Arrow--Vengeance

by Oscar Balderrama

  Isabel stared blankly at him.

  “I can’t do this alone, though,” he continued. “I need all of the power players in Starling City to be on board… including you, Miss Rochev. You especially are essential to my plans.”

  “And why is that?” Isabel asked. “What are you proposing?”

  “I’m proposing what you have wished for the last two years—something you fervently desire,” he said. “To remove Robert Queen from the picture, permanently.”

  That took her by surprise, and she let her façade slip. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she cocked her head to the side.

  “With your help,” he continued, “we can make this happen.”

  * * *

  The sky was black, and not even the moon could be seen. Isabel sat at her desk with her glasses on, typing on her computer, her office only lit by the glow of the screen. Another late night, but she hardly noticed. Finally she commanded the power and respect she had craved her entire life, and this time no one was going to take it away from her.

  She took a breath and stopped typing.

  Isabel went to her cabinet and pulled out a bottle of Scotch. It was the same brand that Robert used to share with her in his office, so long ago. She poured herself a hearty drink and touched her lips to the glass as her phone rang.

  “It’s done,” a voice said. “It should make the news tomorrow…”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  Click.

  She put the phone down slowly, not exactly sure how to feel. Although she was now firmly committed to Malcolm Merlyn’s plan, she was still a little stunned. To her surprise, she was unable to catch her breath for a minute, so returned to the cabinet and retrieved her Scotch, taking a hard swig, letting it burn on the way down.

  Then she returned slowly to her desk.

  As she sat, a single tear traced its way down her cheek.

  9

  THE PRESENT

  “Here, Miss Rochev,” a young intern said. “Miss Rochev?”

  Isabel’s eyes were still locked on the television. Her mouth remained slightly open, her breathing fast as the shock overtook her body.

  “Miss Rochev,” the intern said again, tapping Isabel on the shoulder.

  Her mind was awhirl with the events that had led to the Gambit going under water, taking with it Oliver and his father. Snapping out of it, she looked at the puzzled intern as he proceeded to pick up the files she had dropped.

  “Thank you,” Isabel said absently, and she scanned the room. “People should get back to work.” Wthout another word, she slowly stepped back into her office, her mind racing a million miles a minute.

  Oliver Queen is alive.

  How is this possible?

  Five years ago, Isabel thought that with the help of Malcolm Merlyn, she had finally put the debacle of the Queen family to rest at last. Yet there it was—proof that Oliver still lived. Had it all been a ruse on Merlyn’s part?

  Is Robert alive, as well?

  Isabel went to her desk and pulled out a key to unlock the bottom drawer. There she pulled out a metal box, opening it slowly—even timidly—and pulling out a picture.

  Her and Robert. She hardly recognized herself. The photo had been taken on Robert’s boat, and Isabel wore a bikini, her suntanned skin glistening. Robert was kissing her on her forehead, and she was smiling. Looking at the picture, she remembered what it was like to be happy, even if it was just a fleeting moment. Another smile flitted across her lips.

  Are you alive?

  Are you still out there, too?

  Suppressing the smile, she locked the photo away again.

  * * *

  Seven o’clock, and she shut down her computer, checking her desk again to make sure the drawer was locked. Pulling her trench coat from the hook on the back of her door, she headed for the elevator.

  The parking structure was nearly empty, and the only sound that could be heard was the clicking of her heels. It was this way every night, yet as she approached her Mercedes, a strange feeling swept over her. She stopped in her tracks, peering over her shoulder cautiously to see if anyone else was around.

  Stillness.

  Shaking her head, she let out a sigh of relief as she spotted her car just a row away. Approaching the driver’s-side door, she reached into her bag for the keys. Looking up, she saw her reflection in the window… and froze.

  There was a man, standing behind her. He wore a black suit jacket, and an eye patch.

  “He’s dead, Miss Rochev.”

  His raspy voice echoed against the concrete walls, spurring her to motion. She spun around, dropping her keys in the process.

  “Who are you?” she demanded, her hand back into the purse. “What do you want?” Finding her pepper spray, she pointed it at the intruder—yet he didn’t flinch.

  “Even if I had both my eyes, Miss Rochev, that wouldn’t have much effect on me.” Raising his hands, he held them palm out, both empty. “Please, Miss Rochev, I’m just here to talk.”

  “You chose a strange time and place for that,” she said without lowering the pepper spray. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Slade Wilson,” he said. “I’m here to tell you that you don’t need to worry—he’s dead.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Robert Queen is dead,” Slade said.

  At the sound of his name, she felt light-headed, and finally lowered the pepper spray. She studied the newcomer, dressed in a sharp black suit, his hair sprinkled with salt and pepper around the ears. The patch fit snugly against his right eye.

  “I… I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Oliver Queen has returned,” Wilson said. “Starling City’s golden boy has returned after all these years. You’ve been wondering if Oliver’s return would mean there’s still hope for his father, but I can assure you that Robert is gone.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” she demanded, her composure returning. “What do you want?”

  “I’m telling you this because I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. Someone you care about so deeply it runs through your veins, is enrooted deep within, and suffering a loss of such magnitude weighs on your soul for the rest of your life.” As he spoke she felt her cheeks grow warm, the tears forming in her eyes, and was afraid to blink for fear they would fall onto her face.

  “I know that type of loss, Miss Rochev,” he continued, and if he noticed her emotions, he didn’t let on. “I’m here to help you.”

  “I don’t need any help,” she snapped.

  “You may not see it now, but you and I share a common interest—one that has weighed on us for too long.” He paused, and a glint showed in his eye. “One that needs to be destroyed.”

  What the hell is he talking about? Fear gave way to anger. “What could we possibly have in common?” she demanded.

  “Our hate for the Queen family.”

  Suddenly the dizziness returned, and all the emotions she’d held in check began to boil over. She remembered the lies and broken promises, the times he’d abandoned her for those children—Thea’s spelling bee and dance recital, rushing to Oliver’s side to bail him out. Indignities she’d endured, only to have Moira dismiss her as if she was nothing but a street rat.

  “The Queen family is poison to this city,” Wilson continued, as if he could read her mind. “They infect anyone and everyone around them. They believe their money lets them weasel out of any situation. Above all, they are liars, and murderers. Oliver not only took my eye—he stole away someone I can never get back, and I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure he gets exactly what he deserves.

  “I know what Robert did to you, and yet somehow the Queen family remains unscathed. But the time has come for them to feel the pain they’ve inflicted on us.”

  Every muscle in Isabel’s body tightened at Wilson’s words. Robert set out to destroy her, to leave a once promising career shattered at her feet, and now Oliver was back, a spoiled brat poi
sed to become CEO of Queen Consolidated—the position that was once promised to her.

  The thought made her sick.

  “How do we make this happen?” she asked.

  10

  Isabel met Slade in a rundown abandoned warehouse in Central City. It was constructed entirely out of cement; the walls, the floor—all were solid and soundproof, despite the decay. Dressed for business in her favorite gray pantsuit, she entered the building not knowing what to expect, knowing full well that if she screamed there wasn’t anyone who would hear her.

  Suddenly she began to sweat, panic rising at the fact that she had trusted a complete stranger.

  “Welcome to day one, Miss Rochev,” Slade said, appearing from a side door. He had ditched his business suit in favor of combat attire. His black leather boots squeaked against the concrete, his muscles bulged out of his black tank top. “I’m eager to start the training,” he added. “You, however, aren’t properly dressed for this.”

  “Excuse me?” Isabel said. “I was under the assumption that we were going to discuss the way in which we would destroy the Queen family. You said nothing about any ‘training.’”

  “The plan for their destruction has already been set in motion, and is not up for discussion,” he growled. “Right now, you need to change into these.” He handed Isabel a set of workout clothes.

  Thrown off guard by the tone with which Slade addressed her, she nevertheless took the bundle. Ducking behind a concrete retaining wall, she slipped out of her suit. Moments later she appeared wearing a black spandex outfit with an orange tank top.

  “Now what?” Isabel asked irritably.

  “Now we fight,” Slade said, handing Isabel a bamboo stick with which to spar. She furrowed her brow.

  “Mr. Wilson, I’m a businesswoman—not a ninja,” she said evenly, looking at the stick as if it might bite her. “All I want is what was once promised to me, and to see the look on Moira Queen’s face when I get it. So, if you expect me to hit you with a bamboo stick, you need to tell me how it will enable me to take control of Queen Consolidated.”

  Without answering Slade grabbed another bamboo stick, staring at it. The look on his face went grim, and spoke of an anger that threatened to burst forth.

  “Oliver Queen has returned to his beloved Starling City a changed man,” he said, his voice low but clear. “Long ago, I made a promise to him that I would take everything and everyone away from him. In order for the plan to work, I need to be able to inflict physical pain on him, as well—and you need to be able to do the same.” He struck a defensive pose, and waited.

  Isabel took a deep breath, taking in what Slade had just told her. She glanced down at her stick, raised it suddenly, and charged Slade. He blocked her assault with his stick, and she swung again, this time finding only empty air. Again and again she swung, and each time he countered her until a rage began to grow in her, as well. With each frustrated assault, it flared stronger and stronger.

  “Anger is good,” he said. “Now let’s really begin.”

  * * *

  Alone in the warehouse, Isabel grabbed one of two long swords that lay nearby. The blade glistened in the harsh strip lighting of the warehouse. She touched the tip, pricking her finger just hard enough for it to break the skin, and watched a tiny bead of blood trickle down her finger. She wiped it away, numb to any pain, then scooped up the second sword. Her hands trembled ever so slightly as she thrust them outward.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Slade barked, appearing without warning, making her jump and drop one of the swords to the ground. “You’re not ready—you’ll lose a finger, or worse.”

  Furious with herself, she snatched it up again.

  “It’s been three months,” she protested, “and I’m done fighting with sticks. If you don’t think I’m ready, then prove it!”

  Slade eyed her for a moment, then removed his suit jacket and slowly undid his tie. He went to a long case and unlocked it. Inside were his own swords.

  “Very well, then,” he said, taking out the swords and showing them off, the blades flashing. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Isabel dropped into a fighting stance, her muscles taut. She stood strong and straight, and weeks of training had resulted in perfect muscle definition. She was filled with hate and rage, which she embraced enthusiastically. Her life was focused on one thing, and one thing alone.

  Revenge on the Queen family.

  Pushing the air out of her lungs, she lunged forward and swung her sword. Slade deflected it, but she could tell from his expression that she had surprised him. He lashed out in return, and she danced aside, pressing her own attack. With each swing she focused on his lessons, applying every trick he had taught her. Her confidence mounted, even as she was covered in a sheen of sweat.

  She moved close and swung the blade in her left hand. Slade dodged and used his right-hand sword to nick her arm. With a cry she pulled back and glanced down at the gash. Though it was superficial, there was blood flowing down her bicep.

  Slade ignored Isabel’s cry and raised his sword again, bringing it into play. Isabel quickly parried it, wielding her sword hard against his. Suddenly he spun around and kneed Isabel in the stomach, sending her tumbling to the ground. He paused as she gathered herself and stood, dropping again into a defensive stance.

  Trying to ignore the pain, she launched a flurry of strikes she hoped would overwhelm him, but the wound was too distracting, and he easily maintained the upper hand. Fatigue left her arms feeling heavier by the minute, slowing her down until Slade found an opening. He knocked one of the swords out of her hand, and as she glanced in the direction of its flight, he kicked his leg out, dropping her to the floor.

  She landed face first on the concrete with a loud crack. She lay there lifelessly for a moment while Slade hovered over her. Finally she moved her hands under her body and lifted herself up, blood trickling from her lip and nose. Isabel staggered to her feet and raised her hands up to surrender.

  “Please, don’t,” she grunted. “I can’t… I’m sorry.”

  “Let this be a lesson,” he said disdainfully. “I’ll be the one to say when you’re ready.” With that he moved to the case and placed his swords inside. Then he walked silently to the door, leaving her standing there in a pool of her own blood.

  * * *

  Isabel drove her Mercedes down a long, never-ending road. The windows of the car were down, and her long brown hair blew in the wind, whipping around her head. Spotting the warehouse in the distance, she let out a deep breath as she pressed her foot harder onto the gas.

  Entering the dimly lit building, she pulled off her sunglasses. Isabel wore a black patent leather flat on her left foot and a medical boot on the other. She limped across the cement floor, looking around, but Slade was nowhere to be found. Moving to a side door, she opened it and peeked down a long corridor. She heard talking and headed in that direction.

  The fluorescent lighting was harsh, so she replaced the glasses and started down the hallway. The sound grew closer until it became apparent where it was coming from, and Isabel put her ear to a door. Twisting the doorknob, she pushed in to find Slade sitting behind a dilapidated desk, wearing a stylish three-piece suit. He didn’t move, and his eyes were fixed on the television in front of him.

  “The Starling City vigilante was at it again last night, taking down Martin Somers,” a news anchor announced. “The commissioner of police continues to ask all citizens to come forward with any information about the vigilante, and strongly recommends that if you encounter him in person, do not engage.”

  “Do not engage, indeed,” Slade said, turning his chair around. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Rochev?”

  “I’ll keep this short, Mr. Wilson,” Isabel said, removing her sunglasses to reveal two black eyes. “I’m out.”

  “What do you mean, out?” he asked calmly.

  “You almost killed me!” she snapped. “I fractured two ribs and my left foot. I’m
lucky that I still have all my teeth. I may hate the Queens just as much as you, but I cannot do this. We can’t do this.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Your plan needs more people,” she asserted. “I’m only one person and yes, I firmly believe I can take Queen Consolidated on the business side, but you need someone else—someone who can back you up on the street. Someone like the vigilante.”

  Slade smirked at her.

  “The vigilante is Oliver Queen.”

  Isabel’s eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. All the things Slade had told her suddenly started falling into place.

  “You said Oliver had a new journey…”

  “And indeed he does,” Slade continued. “His crusade is to right the wrongs of his father, and clean up the city—one millionaire at a time.”

  Isabel scoffed at the mention of Oliver’s father.

  “Regardless of whether Oliver wants to spend his nights in green tights, I need help. We need help. Even more so if he is this vigilante. We need to take the city from him by force.”

  “You make a valid point,” Slade said, much to her surprise, “but you’re wrong about the nature of the help we need. I can handle the streets, and the vigilante—of that I’m certain. No, the city needs to turn on the Queens, to reject all they represent—and to make that happen, we need someone on the inside.”

  He smiled—something he didn’t often do.

  Isabel shuddered in spite of herself.

  1

  The streets of the Glades were run-down and filled with trash and dirt. Graffiti was scrawled along every bridge and billboard. A crowd of homeless people huddled around a trashcan fire to keep warm, for the night was bitterly cold. Police sirens sounded in the distance—most likely racing to a crime scene of the sort that made the Glades infamous. Such was the neighborhood’s legacy.

  Crime and filth.