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  Still holding the rubber mask, Sara clenched her fists and dropped into a boxer’s stance, regaining more of her footing with each passing second.

  “You’re gonna have to do better than you have so far, sweetie.”

  The Blue Skull growled, a low animal sound, and stepped forward, swinging her electrified arm like a club. White Canary ducked back, letting the strike whistle past her face. It came so close that the electricity in the device made her lips tingle. Her own hand shot up, wrapping the rubber mask around the gauntlet, using it as insulation from shock. Tightening her grip, she pushed the gauntlet against the Blue Skull’s throat.

  A look of surprise appeared on her opponent’s face as Sara held it there, watching as the woman convulsed from the shock and her dark eyes rolled up into her head. The acrid smell of melting rubber was stronger even than the diesel.

  Letting go, White Canary let the woman drop like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She shook the melted, sticky mask off her hand, then looked up.

  I wonder how Oliver’s doing?

  The thought was just complete when the truck slewed sideways, throwing her against the railing. She caught herself, staying on her feet even though her legs still weren’t entirely steady.

  I guess he’s doing alright.

  * * *

  The three net arrows hit almost simultaneously, lodging in the front left tire of the big rig. The arrows deployed their payloads—high-tensile cable netting that zipped out and anchored in multiple overlapping points, some in the tire, some in the truck body, some in the street, most of them wrapping the tire and becoming a steel tangle around the axle.

  The sheer weight and momentum of the big rig almost carried it through, but something snapped with a warbling twang and the truck cut sharply left, swerving up onto the wide median between the two sides of the highway, and then coming to a shuddering stop. The driver’s-side door opened and a Skull fell out, tumbling onto his back, hands scrabbling at his waistband for some weapon.

  The last net arrow from the quiver struck the ground between his legs and launched its payload. Instantly he was wrapped tight from shoulders to ankles, unable to move, all in the second it took Green Arrow to drop down from the roof of the tractor trailer.

  * * *

  “Well, that was fun.”

  Oliver slung his bow up over his shoulder and walked toward Sara, who leaned on the trailer’s rear set of tires. He couldn’t help but smile.

  “Thank you for the help.”

  “Anytime.” Her smile matched his. “Well, anytime I’m in town.”

  “Speaking of which…”

  She held her arms out. “I’m in town.”

  “Anything I should worry about?” he asked.

  She shook her head, blond hair moving just above her shoulders. “I’m in Star City for a bit and thought, ‘I’ll go home, see Dad, maybe help take down some regular old human criminals for a change.’”

  “You’re still with the Legends?”

  She nodded.

  “Last time I saw you it was aliens.”

  She raised her hands, palms out. “I didn’t bring any with me.”

  “You know that stuff still weirds me out.”

  “I know it does.” She bumped him with her shoulder. “That’s why you can’t be part of my team.”

  “I did fine with the aliens.”

  “We don’t do much aliens. Dinosaurs a surprising amount, but not many aliens.”

  His smile widened. “It’s really good to see you.”

  “I didn’t know I could be such a bright spot for you.”

  “It’s been…” His mind flashed back, filling with images.

  Explosions reflected on water.

  The slow leak of blood from the neat hole in Adrian Chase’s skull.

  The feel of his son, William, sobbing in his arms.

  He pushed those things down.

  “It’s been a really tough couple of months.”

  She looked at him—not speaking—with the gaze of someone who had known him longer than almost anyone left alive. She studied him with that keen, tactical mind of hers, trying to read him from the history they shared. He saw her jaw tighten as she almost asked for more, then relax as she changed her mind.

  “So, you want to call in the cops to pick up these Skulls, and then call it a night? I bet we can dislodge my bike. It’ll get us back to the Arrowcave.”

  His face tightened. “I hate that.”

  “What do you call it? The Bunker?”

  “Actually…”

  She laughed. “Of course you do.”

  “Will your bike still run? You crashed it into a moving tractor trailer.”

  “It got shot, too.” She waved her hand, dismissing both. “It’ll be fine. It’s not Waverider issue but it’s a tough bike.”

  3

  He wanted to touch it.

  The urge made his fingers feel slightly electrified, as if microwires had been implanted, running alongside the nerves in them, firing infinitesimal bursts of electrons and protons from knuckles to fingertips. He ignored the sensation, keeping his hands flat on the desk, not feeling the blotter beneath them.

  It sat behind the stapler, between the phone and the cup of pens, exactly where he’d found it on his first day back in the office. It sat where, any of the numerous times a day he reached for any of those objects, he could pick it up as if it were just another envelope. Just a regular piece of mail you would find on the mayor’s desk. Perhaps a memo from a subordinate, a notice of some pending meeting, or even a letter complaining about the terrible job he was doing.

  He wished it was any of those.

  The side facing up, clearly visible, was plain—no markings to interrupt the clean field of the cream-colored, heavyweight card stock that made the envelope. Yet he knew what was on the other side. Two symbols, meticulously drawn by a steady hand, a hand steady enough to perform surgery.

  Or butchery.

  Two symbols. Meant for him to interpret.

  A green triangle with an X over it, and a simple series of curved lines that met in three points. A primitive representation of fire.

  He kept his mind still as his body as he stared at it, ignoring the tension in his shoulders.

  Ignoring the memory of fire blossoming along the coast of Lian Yu.

  Ignoring the men in his office.

  Ignoring the image of Adrian Chase and his half-smile of sardonic superiority. The heavy feeling of dread that sat low in his belly as he stared.

  “Mayor Queen!”

  The voice pulled him from where his mind had been, tugging from the side. He turned his head to look at the man to the left of his desk. Standing, holding a folder stuffed so thick it barely held the papers inside it, corners and edges jutting from the top.

  The man took a step back, pulling the thick sheaf of paper to his chest like a shield against what he saw in Oliver’s eyes. He didn’t speak for a moment, wavering between staying where he was and taking another step back, to ease away from the mayor as a rabbit eases away from the gaze of a wolf.

  Oliver took a deep breath, letting it slip slowly out of his nostrils, trying to center himself. He didn’t smile. In fact, until he pulled himself back completely, his smile would only scare the man more. So he focused on who the man was, trying to dredge up a name.

  Tatum. Walter Tatum, Director of Parks and Recreation.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Tatum,” he said calmly. “My mind drifted a bit, and I missed that last part.”

  Tatum jumped a little at the sound of his name, still looking as if he might be prey, and his boss the predator. He kept his eyes averted when he spoke.

  “Yes, Mr. Mayor,” he said quickly. “This is actually very important.”

  “I’m sure it is, Mr. Tatum.”

  There was movement to the right as Quentin Lance, his deputy mayor, stepped forward. Rene Ramirez sat in a chair by the door. Even in a suit and tie Rene couldn’t entirely relax. He seemed somehow coiled for a
ction, as if ready to jump to violence like his vigilante alter ego, Wild Dog.

  “Mr. Tatum here was just going over the details for the city’s big Blues Festival next month,” Lance said. “It’s going to be quite the event.” At that, Oliver turned his attention back to Walter Tatum.

  “As I was saying…” Tatum said, emboldened. He moved to set the overstuffed folder on Oliver’s desk, then thought better of it and maintained his grip. “We have Starling Garden set aside, and I have secured both Lightnin’ Muskgrove and Shonty Jones to reunite, along with Papa Legbone and the Hoodoo Social Club. They will headline, and I expect…”

  Oliver glanced at the envelope again.

  Instantly Lance and Rene were both in motion. Lance put a reassuring hand on Tatum’s shoulder, and Rene took him by the arm, much like a bouncer. He didn’t apply pressure, but the potential was there. Tatum trailed off, and glanced at them with confusion written across his features.

  “Give the Mayor a moment, if you don’t mind,” Lance said. “He has a lot on his plate, you know.”

  “But, I need to…”

  “Come on, you don’t mind.” Now Rene applied a little pressure. “Do you?”

  Tatum opened his mouth as if to reply, then closed it again. With Rene guiding him he began walking toward the door, the overstuffed folder pinned between his body and the arm Rene held.

  “I guess,” he said finally.

  “I’m sure the arrangements are fine, Mr. Tatum,” Oliver called to him. “I have complete faith in you.”

  Tatum nodded awkwardly, still being led away. As they reached the door, he spoke to Rene in a low voice. “He hasn’t been right since the kidnapping, has he?”

  “He’ll be fine, don’t worry about him.” Rene squeezed a little harder. Sweat popped in a layer over Tatum’s forehead. Hearing every word, Oliver watched as Rene opened the door and hustled the man through to the outer office.

  As the door clicked shut, Lance turned to Oliver.

  “What the hell was that?”

  Oliver pushed his chair back. “Nothing.”

  “I know a blues show isn’t the most exciting topic—”

  “I like the blues.”

  Lance cocked his head sideways. “You do?” he asked, surprise plain in his voice.

  Oliver nodded. “I have all of Papa Legbone on vinyl, even his solo records.”

  “I’d have pegged you for a techno-metal-whatever guy,” Quentin said. “Something… aggressive.”

  “I do like that. Doesn’t mean I only like that.”

  “People have layers, I guess.”

  “Papa Legbone lived through being shot by his stepfather at the age of ten, a sawmill accident that nearly drowned him, an ex-wife who stabbed him in the face, and another who tried to set him on fire,” Oliver replied. “He lost his left leg in a prison riot while serving time for assault when a fan caught Legbone with his wife after a show.”

  “That’s a lot of life for one guy to live.”

  “The point is, his music is plenty aggressive.”

  “I’ve never listened to him.”

  “I’ll put a mix together for you.”

  “Eh,” Lance turned his face away. “Maybe not.”

  Oliver frowned.

  “They play the blues in bars a lot,” Lance said.

  “Ah.” The one syllable from Oliver was spoken low, but full of understanding.

  “That’s my problem, though,” Lance said before Oliver could say another word. “Let’s talk about yours.”

  “I don’t have a problem.”

  Lance pointed at the envelope. “That is a problem.”

  “No, that is a splinter under my skin.” Oliver shook his head. “It’s an annoyance.”

  Lance moved to the corner of the desk where the envelope sat. His hand hovered over it.

  “Want me to throw it away?”

  “No.”

  “Want me to open it?”

  “No.”

  “So, we just let this thing sit here, distracting you from your job, preventing you from getting Star City back to normal.”

  Oliver didn’t respond.

  “Look,” Lance said, “I get it, you’ve always held onto things that make you feel bad.”

  “I appreciate the free psychoanalysis,” Oliver said wryly.

  “No, you don’t.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “But I’m not wrong.”

  “I just want to move on from Chase, and all he did to us,” Oliver replied. “Put it in the past, and heal.”

  “And yet this stays here.”

  They looked at each other. Neither man blinked.

  The door to the office opened. Sara Lance stepped inside.

  “Am I interrupting?” she asked. “The intense guy outside—I don’t know his regular name—said to come in.”

  Quentin straightened sharply, surprise lighting his face. “Baby girl.” Arms open, he crossed the space, embracing his daughter in a fierce hug. As Oliver watched them, his chest felt tight. After a moment Quentin pulled back, holding Sara by the shoulders.

  “Let me look at you,” he said, but she shrugged his hands away with a smile, reaching up to touch his face.

  “Forget that, let me look at you.”

  They smiled at each other, and Sara jostled her father. “Actually, you look pretty good, like you’re keeping yourself fed.”

  “I didn’t know you were coming to town.”

  Sara looked past him, arching an eyebrow at Oliver. “You didn’t tell him?”

  “And miss this reunion?” Oliver shook his head. “It’s good to watch your father smile.”

  “Hey.” Quentin arched his eyebrow, just like his daughter, and pointed. “We’re not done talking about this.”

  Oliver sighed. “We are for today.” He moved around the desk. “You two have a lot of catching up to do, and I… have somewhere I need to go.” He patted Lance’s shoulder, kissed Sara on the cheek, and left the room.

  * * *

  “Everything okay?” Sara asked as the door shut.

  “To tell the truth…” Lance took a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh. “It’s been a really hard couple of months.”

  “I keep hearing that.”

  4

  “You can touch her, you know.”

  The voice was soft, the vowels slightly curved, but there was an authoritative edge to it. Before Oliver could turn, a dark-haired woman in a white coat came all the way into the room. He hadn’t heard her over the rasp and shush of the ventilator and the hum and beeps of the various monitors attached to his sister, Thea, who lay, pale and frail, in the hospital bed.

  “Go ahead,” Dr. Schwartz said. “Hold her hand, stroke her hair.” She made an encouraging wave in his direction. “Contact has been shown to help coma patients.”

  “I don’t want to hurt her by accident.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. “I believe when you hurt someone, it is always very deliberate.” It was a stone thrown in the well of his mind, rippling through remembrances of all the pain dealt at his hands. By dint of long practice, he kept it off his face.

  “Not always.”

  “Your sister is made of stern stuff, Mr. Queen,” the doctor continued. “She survived injuries that would kill others. She can withstand having you hold her hand.”

  Tentatively, being as careful as if he were disarming a bomb, Oliver lifted Thea’s fingers and placed them in his. The pads were calloused from a thousand arrows he had shot. Thick and tough and nerveless, but in his palm, in the sensitive creases that cut across it, he could feel the flutter of her pulse and the bird-like weight of her slender bones.

  “It feels so small,” he said.

  “Nevertheless, it won’t break.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her hand in his. To do so would mean looking at her, seeing her, completely. She looked so… not lifeless, he was far too familiar with death to make that mistake, but hollow, as if the spark—the wild f
ey spirit that made Thea the stubborn, infuriating, caring, fiercely loving person that was so much like their mother, so much like him—had gone elsewhere, leaving her body unattended.

  Come back, Speedy. He pushed the thought out to her, trying to force it down to her through the connection of her hand in his.

  Thea didn’t move, didn’t even twitch.

  The shallow pulse did not waver or change.

  Wherever she was, it was far away. He pulled a hard sigh through his nostrils and looked up to find Dr. Schwartz watching him carefully. After a moment she spoke.

  “I know it doesn’t appear so, but her physical condition is improving.”

  “When will she wake up?”

  “That I don’t know,” the doctor admitted, adding, “I’m sorry.”

  “Is there anyone else we can consult?”

  Dr. Schwartz frowned. “I’ve consulted with Dr. Price out of Blüdhaven and Dr. Oakroot from Midway, two of the top experts on this coast. And no doubt you are aware of the upgrades we’ve made to our facility, all possible through donations from your family. Your sister is receiving the best care she can.”

  “I wasn’t questioning your—”

  “Shush.” She put her hand up to interrupt him. “I know. You’re grasping for answers. I understand. I have been in your position.”

  He considered her words. “If that’s true, I am sorry.”

  “Mr. Queen, you know that I am aware of your… night job.”

  He waited for her to continue.

  “A man like you, both an active politician and a…” She let the word vigilante slip away unsaid. “Well, you are used to being able to tackle problems head-on, to solve them, to handle things and make them right.”

  He gave a slight nod of his head.

  “Well, this isn’t that sort of problem,” she said. “As much as you might wish otherwise, this is something that is beyond your ability to fix.”

  “It’s my fault she is here.”

  “You did not do this to her.”