Arrow

by Marc Guggenheim

  Another opponent had his fists raised, poised like a boxer, coming toward her with short, crab-like steps. He was thick, cables of muscle laid under the skin of his forearms, a square plug of violence. His left eye pulled up at the corner, lifted by a wad of scar tissue where his eyebrow should’ve ended. He was a boxer, at least a brawler, so he would know how to use the power in his physique for maximum damage.

  She was grateful for her new suit. If she’d been wearing just her old jacket, he would have hospitalized her with that blow. As it was she straightened, facing him.

  “Ah, girlie,” the boxer said, raising his voice to be heard over the din of the fighting that rose around them. “I came straight over here when I spotted you.”

  She swallowed down her canary cry, forcing herself to hold it in. She didn’t know how stable the explosives in the room might be, and couldn’t take the chance of setting them off, no matter how much she wanted to blast the lewd grin off the man’s face. At the thought, though, she smiled as he stepped closer to her.

  She’d just have to knock off that grin the old-fashioned way.

  “You glad to see me, girlie? I’m glad to—”

  Dinah slid the bõ staff through her lead hand, driving with her hips to put as much torque behind it as she could. The staff flew straight out, moving faster than could be seen, and crashed into the boxer’s mouth, knocking teeth out in a spray of blood. He cried out and crashed to his knees as if his feet had been cut out from beneath him. Overknuckled hands clasped his mouth, blood running off their bottom edge to drip on his chest.

  Black Canary stepped forward. “You glad to see me, girlie?”

  Her boot caught him in the stomach, just under the breastbone. He went pale and fell to the ground.

  She was already moving to the next target.

  * * *

  Spartan jerked up, applying pressure on the throat of the henchman he had in a headlock. The man’s hands scrabbled at Diggle’s jacket, but he was relentless and within a few seconds the man went limp.

  There was a satisfying thud as he let him drop.

  Another henchman, a tall lanky specimen, swung an ax at him. He turned into the swing, reaching out and grabbing the henchman’s shirt. His fingers rolled into the ripstop cloth, pain shooting along the tendons due to the pressure. Using the hold as leverage, he fired a flurry of elbow strikes at the man’s head. Ax-man jerked away and the strikes barely grazed him, mostly landing on his shoulders. The henchman lashed out with the ax, striking Diggle with the flat of it. It wasn’t a solid blow, but still it made a hard throb of pain across his side. He let go, taking two steps back. Ax-man shifted the ax in his hands, raising the blade as if to begin chopping Spartan down to size.

  Diggle watched the ax rise, struggling to draw breath. That ax head was going to split his skull, and he couldn’t get enough oxygen to move.

  Goodbye, Lyla and little John. I love you.

  With the ax raised up over his head, the ax-man jerked three times, then went stiff. His hands opened and the ax slipped around through his claw-like fingers, to strike his own face. His eyes rolled up and he fell forward, crashing on top of his weapon.

  White Canary was there.

  She stepped forward, helping him up. Spartan glanced at the fallen henchman and saw three shuriken jutting from the man’s back.

  “Black lotus gum,” Sara said. “Knocks out the biggest and the baddest in under a minute.”

  Spartan grunted, “Good trick.”

  “League of Assassins, baby,” she grinned.

  “Thanks for the assist,” he said. “Sorry I needed it.”

  “You got hit with an ax—it could happen to any of us.”

  She ducked left, another henchman’s ax whistling past where her head had been. Spartan stepped forward and put an uppercut into the man’s jaw, sending with it every bit of anger he held. The henchman fell like a tree in a hurricane wind.

  Now his hand throbbed with pain to the elbow.

  “Not all of us,” he said.

  She gave him a quick push. “So we’re even—stop being grumpy.” She turned away and began to fight again. Diggle shook his hand out and did the same.

  * * *

  “Oliver.”

  He knew the voice on the comms was for his ears only, since Felicity used his name. He drove a palm strike into the chest of the henchman who was charging him, hand tensed to make it like a thing of iron. The henchman stopped short as the shock of the blow jolted through his body, disrupting the functions of his nervous system. Raising his fist over his head, Oliver dropped a devastating back-fist to the suprascapular nerve cluster between the man’s neck and shoulder. The flechettes stored along the back of his gauntlet added weight and rigidity to the strike.

  The henchman fell face forward.

  “Go,” he said, tracking another target.

  “We have a problem.”

  “I don’t have time to play twenty questions, so tell me.” He moved toward a henchman coming up behind Wild Dog.

  “The boat you’re on is changing course, and is heading toward Cape Dixon.”

  He remembered Cape Dixon, a small outcropping into the water, not truly large enough for the term “cape,” and nearly all of it was wide sandy beaches. This time of night it should be deserted.

  The henchman reached him, swinging knuckles covered in brass. He slipped the punch, driving his knuckle into the ulna nerve in the man’s inner bicep.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Rangerettes Midnight Jamboree,” Felicity said. “There are three hundred girls camping on that beach.”

  Damn. He landed a back-fist but it just skimmed off the henchman’s shoulder.

  “How long—” He grunted, swinging again. “—till we get there?”

  “Thirteen minutes.”

  The henchman caught him a stiff shot to the cheek that made his eyes water. Training turned into instinct and he latched onto the man’s wrist with iron fingers and yanked, pulling his assailant off balance. He grabbed him around the waist and spun him into the air, driving him to the floor. Then he turned to look for Curtis, and found him a few feet away.

  * * *

  Mister Terrific dropped low and did a sweeping kick, knocking the legs out from under an opponent built like a cement mixer. The man crashed to the floor on his back, the breath forced out of him. Curtis scrambled over, putting his knee on the henchman’s neck, pressing against the carotid artery. He kept the pressure on until the man’s eyes rolled up into his head and he went still.

  Suddenly Green Arrow was next to him, flipping a henchman up and slamming him down so hard Curtis felt the steel floor under him vibrate. He stood as Oliver stepped over and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Overwatch and Mister Terrific.” Green Arrow’s voice echoed through the comms. “Disarm that device.” Oliver gave him a push toward the table and simultaneously pulled a flechette from the back of his glove and flung it at an advancing henchman.

  “On it,” Felicity said.

  Mister Terrific nodded, even though Green Arrow had turned away.

  “Wild Dog, watch Mister Terrific’s back. If he can’t stop that bomb, we’re all dead.”

  “On my way, Hoss,” Wild Dog said.

  Green Arrow spun, driving his heel deep in the stomach of an attacker, folding the man in half.

  “Spartan, go after Faust, Black Canary assist. Be careful of booby traps.”

  Spartan and Black Canary didn’t respond, simply following orders by moving toward the gap through which Faust had slipped. As they did, White Canary swung on one of the dangling ropes, wrapping her legs around a henchman’s head. She flung herself forward, snapping him around and off his feet, driving him to the steel floor.

  She stood. He didn’t.

  Sara moved next to Arrow. “I guess you and I are mopping clean-up.”

  “I know how much you like housekeeping.” He clenched his fists, watching henchmen gather themselves to attack. Many were moaning on the
floor, out of the fight, but there were enough to be a problem. He’d divided the team to their strengths. He and Sara were the best hand-to-hand fighters, and Wild Dog held position as runner-up due to his sheer ferocity. Curtis was without a doubt the best chance they had for defusing the bomb, especially backed by Felicity in the Bunker. Diggle’s marksmanship made him best suited to run down Faust.

  * * *

  Felicity clicked her mouse furiously. Her voice went over the comms to Curtis and Rene.

  “Guys, let me know when you’re in position.”

  It drove her crazy to only have access to voice, but there were no cameras on site, and no way for any satellite to pick them up through the hull of a moving freighter. Though blind, she’d have to make it work.

  She took another swig of coffee that had gone cold, oily, and bitter. Her face twisted but she kept staring at the screens in front of her, fervently wishing she could just see what was happening.

  * * *

  Mister Terrific loped across the cargo hold, using his long legs to eat the distance. A henchman lunged at him and he twisted away, causing the man to stumble past him. He glanced back to find Wild Dog already on the assailant.

  Wild Dog slammed into the man, using his momentum to drive his hockey mask into the guy’s nose. Blood gushed, sluicing off the hard plastic of the mask to run onto the jersey in spatters of crimson. Rene looked down at it, shaking his head.

  “Oh, hell no, you done it now.” He launched in, driving fists into his target’s torso. The henchman gasped, turning the blood sheeting his mouth into a weird bubble between his lips. Wild Dog reached back, knuckles just inches from the floor, and launched his fist like a rocket sled on rails, torquing at the hips to drive his fist with every ounce of power he could summon into the soft spot he’d created.

  The man crumpled under that last blow.

  Wild Dog turned, facing outward, and backed his way toward Mister Terrific, fists raised in front of his bloodstained jersey. “Stop that bomb,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ve got you covered. I can’t go out dirty like this.”

  Another man plowed into him and he went down swinging elbows and fists. Mister Terrific hesitated, but moved on, trusting Wild Dog’s ability to fight.

  15

  Orange emergency lights lined the curved corridor, casting everything in strange shadows. Spartan was in the lead by just a few feet, gun up and at the ready now that they were far enough away from the explosives. Black Canary stayed close, and neither of them spoke. The rubber soles of their boots made no noise on the metal floor, even though they were moving quickly.

  They could hear Faust ahead of them, running just out of sight. The sound was echoed by something behind them. Black Canary hesitated, slowing her steps, and sub-vocalized, her voice so low it barely carried past her lips.

  “I’ll catch up.”

  The comms link picked it up. Spartan nodded broadly so she could see the motion, but he didn’t stride. She slipped into one of the shadows between lights, her costume blending with the darkness.

  Spartan disappeared around the bend of the corridor.

  The noise from behind them continued to draw closer.

  She gripped her bõ staff tighter.

  After only a few moments two henchmen appeared from around the bend. They were cut from the same cloth—same height, same athletic build, same stride that indicated some form of military training. They moved like Spartan and were nearly his size. They even held matching batons in their right hands.

  She held her breath as they marched by, passing her without a sideways glance even though she could have touched the one closest to her without stretching. Then she stepped out, took a deep breath…

  …and screamed.

  Both of them stumbled, knocked forward by the sheer force of the sound waves. The henchman on the left dropped his baton and fell to his knees, hands clamping over his ears. Her cry made the metal walls vibrate, the air between them shimmering as the ripples reverberated off them.

  The henchman on the right stopped moving, bracing himself against the blast of her cry. He held onto his baton, his hands remaining down.

  A twinge of pain cut deep to the left of her esophagus, a small reminder of pushing her voice against the fire. She stopped screaming, and as the echoes of her cry faded, they were replaced by the weeping of the man who had fallen. He was lying on his side in the fetal position, hands clapped over bleeding ears.

  The right henchman turned to face her.

  Why didn’t he go down?

  He raised his left hand and his fingers began to dance, spelling out words.

  For a moment, a split second, she was taken aback by the concept of a deaf henchman. There was no reason he couldn’t be deaf and be a criminal. She knew from her career as a cop that all kinds of people went the wrong way, and in this case it certainly made him effective against her. Still, she had never considered the possibility.

  Her mind swirled until he swung the club at her head.

  Dinah jerked her staff up in a block, and the impact tore it out of her hands. Her opponent followed with a hard front kick aimed at her stomach, but she twisted and caught it on her hip. The blow skidded across her back a few inches, pain radiating under her skin.

  Bruise, she thought.

  Using the momentum from the impact she spun into a high heel kick, aiming to break his jaw. He bobbed back, though, her boot barely grazing his chin, not enough even to daze him. She came around and back on both feet, hands up in fists.

  The baton thudded against her arm.

  Her Kevlar-reinforced jacket saved her a broken bone, but a shock of pain ran down her arm and into her fingertips, and they lost their strength.

  The henchman drew back and swung again.

  She dove under, the baton whistling through the space where her head had been, tucking in and rolling back up to her feet. Holding the other henchman’s baton.

  Her teeth clenched tight behind a grin she didn’t want to suppress. She was a stick fighter. She spent more training time working with a full bõ staff, preferring to use both hands, generating power at each end of the hardwood weapon by using the length of it as a lever with her as the fulcrum, turning her strength into crushing force.

  But she had started with shorter sticks. The baton in her hand was spring steel and collapsible, an ASP like she had carried before she made detective. It was lighter than the rattan batons she used in escrima, but the steel had much less give.

  In anyone else’s hands it was a bludgeon.

  In her hands?

  It was a bonecrusher.

  The henchman shared her grin and shifted, adjusting his body into the lowered stance of a trained fighter. He raised his empty hand between them and beckoned her to engage.

  She swiped out with the baton, flicking it at his outstretched hand. He pulled back quickly and she missed. He wagged a finger and clucked his tongue at her. And then he attacked.

  First came a downward swing at her skull. Her baton came up, redirecting the motion and opening up his arms so she could jab in with the end of her baton, shooting for the little tab of bone at the bottom of his sternum. Snap it off, and breathing would become a hitching pain with every gulp of air. Again he swept down, baton smashing into hers with a clang that vibrated into her fingers. She twisted, letting the impact drive her blow downward. The tip of her ASP cracked the side of his knee, good and solid at the juncture of his anterior cruciate ligament. He stumbled, slewing sideways as his knee crumpled.

  She let loose a canary cry.

  The henchman couldn’t hear it, but the force of the sound waves pushed him further off balance. She stepped in, swallowing the cry as she raised the baton. He raised an arm to block her, but one swing knocked it aside. The next drove into the place where his neck became shoulder, creasing deep in the juncture beside the trapezius. She watched his eyes roll back as the nerve cluster there short-circuited.

  He was done. A quick glance and she saw his partner was als
o still down. She kicked his baton, sending it clattering down the hallway, and tossed the one in her hand away after it. The feeling had mostly returned in her other hand as she picked up her bõ staff and left the henchmen behind to follow after Spartan.

  * * *

  He swept around, leg out, taking down a henchman who landed on his shoulders and skull. Mostly skull.

  The spinning leg sweep took him into a roll that brought him to his feet again. He shoulder-checked a large guy who tried to grab him, knocking him sideways. Stretching, he swung a fist at a third henchman but overreached and missed. That henchman threw himself at Green Arrow, driving him back.

  Green Arrow pulled a flechette from the back of his glove. He drove it down and the scalpel-sharp blade slipped easily into the meat of the henchman’s arm. Instantly blood coated his fingertips, adding to the iron-and-salt scent of the air.

  The henchman rolled, bellowing and pulling away from him. His flailing elbow caught Green Arrow in the mouth. Pain shot through Green Arrow’s face, from his chin to the back of his skull, just one solid bolt of hurt. His teeth clacked, biting his tongue deep enough to draw blood that filled his mouth all hot and tinny-tasting. His eyes watered from the blow and his brain went animal and wild.

  His eyes narrowed and he focused, finding the henchman pulling the flechette from his arm. Arrow spit his own blood onto the floor between them. The henchman tried throwing the flechette back at him, thin, sharp steel spinning through the space between them, still coated in blood.

  Green Arrow caught it in midair.

  He flung it downward, and it flew like an arrow, sinking hilt-deep into the henchman’s boot. The man opened his mouth to howl, but Green Arrow was already on him. He swung three short jabs, driving with his shoulder, torquing with his hips. His fists sank in, as solid as a lumberjack chopping down a tree. He was so deep in the pocket of the henchman’s reach that he felt the man’s breath on his cheek as each blow folded the henchman more and more, until he was bent completely at the waist.

  Oliver stepped back and the henchman dropped to the floor in a boneless heap.

  Fists up, Green Arrow pivoted, ready for the next one.