“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 his 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.
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 edge 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.”