Arrow

by Marc Guggenheim

“Just for you, my beautiful Oliver, I’ve set someone on your trail with enough money to perform his particular brand of art. He’s a showman—that’s how I convicted him the first time—but of course, his case got overturned after I was arrested. He’s still around though, and hates you almost as much as I do. He’s going to use my money to pay you some special attention, all on my behalf.” Another low chuckle. “He’ll bring the house down.

  “You’ve seen his handiwork by now. Remember, as you try to do what you can, that every time he makes art it’s you who will be responsible. And every time—” Adrian stood, his face completely filling the screen. “—I want you to remember Lian Yu.”

  9

  “Are we sure this guy is dead?”

  Oliver stood, arms crossed and leaning against a rail as he waited on Felicity to finish. She was so intent on her task, it was as if the rest of them weren’t even there. He didn’t look over at Rene as he responded to his question.

  “He’s dead.”

  “Okay, Hoss, he doesn’t seem so dead.”

  “Rene’s right,” Curtis said, stepping in stubbornly. “He sounds like he made that video yesterday.”

  Oliver pushed himself off the rail, the one that surrounded the raised computer dais in the center of the Bunker. He kept his voice calm, but only barely, and he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of it.

  “I saw him blow his brains out. My son, William, still has nightmares about stepping over Chase’s corpse to get off the boat. So, when I tell you he’s dead, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Okay, let’s calm down.” Diggle stepped forward, hands moving Curtis back. “Chase put us through hell—”

  “Literally,” Dinah interrupted. Her voice had returned after an evening drinking a hot toddy of whiskey, honey, cinnamon, and ginger followed by a morning of drinking chamomile tea laced with Gingko Extract. It was still a bit hoarse, deeper than normal due to the soreness at the bottom of her larynx. She wouldn’t be able to full-force canary cry yet, but she was on the mend.

  Diggle shot her a look. “But we came through it, and the team is still together.”

  “What team are we on?” Sara climbed the steps to join them on the dais.

  “Team Arrow,” Curtis replied.

  White Canary nodded and moved to stand by him. “I’m a big fan,” he said as he put his hand out to shake, smiling as she took it.

  “Mister Terrific?”

  “Yes, Curtis,” he said. “It’s impressive, everything you do.”

  “I’m just doing what we’re all doing,” she said. “But, thank you.” She leaned in, lowering her voice, “So, what are we waiting for?”

  Curtis did the same, grinning at the conspiratorial nature of the conversation. “Felicity is…”

  “I’ve got it!” Felicity cried out, spinning in her chair. “Alex Faust.”

  Sara smiled and shared a nod with Curtis. She’d forgotten the energy of being in the room with Felicity and Oliver. The rest of the team added to it, but she could watch those two and their chemistry all day. Her time with Oliver left her with a love for him that would always be inside her, a strange sisterly affection with a hum of romance underneath. She’d never had anything like it with anyone else, but then again, she’d never had the history she had with Oliver. The wild affair when he dated her sister Laurel, which both thrilled and guilted her, especially since Laurel was gone. The time spent together in this vigilante life, his hand in her resurrection—it was the fabric of a connection unlike any other.

  Even with that, the chemistry between Felicity and Oliver could light up a building.

  And Felicity was smoking—Smoaking?—hot, especially when she was in her mile-a-minute-I’m-giving-you-all-the-information mode.

  “Who the hell is Alex Faust?” Oliver asked.

  Felicity adjusted her glasses. “Chase gave us clues in his speech, and since he is—was—a manipulative, deliberate sonnuvagun, I took his information at face value and did a records search, looking for any convictions of people with explosives backgrounds. I came up with three. Three options of people who were familiar with or experts in the use of heavy ordnance, who Chase succeeded in convicting, but were subsequently released once he was exposed for being a psycho.

  “Thomas Nadir Thompkins,” she said, ticking the name off with one finger, “convicted of terrorist acts using sticks of actual dynamite. Apparently he took his initials seriously.

  “Stanley Labowski,” she continued, “also a terrorist, but more of an anarchist, fond of using grenades. And Alex Faust,” she said, ticking off the third finger, “locked up for murder via building demolition.”

  “Sounds like we have three suspects,” Dinah said.

  “The first guy, TNT—” Felicity shook her head, ponytail swinging snappily. “I can’t believe I’m using that code name.”

  “Cisco would be proud,” Oliver said.

  She ignored him. “—TNT is currently serving time in a Texas prison for attempting to blow up a national monument, and Labowski is so very dead after the Gotham PD stopped him from blowing up Gotham City Hall. So Alex Faust is our guy—the only one MIA and unaccounted for.”

  “What’s his story?” Oliver asked.

  “Gimme a minute.” Felicity spun her chair back to the computer screen behind her and began reading. “Apparently, Alex Faust is insane.”

  “We know that,” Diggle said. “He blows things up for fun.”

  “Not just for fun,” Felicity said. “Apparently he was the lead expert on a controlled demolition team, working for Brick Droppers, Inc.—no, I did not just make that up—when he… oh.” Her voice trailed off to nothing.

  Oliver moved beside her and his hand dropped gently on her shoulder as he leaned down to read what had stopped her.

  “What?” Rene grunted.

  Oliver took a deep breath and stood straight. It was a long moment before he turned and spoke.

  “In the setup to demolish a condemned high-rise, someone didn’t do due diligence, and a group of children snuck inside to play. They were in there when Faust detonated the charges, collapsing the building and killing them all.”

  “That’s awful,” Dinah said.

  “What are you not saying?” Diggle asked.

  Oliver didn’t answer. Felicity got out of her chair and stood next to him, her hip on his, just barely touching.

  Curtis looked from Oliver to Diggle and back.

  “Ummm, what’s going on here?”

  “Oliver isn’t telling us something,” Sara said. “He always gets that squint in his left eye when he doesn’t want to tell you something.”

  Curtis, Rene, and Dinah all leaned forward slightly, studying their leader’s face.

  “Three of the children were Faust’s,” Oliver said. “It broke him, and he began using his skills to wreak havoc.”

  “Damn.” Diggle and Rene said it at the same time, likely both thinking of their own children. Oliver straightened to take back control of the floor.

  “It’s tragic, but we can’t let it matter. We can’t allow ourselves the luxury of sympathy. He almost killed a lot of people at Dearden Tower, and he has to be stopped before he hurts a lot more. If Chase chose him as a weapon, then something big is on the horizon. It’s up to us to stop it.”

  “We’ll all do our job, Hoss, but…”

  “No ‘buts,’” Oliver snapped, slashing the air with his hand. “We take him down. Priority number one.” He looked from face to face, waiting for each of them to nod or give some other hint of agreement. Satisfied, he continued. “Felicity, I want everything on Faust. Dig as deep as possible and find me any information that could point to where he’ll strike next.”

  Felicity nodded. “On it. I’ll look for some connection that links him to you as mayor, Oliver, or Green Arrow. Since Chase still is pulling the strings, I’ll bet there is one.”

  “Good idea,” Oliver said. “Diggle, go see if Lyla will let you shake A.R.G.U.S. for information. She has some resources
we don’t.”

  “Any excuse to see my wife,” Diggle said.

  “Rene, take Curtis to the street and kick the dirt until something comes to light.”

  “Wouldn’t I be better helping Felicity?” Curtis frowned.

  “She’s got it—go and learn with Rene.”

  “C’mon, man.” Rene jerked his head toward the armory. “Let’s go suit up and I’ll teach you how to get information.” The two men, as much difference between their heights as there was between their approaches, stepped off the dais. Rene was in the lead.

  “Sara,” Oliver said, and then he stopped.

  “Yes.”

  “If you’re going to be around, I’d like your help on this.”

  “I’m a Legend, Oliver. I have a timeship, so I can be around anytime.” Even take time off work at Sink, Shower, & Stuff, she mused.

  “I don’t want to ask too much.”

  “Enough,” Sara said, smiling. “I’m enjoying it.”

  Oliver nodded. “Then use any contacts you have to look for information.”

  “I can go down some alleys the others can’t.”

  “Thank you.”

  She tossed him a quick salute, smiling as she did.

  “What’s for me?” Dinah asked.

  Oliver turned to look her straight in the face. “Mine your police contacts, and see if you can find anything.”

  “No problem.” She turned to walk away.

  “Dinah, wait,” Oliver said. “I’ve got something I’d like to show you.”

  She turned back.

  Oliver stepped off the dais, followed closely by Dinah. They walked over to the end of the armory where the costumes hung in tall cylinders. One on the end stood closed, the outside a map of smooth lines and small lights.

  Sara put her elbows on the rail of the dais, leaning forward and watching closely. Oliver turned, making sure he had Dinah’s undivided attention. He spoke, his words low enough that only she could hear. She looked at the cylinder, awe raw on her face.

  Oliver touched a switch and the cylinder rotated, opening to reveal its contents. When he spoke, Sara could hear him again.

  “I thought it was time you stopped getting shot at in just a leather jacket,” he said, gesturing. Inside was a sleek tactical suit—boots, pants, jerkin, gauntlets, and a mask that looked like the one Dinah wore currently. Yet somehow, through some magic of design, the uniform looked even tougher, almost mean in profile.

  Intimidating.

  The entire suit looks intimidating, Sara thought.

  It was sleek, with mesh-covered plates form-fitted over striking and defensive surfaces like the forearms and the shins. Buckles and straps reinforced the joints and quilted Kevlar covered vital areas like the kidneys. Her eye followed it all, analyzing the structure of it. It was the perfect compromise of protection and mobility. It had a style designed to intimidate anyone she went up against, and to instill confidence in anyone she tried to help.

  * * *

  Dinah’s mind went back to the man in the burning building. Bradley, that was his name. Maybe if she’d been wearing this costume, he would have remained calm and followed orders.

  Oliver moved, just slightly, and she realized he was waiting on her to say something.

  “Are you sure?”

  “You’re the Black Canary,” he said.

  “I’m not Laurel or Sar—”

  “No, you’re not,” he said, cutting her off. “But you are a vital part of this team, and a worthy carrier of the title. You’re a symbol to the criminals and their victims.”

  The weight of the legacy fell on her. She hadn’t known Laurel Lance, but she’d been working more with her father, Quentin Lance, who opened up about his daughter from time to time. Especially after their run-in with Black Siren—the Earth-2 version of Laurel—and she saw how the mention of Laurel affected Oliver and Felicity.

  Yet this was her costume. Her uniform.

  When she’d come to Star City, she’d only done so to get revenge on Sonus for killing Vince, her partner. She’d been a vigilante, traveling the highways, fighting crime with her skills and her sonic cry. There had been a freedom in that. No one to care for, no one to lose. There had been times when part of her wanted to walk out, to hit the road again, to go back to having nothing to lose.

  She looked Oliver in the eye.

  “I’ll do everything I can to live up to the legacy.”

  “You already have.” Oliver smiled. He looked past her and she suddenly felt that tingle between her shoulders that meant someone was watching. She turned to find Sara Lance watching. The White Canary, Laurel’s sister, and the first person to be Black Canary. Sara nodded.

  Dinah couldn’t wait to wear the uniform.

  * * *

  “She’ll do well—already has been doing well.”

  Sara turned to find Felicity there. “I saw her in action yesterday at that building fire,” she replied. “She’s got skills.”

  “You’re okay with this?”

  Sara let the thought slide over her. “I am. She’s good, and it’s not like Laurel can be Black Canary.”

  Felicity’s look grew intense, to the point it was almost uncomfortable.

  “What?” Sara asked.

  “Ummm, you should really talk to your father.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because you should,” Oliver said, joining them on the dais. “He should be the one to talk about Laurel being gone. You could both use it.”

  “I’m fine, actually,” Sara said. Her mind turned back to her conversation with Laurel—in the afterlife through the Spear of Destiny.

  “Then it could be good for him.”

  * * *

  Oliver reached out and put his hand on Felicity’s arm, fingers landing gently on her wrist. “I have to go check on William. Keep tabs on everyone.”

  “Will do.” She looked down at Oliver’s hand, staying on her wrist. It was a casual touch but felt more… intimate than that. He leaned in close, voice low.

  “I want to finish our conversation, as well.”

  She nodded, her throat tight, and glanced at Sara, who watched them with her eyebrow cocked and a slanted smile on her face.

  “Thank you for helping,” Oliver said to her and then walked off.

  After he was far enough away, Sara turned and stared pointedly at Felicity.

  “Oh…” Felicity sounded flustered, but she was smiling. “Wipe that grin off your face.”

  10

  She met him at the door, her things bundled in her arms.

  “I can’t handle him, Mr. Queen,” she said. “I quit.”

  “The agency said you were trained to work with children.” He stood in the doorway, blocking her escape attempt. She shook her head, a frazzled curl falling to roll along her brow.

  “Not him. Not enough.”

  “Shondra, please,” he said, arms out in supplication. “He’s a ten-year-old who just lost his mother—have compassion.”

  “I can’t do therapy with him.”

  “He has a therapist,” Oliver protested. “I need someone to be here with him while I work.”

  “Mr. Queen, please don’t make me feel bad about this.”

  Yet he wanted to make her feel bad about it. The protectiveness he felt toward William surged inside him. He wanted to lash out, to berate this woman who had insulted his flesh and blood. At the thought, he closed down those emotions.

  She hadn’t insulted William.

  She was just leaving.

  “Of course.” He stepped aside, holding the door. “I’ll make sure you are paid for today.”

  Shondra watched him for a moment, waiting for more argument. Oliver returned her gaze with a blank expression. So she shrugged her backpack onto her shoulder and walked out, not looking back.

  Oliver shut the door behind her and turned, looking around the apartment. With the childminder gone he was alone, William probably in his room. The apartment seemed to hang around him, lo
ose at its joints as if it could collapse and fall apart at any moment. It was a nice apartment, a place Felicity had found for them, spacious enough for two people who were still strangers.

  The thought sent a pang through him and the regret for all the missed years seared his heart. He moved through the space, around the couch, heading toward his son’s bedroom. He could face criminals with guns and not have as much tension as he had just walking toward a room.

  He passed an abstract painting on the wall. It had been there when he took the apartment, part of the staging he’d purchased. It was a nice piece of art, a Holmquist, and he appreciated it aesthetically, but it held no connection to him. It was just art on the wall—he owned it, but it wasn’t “his.”

  Sometimes he felt that way about everything but being the Green Arrow.

  Stopping outside William’s shut door, he listened. No noise came through. He knocked softly and reached for the knob, turning it and opening the door. William sat on his bed, reading, the covers crumpled and off on the floor. He didn’t look up as Oliver entered, just stared at the book on his knees.

  He looked small, hunched over the book. The emotions inside Oliver roiled around each other. Concern, pride, a need to protect, and guilt—all coated in a layer of fear. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear that William would hate him, first for abandoning him and then for letting his mother be killed.

  “Hello, William,” he said, and instantly he regretted it. Crap, what was that? “Hello, William,” like I’m talking to an adult I’ve just met. “Hey.” He moved to sit on the end of the bed. Two action figures—the Flash and Captain Cold—lay there. He picked them up, setting them aside as he sat. He looked sharply around the room. On the floor, half under the edge of the dresser, lay the Green Arrow action figure.

  William didn’t move, other than turning the page.

  “What are you reading, son?”

  William didn’t respond.

  Oliver reached out, moving slowly, waiting for his son to flinch. Gently he touched the corner of the book, lifting it just enough to read the title. My Side of the Mountain by Jean Craighead George.

  “I’ve read that book.”

  His mind flashed back to the years in exile on Lian Yu, living off the land, hunting, foraging, scavenging. Harsher, uglier than the survival shown in the book— but then again, Lian Yu wasn’t a children’s book.