The raw-boned man crashed into a stainless-steel prep table, knocking aside piles of vegetables and rocking it up onto two legs before he tumbled off the other side. He pulled himself up, using the table for support. Mister Terrific shoved it.
The table screeched across the tile floor of the kitchen, slamming into the man, pinning him against the wall. He flailed out, trying to get ahold of the vigilante. Instead Mister Terrific pulled out his T-Spheres and let them fly. They zipped up, and then down, lining up next to the trapped criminal’s neck. They arced out a big zap of electricity, tasing the raw-boned man into a loose-limbed pile of humanity slumped over the table.
The spheres flew back around, circling Mister Terrific as he stepped back and looked about. Wild Dog was pushing through the swinging door that led into the dining area, gun held out in front of him. Suddenly he dove back into the kitchen as a spray of bullets punched through the thin metal door. Scrambling on the tile, he put his back to the wall.
Mister Terrific crouched and moved over beside him.
“I think they know we’re here.”
“Yeah, Hoss, I’d say so,” Wild Dog muttered. Into the comms he said, “Hey, Overwatch, think we could get some kind of distraction here, so we can get through this doorway?”
“Let me see—” Felicity said. “Ah-ha! One distraction coming up. Sorry guys.”
“Sorry?” Mister Terrific said.
A loud rattle sounded overhead, the noise of pipes rumbling against each other. Wild Dog groaned behind his mask.
“Oh, no.”
The sprinklers burst forth with a shower of water and foam.
On the other side of the door, men started yelling.
“You wanted a distraction,” Mister Terrific said.
“Shut up.”
Wild Dog rolled and crashed through the door, gun out. In the center of the dining area stood three men around a group of square tables they had pushed together. One man stood sputtering, wiping water and foam off his face, his submachine gun hanging loosely from the strap on his shoulder. Noticing their arrival, he jerked his head up and scrambled for his weapon.
Wild Dog dropped him with a double-tap.
The other two men didn’t look up as the two costumed vigilantes came through the door. They were too busy trying to keep the open buckets of illegal pills from being ruined in the falling deluge of water and fire retardant foam.
“Hands up!” Wild Dog moved closer to them.
They jerked to a stop and both raised their hands, straightening and looking wet and miserable.
“Okay, we’re in, you can knock it off with the distraction,” Wild Dog growled over the comms. Immediately the sprinklers shut off with another rattle-pipe gurgle.
Mister Terrific moved around the two men. He zip tied the first one’s hands behind his back and pushed him to the floor. The man went down without a struggle, sitting on the floor with his head down.
He stepped to the second man and grabbed his wrist to pull it down. Before he could, the man whirled around, flicking his hand out. A knife with a six-inch blade dropped down his sleeve and into his hand. He jabbed upward, trying to hook his captor under the ribs.
Mister Terrific twisted away, the blade just skimming the front of his body. Using the wrist he still held for leverage, he drove his other hand into the man’s shoulder and rolled forward. The shift of his weight on the man’s back drove his assailant to the ground face-first.
There was a wet celery sound of the criminal’s shoulder separating followed by a loose animal noise of pain.
Mister Terrific put the zip ties on him, and stood.
Wild Dog nodded. “That was quick, man. I didn’t even have time to do anything.”
Mister Terrific’s chest swelled with pride at the acknowledgment. “He should’ve just let me cuff him.”
Wild Dog spoke into the comms. “All wrapped up.”
“Good job, Team Wild Terrific,” Felicity said in their ears. “SCPD is on its way, three minutes out. Now find me something to connect Cross to this, and hit the bricks.”
“On it.”
“We are not Team Wild Terrific,” Wild Dog said.
“You know you like it.”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
Mister Terrific began looking for evidence, smiling to himself.
“Team Wild Terrific for the win.”
* * *
Each punch sent a shock of pain that ran through the muscles of his forearm, liquid fire coursing from wrist to elbow.
He had dropped one of the bodybuilders, slamming the guy’s face into the sink so hard that the basin came loose from the wall and hung to one side. Water leaked slowly onto the floor in a widening puddle, coming from pipes pulled loose but not completely separated. The puddle tinged pink around the bodybuilder lying under it, bleeding from the nose and mouth.
The other guy was a problem.
He was taller and thicker than Spartan, probably had forty pounds of extra muscle, and was younger by at least a decade. Worse, he wasn’t just a massive pile of muscles—he knew how to fight. Spartan traded blows with him for what felt like an hour. He got some hits in, but so did the thug. If it hadn’t been for his helmet and the reinforced uniform he wore, Spartan would have already been beaten down.
The thug stood in a classic boxer’s stance, fists raised and elbows in. He was breathing hard, but to keep oxygenated, not sucking air because he was struggling. Spartan was going to have to get ruthless.
With dead fingers he clawed his gun out of its holster. His arm felt like wood with hot embers lodged deep in the muscle. When he closed his fingers around the grip it caused the hand to begin trembling. He held the gun to his side to steady it.
The bodybuilder’s mouth dropped open.
“You’re gonna shoot me now, freak?”
“Yeah,” Spartan said. “You’re too big a target to miss.” He raised the gun and pulled the trigger twice. Two darts took the bodybuilder in the stomach, knocking him down to land on his backside. He shook his head slowly as the tranquilizers began coursing through his system.
“I thog we wuz fightttiin…” The words slurred out of his mouth as he slumped over, unconscious from the double dose of tranquilizer.
Spartan had only meant to pull the trigger once.
The second time had been a spasm.
He almost lost his grip on the pistol as he put it back in the holster.
It’s worse, he thought.
The sound of a metallic clatter came around the corner from the back of the locker room. He began moving toward it.
* * *
The first one to notice the lowering steel doors was the guard sitting in the chair, outside on the dock. Even oiled they made a low drumming sound like an old-time thunder maker, the thinner-gauge sheet steel flexing as it vibrated on the way down. Jumping up, he craned his neck, foggily trying to locate the source.
He didn’t see White Canary until she was on him. She swept low, her outstretched leg taking him at the knees. He dropped forward and she rose, her knee coming up as she did, catching him just under the chin and snapping his head back.
Spinning, she saw that the door was about waist high. She dropped, tucked, and rolled under it.
Green Arrow shot down on a grapple line, crashing into one of the two guards standing at the barrels of chemicals. He hit boots-first in the man’s chest, driving him back over the fifty-gallon drum. The henchman’s body acted as a cushion that prevented the archer from slamming into the hard steel of the barrel.
Coming to his feet he kicked out, sending the man’s rifle spinning off across the warehouse floor in a clattering bounce of metal on concrete. Its user was already unconscious. An instant later he heard the distinctive clack-CLACK of a shotgun being racked. That sent him into a rolling dive behind a stack of tires, just ahead of the echoing boom.
Pressed against the tires, he felt them rock as the blast struck the spot where he had been only a moment before. The top tire of the stack slid off, falling and hitting his shoulder in a thud of hurt before bouncing away. He shook his hand, trying to work out the pain so he could draw an arrow.
The shotgun racked once more, and the henchman fired. The stack rocked again. One of the pellets made it through a gap in the tires, sending a line of sharp pain lancing through the bicep of his good arm. Blood welled and ran freely down his limb like a tiny river.
The shotgun racked a third time.
Green Arrow dove, rolling out and away from the tires. He grabbed an arrow from the quiver, pulled, and fired. The arrow sailed past, narrowly missing the man with the shotgun, but it made him spin to avoid it, jerking the gun upward.
The archer pushed off, closing the distance in an instant. Using his carbon-fiber bow like a club, he knocked the shotgun from the henchman’s hands. It dropped straight to the ground underfoot. The henchman reached for it, but Green Arrow took him off his feet with a vicious uppercut that put him down for the count.
Kicking the shotgun clear, he turned to find that White Canary had already zip tied the three drug cooks, their hands behind their backs. He walked over, blood still dripping from his arm.
“They didn’t put up a fight?” he asked.
“They were too busy watching you take out the shotgun brothers. I just walked up and they went docile as little lambs.” She glanced down at his wound. “Serious?”
He shook his head. “I’ll go bind this.” He gestured toward his unconscious opponents. “Zip up those two over there while I do.”
“I’ll handle it.”
Green Arrow nodded, moving toward the door.
“Open us back up,” he said into the comms.
* * *
The bodybuilder she had chased caught her coming around the corner of the shower. He had pulled down one of the shower curtains and used it like a net, tangling her in it.
Before she could fight her way free he slung her around, lifting her off her feet, and threw her into the tile in a hard, bruising bounce and skitter. She rolled to a stop, the air knocked out of her and her head ringing. Something tangled in her hair and pain fired across her scalp as she was dragged up from the floor and lifted. The blinding curtain fell away and she found herself in the grip of the man she’d been chasing.
“Say, aren’t you a pretty little thing?” His voice echoed off the tile in the shower room. She threw her elbow up, aiming for his face, but her actions were slowed by the lack of oxygen in her lungs. He moved quickly for someone so muscle-bound, and a hand the size of a chuck roast caught her elbow, blocking her strike.
That same hand lashed out, slapping her across the face. It was like being hit with a two-by-four.
“Put her down!”
She blinked through the stunning pain and saw Spartan at the shower entrance. Relief rushed through her. Diggle would put this guy down with a single shot.
“Not a chance.” The bodybuilder shook her. “I think she’s the reason you’ll let me go.”
“You’re not getting away,” Spartan said.
Pull your gun, she screamed in her head, pushing the thought at her teammate. Shoot him!
The bodybuilder shrugged, his free hand moving up. “Then I should just snap her neck so I don’t have to worry about her anymore.”
“Don’t do that!” Spartan bellowed the words. They, too, echoed around the shower room. Black Canary grabbed the rising arm, pushing down to keep it off her throat.
Shoot him shoot him shoot him, her brain screamed.
The bodybuilder smiled. “You aren’t strong enough to fight me off.” He jerked his arm free and shoved it toward her throat.
And screamed.
The cry ripped out of her, blasting him across the face. He snapped back, dropping her. She let loose, and her canary cry hit the tile in the room, echoing, doubling back on itself, and building. The sound waves crashing through the air lifted her hair like a wind. Blood shot from the bodybuilder’s ears, spilling onto his shoulders, staining the straps of his tank top.
Then she dropped to her knees, out of oxygen, the dark room lit in her eyes with white sparks. She pitched forward, falling toward unconsciousness. Arms grabbed her, keeping her from striking the cold tile. Just before she slipped into the oncoming dark she heard him speak.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
* * *
The night breeze was cool on his skin, but it made the blood on his arm dry until it felt like sticky dust. The binding had stopped the bleeding right away. Now his arm throbbed, each pulse pushing just a few red drops from each of the two small holes. Through and through. Always the best kind of wound. He’d have Felicity wash it and pack it with antibiotics, and he’d be fine.
White Canary walked through the one open door. The rest were still shuttered.
“Bad guys all strung together a safe distance away, with a pile of evidence in their pockets. SCPD should find them without a problem.”
He nodded and pulled a red arrow from his quiver. Laying it across the bow he aimed at the open door of the drug lab, and let fly.
The arrow arced across the lot. Midway to its destination it sparked and a long thin flame curled out from the broad head, swirling in the air stream, wrapping the shaft of the projectile.
It disappeared through the open door.
Only a few seconds passed before the first barrel of chemicals exploded.
In less than a minute the entire drug lab had become a chemical-fire inferno.