Arrow--Vengeance

by Oscar Balderrama

  They would isolate the scum of the Glades, ensuring that the men sacrificed for the greater good wouldn’t be missed.

  * * *

  “Turn on the television, Brother Blood.” Sebastian was sitting alone in his office when Officer Daily entered.

  Blood did so, and was greeted by the grave face of Channel 52 News anchor Bethany Snow. She brushed her blonde hair out of the way.

  “Breaking news out of City Hall,” she said. “Mayor Altman is dead, shot and killed tonight at the hands of four hooded men with suspected ties to the vigilante…”

  Blood took a sip of his Scotch.

  “Thank you, Brother Daily.”

  “I’m afraid I have bad news, as well.” Daily handed him a report. “The medical supplies from FEMA—the ones headed for Glades Memorial? They’ve been hijacked en route. We don’t know by whom.”

  Sitting bolt upright, Blood flipped open his laptop and began scanning the key news sites, but there was nothing. As he watched, however, news about Altman’s assassination began to share space with news of Oliver Queen. He had re-entered the public eye for the first time since the earthquake, and the sight of the playboy sickened Blood. There were people dying in his city—people who needed medical supplies—yet the “journalists” saw fit to cover the exploits of a spoiled rich kid.

  Like Slade, Blood viewed Queen as a coward. He had fled the city, instead of accepting responsibility for the horror his mother’s involvement had wrought upon the Glades. Not that Blood was surprised. All of the Starling City elite were cowards in his book. Heartless. Turning a blind eye to the plight of those they deemed beneath them.

  Soon, the rich would no longer be able to ignore them.

  * * *

  Outside of Starling City, in an abandoned industrial complex shrouded in shadow, the hijacked FEMA medical supply truck pulled to an abrupt stop, a black SUV following close behind. There were two holes in the truck’s windshield, the marks of kill shots aligned to the heads of passenger and driver. Whoever the hijackers were, they were ruthless.

  Slade Wilson stepped out from the shadows. He was dressed in his A.S.I.S. prototype armor, his face obscured by the metal helmet, colored orange and black. He held a briefcase by his side, and his weapons were holstered.

  The truck’s new driver, a severe-looking Chinese man with ornate tattoos down his arms, climbed down from the cabin and retreated to the SUV behind him. Slade recognized the tattoos as Triad, the same criminal element he had tracked in Hong Kong.

  A woman exited the SUV. Dressed in form-fitting black, she was beautiful. Her namesake white hair fell in long, soft curls down her back, vibrant in the moonlight. She approached Slade.

  “Did you have any trouble?” he asked.

  “None,” China White replied. “Disappointingly uneventful.”

  Slade handed her the briefcase. “Payment for future deliveries, with enough extra to hire added protection. I’ve included a dossier on a man codenamed Bronze Tiger. I believe you know his work.”

  “A job like this is hardly worthy of a man of his skill. He thrives on prey not easy to kill.”

  “With every shipment you hijack, Glades Memorial edges closer to being shut down. I expect this to draw out the vigilante, putting you in direct conflict.”

  “Good.” An intensity filled China White’s eyes, one born of hate. “I owe him pain.”

  “That’s my hope.”

  She climbed into her SUV and drove away into the night. Once they were gone, Slade removed a pack of explosives from his bandolier. He affixed them to the cargo of the truck, set the timer and walked away.

  The explosion was bright against his silhouette.

  4

  Isabel strode through the doors of Queen Consolidated, wearing a deep red skirt suit, flanked by two members of her Stellmoor International acquisition team. The last time she had stepped foot in the building was over a decade ago, when Walter Steele had cast her aside unceremoniously, like so much trash, and Bobby and his security detail had forcibly removed her.

  She didn’t expect to see Steele—he had cut ties with the company after his divorce from Moira. Bobby, however, was where she had last seen him, checking identification at the front desk, the years having done little more than add gray to his hair and pounds to his gut.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “That depends, Bobby,” she answered. “Are you going to ask me to ‘stay put’ again?”

  Bobby furrowed his brow, eyes squinting.

  “Do I know you?”

  “I told you the Queens would regret what they did to me,” she said. “Today I make good on that promise.”

  Recognition began to dawn as Isabel and her team began to push past the security turnstile.

  “Isabel! You’re Stellmoor International?”

  “While you still have a job, Bobby, tell Mr. Queen that Ms. Rochev is on her way up.” She headed off toward the elevators, the click of her heels echoing in the hall.

  * * *

  As Isabel walked into the penthouse suite, memories came flooding back to her. Talking into the early morning with Robert, their bodies intertwined, plans made for a future he had lacked the spine to keep. He had always told her he liked her in red. She figured it was appropriate that she wore the color today, to mark the moment she began her takeover of his beloved company. She continued on toward the office that used to belong to Robert Queen, but was now occupied by his son.

  Felicity Smoak intercepted her in the waiting area. Isabel looked the blonde woman up and down, taking in her blue form-fitting dress, leg exposed from lower thigh down. She wore glasses, as if the prop could somehow lend her legitimacy. Another hot-to-trot “assistant.”

  Like father, like son, she thought.

  How could this woman be responsible for the vigilante’s tech?

  “Ms. Rochev? Hi, I’m Felicity Smoak, I’m with Oliver—not with with, just his assistant… not that there’s anything wrong with the secretarial arts but—” She paused, then said, “Can I interest you all in a bagel? We have some delicious schmeer.”

  “My only interest is in talking to Oliver Queen,” Isabel said. “Where is he?”

  “He’s running just a wee bit late. You know, traffic. If you’ll follow me to the conference room, I’m sure he won’t be much longer. And like I said, bagels!”

  Isabel paused before she and her team followed Felicity down the hall, taking one last look at Robert’s old office. Soon, she would claim it as her own.

  * * *

  Normally, Isabel would have found Oliver’s tardiness surprising. Robert was always incredibly punctual. Then again, she knew his son was no businessman.

  Finally he arrived, flanked by his African-American bodyguard, John Diggle, and Smoak. She hadn’t seen him since he had been a drunken teenager. Now he was older, she was struck by the echo of Robert’s features in his face and build, tiny time capsules locked away in his DNA.

  Rising up from the table, Isabel extended her hand, introducing herself to Robert Queen’s progeny.

  “Isabel Rochev.”

  “Oliver Queen,” he said as he shook her hand. “Sorry I’m late.”

  The feel of his touch on her skin sent her backward to her first encounter with Robert, meeting him in the hallway by happenstance. She shook off the memory. She wouldn’t allow nostalgia to derail her plan. She steeled herself, falling back on the one trait that allowed her to survive—her ruthlessness.

  “Late for this meeting,” she said, “or a career in business?”

  “I didn’t realize hostile takeovers were filled with so much hostility.”

  “Not at all. I’m actually in quite a good mood.”

  She and Queen both took their seats at the table, ready to get to work. Felicity joined them, taking the seat across from Isabel.

  “Really,” Queen continued, challenging her. “So destroying companies agrees with you?”

  “Winning agrees with me.” Isabel stared him down across the tab
le, confidently pushing his buttons.

  “You haven’t won yet.”

  Isabel paused, fighting off a smile. The son was as naïve as he was handsome.

  “Since you majored in dropping out of college, let me put this in terms that are easy for you to understand.” She saw that her insult had landed, and continued with matter-of-fact detachment, “You control forty-five percent of Queen Consolidated stock. I control forty-five percent, leaving ten percent outstanding—but, in two days the board will release the final ten percent.”

  “And I’ll buy it before you do.”

  “With what money?” she said, struck by his utter cluelessness. “I doubt your trust fund is that large, and no angel investor will go near the company that built the machine that destroyed half the city.”

  Queen opened his mouth to respond, but said nothing.

  “Companies rise and fall, Mr. Queen,” she said before he could find his tongue. “Your company has fallen.”

  Abruptly a commotion erupted outside the office, and cut through the room’s silence. Without warning, the Copycat Hoods—the men hired by Sebastian Blood—burst through the conference room doors, semi-automatic rifles and shotguns locked and loaded. Queen stood up, muscles tensing on instinct.

  “Oliver Queen!” one of Hoods said through a voice modulator. “You’ve failed this city.”

  Though Isabel knew who these men were, the interruption was unexpected. This wasn’t part of the plan. She kept her eyes focused on Queen, wondering if she was about to see the vigilante emerge. He surveyed the scene, then locked eyes with Smoak. He seemed to be fighting the impulse to engage, the struggle slowing him to stagnancy, freezing him.

  One of the Hoods pumped his shotgun, ready to fire, but in one swift movement Diggle removed his Glock and beat him to the trigger.

  “Get down!” he said, laying down cover fire. Isabel, her instincts honed by her training with Slade, saw the conflict coming and retreated under the desk a split second before Queen and Smoak. As bullets passed overhead, she met Queen’s eye, surprised to find him so slow to react.

  This was the feared vigilante?

  A deer caught in headlights?

  Diggle’s bullets found purchase in the Hood’s Kevlar vest, sending him sprawling backward. The other two returned fire with their rifles, shattering glass and shredding Smoak’s precious bagels. Though Diggle was doing his best to fend them off, their firepower was overwhelming.

  “Fall back!” he yelled to Queen, snapping him out of his indecision. “Oliver, go! Go, go, go, go!”

  Queen grabbed Isabel, ushering her through the room’s rear exit before turning back toward the conflict. Safely behind cover, she watched as bullets shattered the glass door. Then Queen emerged with Felicity in tow, bullets nipping at their heels. He ran toward the exterior window, grabbed a chain from the blinds and crashed through the glass, escaping the gunfire.

  Isabel heard the gunmen turn and run off, their prey having escaped, the SCPD likely on the way. Then she brushed fragments of glass off of her dress and surveyed the damage to the building. The first broken pieces of a company she planned to dismantle in forty-eight short hours. When it came time to kill the business Robert Queen had spent his life building, she would not share Oliver’s reluctance to take action.

  * * *

  Two days later, Isabel was seated in the Queen Consolidated conference room again, and there was no longer any sign of the carnage that had occurred. She wore her black dress, feeling the color appropriate for the occasion. This was a funeral for Robert Queen’s company.

  Oliver Queen stared pensively out the window, his back turned to her. She knew what he had been through the past two days. The Copycat Hoods, after failing to kill Oliver, decided to go after a more vulnerable target—his sister, Thea. They had kidnapped her, and to rescue her Queen had been forced to resume his activities as the vigilante. Yet despite the direct threat to the life of his kin, he had still refused to kill, choosing instead to deliver the Hoods unharmed to the authorities.

  If he lacked his killer instinct as the vigilante, how could he ever hope to harness it now, in the moment he needed it most? Without it, he had no hope of defeating her, and saving his father’s company.

  It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, she thought, and despite her impending victory, she found it somehow hollow. Unsatisfying. Enough of that, she told herself. It was time to deliver the finishing blow.

  “You can’t win this,” she announced. “I now own fifty percent of the stock. By tomorrow, I’ll have what I need control your company. Any attempt to fight me will lead to litigation and leave you penniless. And trust me, poverty isn’t as glamorous as Charles Dickens made it look.”

  Finally, Queen turned and approached her.

  “What if I found someone to invest new equity capital?”

  “A white knight?” she said. “With all due respect, your last name is now associated with mass murder. Even you don’t have that good a friend.”

  “You’re right,” Oliver responded. Then he gave her the subtlest of smirks. “I have family.”

  Isabel heard the conference room doors open behind her. She turned, and was shocked to see Walter Steele enter, followed by Felicity Smoak. The sight of him sent her back in time to the moment when she learned that her internship with Queen Consolidated—and her relationship with Robert—was over. The sensation was enough to send her reeling.

  She rose slowly from her chair.

  “Mr. Steele,” she said, trying to regain her composure. He nodded to her, clearly recognizing her as the young girl he had cast aside many years ago. “It was my understanding that you had resigned as CEO.”

  “I did,” he acknowledged. “I’m now Chief Financial Officer of Starling National Bank.” He walked past her, joining Oliver at the head of the table. “And my institution has committed rescue financing to Mr. Queen. We bought up the remaining shares of Queen Consolidated when they were released this morning.”

  “Now I know I majored in dropping out,” Queen said, driving the dagger home, “but I’m pretty sure that makes us partners going forward. So I guess we will be seeing a lot of each other.”

  Despite the turn of events, Isabel felt herself struck by the young man’s demeanor—so different than it had been before. Again, she was reminded of his father. Perhaps she had dismissed her enemy too quickly. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  “You aren’t at all what people say about you,” she said.

  “Most people fail to see the real me.”

  She regarded him, swallowing her anger. He may have won the battle, but she would not relinquish the war. The company would be hers. Then she gave the exit signal to her team from Stellmoor, and exited the room.

  * * *

  Back at Slade’s penthouse office, all the anger Isabel had kept bottled up in the conference room came pouring out. She paced as Slade, calmly sitting behind his desk, allowed her to vent.

  “I don’t lose,” she said. “Do you know why? Because I control all the variables. I told you the company wasn’t yet fully vulnerable. You forced me to attack too soon.”

  “I promised you the company,” Slade replied. “The timeframe was open for interpretation.”

  “I was supposed to take Queen Consolidated from Oliver Queen, not partner with him.”

  “Yes, but now you’re in position to hurt him far more than a simple takeover could.”

  The comment piqued Isabel’s curiosity. Calming slightly, she took a seat.

  “How do you mean?” she asked.

  “A blow delivered in stealth cuts more deeply than one foreseen and defended. You now have a unique opportunity to work alongside our enemy, earning his trust and learning his weaknesses.”

  “His trust?” she said. “I just tried to take his company. The man hates me.”

  “Give it time. I expect Oliver’s nighttime activities and familial responsibilities to stress him beyond measure. When they do, hate will be a luxury he canno
t afford. He will have no choice but to rely on you.” He leaned forward and peered at her. “Let him.”

  “Fine.” Isabel nodded, acquiescing to the new plan. Then she asked a question that had been bothering her since the attack by the Copycat Hoods. “Speaking of Oliver’s nighttime activities, I thought you said the vigilante was a killer? I’ve seen nothing so far to suggest that.”

  “It appears he’s trying another way,” Slade observed. “Guilt over the death of the Merlyn boy, no doubt—but rest assured, Ms. Rochev, there is indeed a killer inside of Oliver, and I aim to bring it out.”

  5

  The crowd of protesters outside Glades Memorial had grown to nearly forty. The men and women from the neighborhood were angry, fed up with being ignored by the city in the aftermath of the earthquake. They held signs, hoping to make their voices known.

  SAVE THE GLADES!

  REMEMBER THE 503!

  BLOOD FOR MAYOR!

  Sebastian Blood stood near the throng, conducting an interview with a group of local news reporters. He had organized the protest to raise awareness about the theft of the hospital’s medical supplies. More such incidents had occurred, and as of yet the SCPD had done little to stymie the thieves. A young man named Roy Harper had intervened in one such incident, and had been arrested for his efforts.

  The thefts continued. Without the supplies, the hospital was dangerously close to shutting down.

  The protest yielded the added benefit of getting Sebastian publicity in advance of his mayoral campaign. Though he hadn’t officially announced his intention to run for office—it was still too soon after Altman’s death—establishing himself as a leader would smooth the way for a full-blown campaign. Especially if his protest led to official action by the police.

  “This city is failing on all counts,” he said to the reporter, his anger simmering. “We cannot stand by while the doctors on the other side of those doors are working with the bare minimum of resources, simply because the police department sees us as a lost cause. Meanwhile, thieves are seeking to make a quick buck off the misery of the Glades.”

  In the midst of his impassioned speech, he looked up and, to his surprise, found Starling City’s most famous spoiled brat watching from the back of the crowd. Oliver Queen was a long, long way from his pampered confines. Already running hot from his speech, Sebastian decided to single out the rich kid and give him a proper Glades welcome.