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!
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 onslaught 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.
A forearm the thickness of a two-liter bottle wrapped around him, applying pressure to his throat in a crush choke. The vertebrae in his neck popped as the thickness of the arm lifted his chin and squeezed. It took only a second to go from a chiropractic maneuver to a homicidal one.
Green Arrow couldn’t breathe.
He flailed, driving his fingers into pressure points on the man’s arms, using his feet to kick. The merc held him tight, squeezing harder.
A voice came from behind them.
“Apologies. Won’t be but a minute.”
Faust.
The wiry maniac circled around them, moving to the launcher. He stood in front of the console and began pushing buttons and turning dials. The launcher groaned to a start and began pivoting slowly. Then it tilted.
Aiming.
Faust picked up a tablet and climbed down the ladder. He looked up at Green Arrow, and raised a finger. “If you have the opportunity, please advise the mayor the next time someone threatens to launch a ballistic missile at his city, he really should pay up.” With that he jabbed down, hitting a button.
The launcher began to vibrate as the ballistic missile inside ignited. Slowly the nose cone slid forward, creeping just an inch.
Then another.
It paused there, smoke leaking out of the tube in which it nestled.
With a loud noise like rolling thunder and a plume of spent rocket fuel it lurched forward. Moments later it tore into the sky in a gently curving trajectory. Even through eyes going greasy from lack of oxygen, Oliver could see it right itself and begin flying toward Star City.
Breathing hard in his ear, the merc applied more pressure. Green Arrow clenched his body, using the power in his chest and shoulders to pull himself forward.
The merc held him tightly.
Snapping his body around, the archer flipped the merc, slamming him to the deck. He felt the snap of his assailant’s nasal bone. The impact vibrated all the way into the man’s teeth as his skull smashed his nose nearly flat. The merc’s arms came loose as he gave a choked, muffled howl.
Green Arrow slipped to the ground, pushed off, and flung his body around in an acrobatic spinning kick that snapped the man’s head back. The mercenary’s body followed in the next second.
Pulling air in, Green Arrow turned to face Faust.
The bomb maker pulled a face.
“Disappointing,” he said.
Green Arrow swooped up his bow, drew and fired. Twin shafts struck Faust in the chest, driving him back, pinning him to the freighter wall.
Faust’s voice was smug, nearly condescending. “That’s an MGM-one-forty AT-ack-MS SSM. It’s fire-and-forget. You can’t stop it. You can’t disarm it.”
“No, but I’ve got a very smart friend who can.”
* * *
Mister Terrific ran, legs churning, breathing deep in rhythm with each footfall. He ran like an Olympian. The tar of the rooftop was solid as concrete under his feet, hardened with the cooler weather. He slid to a stop at the edge, eyes out on the night sky.
There was the oncoming missile, a slowly growing bright spot in the dark, close enough now to see the shape of it. Reaching under his jacket he pulled out a T-Sphere. Taking a deep, centering breath he hurled it into the air.
The T-Sphere arced up, looped, then flew straight at the missile.
The shiny metal sphere crossed the missile’s path and arced hard to the left.
Then the T-Sphere was in front of the projectile, and the effect was immediate. The missile bobbled, then turned, curving back on its trajectory. It began chasing the sphere, identifying it now as the primary target.
Mister Terrific keyed up his comms.
“My T-Sphere’s spoofed the missile’s guidance system,” he said, allowing a hint of triumph into his voice. “I’m drawing it back to the water.”
* * *
The missile came into sight, following a target that was too small to see from so far away. He watched as the projectile curved and fell toward the water. It exploded in a shower of flaming fragments that were thrown into the water.
By the time it reached him, it was simply a mist.
Faust grinned at him. “You look troubled. As if detonations stir unpleasant memories.”
Green Arrow let his words—and the memories they brought—slip over him. Lian Yu was the past. It was water. He was the rock. Turning on his heel, he left Faust to hang until the SCPD could arrive.
It was time to put everything right again.