* * *
“Hey,” Joe said, tapping Slade’s arm with the back of his hand, a few days after his fight. “You know that guy or something?”
The contact snapped Slade from his thoughts. He was staring at a pudgy-faced man at the end of the cereal aisle, who regarded him with a quizzical look before moving off. Just moments before, Slade had seen Oliver Queen standing there. He had tracked him across the crowded grocery store, following him to aisle four’s multi-colored array of boxed processed grains.
His mind wandered frequently now, lost in visions of Oliver standing in a nearby crowd, or in line at the bank, or browsing cereal in the breakfast aisle.
He chose to ignore Joe’s question, instead grabbing a neon-colored box of sugar-laden children’s cereal from the shelf. He showed it to his son, who was nearly three inches taller now, and edging into adolescence.
“You still eat this crap?” Slade asked.
“Nah,” Joe answered, grabbing another box off the shelf—an equally egregious choice. “I eat this crap.”
“Much more nutritious.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“I’ll show you.” Slade grabbed his son and mussed up his hair. “Ready for some footy?”
“Only if you’re ready to get your butt kicked.”
“We’ll see about that.”
As Joe headed off toward the registers, Slade glanced back toward the end of the aisle, the space between reality and fantasy beginning to blur.
* * *
The wind stretched white clouds into streaks across the blue sky, like waves across an ocean overhead. Joe kicked the ball high into the air so that it tumbled end over end until it landed in Slade’s outstretched arms.
He yelled to his son across the field. “You knocked that one out of the park!”
“Practice makes perfect, right!”
The “park” was nothing more than an empty patch of field, surrounded by overgrown brush, somewhat secluded from the main road. Perfect for a quick practice session of Aussie rules football.
“Still remember how to kick it?” Joe taunted, smiling widely.
“Funny.” Slade reared back and kicked the ball, his restored mirakuru strength sending it high over Joe’s head and deep into the overgrown brush.
“Damn, Dad,” Joe said.
“Sorry, mate. Guess I’m rusty.” Slade jogged over to his son. “I’ll get it.”
“It’s gonna take both of us.” Joe started off into the tall brush.
“Keep on your toes,” Slade warned. “This is adder country.”
“I know.” Joe disappeared into the brush. Slade didn’t have to see his son to know he was rolling his eyes in exasperation. The thought made him smile. Following him in, he headed northwest to Joe’s northeast.
“See it yet?”
“Nope. It’s pretty deep in here.”
As Joe continued off, Slade heard rustling in front of him. Not easterly enough to be Joe. The movement stopped abruptly, as if whatever had been making it had been caught. Slade paused, straining to hear over the rushing wind. Then, through the vertical stalks of brown and green, about ten yards off, Slade saw him.
Oliver Queen, as real as flesh.
The young playboy flashed him an evil smile, and headed off through the brush in the direction of Joe.
“No!” Panicked, Slade started plowing his way through the thick growth, vegetation ripping from the ground. “Oliver… no!” He paused, breathing heavily, listening for movement.
Suddenly, there was rustling behind him. He quickly turned, on the offensive, and grabbed for Oliver’s throat. What his hands found instead was the neck of his son, wide-eyed and terrified. Joe dropped the football to the ground.
Slade released Joe’s neck.
He slowly backed away from his son, feeling his hand jerk.
“What the hell, Dad—why did you do that?” Joe rubbed his neck. “Who’s Oliver?”
Slade opened his mouth, trying to answer, not sure of the words, when he heard more rustling in the undergrowth behind Joe. He grabbed his son, putting himself in front of the boy. He expected to see Oliver, but what he saw emerging instead was a snake. Its bands of brown and black and gray belly identified it immediately as an adder.
The snake hissed at Slade, then it lunged, its venomous teeth ready to strike. Acting on instinct, Slade dodged the strike and snatched the snake by its neck. Then he grabbed the animal’s tail and ripped the body in two, blood running warm down his forearms. He dropped the ripped corpse to the dirt, where it landed with a thud, and looked into his son’s eyes.
There was confusion, mixed with fear.
“He was going to hurt you,” Slade said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
“Don’t you get it?” Joe said, his voice hoarse. Again he rubbed his neck. “Shit, Dad, that could’ve been me.” Joe spun away from his father and headed off through the brush, back to the field. Looking down, Slade saw his son’s football, forgotten in the dirt.
It was covered in blood.
* * *
“Earth to Wilson.” Matt Nakauchi waved his hand in front of Slade’s face. “You hear anything I just said?”
Slade was sitting at his desk, absentmindedly leafing through intelligence photos sent by Harkness from the ground in Hong Kong. His mind was pulled in two directions—between thoughts of Oliver Queen as ever, and then of how close he had come to breaking his son’s neck. His delusional hallucinations were growing more frequent as the weeks progressed.
He hadn’t noticed Nakauchi talking to him at all.
“What do you need?” Slade asked.
“Guggino’s up my ass about that hard pull on the recon from Tel Aviv. You mind heading down to archives and finding it?” Nakauchi regarded Slade, saw the haggard look on his face, mistaking it for fatigue. “The dark might do you some good, man.”
Slade nodded, then headed off toward the elevators. The archives were located in the basement, a sprawling yet claustrophobic space due to its low ceilings, crowded shelves, and sparse light. Slade didn’t mind, however, finding the dark confines comforting.
While searching for the reconnaissance files, Slade stumbled across a box of archived intelligence on Lian Yu—all of the info A.S.I.S. had gathered on the island before the mission. Curiosity getting the better of him, he opened the lid and rifled through the contents, the majority of which he had been given prior to deployment.
Lying among the documents on Yao Fei, Slade found a thumb drive. It was labeled with a name that knocked the breath from his lungs.
Shado.
* * *
Back at his desk, Slade hurriedly popped the drive into his computer, revealing its contents—a series of movie files, all predating his deployment to Lian Yu. He clicked on one, opening the video large on his screen.
Emotions welled up as he saw his beloved again for the first time since the island. The videos were of a younger Shado at college, smiling and carefree, and just as beautiful as he remembered. Seeing her move and hearing her voice, it was as if she were alive. Slade reached out, forgetting for a second that she was only a picture on a screen, a minute fraction of a life suspended in time.
His reverie was broken by a familiar voice, filled with derision.
“I thought you loved me.”
He looked up to find Shado standing next to him, returning for the first time since he had left the island. She sneered at him, pointing to a picture on his desk. It was of Adie and Joe.
“You lied.”
Slade felt his hand jerk. He closed his eyes, simultaneously telling himself she wasn’t real, while desperately craving the opposite.
“I thought you made me a promise.”
“Oliver Queen is dead,” Slade protested, desperation in his voice, trying to make her understand. “He’s dead!”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.” He reached out. “Please…”
Shado backed away, just beyond
his reach.
“Then you broke your promise.”
Slade watched as she disappeared before his eyes. He grabbed his head, the agony overwhelming.
“No, don’t leave, wait…” He closed his eyes, fighting off the pain. When he opened them, he found Nakauchi staring at him in shock.
“Who are you talking to, man?”
Slade didn’t answer. He peered around the room, trying to see where she’d gone. Then he quickly realized where he was. At work. Surrounded by prying eyes. Suddenly filled with an overwhelming urge to be anywhere other than A.S.I.S., he moved past Nakauchi and ran into the hallway, right smack into Wade DeForge.
“We need to talk,” the commander said.
“Not now.” Slade tried pushing past DeForge, but the way was blocked.
“That’s not a request, Slade.”
“Get out of my way,” Slade gritted. His rage boiling over, he shoved DeForge back, throwing him into the wall. Nearby agents reacted, moving to pursue, when the commander threw up a hand, holding them off. Slade tore down the hallway and out of the building, the mirakuru nearing its crescendo.
One last domino to fall.
10
He sat alone in the den, the television blaring in competition with the cacophony inside his head, the mirakuru fueling a rage that had no outlet. He was chasing ghosts again, his mind fixated on thoughts of Shado and his failure to bring Oliver Queen to justice.
She was right, he thought. I broke my promise. It was as if the past few years hadn’t happened.
Dark thoughts began to form, about Joe and Adie, competing with his rational thought. What right did he have to a happy life? How could he love another? This life was a sham—an expression of his failure to avenge Shado.
No, that was wrong. Why couldn’t he love them too?
Slade tried to distract himself by flipping through channels on the television. He scrolled through, sounds of sports and explosions and infomercials blasting in quick succession, until he finally stopped, landing on the local news. A reporter stood in front of a screen, indicating that a storm was on its way, coming in from the east.
Joe entered the den, football under his arm, and approached Slade cautiously.
“Dad?” he said. “Want to kick the footy around before dinner?”
“Don’t you listen?” Slade responded, his eyes vacant, fixed on the screen. “There’s a storm.”
“Come on, we haven’t played in—”
“I said NO,” Slade snapped at his son, the outburst driving him backward. Joe looked at his father, confused and emotional, close to tears. The confrontation drew Adie from the kitchen, where she was preparing another stew.
“Joe, can you give me a second with your dad?”
Joe nodded and slunk off toward his room, his shoulders slumped. Once he was out of earshot, Adie spun on Slade.
“What the hell is going on with you?”
Slade resumed flipping through stations, not answering.
“Goddammit, Slade,” she snapped, stepping between him and the television. “I’m trying to talk to you.”
He looked up at her, his eye cold and distant.
“Then talk.”
Adie bristled at the detachment in his voice.
“I should have known,” she said. “I honestly thought it would’ve changed you, almost dying like that, but you’re still the same guy. I thought you could be here for us, but it couldn’t last. I was an idiot to think that it might.”
Slade kept flipping through the stations, his finger pressing the button with no aim other than to sustain the clattering din, the only protection against the building chaos in his brain. Frustrated, Adie slapped the remote out of his hand. The TV stopped on a sitcom, its laugh track weirdly out of place.
“You want back out there, fine,” she pressed, “but stop torturing us with promises you can’t keep.”
“Promises?” Slade said, the mention of the word focusing his ire. “You have no idea what promises are.” His rage building, Slade rose out of his chair and began to stalk toward her, the laugh track from the television continuing to blare. “What it’s like to fail someone you love.”
“I thought that was us,” Adie said, her words raw.
“You never loved me,” he said. “Not like she did.”
“Like who?”
“Shado Fei, most likely.” But it wasn’t Slade’s voice.
They turned to find Wade DeForge pushing through the open front door, flanked by two A.S.I.S. agents. More could be seen through the windows, taking tactical positions around the house. All were kitted out in their field gear, SIG Sauers loaded but holstered, knives sharp but still sheathed.
“We found her buried alongside her father on Lian Yu,” DeForge said. There was intensity under his usual calm. Anger. “Yet oddly, there was no such grave for my brother.”
“What’s going on, Wade?” Adie demanded, growing wary.
DeForge slowly circled Slade, positioning himself between the two. The agents followed suit, positioning themselves either side of Slade, at the ready should anything occur. The television continued to chatter noisily in the background.
“I’m revealing him for the liar he is,” DeForge replied, his eyes never leaving Slade. “You were so fixated on Oliver Queen, there had to be a reason—something you weren’t saying. My curiosity got the best of me, and I wondered if he had been on that island. So I sent a team back to investigate—to find you some proof of his death. Initially my goal was to ease your mind.” DeForge’s jaw clenched, rare emotion welling up. “Instead, they discovered Billy’s corpse. Lying exposed in a field. With your knife through his eye—DNA evidence proved that easily enough.”
“No,” Adie said. “This has to be a mistake. Why would he kill Billy?” She turned to Slade, both angry and pleading. “Tell him he’s wrong, dammit!”
Slade didn’t respond.
The sitcom’s laugh track suddenly cut out, preempted by a special report. Breaking news out of Starling City. A graphic flashed across the screen.
Lost Billionaire Found.
Then the anchor began to speak.
“Oliver Queen is alive,” he said. “The Starling City resident was found by fishermen in the North China sea just five days ago, yet fully five years after he went missing, and was presumed dead…” Photos of Oliver flashed on the television, as the reporter continued. “News of his recovery sent ripples through the markets, including the Australian Securities Exchange, which closed notably higher.” The noise in his head subsided, his rage finding a singular, deadly focus.
Finally, he knew. Oliver is alive.
And it’s time to make him pay.
Slade turned to walk out the door, but was cut off by two of the agents.
“You treacherous bastard,” DeForge said. “Do you have nothing to say?”
Slade turned back toward his commander, staring him down.
“Oliver Queen betrayed me,” Slade growled. “And for that, he will suffer. Just like your brother…”
“Oh God…” Adie said.
“…And I will put down anyone—anyone—who stands in my way.”
DeForge drew his weapon, the other agents following suit.
“This is your only goddamn warning. Come with us peacefully, or I will shoot you down in your own house.”
“Don’t test me,” Slade said.
“Would everyone just stand down!” said Adie. “Slade, don’t do this!”
“This is your last chance,” DeForge replied, but Slade turned his back on his commander and started toward the door. DeForge gave the nod to his men and they advanced, preparing to subdue him. The agent nearest Slade grabbed for his wrist to restrain him. Slade spun, taking the agent’s arm and snapping it over his shoulder. As the man howled in agony, Slade unsheathed the agent’s own knife and stabbed him through the heart.
Gunfire erupted as four agents who had been waiting outside burst through the windows. Slade ripped the knife from the dead agent, re-
arming himself, and pushed the body in front of him as a temporary shield from the close-range fire. Seeing an opening, he threw the knife into the head of the second flanking agent, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud next to Adie’s feet.
DeForge advanced, keeping between Slade and Adie. He pulled the trigger, firing round after round, driving Slade into the den toward one half of the group of breaching agents. The others followed him in from behind, but their quarry moved too fast for a hit, rolling for cover behind his armchair. Then, using his extraordinary strength, he grabbed a wooden credenza and threw it into two of the officers. One managed to avoid the impact, but the other was battered into the wall, his skull crushed.
Slade continued to move, racing around the perimeter, drawing gunfire before purposely flipping into the room’s center. He paused for the briefest of moments, allowing the men to take aim, then he leapt out of their sights. The resulting fire took out one of the agents, leaving holes in the wall behind him. Through to the foyer, DeForge managed to hit the deck, still firing, but a stray bullet caught Adie.
She gasped, but didn’t cry out.
“No!” DeForge stopped shooting as she slid to the floor, her body obstructed by a bookcase. He moved closer to her, crouching all the way, but it was too late. The bullet had struck her temple, killing her instantly.
Oblivious to what had occurred, Slade rushed the remaining men, engaging them in close quarters hand-to-hand. He broke one agent’s leg with a vicious downward kick and smashed his face in with an elbow, killing him instantly. The last agent, attacking from behind, was able to find purchase with his knife in Slade’s upper back, but the blow did nothing to abate the deadly assault. Slade simply pulled the man off and threw him through the wall toward Joe’s bedroom.
Then he turned his attention to Wade DeForge. The commander gave a guttural roar and rushed forward, guns blazing. Slade ducked well enough to avoid a headshot, taking bullets to the shoulder and upper arm. Undeterred, he used one arm to grab DeForge by the neck, while using the other to bend the man’s gun hand slowly backward toward his own body. Then he squeezed the trigger finger, sending four bullets through DeForge’s chest and stomach.
Shock flashed through DeForge’s eyes. Then, they rolled back in his head.
Arrow--Vengeance Page 6