“Well, I must say they’re very impressive specimens.”
The tall man in the dark blue uniform didn’t respond other than to tilt his head in a slight nod. He watched Alex Faust move between the rows of his men, all standing at attention. Faust was an odd-angled man and he moved with odd-angle motions, elbows out and hands extended, almost as if he were constantly moving things out of his way. He was the polar opposite of the men around whom he walked.
Thirty of them, a mixed bag of physical attributes, but all of them wearing the same sharp battledress uniforms in the same midnight-blue color. They formed five columns of six men each, all of their shoulders and spines ruler straight, their feet together in polished boots, and their arms down their sides. None of them would give a man like Faust any respect, had they met him in a bar or on the street. He was too odd, too strange, the complete opposite of discipline. If they weren’t mercenaries then they would never allow him to inspect them like this.
But they were guns for hire.
And he was the man with the money.
“You say they’re trained to the highest specifications?”
“My men are tip-top, sir.”
“They work well under pressure?”
“They’re all combat proven. Battle-tested to the core.”
“Are they all veterans?” Faust kind of hopped around and moved back over by him.
“There’s all kinds of battle, sir. Some of them have seen combat, others are ex-military from various places.”
“And a lot of them are ex-convicts?”
“Some have gone up against the police, A.R.G.U.S., or the masks in town.” Tall Man shrugged. “You don’t have a problem with criminals, do you?”
“Of course not,” Faust said, “but the kind of crime that I’m involved with requires a certain amount of… steadfastness. Since criminals are a cowardly and superstitious lot, I need to know that your men will do as they are ordered when things begin to explode.”
“We are neither cowardly nor are we superstitious.”
“It’s just a saying.”
“What assurances would satisfy you?”
Faust tapped his chin as he thought about it. “Which one is your best man?”
Without hesitation Tall Man’s voice rang out, “El Tigre!”
Immediately from the ranks stepped a man slabbed with muscle. Even under the uniform it was obvious. Average height, he looked almost short, his proportions were so skewed, as if the amount of muscle he carried had compressed him with its weight. Even so, the tall man noted, he moved with the grace and ease of his namesake. Unreadable ink spilled down his python arms where they weren’t covered by sleeves. Tattoos of matching quality spilled from his collar and up onto his throat.
“I asked for your best,” Faust said. “Not your most intimidating.”
“El Tigre did two tours in Afghanistan, where he accomplished forty-three confirmed kills and an additional thirty-six unconfirmed. He returned and served eight years in Iron Heights. Inside, he became the reigning shiv champion until—”
“Excuse me,” Faust interrupted. “What is a ‘shiv champion’?”
“Shivs are illegal knife-fighting matches held in the sub-basement levels at many supermax prisons. They take their name from the crude weapons made by prisoners.”
“How exciting,” Faust murmured. “How do you become the champion?”
“You kill people, and you don’t die.”
Faust studied the man. “Why are you El Tigre?”
El Tigre looked at Tall Man, who shrugged his permission to speak.
“I earned my name by giving other men stripes.”
Faust nodded and turned. “I’m convinced.”
“Then we have the contract,” Tall Man said.
Faust reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a square object. “Not exactly,” he said. “I’m convinced this is your best man.” He tossed the square to El Tigre, who snatched it from the air with one quick move of a thick hand. A red light began flashing on the corner of the object. El Tigre looked at it impassively.
“What is that?” Tall Man asked.
“That?” Faust asked airily. “That is a bit of my homebrew explosive, a new formula I’m trying out. It should have a concussive radius of about three feet.”
“Why is it flashing?”
“You said your men were steadfast when things went boom. I’m testing that resolve. Let’s see how steadfast your best man is.” Tall Man looked at Faust, gauging exactly how far he would take this. Faust watched El Tigre, his fingers steepled in front of him.
“Hold your position, soldier,” Tall Man said to El Tigre. The mercenary nodded and resumed attention, the flashing object held by his side.
Seconds passed like minutes.
Faust leaned over, speaking to Tall Man from the side of his mouth.
“None of the others have moved.”
“My men are disciplined.” Tall Man couldn’t keep the tension from his voice. “I don’t want to lose my best one for no good purpose.”
“The amount of money I am going to pay you is a fine purpose.”
“Is your intention simply to buy cannon fodder?”
“You mean do I intend for all of your men to die?”
“That is my meaning.”
Faust considered his answer. “I don’t intend it, but soldiers die,” he replied. “I am about dangerous business.” He turned sharply to Tall Man. “I need to know that your men are also about dangerous business.”
Tall Man extended his hand. “My soldier hasn’t moved a muscle.”
“Why, you are right.” Faust walked over to El Tigre and studied him. The mercenary kept his eyes straight ahead. “Look at him, spine rigid, not even a tremble or a trickle of sweat to betray any nervousness he might have inside, from holding an armed explosive device.” Faust plucked the object from El Tigre’s hands. It continued flashing as Faust began casually tossing it into the air and catching it as if it were a simple tennis ball.
“So,” Faust continued. “If El Tigre is your best, then who is your worst?”
“All my men are the best you can hire.”
“Oh, come on!” Faust cried out. “We’re so close now! Leadership is about cold calculation and harsh assessment, so just tell me, who here is the weak link in your chain?”
“Rickson!”
From the back of the ranks stepped a blocky man with bulging biceps and a blond crew cut. He moved up with precise steps to stand beside El Tigre.
“Rickson is a decorated combat veteran. He is a fine soldier, and I have no complaints with his performance. I would not have him here if he wasn’t among the best of the best.”
“He does have a chiseled jaw, doesn’t he?” Faust stepped close to Rickson, looking up into the man’s ice-blue eyes. “A real poster boy we have here.” He slapped the bomb against Rickson’s chest. It stuck to his shirt. Faust stepped back. The moment his hand left the object the red light began flashing in a staccato rhythm. Rickson’s hands slapped at it, trying to dislodge it from his chest as Faust moved quickly away.
“Hold your position, soldier!” Tall Man shouted.
The light stopped blinking, burning steady and bright. Rickson’s fingers were under the edge of the bomb, prying a corner off his shirt.
A flash of light and a blast of noise, and suddenly the upper half of Rickson became a red mist. Viscera and gore painted the right side of El Tigre and the row of soldiers behind him.
“I cannot, and will not, abide weak links,” Faust said. Tall Man simply watched Rickson’s legs collapse into a pile.
“The good news is, you and your men are hired.” Faust clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll be working tomorrow night.”
El Tigre stood motionless with his former brother-in-arms dripping off his expressionless face.
She watched her father blow on the steaming cup of coffee he held in his hands, as she sipped her Killer Frost, a white chocolate cold brew coffee over ice. It was Jitters’ newest drink on their secret menu. A hyperactive teenager in line ahead of her had ordered one, and she figured anything that had a kid so hyped he was nearly vibrating had to be good. So she’d ordered one, then realized that a lot of the people inside the busy coffee shop had the distinctive drinks. There was a lot of vibrating going on.
It was sugary, but the flavor was nice and it was cool.
“I don’t see how you can drink regular coffee on a summer afternoon.”
“Hey,” Quentin said. “There’s air conditioning in here.”
She smirked at his attempt at humor.
His face turned serious. “I drink a lot of coffee these days.”
“That’s good.”
“Better than the other stuff I was drinking.”
“I’m proud of you, Dad.” She took another sip. “But I really want to talk about something else.”
“Oh yeah? You don’t want to just keep congratulating me for doing the bare minimum everyone else does, every day?”
She frowned at the bitterness in his voice. “Don’t put down your achievement, or I’ll kick your ass.”
“I wasn’t.” He recovered, and chuckled. “It was just a bad attempt at humor.”
“I’ll say.” She watched him, considering whether she wanted to dig at his “humor.” She knew a lot about avoiding feelings with bad humor and jokes that weren’t really jokes. In fact, she’d learned it from him.
She decided to let it slide for the time being. He was sober and holding it together, as far as she could see, but she made a decision to keep checking in with Oliver from time to time, to make sure her dad was doing okay.
“So how’s Dinah working out?” she asked, changing the subject.
“Dinah?” Quentin said. “Dinah’s great. Solid cop, reliable, trustworthy. Smart as a whip. She’s one of the good ones.”
“And how’s life outside the office?” she asked, “You can’t spend every hour of the day worrying about the people around you—you need some time for yourself, too. Have you got any… you know, prospects?”
“Prospects?”
“Yeah, like someone you can hang around with in the real world.”
“I’m too busy.”
“C’mon, Dad, surely there’s someone you at least have your eye on.”
“Stop.” He said the word firmly, almost harshly, and she pulled back. “It’s not like that. Besides, I’m…” He hesitated. “Well, I’m still hung up on Donna.”
“Donna?”
“Donna Smoak.”
“Felicity’s mom?”
Quentin nodded and took a sip of his coffee to cover the embarrassment at discussing his love life, or lack thereof, with his daughter.
“Well,” Sara smirked. “If Felicity is any indication, then way to go, Dad.”
“According to Donna, Felicity takes after her dad, but Donna’s a knockout.”
“What happened with you two?”
“You know, this thing we all do,” he replied. “It’s too dangerous to have people close to you.”
She did know. Most of her relationships were one-offs, little flings, not that she didn’t care about them, but dating a civilian would be almost impossible. She looked at her father. He wasn’t a vigilante. Yes, he was involved with, and a part of, Team Arrow. She knew he got directly involved in what they did, but he was still on the periphery.
Hell, if he could find some happiness, then he should go after it.
“You know, if you get another chance with her you should take it,” she said.
“I can’t.”
She put her hand on his, getting his full attention. “I haven’t seen that look in your eye…” She swallowed the words “since Mom,” and instead said, “…in a long time. I bet Felicity didn’t get her fierceness from just her dad. Bring her in, tell her what really happens here, and let her decide if you two can be a thing.”
“I can’t do that.”
“You could quit.”
“What?”
“Walk away from this, if love is on the line.”
He sat back, looking deep into his cup of coffee as he considered her words.
“I don’t think I can at this point.”
“I understand,” she said, and again, she did. She wouldn’t want to stop doing what she did. Is that why they call it a mission? she wondered. I always thought that was cheesy, but I guess it applies.
“Did you really want to ask about my dating life?”
His words pulled her out of her contemplation. “No, not just that, at least. I wanted to talk about Dinah becoming Black Canary.”
Quentin’s head jerked left then right, looking all around to see if anyone had heard her. Dozens of people surrounded them. All of them who were in groups, even just pairs, were deep in their own conversations. Anyone who was alone had ear buds and their phone, listening to music or watching a video or connecting over social media.
“Relax, Dad, nobody’s paying attention.”
“You never know in this town.”
“Okay, relax, Dad. I’m paying attention and nobody is listening to us.”
“Did you know Oliver made her the official replacement?”
“I did, and it’s the right thing for him to do.” He nodded. “I mean, you can’t argue with the choice. She’s the perfect fit, even has the canary cry and everything.”
“He had her a uniform made.”
“Oh.” Quentin frowned, but only for a brief moment. “So she’s even going to look the part.”
“She does.”
“That’s good,” he said. “That’s right.”
“I just want to make sure it’s really okay.” Sara leaned forward and reached out to him, taking his hand across the table.
“Is it okay with you?” he asked.
“It is.” She nodded. “I’ve seen her in action, in the costume and everything. It’s like she’s always been Black Canary. Not that anyone can replace Laurel.”
They both went silent for a moment, lost in their own memories of Laurel. One as a sister, the other as a daughter, both of a strong, complicated woman they missed terribly.
“I saw her,” Sara said.
Quentin frowned deeply and shifted in his seat. “You mean, you saw her in the past, with that Legends thing you’re doing now?”
Sara shook her head. “No, not quite. It’s—it’s hard to explain. There was an alternate timeline made by the Spear of Destiny and—”
“Wait,” Quentin interrupted. “You saw an alternate version of Laurel?”
“It was Laurel,” Sara’s voice was firm. “She, well, she came to me. I don’t know everything, but I think she’s fine with Dinah taking her mantle.”
A tear trickled from the corner of Quentin’s eye.
“It’s okay, Dad. That’s what I’m saying, it’s okay.”
He wiped his cheek. “It’s not. I mean it is, with what you said, but—”
“But what?”
“There’s another Laurel.”
“What?”
“We’ve got another Laurel running around here.”
Sara didn’t know what to think. “Explain.”
“I don’t know how, some Earth-2 thing or something. I just know your sister is here, but it isn’t her.”
“Where is she? Should we go see her? I know it’s not her, but—”
“She’s evil, honey. This new Laurel is bad.”
“Laurel has an evil twin from an alternate world?”
“I guess so. A doppelganger, or whatever you call it.”
Sara sat there for a long moment.
“I’ve thought a lot about it,” Quentin said. “You remember, your sister had her demons. Hell, I think both of you girls got that from me, things you have to fight.”
“Dad—”
“Let me finish,” he said. “I don’t know what this other Laurel went through before coming here, but it put her on the bad side. I don’t know if she can be brought back. She’s not our Laurel.”
“Maybe, maybe she could be redeemed.” Sara thought about her own past, the things she had done, things she couldn’t be proud of, things that she should be ashamed of. “People can change. We know they can.”
Quentin didn’t say anything. He took a sip of his coffee, making a face.
“What?” she asked. “Tell me what you’re not telling me.”
“You know that thing on that island?”
“The thing that has all of you shaken, even now?”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his hand over his head, as if he were stalling. “She was there, this other Laurel.”
Sara just waited, letting her father come to whatever he was trying to tell her.
“I shot her.” Quentin looked up, not crying but with wet eyes. “She was going to kill Dinah and, even though I knew it wasn’t my baby girl, it was still my baby girl and I shot her like an animal.” Tears streamed freely.
“Dad, it’s okay. You had to do what you did.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I know, but it’s okay.”
“It’s not.” His voice was empty, as hollow as his heart. “I left her there and then the island exploded, it just exploded into a fiery deathtrap.” He put his face in his hands and she could barely hear the last words he said.
“I left my baby girl there to burn to ashes.”