“Nothing,” Oliver said. “She thinks like you.”
Lyla looked over at her husband. “How do you think the copycat should be handled?”
“I think he should be left to do his work,” Diggle said. “Maybe even brought in to work with the team.”
Felicity turned to Oliver. “You don’t think that’s a good idea?” She shook her head. “Wait, of course you don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Wouldn’t a new vigilante just help the cause?” Lyla asked. “If he’s skilled and needs discipline, perhaps A.R.G.U.S. should scoop him up. I can always use an effective agent, and you know he will be disciplined.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Oliver said.
Diggle leaned toward his wife, but spoke loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.
“Oliver is mad that someone’s biting his style.”
“No,” Felicity responded, and she shook her head again. “He’s bothered by the fact that he inspired someone else to go all Dirty Harry.”
“Death Wish is a more apt analogy,” Oliver said.
“Is that the one with the guy in the hat?”
Oliver smiled. “That’s Billy Jack.”
“Then the one with the ponytail?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Felicity said. “You get my point.”
“What I don’t understand,” Lyla said, “is why being an inspiration would bother you. You did it for the team you have now. You’ve done it in the past. This just seems like another in a long line.”
Oliver leaned forward. “Something about this one just seems almost… sinister. I don’t know why, but I don’t think this guy is on the same side of the law as us.”
“He was pretty brutal in dealing with the victim,” Diggle said, reaching for his drink. His hand shook, splashing orange soda up onto the back of it and over to the table. He set the cup down quickly.
“Are you okay?” Felicity asked.
“It’s just caffeine,” he said, moving his hand off the table to his lap. “I had an extra-large Flash with double-speed force shots at Jitters.”
Oliver was about to question his friend when Lyla’s phone began to vibrate. Within seconds, all their phones began sounding alarms.
Felicity was the first one to say it.
“I guess we should get this food to go.”
8
“What the hell is this?”
Faust turned to the black man standing at stage left. Two of his new mercenaries—El Tigre and a younger merc built like a quarterback on a semi-pro team— had him and his band held at gunpoint alongside the speaker tower.
“This,” Faust said as he sauntered over, extending his hand out to the area in front of the stage, “is a hostage situation.” More of the mercenaries were herding the audience into the center of the open soccer field by pointing their rifles and yelling orders.
“Man, this is supposed to be a blues festival! You can’t come up in here with all this and make this a hostage thing.” The man shook his fist in Faust’s direction. He had a scar that ran from just below his left eye, curled under his cheekbone, and ended on his chin.
“Why goodness, I like your gumption!” Faust cried. “What is your name?”
“My name?” the man cried. “That’s my name, fool!” He shoved his finger up toward the banner hanging from the top of the stage.
STAR CITY BLUES FESTIVAL
Featuring Papa Legbone!
“You’re Papa Legbone?” Faust cried, clapping his hands in front of his face. “I’m your biggest fan!”
Papa Legbone stepped back, frowning in confusion. “You are?”
Faust’s face went flat and expressionless. “No,” he said. “Never heard of you.”
Papa Legbone’s face darkened, making the scar appear to glow. He shook his fist toward Faust. “You… why I oughta take my fake leg and shove it—”
“Now, now.” Faust shook his finger at the tall blues singer. “Let’s keep it family friendly.”
“Please, fool,” Papa Legbone dug at the waist of his pants, “I ain’t been ‘family friendly’ since the summer of sixty-nine.” He pulled a heavy, snub-nosed revolver from under his shirt. Its chrome barrel and cylinder gleamed under the stage lights.
Before he could pull the trigger, El Tigre stepped up and smashed the butt of his rifle across the musician’s forehead. The gun tumbled to the stage, rolling end over end three times before landing against a coil of electric cables. Papa Legbone dropped as if his feet had been yanked out from under him, slamming face-first to the stage.
The other band members crowded back, pressing against the speaker stack, just wanting to be as far from the violence as possible. Most of them turned their backs on the fallen blues singer, frozen by their fear, consumed with their helplessness, shamed by his “don’t-care-if-I-live-or-die” bravery.
Faust squatted in front of the fallen blues legend. Papa Legbone looked up at him from the stage, blood coating the side of his face where his eyebrow split open.
“I hope you don’t have anymore guns on you, old dog,” Faust said.
“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.” Papa Legbone didn’t reach up to wipe his face, just let the blood run like a red badge of courage.
Faust sighed. “Well, I guess I wouldn’t expect anything else from a man with a scar like that.” His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket and came back out with a thin disc. He held it in front of the musician. It wasn’t much larger than a coaster and only an inch thick. Its plastic surface was a uniform blue that shone as if it had been oiled. In the center of one side was a black triangle the size of a thumbprint.
“This,” Faust said, “is a miniature version of the devices my men are planting all around this stadium. If I press this—” His finger pushed the black triangle, and as he lifted it the triangle began to glow. “—then it is armed.”
Papa Legbone pushed himself up and spat out a bit of blood that had seeped into his mouth. “Why should I care about that little old firecracker?”
“This ‘little old firecracker,’ as you put it, is powerful enough to blow a hole through three inches of steel.”
“Maybe I should put that where I was going to put my wooden leg then.” Papa Legbone’s voice was strong, but a small tremor ran underneath it.
Faust stood, signaling El Tigre to pick the old bluesman up. The merc did it, lifting him to his feet as if he were made of paper, instead of flesh and bone. Faust leaned in.
“I think strapping it to you in center stage, and letting this audience see it turn you into half the man you are now, should keep them as docile as Hindu cows.” Faust motioned for Papa Legbone to be dragged to the center of the stage, ending the gesture with a flourish of the hand holding the bomb.
An emerald arrow plucked it from his grasp.
It moved faster than he could see, let alone react, catching the device and pinning it to the stage where he had intended to place the blues legend. Faust jerked his head around, bewildered. A roar came from the field in front of the stage as the captured audience began to break ranks and run. It took a second to realize that his mercenaries were dropping.
“No, no, no,” he babbled, “not yet, I don’t want to see the inferno just yet!”
The Green Arrow dropped to the stage, swinging from the light rig above, and landed in front of Faust. He rose like an avenging angel in emerald, staring down with eyes that were filled with anger.
* * *
Dinah pivoted on her left foot and kicked out with her right. The heel of her combat boot snagged her adversary’s shirt, pulling it to the left and knocking him down. She used the momentum to twist into a downward punch that landed hard across the bridge of his nose. The collapsed steel baton in her hand loaded the punch with more weight and reinforced her fist. The skin between his eyes split, blood splashing hot over her knuckles.
The merc dropped to his hands and knees, head down, blood dripping on the fake grass of the
soccer field. She lashed out with her foot one more time, caught him in the temple, and knocked him flat unconscious. She pivoted back up, fists at the ready, looking for her next opponent.
“Hit these guys hard.” Felicity’s voice came through the comms. “A.R.G.U.S. is so sweetly batting cleanup, so they’ll gather any bad guys you put down. They’ll also handle the civilian evacuation. All Team Arrow has to do is fight the forces of evil.”
Felicity paused then added, “Wow, that was melodramatic. Accurate, but way over the top. Sorry guys.”
The mercenaries were scrambling under Team Arrow’s assault, unable to form up in groups of more than two or three before being taken down. Once that was done, A.R.G.U.S. agents swept in behind the heroes and put the mercs in cuffs. They had also cleared the exits and were guiding the civilians out. She didn’t know how Oliver had managed the backup, but she was grateful for it.
* * *
Wild Dog rode the mercenary to the ground, feeling the solid thud of impact through his shins. The gun for hire exhaled sharply, all the air driven from his lungs by the sudden weight. Even through his mask it was foul enough to make Rene gag.
“You need some freshmaker,” he said. “Try some of this.” He grabbed the merc’s Taser and shoved it up against his throat, depressing the button. The mercenary began to jitter underneath him as 50,000 volts of electricity lit up his nervous system. Wild Dog pulled it away and the man stayed locked, immobilized in the position of the last jerk and twist.
“Damn, stun gun don’t play.” Wild Dog looked at the Taser and nodded his head. “I might need to get me one of these.”
Mister Terrific landed flat on the ground next to him, the result of being punched by a mercenary twice his size. He twisted, slipping the next punch. Wild Dog leaned over, stuck the Taser against the guy’s side and depressed the trigger.
The mercenary twisted, bowing back until his head almost reached his boots.
“Thanks, man.” Mister Terrific sat up, pushing off the immobilized opponent.
“Don’t mention it, Hoss.” Wild Dog stood, offering a hand to his fellow vigilante. “Now you owe me.”
Mister Terrific let himself be pulled to his feet. He shoulder checked Wild Dog, knocking him to the left as his hands went under his jacket. They came out in an arc and at the end of it, his fingers opened, flinging out both his T-Spheres. They kicked on the moment they left his hand and flew, straight and true, into a mercenary with his rifle aimed at Wild Dog’s back. The two spheres hit like mini-rockets, both crackling as their own Taser capability engaged.
First his rifle fell to the ground, then the assailant did the same.
Mister Terrific smiled widely. “Now we’re even.”
Wild Dog shook his head. “Shut up.”
* * *
“This ends now!”
Green Arrow lashed out with a hard kick to Faust’s stomach, which sent the psychotic bomb maker tumbling across the stage. The archer glanced over his shoulder. The rest of Team Arrow were on the field and engaging the mercenaries there.
Movement caught his eye. He spun, pulling flechettes from the back of his glove, flinging the tiny blades in one smooth motion. Zip zip zip, they hit a mercenary who had aimed his rifle at the back of Green Arrow’s head. The steel projectiles stuck in a line across his chest. He fell and rolled off the edge of the stage.
Green Arrow had just a second to raise his bow to block a short, massively built mercenary from hitting him across the face with a rifle. The blow vibrated through the bow and down into his arms, making his teeth hurt. The hulking assailant swung the rifle around, aiming the barrel to shoot him in the stomach. He dove to the left in a roll as bullets chewed the space where he had just been standing.
He lashed out with his bow, hitting the man in the knee. The mercenary skipped to the side, but did not go down. It was like hitting a boxing bag. He didn’t seem to feel pain.
Pushing off, Green Arrow used his momentum to hook a powerful blow to the man’s temple. The mercenary staggered back, and shook his head. Green Arrow chopped down with his bow, knocking the rifle from the man’s hands.
His attacker’s fingers closed on his arm, squeezing tight like the jaws of a pit bull. The mercenary growled through blunt, square teeth and yanked him to the left. Green Arrow stumbled forward, unable to resist the pull. While he was off balance the man drove a big, meaty fist into his kidneys, punching with all his considerable weight and leverage behind it.
Nauseating pain sank deep inside him, all the way into his core. Then a second blow struck him in the middle of the back, robbing him of the ability to breathe.
He dropped to the stage floor, the world going black at the corners of his eyes. Splinters from bullet holes dug into his cheek. From behind him he heard the merc growl.
“Time to earn your stripes, son.”
Something inside him, his sixth sense for violence earned from years of living it and giving it himself, called out for him to push, to roll, to just get out of the way. It took all he had to move away before the knife sliced the space where he had been. He pushed hard, working through the pain that filled his torso, scrambling to his feet. His brain started separating the pain, parceling it off to the corners so he could function.
His foe had a knife as long as his forearm, and a wolfish grin on his face.
“Time to dance for El Tigre, little man.”
Reaching over his shoulder, Green Arrow pulled two arrows from his quiver. Gripping them low, he held the scalpel-sharp broad heads out in his hands, the carbon-fiber shafts braced down his forearms.
El Tigre nodded then rushed in, moving far faster than a man his size should be able to go. He was like a great white shark, all power and fury. Green Arrow jabbed the broad heads forward. The attacker knocked them aside with an almost casual swing of his muscular arm while his blade drove up, seeking the soft space in his target’s side, between hip and rib.
Green Arrow barely had enough time to shove his arm down between them. He used the bandoleer of flechettes strapped to the back of his hand as a shield to keep from being sliced open like a fleshy envelope. El Tigre’s knife cut the leather holding the tiny blades and they tumbled out onto the stage in a clatter.
Grabbing another arrow, the archer swung up. The broad head in his hand sank deep into El Tigre’s tricep, cutting muscle like a razor through paper until it struck bone. This time the mercenary howled with pain, jerking away. The blades of the broad head curved back on themselves, making pronged points that hung in the fiber of the muscle they pierced. They stuck fast and El Tigre’s flailing yanked the arrow from Green Arrow’s hand.
El Tigre lashed out with the handle of his knife, striking Green Arrow in the forehead. White light exploded across the back of his eyes and he went down, unable to see.
Get up, get up, get up! his brain screamed at him. If you stay in this spot you’re dead!
Before he could move, however, El Tigre struck, driving his blade straight into Green Arrow’s chest. The reinforced layers of his costume stopped the knife from penetrating, but couldn’t dissipate all the force of the strike, compressed to such a small point. It felt as if he had been stabbed deep between his ribs. The pain shot all the way through to his spine, unspooling all the mental discipline that had been keeping it at bay.
El Tigre grabbed the strap of his quiver and lifted him off the ground. The mercenary put his face close to Green Arrow’s. It was twisted in a mixture of pain and fury.
“I’m going to cut your throat,” he growled.
Green Arrow flailed weakly at El Tigre’s arm, but it did no good. He could only watch as the man moved the knife to slash his throat. As he watched death come for him, he had just one thought.
William.
And then there was a BOOM.
* * *
Spartan threw a hard punch, catching the mercenary in the mouth. The blow landed with a satisfying crunch.
He’d added some equipment to his outfit—sap gloves on h
is hands, the weight of them adding power to his punches, high-impact plastic elbow pads, and steel-toed boots. His smartgun hung on his hip in its holster. He didn’t trust his hands to grip it, though— they were much better as fists.
The mercenary dropped to the field and Spartan stepped over him, wading into another group. Throwing fists and swinging elbows, he reveled in the feel of his body doing what he had trained it to do.
He dropped one with a back-fist to the temple, another with a knife hand straight to the throat, and the third with a hard-torqued uppercut punch to the stomach. The mercenary doubled over, retching from the blow. Spartan drew his lead-covered fist far back over his head and drove it down onto the back of the mercenary’s skull, putting him down for the count.
Deep in the muscle, his forearm throbbed.
He shook it off.
Another mercenary who didn’t care about the innocent bystanders or his fellow brothers-in-arms fired a burst of bullets his way. High on adrenaline, Spartan dove toward him instead of away from the bullets, rolling under the gunfire and coming up slamming into the trigger-happy assailant. His shoulder drove deep into the man’s torso, lifting his feet off the ground. Spartan carried him a few steps before slamming him into the ground. His hand grabbed the man’s rifle barrel, shoving it up into the air while he thrust an elbow down in the man’s face.
It took three blows before the man lay still.
Spartan pushed himself up, looking for the next merc he would take down. His arm was on fire where muscle met bone, but it was ice cold and tingling in his fingertips. Nevertheless, he could still make a fist.
* * *
White Canary flipped over the pile of mercenaries she had laid low, using her bõ staff like a vaulting pole. Her foot lashed out on her way down, smacking the rifle from an enemy’s hands. It slung around his body on the strap attached to it. He fumbled to catch it, trying to get a hold so he could use it to shoot her.
She landed lightly in front of him and smiled.
“You should just put your hands up in the air and surrender.”
He looked up at her, eyes wide, but his hands didn’t stop fumbling for his gun.
Arrow Page 16