Arrow

by Marc Guggenheim

  She shook her head. “Two hits.”

  “What?” he said, his hands finally on the grips, pulling the gun into position as his finger sought the trigger.

  The end of the bõ staff whipped up with the velocity of a sledgehammer, clipping the merc on the chin. He went up on his tiptoes, standing on them for a long second before his body realized it had been knocked unconscious. He folded in on himself like a popped balloon.

  “I hit you. You hit the ground.”

  * * *

  El Tigre’s eyes were wide open as he slowly spun on his heel and tumbled off the edge of the stage.

  Green Arrow looked up to find Papa Legbone holding the snub-nosed revolver.

  “I told that fool he’d be the first to know,” Papa Legbone said.

  As he climbed to his feet, Green Arrow’s chest hurt in a way that told him his sternum was bruised badly. He pulled himself tall and took a deep breath, regaining control of his body, once again pushing the pain aside until later.

  “Where did Faust go?” he asked the bluesman.

  “That crazy guy? He limped off that-a-way.” Papa Legbone pointed to the rear of the stage.

  Green Arrow stepped close. “Thank you. It’s an honor to meet you. I’m a big fan.”

  Papa Legbone blinked at him. “You okay to go after him?” he asked. “I’ve taken some beatings before, son, and believe me, you took a beating there.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He reached out and took the revolver from the bluesman’s hands. “Don’t shoot anyone else.”

  He turned and took off after Faust.

  Papa Legbone watched him go.

  “Damn.”

  * * *

  “Is that all the bad guys?” Mister Terrific asked. “Because if so, go Team Arrow.”

  “Don’t be smug,” White Canary said, with a smirk on her face. “It doesn’t look good on you.”

  All of Team Arrow had gathered by the stage to touch base. Wild Dog looked out at the field, watching A.R.G.U.S. agents lead away the last of the mercenaries.

  “I like this backup thing,” he said. “Maybe they can bat cleanup for us all the time.”

  “Not likely,” Felicity’s voice said in their ears. “But we may be able to call them anytime there’s a hostage situation, or a demolitions expert gone bad.”

  “So are we all done?” White Canary asked.

  Diggle shook his hand out, grimacing. “We are,” he said. “Thank you for the help.”

  Dinah studied him with her head cocked to the side. “You okay there?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Diggle said, thinking, I wish she’d stop asking. He pulled the sap glove off his trembling hand and shoved it into his jacket pocket, leaving the trembling hand inside, out of sight. “One of those guys nailed me in the funny bone with the butt of his rifle. It’ll go away soon.” He looked around. “Where is Green Arrow?”

  Felicity’s voice came on. “His GPS tracker puts him in the corridors of the stadium behind the stage.”

  “What’s he doing?” Wild Dog started to ask.

  “He’s not answering his comms,” Felicity interrupted. “But he’s moving fast.”

  From somewhere deep behind the stage a low rumble rolled out.

  * * *

  His boots pounded down the formed concrete corridor that led into the stadium’s lobby. He rounded a corner at full speed, his body pumping his bloodstream full of endorphins, making his pain dull to nothing as long as he kept moving.

  Tomorrow, if he survived, it would be a different story.

  Some motion or blur of color caught in his peripheral vision and he leaped behind an abandoned concession stand. An explosion sucked the air from where he had been, slamming into the stand and making it shudder and slide across the floor, dragging him with it. A rack of candy in colorful wrappers spilled down from the counter, peppering him.

  He stuck his head out and saw Faust clambering down the stopped escalator, headed somewhere below. He guessed it would be the parking garage.

  He probably has a getaway vehicle.

  If Faust got into a car, it was over until the next time he struck.

  Not on my watch, he thought, jumping to his feet and running after the explosives expert. Faust turned down a hallway, and Green Arrow followed, picking up speed in the determination to catch him. He nearly lost his footing, sliding to a stop, because Faust stood facing him, hands in the air.

  The archer had an arrow notched and pointed at Faust before he fully stopped.

  “Get on the ground!” he yelled. “Now!”

  “While I appreciate what your sharp sticks can accomplish,” Faust said, “I do believe I will listen to the man with the gun.”

  Green Arrow pivoted, bow still at full draw. A man in a mask and a dark green hoodie, and with a big pistol, stepped out from the shadows.

  The copycat.

  “Are you with him?” Green Arrow growled.

  “Why would I be with him?” The copycat’s voice was amplified and distorted, unrecognizable. “I’m here to stop him. I’m on your side.”

  “I’ve seen your way of doing things. My side doesn’t kill.”

  “Well, maybe that’s your side’s problem,” the copycat said. “Too many criminals doing too many dirty deeds, and not enough permanent solutions.” He raised his gun, leveling it at Faust’s head. The psychotic bomb maker flinched, but kept his hands up.

  “You are not killing this man.”

  “You’ve gone sally on this city, Green Arrow. All weak sister about crime.”

  “Drop the gun!”

  “No.”

  The word was said simply, spoken plainly by the copycat—no inflection, no lilt, no rising syllable, just a plain statement.

  And a tightening trigger finger.

  The Emerald Archer let his arrow fly.

  The copycat jerked to the left, swinging his gun up. The barrel of the pistol struck the shaft mid-flight with a chime of metal on metal. The arrow kicked away and flew, wobbling, off into space.

  Before Green Arrow could follow up the copycat fired three rounds at him. He dropped low and they missed, spiking through the air where he had been.

  Behind the copycat he saw Faust, grinning ear to ear, pull something from inside his jacket. The demolitions expert pushed a button and tossed an object between the two vigilantes.

  “Look out!” Green Arrow cried, then the world became white light, white heat, and a concussive force that knocked him off his feet.

  * * *

  They walked through the cloud of dust on high alert, not sure what they would find. Spartan and Wild Dog moved with the cribbed, fluid steps of military training. Black Canary stepped cautiously but quickly, always finding solid footing. White Canary strode forward, her casual demeanor belying her readiness and awareness of her surroundings. Mister Terrific simply walked, looking at the destruction around them.

  Felicity’s voice came over the comms. “Tell me something as soon as you can, guys.”

  “Will do,” Spartan responded.

  Half the fluorescent lights above were dark or flickering, taken out in the blast. This left the hallway filled with shadows and pools of solid darkness everywhere. The further in they moved, the more debris there was. A toppled concession stand spilled its contents across the floor, a spray of hot dogs and Polish sausages and weirdly meat-scented water. A few feet further, hats and T-shirts smoldered in piles along the floor. A scorched light fixture hung by wires off the wall, spitting bright sparks of electricity into the air around it. Wood and brick debris lay underfoot, waiting to turn an ankle.

  None of them spoke, forming a V pattern with Spartan in the lead, taking point. He was the first to spot the Green Arrow. The archer lay on the floor, face down and covered in dirt-colored dust. He sprawled, arms and legs at odd angles, his upper body curled in on itself.

  Moving quickly, Diggle knelt beside him. The carbon-fiber quiver on his back looked as if it had been chewed on by a pack of rabid wolves, the top edg
e of it rent in a big tear, the rest of it gouged and pitted where it had taken the brunt of the explosion. He reached down and put his fingers to his friend’s throat, pressing alongside his trachea, feeling for a pulse.

  “Is he…” Sara asked.

  He found a pulse, a steady one.

  Before Diggle could answer Oliver groaned, and moved.

  “Easy, Hoss, easy,” Rene said, lifting his hockey mask off his face.

  Dinah spoke into the comms. “Overwatch, we have Green Arrow. He’s alive.”

  Felicity’s voice was tight with apprehension, “What is his status?”

  Diggle leaned in. “You okay, brother?”

  Oliver took his help sitting up. “Do you have Faust?”

  Dinah spoke to the comms again. “He seems fine. Banged up but okay.”

  Even though she whispered, all of them could still hear Felicity say, “Oh dear God, thank you.”

  “Looks like Faust got away,” Rene said.

  The Emerald Archer cursed under his breath. “Help me up,” he said.

  Diggle stood and helped him to his feet, grimacing as he did.

  * * *

  Curtis wore a puzzled look on his face as he stepped close and squatted down.

  “Um, hey, G.A.” He looked up with a quizzical expression. “Can I call you G.A.? I like the sound of it.”

  “I just got done being blown up. What do you think?”

  “Oh, I totally understand, got it. Felt too casual when I said it, anyhow. I’ll stick with Green Arrow. Much more professional, especially since we’re the only ones who can ever hear our comms.”

  “What were you going to say?” Oliver’s voice was harsh. The pain was returning in solid waves throughout his body.

  “Oh, um yeah, did he shoot at you?” Curtis lifted up a single spent shell casing. “’Cause he always seemed like a bombs-only kind of guy.”

  Oliver stared at the empty shell casing.

  “No, he didn’t.”

  9

  “What was that?” Tall Man slammed his hand on the steel table. The sound of it reverberated through the small room.

  His voice dripped from his mouth like acid as he loomed over Faust, who slouched in a tatty office chair.

  “What was that?” Faust studied his fingernails, instead of the angry man in front of him. “That was overexuberance, and hubris on my part. It’s something I have always been prone to. Ma Faust used to try to beat it out of me, but she never succeeded.”

  “That stunt at the soccer field cost me forty men,” Tall Man snarled.

  “That little stunt of mine cost me a million dollars.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your money.”

  “Oh, really?” Faust raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps I should stop paying you.”

  Tall Man frowned, a deep crease between his bladed eyebrows. “If you stop paying my men I will kill you.”

  Faust smiled widely, exposing nearly all the teeth in his head. He spun in his chair, and put both feet on the floor, then leaned toward the tall man.

  “Do you know the mistake of all great leaders throughout time?” he asked. “Their most common failure is that, eventually, no matter how powerful they are, they forget that they have men of power underneath them. Men of authority, enforcing their rule of law. They become secure in their power, viewing the men who help them hold it as mere extensions of themselves, instead of men with ambitions and desires of their very own. Most empires fall from within. Most kings topple at their right hand. No matter how many great men come before them, they fail to see the pattern.”

  Faust stood. “Now, do you think someone as meticulous as I am, with all of the dangerous things in my toy box, would be so foolish as to not learn that lesson?”

  “That sounds an awful lot like a threat.”

  “Oh no, no, no, no, not a threat. Instead think of it as an illustration, an illumination, without which there is no way for us to continue this association of ours. I would never threaten you.” Faust held his slender hands out, palms up. “Understand first, I’m not some fool. I recognize that, to your military mind, I look as solid as ice cream in the summer heat. However, the process to my chaos simply isn’t your process.

  “For one thing,” he continued, “you suffer under the illusion that I do not have all of my bases covered. I mean, I wouldn’t at any point—” Faust opened his jacket and Tall Man tensed. “—be caught unprepared for any and all circumstances.”

  Then Tall Man gaped.

  Under Faust’s jacket was a canvas vest. Long, thin rectangles of plastic explosive circled his torso in three rows. Fine, multi-colored wires looped from rectangle to rectangle. Wire leaders ran from the vest ending in flat white electrodes that stuck to Faust’s collar, ran down under his shirt, and trailed up, over, and into his sleeve. Tall Man recognized it from his time in the sandbox.

  It was a suicide vest with a dead man’s switch.

  “I’m taking a cue from the man who put me in motion,” Faust said. “If I go, this is enough of my homebrew to make sure even the best sniper would go too.” He dropped his jacket lapel, letting it close over the suicide vest. “So would anyone unlucky enough to be caught nearby.”

  Tall Man felt hot and cold at the same time, sweating underneath his clothes, freezing along the tops of his bones. This man is insane, he thought, but I have taken his money. What have I done?

  He was a mercenary—had been one since leaving the military. He worked with mercenaries, guided them. They were his men. Mercenaries were in the business of making money, and he wasn’t always particular about how he did it. He had done—and had led his men to do—criminal acts. He preferred working with criminals because their money was far better than contract work. Bank heists, security for transports of all manner of illegal merchandise, from drugs to weapons, even providing armed support for human traffickers. All doing bad things for bad men for money.

  Faust was in an entirely different league.

  Faust was a terrorist without an ideology.

  It was one thing to walk beside the abyss, it was another thing to try to cross it. He felt as if he were falling.

  Faust walked around the table.

  “My dear friend and employee,” he said, “no need to worry so much. I learned my lesson from the last outing. No more exposing ourselves again that way. This game should be played from a distance. I apologize that I got ahead of myself.”

  Tall Man tried to regain control. “No more reckless actions.”

  Faust held his hand up in the Scout’s Honor position. “As an apology, I extend a bonus to the family of any man that we lost.” He studied Tall Man’s face. “I see you doubting, my friend. I promise you that I have a plan, and next time you and your men simply have to provide security for me. They won’t be involved in any conflict.

  “Trust me,” Faust added. “It’s all about the long play now.”

  AUGUST 2017

  1

  Oliver stepped out of the bathroom, wearing only pajama pants, drying his hair with a towel. The shower had felt good, the hot water easing away some of the ache he still had from the incident at the Blues Festival. Between the fight with the big mercenary and the explosion that allowed Faust and the copycat to get away, he still had bruises.

  He looked at them in the mirror. They were fading, but still stood out, sickly greens and yellows with pockets of fading purple as his body broke down and absorbed the contusions. Wiping the last of the water away, he continued toward the dining room.

  He found William sitting at the table.

  His son was also in his pajamas, hair tousled from being in bed. It stuck up as if placed that way on purpose. Oliver read it as a sign that William had been sweating, and sleeping badly again. That would be why he was awake at this late hour.

  William glanced up as Oliver came in, then went back to eating cereal from a bowl and flipping the pages of a comic book on the table. Oliver spread the towel over his shoulders and chest, trying to hide the wor
st of the marks, and walked over to see what his son was reading.

  A comic-book version of his friend Barry, the Flash, zipped through square panels, punching bad guys in colorful costumes.

  He searched for something to say and came up with, “What’re you reading, William?”

  “Showcase Comics,” William said, taking another spoonful of cereal.

  “Wait,” Oliver said. “Are you eating Chocolaty Poofs?”

  William nodded.

  “I used to love Chocolaty Poofs. Do we have any more?”

  William pointed to the kitchen.

  Oliver went to the pantry. There on the first shelf was an opened box of cereal. He poured some into a bowl, filled it with milk, and went to the table, sitting across from his son. His first bite of Chocolaty Poofs flooded his brain with memories and his mouth with sugary goodness.

  “Where did we get these?” Oliver asked.

  “Raisa brought them.”

  “Of course she did. Do you like them?”

  “They’re pretty good.”

  Three simple words made Oliver’s heart lift. It was progress.

  “Oliver?”

  “Yes, William.”

  “What’s it like shooting an arrow?”

  Seven simple words made Oliver’s heart skip a beat.

  He should have seen it coming, some form of this question. William had seen him in costume on Lian Yu. He knew, but through the rescue and all of the aftermath they hadn’t spoken about it. He thought for a long time that the trauma of Lian Yu—of being kidnapped, seeing his captor kill himself, discovering his mother had died—might have caused William to forget that his father, the man he barely knew, was a costumed vigilante.

  Was the Green Arrow.

  Did William want to talk about that?

  He decided to answer the question as it were.

  “It’s—” He stopped, searching for the words. “It’s a moment where you feel everything inside you is in perfect order.”

  William stared at him closely. “Do you enjoy it?”

  “Enjoy isn’t the right word.”

  “What is then?”