Oliver Queen shifted the papers he was perusing and stacked them together, neatly sliding them into the small briefcase that he had kept as a carry-on for the flight into Qurac. It was funny. The airlines were so adamant of checking him for metal, anything that could potentially be used as a weapon. But they hadn't even given a second look at the paperwork he carried with him.

So few people understood that at times, there was no weapon deadlier than a piece of paper. Though perhaps that was wrong—it wasn't the paper itself that would do the damage. It was the writing that the paper could contain.

Oliver was an agent of the CIA, and so he was well-versed in how damaging a piece of paper could be. Truth be told, the papers that he had with him weren't dangerous in and of themselves. They simply contained information on the country of Qurac, statistics about its people and important locations, including Dhabar, the capital, where Oliver's flight would be landing.

He checked his watch, a large silver-banded timepiece that accented his tightly-fitting suit perfectly. They would begin their descent at any moment. He reviewed the next few steps in his head. After landing, he would rendezvous with John Diggle, his partner, and make their way to the safehouse that had been assigned to them.

They wouldn't be alone. Clandestine as the operation was, there were others that would be working with them. Felicity Smoak, their tech analyst, for one. Ray Palmer, her partner, had come along as well.

Oliver snapped his briefcase shut. They were all part of Operation Arrowhead, a task force given the explicit tasks of executing counterterrorism ops by whatever means necessary. Officially, they didn't exist. Unofficially, they were ruthlessly efficient, ever since they had been formed and Oliver placed as the ranking agent for the operating team. Sometimes, they would have new members assigned. Sometimes they were given a pool to choose from. Even with the amount of oversight they had, there were still circumstances where they needed to answer to a higher power. It burned Oliver up, in some cases. Good enough to do the dirty work, but not good enough to handle all of their own decisions.

The pilot delivered some rote message over the intercom about how the plane would be landing soon and all passengers should make the necessary preparations.

He breathed deeply and leaned back into his seat. This was the final stage where something could go wrong before they were officially in the country. He doubted that anyone had made him as CIA, but stranger things than that had happened. Qurac was dangerous territory. Officially, it was a major opponent of the US. And while nothing had been officially proven yet, there were a heavy number of allegations that suggested state sanctioned military groups in Qurac were actually responsible for a number of US directed terror attacks.

But that wasn't why Oliver and the rest of Arrowhead was there. No, this wasn't something as altruistic as that. They were there for intelligence. Recon and information gathering, alongside a bit of espionage. It was par for the course for Oliver and his team.

The landing gear disengaged and Oliver braced himself for what would likely be a rough landing. The puddlejumper he had taken into Qurac did not look particularly stable.

The truth was that Oliver was more used to wetwork. Violence. Assassination and wholesale destruction. It was an uncomfortable truth, but one that needed to exist. Someone needed to do these things. And he didn't trust anyone else in that sort of position.

The plane touched down and Oliver bounced slightly with the impact of the gear on the tarmac.

"Welcome to Qurac," the pilot said. "We hope you enjoy your stay."

The safe house was nothing special, as far as safe houses went. It looked safe, and it was a house. That was all Oliver could ask for. He had exited the airport and headed straight there, making contact with no one, as was protocol. If someone was watching him—which they weren't—they wouldn't see anything unusual. Just a visitor, likely staying in a rented house.

The inside was different than the tan-colored outside, however. Or perhaps, more accurately, the basement was different. The CIA had furnished the house with a ops center in the basement, a more secure area for the storing of munitions, tech, and other gear. There were rows of weapons cases—including a complex looking compound bow, something that Oliver had requested on every mission since the island—as well as masses of computer banks.

There was a figure sitting in front of the computer banks, staring intently at the screen. Female, blonde. Hair pulled up in a ponytail, leaning in close to examine data and figures that likely only she would understand.

She hadn't heard him come in, and he didn't want to startle her. Felicity was… easily excitable. He cleared his throat. She whipped around in her chair. "Oliver!"

"Felicity." Oliver nodded in her direction, then moved to place his bags down.

"God, I'm so glad you're here. I couldn't stop thinking about you." She paused and looked momentarily mortified. "Just because, you know, I was worried that you might be late or our timetable might be off or maybe that they'd detained you at the airport…"

"Felicity?" Oliver looked at her with an amused expression.

She stopped talking, lips pressed tightly together.

"I'm glad to see you too," he said, moving over to the computer banks. "What do we have?"

She turned back to the monitors, seemingly relieved to not have to address her previous outburst. "Diggle should be here soon, Ray a little bit after. There was talk of the Agency setting us up with more contacts, if needed, but you know how that is."

Oliver nodded. Stingy, at best. "Any activity we should know about?"

Felicity spun back to Oliver. "That's the thing. This place has been dead. I mean, as dead as the capital of an anti-US state can possibly be. There hasn't been a single thing, data or otherwise, that has given even the slightest indication that there's anything out of the ordinary."

"But there is something out of the ordinary, right?"

"That's what the Agency told us. Coded information, likely related to the sale of weapons and explosive equipment, is supposed to be changing hands here. But it's not. Unless they've created some kind of code that I can't crack. And you know they haven't done that."

Oliver cocked his head. Felicity wasn't bragging—the code she couldn't crack didn't exist yet. "Hard copies? Being passed somewhere out of sight?"
Felicity nodded, conceding the point. "Possible. But we've been monitoring banking activity for the country—"

"We have the jurisdiction to do that?"

"Absolutely not, but the job still needs to be done, right? Anyway, I've been watching the major players of Qurac, as well as offshore accounts tied to them. There's nothing out of the ordinary."

That was worrying and it suggested two things. Either they were acting on bad intel, or someone knew they were watching. Or that Felicity was wrong, but that was unlikely.

Normally, operatives in a situation like this would contact headquarters, but that wasn't an option for Oliver and his team. They were deniable—inserted with minimal support and no back-up. If something went wrong, they were on their own. They needed to maintain communication silence until they were back in the states and being debriefed.

With all of that being said, sometimes putting boots on the ground, doing actual fieldwork, was a better solution than working from behind a desk. Not that there was anything wrong with the way Felicity did things. It was just that there would never be a replacement for being out there, performing operations with your own hands and your own hardware.

The sealed door to the basement ops center opened, and Oliver whirled towards it. There was no need. He recognized the heavy footfalls before the figure even came into view.

"Diggle." Oliver greeted his longtime friend with a firm handshake. The two had been working together for some time now, ever since Oliver had made it back from the island. The brass had thought it smart to give him an older, more experienced partner. Diggle had turned over operational command almost immediately. His reason was classic John Diggle: nothing more complicated than the fact that he was better off being the guy watching everyone else's back.

Oliver agreed. Digg had saved all of their lives too many times to count by now, and there was no doubt that it would continue.

"Good to see you, man," said Diggle. "Glad you made it in. You too, Felicity."

"Felicity was just catching me up on the sit-rep," Oliver said. "Things are… complicated. Or at the very least, a little more difficult than expected."

Diggle raised an eyebrow. "Care to fill me in?"

Felicity snapped off a mock salute. It was impressively crisp though.

"Oliver, you'll be pleased to know that Palmer is here, too," Diggle said, grinning slightly.

Oliver winced, almost imperceptibly, though he was sure Diggle saw it. "You know this how?"

"Spotted him half a mile from the house. He thought he was being clever. Just not quite as clever as he though."

Oliver shook his head. "What else is new?"
"Be nice!" Felicity pointed a stern finger at Oliver. "I don't know what your problem is with Ray, but he's—"

"I don't have a problem with Ray," Oliver sighed. "It's just—Never mind. I'll head up and scope out the rest of the house."

Felicity's attention had already drifted back to the monitors. "Mhm. No fighting up there. Oh, and I already claimed my bedroom. The rest of you can arm wrestle or whatever it is you boys do to decide arguments."

"As long as I'm not with Palmer, I don't care where I am," Oliver muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"
***

Oliver really didn't hate Ray Palmer. It was quite likely that no one hated Ray. How could you? With his schoolboy youthful good looks, winning attitude, endless positivity, and—Oliver had to admit—genuine skill at what he did, Ray was the kind of person everyone liked.

Which may have explained why Oliver had such a hard time getting along with him. There had always been tension between them, and it had only seemed to grow with every mission. The fundamental differences between the two of them were just too great. Where Ray was cheery and bright, Oliver was… not. Did he envy Ray's optimism? Oliver told himself (and everyone else) that wasn't the case. Sometimes he wasn't so sure.

Oliver looked inside the fridge and pulled out a bottle of mineral water, then walked to the small and shabbily furnished living room, sitting down on the couch. It felt too small beneath him, but there was something comfortably mundane about… just sitting. Not thinking about cover stories or violence or any of that…

There was a time before this was his life. What was that like? Since he'd come back from the island, it had become harder and harder to remember.

The door opened and Ray stepped. "Oh, hey, Oliver!"

"Ray." Oliver nodded, a little more gruffly than intended.

"Am I late?"

"Well, you're the last one here."

"Damn. And here I was thinking I was being clever. Bright side is, I'm not being tailed."

"They're all in the basement," Oliver said, already a little worn out by Ray's overly energetic demeanor. "I'm sure they'll be happy to see you."

"You're not coming?"

"Felicity already briefed me. I have a lot to think about."

"Well, you're the boss. I'll catch you later." Ray shrugged and moved toward the basement door.

Oliver watched him activate the hidden biometric scanner and disappear into the darkness. What Felicity had told him was unsettling. Did someone know they were there? If so, why had no one stopped their flights or done anything to detain them? Ray had been right about one thing at least—they hadn't been tailed. Oliver was no amateur. He knew when someone was following him, and that just hadn't been the case.

So what then? Things were going to get more complicated than expected, but that was par for the course in this business. They could handle it. They'd done it before.

Oliver opened up the front door and sat down on the front steps leading to the safehouse. They were tan and wind-worn, just like so much else of Dhabar. There was money in the city, but it seemed that most of it hadn't reached down to the less prominent districts. Oliver had yet to see any of it.

The street was alive and busy in a way that US cities just couldn't seem to replicate. There was a kind of organic feeling to it, a kind of liveliness and connectedness that Star City, Oliver's hometown, would never quite have. There was something about the way the people looked at one another, the feeling of community they had—

The way each and every person on the street was trying so very hard to not make eye contact with him. Oliver stood up and backed in towards the house. He opened the door and slid inside, then stood on the other side of it.

He ran for the basement door, but he was too late. A massive explosion rocked the apartment, sending the front door flying down the hallway and blowing out the walls surrounding Oliver.

"Oliver!"

He heard Diggle's full-throated scream come from behind the sealed door.

Oliver stumbled forward, his vision blurry, his ears ringing. There was smoke and fire wreathing his head; his eyes were burning, filling with tears now.

"Go!" Oliver choked out.

A second explosion blasted in from the living room and the wall Oliver was leaning on threw him into the basement door. He pushed himself up on his forearms, struggling to breathe, knowing that if he didn't get on his feet right now, he'd be dead in seconds.

There was screaming, and he couldn't tell from who. Was it Diggle? Was it Ray? God help him, was it Felicity?

He tugged his sidearm out his belt and fell heavily onto his side, trying to see through the smoke and debris. There were figures moving, weaving in and out, but he couldn't tell who they were. It was too risky for him to shoot, he could easily hit one of his friends without even realizing it.

The sound of gunfire erupted from only a few feet away, sounding louder than the initial explosions. The ringing in his hears grew to deafening levels.

"Felicity!"

"—down!" he could hear a male voice, as if it was coming from miles away.

Oliver rolled and scrambled to his feet. Bullets slammed into the wall next to his head, just above his right shoulder. He pointed his sidearm in the direction that the bullets had come from and fired, pulling the trigger three times in rapid succession.

He moved sideways, swaying on his feet, staying low and crouched. The smoke was starting to clear, and he could almost make out the hostiles that were approaching. They were masked, wearing what looked like some sort of hazard helmet and black body armor. Professionals.

This doesn't add up.

A hand grabbed Oliver's shoulder and he spun. It was Ray. He was shouting something at Oliver, but Oliver could barely make out the words.

"—go now! There's no—!" The rest of the words were drowned out in a hail of gunfire, but Oliver had heard enough. He ducked his head and ran towards the now gaping hole that once had been the basement door.

Someone knew we were going to be here. Someone wanted us all in one location.

Someone is trying to kill Operation Arrowhead.

The gunfire continued as they disappeared into the stairs. Ray dropped a small metallic cylinder behind them on the stairs. It sat there for a moment than erupted into a jetting cloud of smoke. Ray had his hand on Oliver's back, ushering him down the stairs.

Oliver didn't know where they were going to go. There was an exit in the basement and hopefully Diggle and Felicity had already gotten out, but if the attackers knew as much as they seemed to, then they would more than likely have that exit covered.

"Who are they?" Oliver choked out.

Ray shook his head. "Don't know. They're professional. Not military issued weapons."

A privately contracted hit? Or some sort of black ops team?

The mission parameters had changed drastically.

"Felicity has the car ready, they won't follow us out into the street."

Oliver wanted to respond to that, to explain that they couldn't know that for certain, that if the attackers had been so brazen as to demolish an entire house, then there was no telling what they would do.

But even more than that, he wanted to hope. He wanted to believe that they could leave the house, make their way into the streets, and begin to plan their next move.

He opened his mouth to agree with Ray, and only coughed, struggling to keep his balance, moving closer to the near blinding light of the sun from outside, a bright white flash that seemed to go on and on forever, so similar to a stroke of lightning that had nearly blinded him years ago, when he had only just received his first assignment from the agency…