadow organization based out of the United States. The Advanced Research Group United Support, otherwise known as A.R.G.U.S.
“Australian intelligence suggested that Yao Fei was a high interest target,” DeForge admitted, “but we had underestimated the scope of the organization’s plan.”
“Would’ve been great knowing that going in,” Slade said.
“You know the game,” DeForge countered. “What you don’t know can’t be tortured out of you.” A.S.I.S. had been keeping tabs on Edward Fyers, he revealed—as they did with most mercenary groups—and knew he had been mobilized, but they didn’t know to where or by whom.
“This gives us more on A.R.G.U.S.,” he said, “and for that you have my gratitude.” He paused, and Slade knew what was coming next. “What happened to Billy?”
Slade gave what he hoped was a pained look, and took a deep breath.
“Billy, Yao Fei, and I figured out that Fyers had the only communications equipment on the island, and the only way to get to and from Lian Yu. So the only way off the island was through Fyers and his men. That meant we had to hit them where they would least expect it—at their camp.
“The confrontation went sideways fast.” Substituting in Billy and Yao Fei for Oliver and Shado, he gave a detailed account of the battle that had actually occurred. The rocket launcher, intended for use against commercial flights, was turned on the camp itself. He recounted the ensuing explosion, the carnage and bloodshed. “I did my best to cover his ass, but when the smoke cleared, I was the only man left standing. Fyers and his men, Yao Fei and Billy—they were all dead.”
With that he stopped, and waited.
DeForge sat silent for a moment, his expression unreadable.
“What about Billy’s body?” he asked. “Did you bury him?”
Billy’s corpse flashed in Slade’s mind, the knife plunged deep into his former friend’s skull. He stared DeForge in th
e eyes.
“No,” he lied. “There was nothing left to bury. Only ash.”
Looking down, the commander tried to bury his feelings, but Slade could tell the finality of it all weighed on him heavily. Lifting his head, he shook it slowly.
“You really are a goddamn cockroach.”
* * *
Slade left DeForge’s office, satisfied he had pulled it off and wouldn’t be under suspicion. That out of the way, there was another, far more important matter to attend to. He had been waiting for three long years.
It was time to see his son again.
5
Slade pulled his Jeep up to the curb and parked near the house, just out of sight of the front porch. The home sat in relative seclusion, on about three acres lush with green shrubs and eucalyptus trees. A brown picket fence lined the property’s perimeter. A well-kept dirt path lined with smooth stones marked the walkway from the street to the porch.
Stepping out and quietly shutting the door, he smoothed out the suit pants and coat he was wearing after a quick change back at A.S.I.S. Dark gray and impeccably tailored, the stylish attire was his one flourish, the extravagance he enjoyed after returning from a mission. It had started as his cover story—rich businessman, freshly returned from international travel—but he had come to see it as a reward for survival.
It was also the perfect cover for his many bandaged wounds. All save his eye, however, which was concealed beneath a jet-black patch. That, Slade couldn’t hide. He just hoped the sight wouldn’t prove too jarring for either Adeline or Joe.
He started toward the front door, still moving with a slight limp. The house was equal parts Craftsman and Farmhouse, an architectural mixture common to the surrounding area. The pitched roof was tiled in gray, set low over the exposed brick masonry of the walls. Two chunky support posts framed the entryway, in contrast with the delicate trelliswork that was covered in green vines.
When he and Adeline were first married they used to joke that the house reflected their relationship. Seemingly without design, yet in spite of that somehow working. Or maybe because of it—they were never quite sure. Whereas a house’s underlying architecture was immutable, though, the same wasn’t true for a union between man and wife.
When Slade had left for his mission, their divorce had been final for just a few months.
Back when they first met, he had fallen for Adie immediately, intoxicated by how effortlessly stunning she was. Not only was she a natural beauty, she was also a sincere, good-hearted person. Where Slade’s attitude was hard, Adeline had softened him—but it hadn’t lasted. Their love had grown strained, even after Joe was born. Slade had debated the divorce for months, finally filing, and then quickly signing the papers—making his assignment on Lian Yu the desperate escape he needed.
The sound of his footsteps on the wooden porch drew Adeline to the door. It was open, the screen door loosely latched. Olive-complexioned with hair falling in soft brown curls, she was as pretty as ever, beautiful in a way that didn’t aim to draw attention. Sensibly dressed as always, she chose function over fashion, wearing jeans with a buttoned-up flannel shirt, well worn and comfortable. The only effect the years had inflicted was to give her soft features an edge. Slade imaged he was partly to blame for that. She’d been left to raise the boy by herself.
Adeline regarded Slade, her face awash with conflicting emotions. Relief that he was alive, anger that he had been gone so long. Concern for the injuries she could see and ones she knew he was hiding, and frustration that he put himself in the position to endure that sort of damage to begin with. She unfastened the latch and opened the door, eyeing Slade’s patch and shaking her head.
“Wade called,” she said. “Do I even want to ask?”
“Probably not,” Slade said, entering the house. “Just a scratch, anyway.”
“Yeah,” Adie replied. “I’m sure it’ll grow back. Good as new.”
Slade gave a rueful smirk, thinking about the mirakuru.
“You’d be surprised.”
“Well, it’s an improvement on that ugly mug of yours.”
“DAD!”
Joe came flying out from the back of the house, surprising Slade and jumping into him, arms bear-hugging his waist. He didn’t flinch, though he found himself stunned by the embrace—the unconditional love. He’d spent the better part of three years building up his defenses, detaching himself from his emotions in order to survive. There had been no room for attachments, or so he’d thought before meeting Shado. She had cared for him, putting his well-being before her own, breaching his defenses over time.
It was rare that he allowed anyone past the walls surrounding his heart. It’s why he hated Oliver with such burning passion. For taking Shado’s love for granted. For taking her away from him. He wanted revenge, not only for Shado, but for himself. His despair was rooted in the belief that a love like Shado’s would never touch him again.
Slade had come to accept that there would always be a part missing within him. It was the way of the soldier. It was why he didn’t stay home. Why he chose to be a soldier, more than a husband or a father. He never loved anyone more than his job and his country, yet in that moment, his son’s arms around him, squeezing him tight, he felt the cold in his heart fade, and love pulling him back. Beginning to fill the hole that Shado’s death had created within him.
Joe finally let go, looking up at his father and seeing the eye patch for the first time.
“Whoa,” the boy said in awe. “Did you get that fighting the bad guys?”
“Fighting bad guys?” Slade replied, surprised. “Who gave you that idea?”
“Mom. She said you’re a hero, and that’s why you’ve been gone for so long.”
Slade looked over to Adie, who shrugged.
So much for the cover story.
“Then yes,” Slade said. “It was one especially bad bad guy.”
“Did you get him?”
“Not yet.”
“Did he karate you?”
“Did he ‘karate’ me? Where’re you learnin’ this stuff, kid?”
“The TV.”
“Hey, J,” Adie said, changing the subject. “Why don’t you show your dad that new football of yours?”
“Oh yeah!” He looked to his dad, excited. “I’m pretty good now. I think I can beat you.”
“That right?” Slade mussed up his hair, a tumble of loose curls like his mom’s. “Go get that ball and let’s see.”
Joe ran off to the back yard, and Adie moved closer.
“Look,” she said with some difficulty. “I know every time you’re sent out, you might not come back. Rules of the game, but I really thought we’d lost you this time. I’m glad to have you back… at home.”
“It’s like I’ve always told you, Adie,” he answered wearily, feeling an old argument bubbling up. “It takes a hell of a lot to kill me. You were always too afraid of me not coming home.”
“And you were never afraid enough.” Adie was measured in her response. “But I’m not bringing this up for me. It’s for him. He’s had three birthdays since you last saw him. How many more do you want to miss?”
Slade felt her words land. He had come back to Australia to find Oliver Queen and exact his revenge, but now, standing in the house he had once called a home, he was face to face with the beckoning of an old role. One of father and husband, come home to be with his family.
Was there room within him for both?
Joe came running back in with the ball.
“I was gonna say we could go see a game, but the season doesn’t start until winter.” He looked up at his dad. “You probably won’t be here, huh?”
Slade looked down at his son, staring into the brown eyes they both shared.
He didn’t have an answer.
6
The doctor carefully examined each wound again, checking the hold of his stitches and changing the dressings. Aside from the missing eye—nothing could be done about that—everything else was he
aling. It’d be a slow process, but he’d eventually be back to normal.
Yet Slade had grown accustomed to a different timetable. With the mirakuru in his system, he should’ve been mended five times over by now.
What was happening?
“The blood test, doc,” he asked, keeping his tone soft. “See anything out of the ordinary?”
The doctor opened up a medical folder, scanning the data through glasses on the rim of his nose.
“Well, your cholesterol numbers would be the envy of most men at your age,” he said, eyeing Slade over the spectacles. “Benefits of an island isolation diet, I suppose. Not for me, though.” Slade resisted the attempt at levity, and just stared. He wanted numbers, not humor. The man gave a sigh, removing and pocketing his glasses, getting to the point. “Aside from the damage to your right eye, and a slightly elevated blood pressure, you’re the picture of health.”
“No… pathogens?” Slade pressed. “No viruses?”
“If there were, Mr. Wilson,” the doctor said, “you’d be the first to know.” With that he exited, having delivered what he no doubt considered good news. And it would have been for most of the patients coming through his office, but for Slade Wilson, the results were confounding.
How could the mirakuru simply disappear?
* * *
“I’m not trying to rush you back into action,” DeForge said without breaking stride. “Nevertheless, our A.R.G.U.S. intel, as limited as it might be, indicates that the organization is mobile somewhere in China, likely Hong Kong. They’re ramping up to something big.” He paused before pushing through the Advanced Tech door, turning to face Slade. “You’re my best man. I’d love to have your ears to the ground.”
DeForge wasn’t trying to sweet-talk him—Slade was the best operative he had—but he could sense an ulterior motive behind the words. He’d known DeForge long enough to understand that no compliment was without its motive. Maybe it was about Adie. Life was simpler for everyone involved when Slade was away.
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