It was someone’s favorite place to sit. Their spot.
Across from him was a flat-screen television surrounded by framed photos. A family doing family things.
He heard a noise from the kitchen around the corner, followed by soft footsteps. The woman who came into the room held a cup and wore a cheerful, bright yellow sweater. It contrasted harshly with her sad brown eyes.
“Here you go, Mr. Queen.” She handed him a steaming cup of coffee. It had a picture of a squished-faced dog and the words PUG MUG on the side of it. “Should I call you Mayor Queen?”
“Oliver is fine, ma’am.” He sipped the coffee. It was bitter in his mouth.
“Yes, of course.” She didn’t offer a first name for him to use.
“I wanted to stop in and offer my condolences on the passing of your husband.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“I also wanted to offer to your daughters the Queen Foundation scholarship, to help with their school. It won’t cover everything, but it will pay for their tuition.”
“That’s very generous.” Mrs. Hallsey smoothed her hands over the arms of the chair she sat in.
“It’s the least I could do.”
“Why do it at all?”
“Excuse me?” He leaned back, surprised at the venom in her voice.
“Do you feel guilty over Arthur’s death?”
He thought for a moment how to answer. “I do.”
She nodded. “You should.”
He sat, holding his pug mug of coffee, unsure of what to say.
“If you hadn’t encouraged these masked vigilantes, this, this, Green Arrow, to take the law into their own hands then my husband would still be here,” she continued.
“The vigilantes had been in this town long before I became mayor.”
She refused to look at him.
“Mrs. Hallsey…” He shifted forward, moving toward her slightly. “I don’t want to be insensitive, but Green Arrow didn’t kill Arthur.”
“I know that.”
“People like him, they do things to keep this city safe—things that our regular police can’t do.” He tried to keep his voice soft, trying to comfort even as he defended. She took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly.
“Mr. Queen… Oliver… I know. I know.” Another breath, then another. He recognized what she was doing, centering herself. Her voice was even when she spoke again.
“Our daughter Demetria was saved by Green Arrow. He was just called the Arrow then. Some soldier men had attacked the city and she got caught up in it.”
Oliver nodded. He remembered, not the daughter, but the attack. Slade Wilson’s men under the direction of Sebastian Blood.
Mrs. Hallsey kept talking. “We were so happy to have our girl returned to us. That was when Arthur began obsessing over the vigilantes. He scoured the news and the internet for information about them. He started the neighborhood watch in honor of them, started monitoring the police communications, learning ways to dig up information even they couldn’t find. As for the vigilantes, he was their biggest supporter, and their biggest fan—especially the Green Arrow.”
Oliver swallowed. Her words didn’t make him feel proud. Instead they piled more guilt on him, and it sat heavily in his mind.
“Is that why he chose to become one of them?”
“No, just the opposite. After a time he became concerned that his heroes, the people he had given so much of his love to, had betrayed their mission. He got so angry that they had changed their tactics.”
“Changed their tactics?”
“That’s what he called it,” she continued. “He said the Green Arrow had gone soft, and was letting criminals return to do more harm.” She shook her head. “I don’t know what exactly he meant, what happened that made him change his mind. I loved him but I didn’t join him in his obsession. I mean, superheroes and supervillains are just part of the scenery here in Star City, a fact of life. I don’t like it, but we were both from here, grew up together. This was our home, in our city.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I wish we’d have sold this damned house.”
“I am truly sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be.” She waved away his sympathy. “It’s not your fault.”
But it is my fault, he thought. In ways I can never tell you, I am the reason your husband is dead and your daughter is fatherless.
Mrs. Hallsey stood. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her sweater and came out holding a flat external hard drive.
“I didn’t know what Arthur was doing. I knew he was doing something, but he said it was just work for the neighborhood watch so I thought nothing of it. After he…” She paused, swallowing hard to keep from sobbing. It took a moment to gain her composure. “After he died and all of it came out, I found this in the place where he kept the things a man doesn’t want his wife and daughters to find.”
She held it out to him.
“What is it?” he asked, taking it from her.
“A lot of things, files and notes and even a short journal of what he had been doing. For months. He had been doing this for almost a year.” She looked down at him. “He mentions you in there, and that’s why I’m giving it to you. Take it out of here—I never want to read that again. That was not my husband. My husband made me hand-stitched chapbooks of terrible love poems and made blueberry smiley faces in my daughters’ pancakes on Sundays.”
Oliver stood. “Mrs. Hallsey—”
She pointed at the door. “Go, Mr. Queen. Thank you for the scholarship, but just go.”
Oliver left.
* * *
“Wow.”
“Wow, what?” Rene said, climbing up the platform steps. He was in costume, his Wild Dog jersey tattered and torn. Sweat covered his brow.
Felicity turned in her chair. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say that out loud.” She scrunched her brow. “Why are you in your hero gear?”
“Working out. I prefer to do it in uniform, so I’m comfortable when it’s time to rock ’n’ roll.”
“He wanted a lesson in stick fighting before I took off back to the Legends,” Sara said, following him up the steps.
Rene turned to her. “That seems like a pretty sweet gig.”
“You looking for a new team?” Oliver entered, climbing the stairs. “We’d hate to give you up.”
Rene shook his head. “You can’t get rid of me that easy.”
Oliver smiled then looked down at Felicity. “What are we wowing?”
“I’m just going through Hallsey’s files. The man was able to obtain an impressive amount of intel. He’d been gathering it for a long time, and he kept meticulous records. He didn’t know where Faust has the missile, but he was on the scent for it. I think with this, we’ll find him soon.”
“You can get a lot of information if you’re a computer geek,” Rene said. “Or if you’re willing to beat your informant to death.”
“That’s not how we operate,” Oliver said.
“I was just saying it’s effective, not advocating that we do it.”
“Advocating?”
Rene nodded. “I got this new job so I gotta speak eloquently.”
“You know what’s not eloquent?” Felicity asked. “That jersey. It has seen better days.”
“Smells great, too.” Sara laughed. “Like burnt sweat socks.”
“I know, I know.” Rene raised his hands. “These are expensive, but I’ll replace it soon.”
“Actually,” Oliver said, “I’ve got a lot of new equipment coming from Lodai. There might be a jersey in it.”
“Man, I hope you didn’t mess up my style.”
Oliver’s voice turned solemn. “I’d never do that.”
* * *
Sara sat on her bike.
“Thank you for your help with all of this,” Oliver said. “You’re welcome on Team Arrow anytime.”
She grinned at him. “I appreciate that. You never know when I might want to pop in, kick some normal bad-guy ass, and
then ride off into the sunset.”
“Tell Ray and the others I said hello.”
“I will.” She reached up and drew him into a hug. They embraced, feeling the closeness only they could feel—former lovers, fellow warriors, and closest friends. They shared the same losses and triumphs, and it bonded the two of them as family. As they pulled apart, she grabbed his head and put her mouth by his ear.
“Don’t wait with Felicity,” she whispered.
Before he could say anything she fired up the bike and rode away.
There wasn’t a sunset.
Epilogue
OCTOBER 2017
STAR CITY
“Do you think the Mayor will pony up?”
The mercenary asking the question did so over cupped hands. He blew on them again to warm them. The night breeze was cool coming over the water, especially high up on the deck of the freighter. He didn’t like heights or open water, but he could handle it. He did like the money he made. Better pay, less danger, and he got to stay stateside for the most part.
The man to whom he spoke just shrugged, adjusting the machine gun on its strap over his shoulder.
“Seems like he would have already.”
“Those electronic payments go in seconds,” the first man offered, “so they could wait ’til the last minute.”
“Don’t worry about it,” a third man said as he approached. He wore a matching uniform and carried a matching weapon.
“I didn’t know you could hear me.”
The third man stopped next to them. “Sound carries further, out on the water.”
“The salt air?” the second man asked.
“Hell if I know,” the third man said. “The important part is to know it happens, not the why.”
The other two nodded at his wisdom. The newcomer looked out over the water. In the distance the lights of Star City glimmered like jewels displayed on black velvet. “It’s kind of pretty.”
“Star City is hell,” the first man said. “I got popped three times by those masks.”
The third man swept his hand out. “Look at the way it shines under the moonlight.”
The first man spit on the deck. “Don’t start waxing poetical or anything, I can’t handle it.”
“Art thou attempting to offend me?” The third man’s tone took on mock outrage.
“Take your offended self back on patrol. Team one or three come around and find us chit-chatting we’ll get reprimanded,” the second man said.
The first man spoke up again. “I wonder if the masks will make a move tonight.”
“If they do, we have the guns and the open water.” He swung his hand out to indicate the dark water that surrounded the freighter. “We’ll see them coming a mile away. Now back on task.”
They all went back to their patrolling, parting ways to cover their quadrants of the deck. The first man adjusted his machine gun, and looked out over the water.
I see a mask coming, I’ll plant a bullet in them.
Something punched him in the shoulder, making him stumble and fall to the deck. He looked down and over.
There was an arrow sticking out of him.
It didn’t hurt, wasn’t bleeding, it just stuck out of him like some kind of special effect.
The arrow was green.
Then he was hot. Not just ‘not cold’ anymore, but burning up, and his legs felt funny.
What?
That was all he had time to think before the pain burst over him like a jackhammer, and his mind gave out. He didn’t have time to make a sound. He was already unconscious.
Machine-gun fire ripped the night air around him as the mercenaries on the ship began firing into the water. More arrows sliced the air, taking each of them down in rapid succession.
A grapple arrow appeared from below, arcing up over them to lodge in the upper deck. The cable trailing behind it was taut and a second later it dragged up something from below the ship.
The Emerald Archer dripping with water and vengeance.
The new bow swept out from his hand in an elegant curve, the lines of it almost artistic, blending ancient engineering that archers had used for centuries with modern tech improvements. It was sleek and powerful and already felt like an extension of himself. He angled his body as the deck loomed larger and larger with every passing second. His boots struck it hard, the shock of landing rushing through his bones. He absorbed the forward momentum by running with it.
Moving quickly, he scanned the deck. A soldier rounded the corner ahead, raising his gun to cut him in half.
Thwick!
The arrow was in the soldier before he got his gun level.
The sound of boots on steel rolled over him. He whipped around to find two mercs pounding toward him.
Thwick!
The first arrow caught the merc who was in the lead, dropping him in a howl of pain and a clatter of gun on deck.
Thwick!
The second arrow cut through the space where the merc had been, punching into the soldier who had been following. It took him just as he tripped over his fallen colleague. He dogpiled on the other merc in a sprawl of limbs and guns and straps.
Green Arrow turned and kept moving.
More bootsteps came around the corner. He slid closer to the wall, but kept moving. At the corner he collided with the mercs. They jumped back, trying to get enough room to bring their guns to bear. He didn’t retreat, shoving himself into the middle of them.
Thwick!
Thwick!
Thwick!
He fired quickly, and from point-blank range, dropping the one in front of him then twisting to shoot the one who stood beside him. For the third he arched backward and fired from instinct, working off where it felt like the merc would be.
His intuition proved true as the beefy man howled and fell to the deck, clutching the arrow that was protruding from his thigh.
In motion again, Green Arrow stepped over them and kept going. He nocked another arrow, sweeping it back and forth as he moved on high alert. Convinced the deck was clear, he tapped the comms.
“I’m on site. No sign of Faust.”
* * *
Blood spattered his jacket as his elbow smashed into the merc’s mouth.
He looked down at it and thought, This jacket is new!
His opponent snarled at him through a bloody mouth. Spartan leaned back and kicked him in the throat.
The merc fell in a heap.
Spartan shook out his hands, clenching and unclenching them, trying to ease the pain running from his triceps to the ends of his fingers. He looked around the dim, dingy warehouse office. It had seen better days, but here and there he found evidence of recent occupation. A candy wrapper, a water bottle, and a trashcan half full of takeout. Flies buzzed incessantly.
He spoke into the comms.
“Not at his last known, either.”
* * *
Green Arrow stood in front of a large square container, mounted on a platform. It had several gaps that revealed its contents. He could see a pointed nose cone through one of the openings, poking out of a metal tube. There was a control console only a few feet away.
He spoke into the comms. “But his ordnance is.”
“If Faust has gone from bombs to missiles, makes you wonder what else he’s changed up,” Spartan replied.
“Exactly,” Green Arrow said, “Stay sharp.”
* * *
It was a small noise.
It might have been nothing, some slight shifting of a thing dislodged by the violence. Or it could have been the rustle of cloth on cloth…
Spartan turned toward the noise.
The merc had his rifle held at waist level, finger on the trigger, one twitch away from cutting him in half.
Spartan spun, dropping as he did, trying to get out of the line of fire. Ba-boom came the throaty, chugging sound of a shotgun spitting lead. Plaster shattered loudly, sending a rain of debris down on him. He couched, body tensed against the flesh-tearing ons
laught of a bullet swarm, his mind on Lyla and John Junior.
Nothing.
No organ-ripping pain, no thudding stabs of white-hot agony.
He turned.
Wild Dog stood in the doorway, holding his gun. He still had the hockey mask, but his new tactical uniform was sleeker, more menacing, than his old jersey. He racked the slide.
“Boss said to stay sharp, Hoss.”
* * *
He approached the launcher, examining its lines. It was a large, blunt thing, all utilitarian. He could appreciate its bleak economy. It was a thing designed for a singular purpose, and that appealed to a part of him.
Nevertheless, he wouldn’t hesitate to destroy it to save his city.
Something kicked deep in his lizard brain, some movement on his periphery, some sound he didn’t consciously register, some change in the barometric pressure of his personal circle.
He didn’t think, just twisted sideways.
A long wicked blade cut the air he had just occupied, missing its target—his throat. The edge of the blade struck the side of the launcher in a screech of metal on metal and a shower of grinding sparks.
He rolled out of his twist and came up to find a mercenary holding a knife so large it was virtually a machete. The merc who held it was so large that the blade looked almost dainty in his hands.
Green Arrow lunged forward, throwing his fist into the merc’s midsection. It was like punching a side of beef.
The merc lashed out with the knife. Green Arrow stepped in, using his shoulder to block the arm that swung the blade. He launched his own assault, aiming his blows for vital areas in the merc’s torso. Punch to the left mid-quadrant of the abdominals, seeking to send a shock wave to the merc’s spleen. Shuto strike up under the ribs of the right side to make the diaphragm spasm, robbing the merc of his ability to breathe. Phoenix Eye punch, up and twisting into the solar plexus.
The merc took a step back and shook his head. Then, too fast for a man his size, he grabbed Green Arrow by the shoulders and used his superior mass and muscle strength to move the archer as if he were a toy.
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