1. . . . . . .
"Boy, do the Queens know how to throw a party, or what!" a typically upbeat Jeremiah Castle said as he entered the war-torn foyer of the Queen mansion and nearly got hit in the head by a swinging ladder.
The place was a swirl of activity. Construction workers were plastering and painting – repairing damage from the explosions and smoke and subsequent stampede the night before. Three separate cleaning services were scrubbing and vacuuming – trying to erase any sign of the disturbance at the event. And the domestic staff was dusting and polishing – returning the house to its previous pristine state. To its usual 'unlived-in look' as Oliver Queen liked to say.
Here and there, swabbing and photographing – searching for elusive evidence – were teams of police department CSI technicians dressed in pale beige coveralls looking like snails sucking a mossy aquarium clean. And overseeing everything in his inimitable style was Detective Quentin Lance, bustling around with the displeased expression of a hungry grouper fish on his rubbery face.
Moira Queen stood at the top of the stairs watching the progress, wanting every trace of the disaster of the night before gone forever. She'd thrown the Queen Winder Gala, the social event of the year, only to have it violently disrupted by someone. She didn't even want to guess who. Just someone. Besides the damage, people had been hurt, some seriously. And, of course, there was the family image . . .
Jeremiah climbed the stairs and hugged Moira. "So sorry about last night, Mrs., uh, Queen," he said with some hesitation. Now that she was married to Walter Steele, he wasn't sure whether to call her Mrs. Steele. He decided to stick with what he'd always called her and wait for her to correct him. She didn't.
"How kind of you to come by, Jeremiah," she said. "I'm so dreadfully sorry about your hand . . ." She was interrupted as Oliver joined them. Somewhat surprised to see Jeremiah, he had to force a smile.
"Jerr, what happened?" He said, pointing at Jeremiah's bandaged hand. "On-the-job injury?"
"Oliver!" Moira said, annoyed. "Don't make fun. It could have been serious, more serious."
"You know Ollie," Jeremiah scoffed, "always kidding. Besides, it's just a scratch."
"Only drink with one hand, now?" Oliver said.
"Oh no!" Jeremiah cried, "where's my lawyer?" Then he laughed.
"You boys are terrible," Moira said as she turned and left. "I need to see how the living room is coming." She nodded to an approaching Detective Lance as they passed.
"Wouldn't be surprised" Lance growled, "if this was all a prank you two goofballs dreamed up."
"You never know, detective," Oliver said, thinking, closer than you know!
"Bah!" Lance grumbled as he stomped away, "useless sons of . . ."
Oliver watched him leave then turned to Jeremiah. "So, how DID you hurt your hand?"
"Oh, you know me. When the ruckus started I grabbed a bottle of champagne and climbed under a table." He held his hand up and turned it from side to side. "Cut it on broken glass on the floor." Oliver knew different: he got the injury when I shot the gun out of his hand with an arrow.
"Well, you were probably too drunk to feel any pain," Oliver said, looking at Jeremiah with amusement. And suspicion. He wondered who the real Jeremiah was? Friend or foe.
"So, where were you?"
"In the basement."
"Alone?"
"No, Tommy and Laurel and Thea. And my date."
Jeremiah's mouth curled into a sly smile. "You and Tommy in a dark basement with a flock of lovely ladies, while I was under a table, alone, getting HORRIBLY injured. I missed all the fun. I'm envious."
"Well, Jerr," Oliver said, "I suppose you could have been up to a lot worse." Like industrial espionage, he thought.
.
2 . . . . . . .
Later that morning, a visibly annoyed Maurice Castle charged into his office followed by his uncharacteristically subdued son, Jeremiah. The two men waiting for them started to stand before Maurice stopped them with a wave of his hand and a grunt.
"How'd the bastard know our plans!" Maurice growled. "How!"
"Maybe just metaphysical coincidence," Jeremiah said.
"Or," a short, balding man in a blue suit said, "maybe he DID know."
"Very possible, George. And got the goods," Maurice said. "Got the whole damned enchilada! Everything." He looked disgusted, then angry.
"On the bright side," George, the man in the blue suit, said, "Jeremiah said they only had our original files. So they probably haven't cracked the encryption yet."
"Probably CAN'T," a thin, nervous man chain-smoking in the corner said. "I personally converted AND encrypted those files. I doubt if the CIA could crack them."
"Wishful thinking, Stan," Maurice said. "Q-Con's got better people than the CIA. Lots better!"
"Yeah," Jeremiah added with a snicker, "like that pretty little babe Oliver was with last night."
"That's' right, son," Maurice grumbled, "joke." He sat back in his chair and began chewing on the back of his hand. "So, ideas?"
Jeremiah stood. "Well, that utility you put on the flash drive scrubbed the hard drive after I copied the files from Steele's laptop. So, unless they have another copy somewhere, the hooded creep has the only copy. And can't possible read them."
"So, how do we get them back? Before SOMEONE finds out about Icarus." George asked.
"How, indeed . . ." Maurice mused with a predatory grin.
.
3 . . . . . . .
Oliver led Felicity Smoak down the industrial metal stairs to the basement under the abandoned Queen factory. Her eyes took in everything as she descended. John Diggle was waiting for them at the bottom looking anxious. More so than usual, Oliver thought.
"So," Oliver said, waving his arms in all directions, "this is it."
"DEFINITELY more like the Bat Cave," she laughed, "than the Fortress of Solitude. Dark and gloomy. And dusty."
"Sorry," Diggle said, dripping sarcasm, "but we haven't had time to decorate yet." He folded his arms defiantly. "But now that we have an attractive young lady on the team, maybe . . ."
Oliver glanced at Diggle. Is he worried about having a woman on the team, he thought to himself, or jealous that he has some competition in the trusted associate department? "Bat Cave works for me," he said, trying to ease the tension, "but a little feminine touch never hurts."
"Whoa!" Felicity said, "this is a strictly professional arrangement. You guys just keep your testosterone on a nice tight leash. I'm here to provide technical help, NOT redecorate." She began examining the electronics, sometimes looking impressed, other times looking amused, but mostly just nodding. Finally, she turned and said, "Not bad for a couple of technically-challenged non-geeks."
Oliver glanced at Diggle, who was having as much trouble keeping from laughing as he was, and said, "Anything you want, just give me a list." But he was too late; she was already making a list on her ever-present Nexus tablet computer. Suddenly, the laser printer in the corner came on and spit out a sheet of paper.
"My list," she said, nodding toward the printer. "Now, let's get to work."
She sat in front of one of the computers. Oliver handed her the flash drive he took from Jeremiah after he'd copied the files from Walter's laptop during the Gala disturbance. She pushed it in a USB port and opened the folder.
"Three files," she said, "not file types I'm familiar with, though."
"Can you read them?" Oliver asked.
"I'll check the internet to see if I can find what they are. If that fails, I have some utilities that might identify them. And, if all else fails," she said with a sigh, "I'll just have to de-compile them."
"Then you can read them?" Diggle asked.
"No, then I can start decrypting them. Maybe."
Oliver looked at his watch. "Lunch anyone?" he said.
"Better include a thirty-day survival pack . . ." Felicity said with a devious twinkle in her eye, ". . . chocolate. You know the type."
Diggle looked confused. Oliver just nodded. "You got it," he said.
"Oh yeah," Felicity said, suddenly looking energized, "this is going to be fun."
"Can you work at the office," Oliver asked, "you know, without getting caught?"
"No problem. Everything I do that's private is local – off the company network – and super-password protected. Just don't tell Mr. Steele."
"Our little secret," Oliver said.
.
4 . . . . . . .
That night, Oliver entered Queen Consolidated through the basement. Not his usual entrance, but he was in vigilante mode. Getting in was easy, since he knew all the security codes. And Felicity would erase any record that he'd ever been there, especially at two in the morning. Difficult to explain to security. And Walter.
He was there to search Walter's office.
He needed to know what his involvement was. Was Queen Consolidated in competition with Castle Enterprises to rule the world? Or were they simply trying to stop them? And if they were the good guys, why hadn't they reported them to the authorities? Or had they? And if Queen Consolidated wasn't the good guys, was Walter involved or in the dark? Just because he had unreadable files on his laptop, didn't mean he knew anything. Oliver needed to know for sure. After all, his mother was married to Walter and he lived in the same house with them. And while Oliver wasn't particularly interested in the business, he didn't particularly like being a major shareholder of 'Engulf & Devour Inc.', to plagiarize Mel Brooks.
He had to know.
To his surprise, the door to Walter's office wasn't even locked. Nor were his desk drawers or personal filing cabinets. So, with a flashlight strapped to his head, he skimmed every document he could get his hands on. And found nothing.
He stood up and turned around, searching. The painting over the credenza; his father had once shown him a wall safe behind it. He wondered if it would be like the one in Walter's study at home and still have the same combination his father had. It did.
He reviewed every document and, again, found nothing. Then he spotted a box of computer disks. One caught his eye: 'Castle Telcos'. He slipped the disk into Walter's computer, which was in sleep-mode, and spent more than an hour listening. He was just about to give up, when he found something:
". . . can't be serious," he heard Walter's agitated voice, "we have a right to protect ourselves from . . ."
"Walter, we're old friends," he heard Maurice Castle's soothing voice, "we'll cut Q-Con in. Just like always."
"I seem to have missed that in the past, Maurice. Our companies are competitors. Remember?"
"Look, return the files and let us place someone in your operation to make sure they're permanently gone. Otherwise . . ."
"Otherwise WHAT?" Walter demanded.
"Otherwise, you don't want to know what. You have one week or . . ."
The conversation ended. And the week was long gone. He couldn't help but wonder what their meeting with Castle would have covered, had they gotten to it. But, of course, they were never intended to reach the meeting. Surprisingly, Maurice came to the Gala, smiling and oozing charm. And he needed to know if Jeremiah was involved in the murder attempt. He hoped not. It's one thing to STEAL from a friend. Something else to KILL a friend.
.
5 . . . . . . .
"Okay, what is it?" Maurice Castle asked, a question he'd asked his son many times before. "What did you do this time?" He reached for the butter dish.
"Nothing," Jeremiah answered with his usual defensive tone. "Unless bleeding is my fault."
"What?"
"Well, the news says the police found the vigilante's arrow in Walter Steele's study."
"So?" Maurice said as he buttered a roll.
"So . . . they found blood on it. MY blood to be precise."
"So what? You've never had your DNA typed. They'll just pull a blank."
"You're forgetting, the police took a mouth swab of everyone before we left. So THAT'S what."
"You idiot! Don't you listen to ANYTHING I ever say. I told you to tell them to talk to our lawyer."
"Guess I'm not as intimidating as you, dad. They just laughed and stuffed the thing in my mouth." He slumped in his chair. And looked his usual pathetic self, his father thought. "So what do I do? I mean, they're going to be a little suspicious finding my blood on the creep's arrow."
"It doesn't mean you did anything wrong," Maurice mused, "but it'd be awkward." He sighed. "I'm going to teach you a lesson. Again. So LISTEN this time." He took a deep breath. "Rich people have privileges. In this case, we buy off the cops."
"Really?"
"Really. I'll make a call tonight. Your name and your DNA will magically disappear. You were never even there. End of story." He picked up the bell next to his plate and rang it. "We're out of wine."
"Wow. I'm impressed."
"Well, if you'd pay attention once in a while, instead of making whoopee all the time, you'd know these things."
"Speaking of KNOWING things, exactly what did I try to steal the other night? I mean, if I'm going to risk getting killed, don't I have a right to know?"
"RETRIEVE, not steal."
"Sorry."
"And since when are you interested in the family business?" Maurice grumbled. "It was just supposed to be . . . fun."
"Since I nearly got shot and killed. Twice!"
"Twice?"
"Yeah. Once by the vigilante and once by someone with a gun."
"Who?"
"No idea. Too dark."
"An accomplice?" Maurice leaned back, thought for a moment. "You were trying to get back company secrets that a disgruntled ex-employee gave to Q-Con."
"What secrets?"
"Technical. Nothing you'd understand. Just important. And extraordinarily valuable. And we still need to get them back."
"How?" Jeremiah asked, looking bewildered.
"Soon," Maurice said, "very soon."
.
6 . . . . . . .
Tommy Merlyn wasn't happy. Managing Oliver's club was going to be great, but managing the construction of the club wasn't. It required dealing with building inspectors and contractors and budgets and schedules and a lot of things he knew almost nothing about. He'd just had a conversation – an argument, actually – with the plumbing subcontractor and was totally frazzled. Again. He walked across the huge industrial space, destined to be the club, someday, when Oliver came through the door.
"So, how's things going?" Oliver asked.
"Oh, you know, the usual: behind schedule and over budget." He winced.
Oliver smiled and nodded. "Standard operating procedure," he said, "at least that's what Walter always says."
"Yeah, well, maybe we can . . ."
"Don't worry about it," Oliver said, "I'd rather have it right than fast and cheap. Just keep going. It's looking great."
"Boy, are you a great boss or what!"
"Wash out your mouth with battery acid!" Oliver laughed, "I'm NOT your boss. I'm just a friend who has a friend who does things for him he doesn't want to do himself. Remember?"
"Sorry, forgot, FRIEND. But we probably should go over the . . ." He was interrupted as Laurel entered and waved. Tommy ran to her, followed by Oliver, and pulled her into a side room. "Dangerous to be on a construction site without a hardhat," he said.
She looked at him, amused, and said, "You two aren't wearing hardhats."
"Honchos are exempt," Oliver said, "according to my lawyer. Besides, we have hard heads."
"So, what are you doing here?" Tommy asked. "Not that I – we –don't love seeing you anytime."
"I tried calling, but your cellphone is out."
"Yeah, something the contractor does. So, uh, what's so important?"
She looked around as if to see if someone was listening, turned toward Oliver and said, "I just heard from an unknown source – okay, my father – that they caught one of the people involved in trying to run you and Walter off the road. Turns out, there're connected to the attack at the Gala the other night."
Big surprise, Oliver thought to himself, then, "So, what's the connection?"
"All they got out of him was something called 'Kua Fu' which is a complete mystery to the police department."
"What's that?" Tommy asked.
Laurel shrugged. "Got a little off the internet, but not much. Some kind of international criminal operation."
Oliver smiled. "I guess if you're going to be a target, it's nice to be a target of someone REALLY big."
"This isn't funny, Ollie!" she said. "You could get . . . killed."
"Don't worry, I have a full-time security force," he said, pointing at Diggle leaning against a steel column, glaring threateningly at them. "Afghanistan-hardened and mean as a junkyard dog."
"Didn't do you much good in the limo," she said, obviously concerned. "I think you should disappear, you know, go somewhere."
"Message received," he said. "I'll talk to Walter tonight, see what he wants to do. And, uh, thanks for the heads-up. I don't deserve it after what I . . ."
"Stop!" she interrupted. "That's behind us. You DON'T deserve to get killed." She looked at her watch. "I have to get back to the office." She turned to Tommy. "We're still on for tonight?"
"Eight o'clock, sharp," he replied. She gave him a peck on the cheek, glanced at Oliver, and left.
Tommy looked at Oliver, uneasy. But Oliver just smiled at him, as always, that unreadable, emotionless smile of his, and said, "See you later. And, uh, show the contractor no mercy."
As Oliver walked away, Tommy let out a deep breath. He wasn't entirely sure why, but he felt a little guilty, deep inside.
.
7 . . . . . . .
Oliver and Diggle looked around to make sure no one was watching, then slipped through the hidden door to their sanctuary deep below the factory, the club-to-be. At the bottom of the stairs, they found Felicity working, surrounded by a circle of computer displays, all active. She turned as they approached and motioned for them. She looked excited.
"Well, Ms. Smoak," Oliver said, "you look unusually happy today. Good news?"
"Better," she said, "I cracked it!"
"Well," Oliver said, dropping into a chair, "don't keep us in suspense. We're all ears."
"Okay. I'll start from the beginning." She turned a display toward them and started what Oliver thought was a PowerPoint presentation. To his dismay, it was. "The first hurdle was to break the encryption. Then I could actually see the files. Once I could see the files, then I could break the code they were in. Then we'd have it.
"As it turned out, they had double encryption. Pictographic NSA type, on steroids. Quite ingenious, actually. And almost unbreakable. A combination of symmetric and asymmetric key encryption. Required binary conversion. Then the REALLY exciting part: the code. Or codes, since they used an inverted demi-duplex system. VERY sophisticated and formidable. Again, a combination of tricks: bi-lateral Newtonian algorithms and hexadecimal Boolean variables with . . ."
"Uh, could you just give it to us in, you know, English," Oliver said with a pained look and a quick glance at Diggle. "We're just a couple of dumb ol' country boys, you know."
"Sorry," she said with a nervous giggle, "got carried away. Sometimes the solving is more exciting than the solution.
"Remember, there were three files," she continued. "They covered, first, the new technology, second, the goal of the new technology, and third, the distribution of the, uh, fruits of the new technology."
"Got it," Oliver said. "Go on."
"The new technology is called, appropriately enough given its creators, Project Icarus. In a nutshell, it's a means of breaking into ANY computer network, no matter where or how well protected, unseen. Here's how it works: if you tried to break into a building that had security sensors on the doors and windows, you'd trigger the alarm if you went through a door or a window. So, you take a chainsaw and cut through a wall. Well, that's sort of how they get into a computer network. They avoid all the portals and drop into the middle. Presto! No alarms go off and they leave no fingerprints." She leaned back, pleased.
"All that," Oliver said, "with that little piece of equipment I saw in the lab at Icarus Technologies? I'm impressed."
"Oh no!" she replied. "No way. That was just a Mickey-Mouse mockup to impress the, uh, investors. No, the real setup is in the basement at Castle Enterprises. And it must be gigantic. I mean, based on the schematics, the equipment needs a space the size of an auditorium."
"You're kidding," Diggle said.
"I'm probably being conservative," she answered. "And, it needs a system of satellites orbiting overhead to pull it off, too."
"So," Oliver asked, "how much is in place?"
"The whole kit-and-caboodle, including the satellites."
"Huh. So, are they using it?"
"Not yet. As you already got from the meeting you, uh, attended, they plan on breaking into governments, corporations, institutes, everything. They just haven't decided – agreed – who gets what and when and for how long. But when they do, watch out! Nothing short of global domination. Government and business and individuals. You think Facebook's invasive. Hah! Meet out new masters: Kua Fu."
"So, Ms. Wizard," Oliver said, dead serious, "you've definitely earned your pay this week. Now, how do we pull the plug?"
"Go to the Feds?" Diggle suggested.
"Good place to start," Felicity agreed.
"Right," Oliver said, "but Kua Fu probably has a significant chunk of government in their back pocket." He thought for a moment, then, "Maybe a little exposure to the light first wouldn't hurt."
"You mean the press?" Diggle said.
"Exactly. In the meantime, Ms. Wizard," Oliver repeated, "how do we stop them?"
Felicity got a totally pleased look on her face and said, "Actually, I'm glad you asked . . ."
.
8 . . . . . . .
That evening, Laurel was sitting on the sofa in her living room, listening to music, working on case files, when she heard a floorboard squeak behind her. She jumped up and spun around, dropping a lap-full of papers on the floor. She could see someone in the dark foyer, dimly outlined by moonlight. She started to run, but heard a voice. A familiar voice. She stopped.
"Sorry to startle you, Miss Lance," Oliver's electronic voice crackled, "but I need your help." He turned, keeping his face in shadow.
She took a moment to relax. "Of course," she said, "what?"
"Some very dangerous, powerful people are about to tilt the balance of power worldwide. Starting in Starling City. This is the place to stop them."
"But what can I do? I'm just a . . ."
"I've seen you on the news. You have contacts in the press. And I have documents I was hoping you would give to someone. Someone with integrity. And guts."
"Of course. But what about contacting law enforcement?"
"I'm afraid they might have people inside, high up, who could stop an investigation. If they could be exposed to the world by the press, first, it might be somewhat more difficult for them to pull strings later."
"Makes sense. But who are these people?" she asked.
"A very secret organization I doubt you've ever heard of," he said, knowing she had heard of them. "They call themselves Kua Fu."
"Kua Fu!" she repeated. " I HAVE heard of them. They tried to kill a dear friend of mine." 'Dear friend' caught his attention and stuck in his mind, almost making him forget why he was there.
"Then you know how serious it is." He crouched down and slid the papers across the hardwood floor toward her. She picked them up, briefly glancing at them.
"How did you get . . ." she began as she looked back toward him. But he was gone. She stood motionless for a moment, then returned to the sofa, waiting for her heart to stop pounding.
.
9 . . . . . . .
"Thought about your plan last night," Diggle said to Felicity. "Sounds risky. Sure it'll work?"
"Oh, it'll work," she said. "Unfortunately, it necessitates getting inside. Not sure if getting into Castle will be more or less difficult than Icarus Technologies."
"Probably have the same security system."
"Or none," Oliver said as he came down the stairs.
"What do you mean?" Diggle asked.
Oliver picked up a remote and a television broadcast appeared on one of the computer displays. He punched a button and Channel 3 news appeared. There was a live report covering a fire. "Three-alarm fire at, you guessed it, Castle Enterprises." He started changing clothes. "I'll never get a better chance."
"Yeah," Felicity agreed. "With all the confusion and people running around. Security system probably down, too."
Oliver changed into his vigilante outfit so fast Diggle thought he used magic. Not the first time he'd thought that, either. "Oliver," he said, "you don't have to do this. It's too dangerous. Let someone else save humanity for once."
"He's right," Felicity added, "these are the big guys, not some two-bit street gang. Let's just pull their pants down and let someone else do the dangerous work. When did it become your responsibility?"
"When they came after my family. And tried to kill me." He grabbed his bow. "Uh, don't wait up for me," he said as he disappeared up the stairs.
"I'd tell him to be careful," Felicity said, "but he never listens."
"Don't worry," Diggle said, "he got magic."
.
10 . . . . . . .
A hooded Oliver dropped off a low roof and melted into the darkness. He held his bow close and surveyed the Castle fire. It looked like the end of the world: flames shooting out of nine stories of windows into the smoke-filled night air. Firemen with hoses at the top of towering ladders, drenching the building in a deluge of foaming water. Flashing lights and sirens and shouting shattering the otherwise peaceful night. No one would notice a two-hundred-piece college band march into the facility, he thought, certainly not me. According to the facility plan Felicity had provided, Project Icarus was at the other end of the complex.
He climbed a chain-link fence, ran down a cinder-filled alley and climbed through a conveniently-broken window, one of many he saw. Judging from the water and damage he found everywhere, inside and out, bull-in-a-china-shop firemen had recently been there. He made a mental note to make an especially generous contribution to the Firemen's Fund that year for their help. Once inside, he noticed the lights were out, alarms were dead and there were no blinking red lights on the security cameras. He checked the diagram on his iPhone and ran.
Despite having to traverse nearly two blocks of maze-like corridors and down three levels to his destination, he only encountered three people; all were too frantic to notice him. When he reached the door to Project Icarus, he was momentarily stunned. It looked like the door to a missile silo, capable of withstanding a direct nuclear attack. Probably could. He found the security panel and read the entry code Felicity had given him. She had assured him that Icarus had its own power supply and emergency backup system, so would be functional. He inputted the code, followed by her special code to disable the eye scan. There was a click, a whoosh, then a whirring sound. The door slowly and smoothly opened.
Inside he found a cavernous space – as predicted – dimly lit by what he guessed were night lights. Perfect, as far as he was concerned; the darker the better. The enormous space was filled with three stories of industrial metal-grate platforms and catwalks, all connected by a dizzying tangle of stairs, serving a virtual city of mindboggling electronic towers. He was impressed. And a little overwhelmed.
"Okay, step one," he mumbled aloud, "find the surge-protector." He got his bearings and started up a flight of metal stairs. At the end of a long, oblique catwalk was a chain-link cage, the size of a small house. Inside was a complicated assemblage of components: all different sizes and shapes and colors, connected by a jumble of conduit, also of different sizes and colors. But none of it mattered, except the surge-protector's disconnect switch. Directly in front of him was a red box with yellow stripes labeled, "Disconnect A1-337".
"Nice of them to point it out," he said. He opened the box and pulled the switch. It made a sickening crunch, like crushing bones. "Now, to find the 'on' button." He had to get to the control room on the middle level, a geodesic bubble floating on top of a slender concrete column. Easy to find because of its central location. He ran toward the access bridge.
Suddenly, bright lights flickered on, theatrically illuminating the entire space like a giant set for a big-budget sci-fi movie.
"So nice of you to visit," a deep voice rumbled over the PA system; Maurice Castle's voice. "I knew an annoying troublemaker like you couldn't resist the temptation of a big, disruptive fire to stick your nose where it's not supposed to be." He laughed.
"Rather expensive way to set a trap," Oliver said with as much sarcasm as he could muster, still running for the bridge.
"Nothing's too costly for valued guests. Besides, we were planning to demolish that part of the facility anyway and replace it with new labs. Killed two birds with one stone." Maurice laughed again. "Besides, now the insurance company pays for the demolition."
Oliver reached the bridge and crossed to the control room. The door was open. He entered, gave it a quick look and moved to the main console.
"My engineers are VERY interested in what you're planning to do," Maurice said. "They were sure you couldn't carry enough explosives to do much damage. They were right or we would've stopped you."
"You're not going to stop me?"
"Not at all. Take your best shot. We need to know if the system has any vulnerabilities. You're doing us a favor. Many thanks."
"Always happy to help," Oliver said as he went through the initialization sequence. When finished, he clicked the 'Primary Power' button and waited.
But nothing happened.
.
11 . . . . . . .
Felicity spun in her chair, switching to a different keyboard and display. "Damn . . ."
"What!" Diggle said, jumping up. "What's wrong?"
"The files we got must be old. They've added some new security protocols."
"Probably BECAUSE the files were stolen."
"Good guess . . ." she said robotically, her fingers flying over the keyboard. "Too many, too fast, too . . ."
"Anything I can do to help?" he asked, feeling useless.
"Actually, there is. Get that printout," she said, pointing, "and turn to the section titled 'Terminal Matrix Interrupt' and read me the alphanumeric list."
He grabbed the document, tore through the pages and began reading, "# GB-X77932 # KQ-L11987 # TN-R35 . . ."
.
12 . . . . . . .
"Oh, I assume you must already be aware," Maurice Castle said, oozing smug delight, "that Icarus has its own power supply, off the grid. No possibility of overload." He chuckled. "And I must say, I'm rather disappointed with you. Disconnecting the surge-protector is rather unimaginative. It's a totally unnecessary feature, only a VERY conservative precaution. In case the building gets hit by lightning or something. You know how chip-heads are!" He laughed again, clearly enjoying himself.
Oliver heard a beep and looked at his iPhone. A yellow '1' in a magenta box was blinking. The signal he was waiting for. He clicked on the 'Primary Power' button again.
This time, Icarus came to life with a deep 'whoomph' and flashing lights. The building shook slightly.
"What!" Maurice gasped, obviously startled. He must have turned from the microphone because his voice became muffled. "What did he do! You told me he couldn't do anything! Stop him! What? . . . oh." His voice came back. "Nice try, my fine feathered friend, but, like I said, there's not enough power to do any damage."
Oliver heard a another beep. A red '2' in a cyan box was blinking. The final signal he was waiting for. He clicked the button labeled 'Emergency Power'.
And ran.
Instantly, bolts of sparkling bluish-white electricity began arcing from component to component through the air and crawling over Icarus like a virulent disease. Blinding sparks showered down like cascading waterfalls of light. Pops and crackles echoed off the hard surfaces. The acrid stench of ozone and burning rubber filled the formerly-antiseptic space.
"Noooo!" Maurice screamed, horror in his voice. "What did you do! You . . . you . . ." He started shouting hysterically at his engineers. Then, "He did WHAT! Primary power AND emergency power, TOGETHER!"
"That's right," Oliver chuckled to himself, "your little baby got a tummy ache from too much milk."
He jumped to the level below, avoiding a bundle of sputtering, whipping wires that had fallen on the stairs, and dashed toward the door. But before he reached it, security guards stormed in, carrying rifles. He reached for an arrow, the one containing knockout gas. But he stopped abruptly. They were wearing gas masks this time.
.
13 . . . . . . .
Oliver turned and fled, jumping behind a monolith of sparking equipment to avoid a swarm of bullets. He crawled under a raceway until he was out of sight, then climbed a steel column to the catwalk above and dropped to one knee. As guards came around the corner below, he picked them off with arrows, one by one, until they withdrew. He ran to the end and jumped to another catwalk and crouched down. The guards were regrouping, coming at him from another direction. He sprang into the air, caught hold of a wiring trapeze and shimmied to the other end, eventually dropping behind a duct and sliding to the floor.
By the time the guards rounded the corner, he was long gone. Someone gave orders and they spread out, searching again.
Maurice Castle watched from a network of remote cameras. "Get the son-of-a-bitch!" he shouted, "Get him, you idiots!"
By then, Oliver had already left the room, and was running down a long, dark corridor. Suddenly, he heard footsteps coming from behind. And then in front. So he turned into a door labeled 'HVAC-2' and ran down a flight of metal stairs into another huge, dimly-lit room: several stories high, catwalks and stairs throughout, packed with equipment. Only this time, he recognized air-conditioning equipment. Which meant vents to the outside: exits.
He needed to find an exterior wall; he knew he'd find vents there. Hopefully one he could get through. Or maybe a service door. He began searching. But when he turned a corner, someone tackled him from the side. They wrestled briefly, then scramble to their feet and faced each other.
It was Jeremiah.
"We meet again, freakazoid!" Jeremiah said, panting, pulling a gun out of his jacket and pointing.
Oliver stood motionless. Jeremiah! Would I kill him if it came down to it? he agonized. Could I?
Jeremiah cautiously approached. "My, but dear old dad is going to be pleased with me for catching you," he said. "Maybe I'll get an increase in my allowance."
"Is it worth it?"
"Oh, I don't know. Depends. Maybe he'll . . ." Oliver saw his chance and took it. He spun, flying through the air, and kicked the gun out of his hand. Jeremiah lunged for it, lost his balance and toppled over the guardrail. It was three stories down, three stories of pipes and ducts and sharp-edged equipment. Deadly things to break a fall.
As he fell, Jeremiah managed to grab onto a pipe with one hand, but his other hand was injured, useless. And the pipe was too big for him to get a solid grip. He began slipping.
Oliver instantly forgot about his escape, suddenly obsessed with Jeremiah's life-threatening predicament. He jumped over the guardrail. With nothing suitable to hold onto, he slid down a round duct, lost his grip and fell, grabbing onto a spindly conduit, which broke and pulled away from the structure letting him fall again, landing on a narrow rack of pipes. He leaned over the side and held onto a painfully-sharp steel bracket with one hand, his grip slipping more than once. Then he swung over the side and reached for Jeremiah's slipping hand with the other.
And he was back on the island . . .
.
14 . . . . . . .
Oliver scrambled through the dense jungle, tangling and falling often. He was weak and in pain, bleeding. But escaping his torturer was everything. He quickly realized, though, that escape was impossible. His torturer was too fit and well-nourished. And, if the sounds behind him were any indication, capture was imminent. He wanted to turn and fight, but that had even less chance of success than escape. There was only one viable option: disappear.
So he ran, searching for a place to hide. But, as dense and dark as the jungle was, he saw no opportunities. Until he ran across a break in the trees covered with leaves and sank up to his thighs. Not seeing his torturer behind him, he dove in, as if it had been a pool of stagnant water. He froze, barely breathing, and waited, listening, ignoring the insects crawling all over his body, biting. The footsteps got louder, then slowed noticeably with the crunch of dry leaves, finally stopping. Then the footsteps began again.
A moment later, he heard shouting in that unintelligible language of his torturers. He listened intently. The shouting became frantic. Was it a trick or was it real? Yao Fei, his teacher, had taught him to put survival before sentiment. But he was a savage, Oliver told himself, while I'm a civilized man. He climbed out of his hiding place.
He followed the screams, which were becoming choked cries, and found his torturer up to his neck in quicksand. The more he struggled, the faster he sank. There was genuine terror in his eyes. Under that cruel exterior, could there be a human being? he wondered. Something deep inside wouldn't allow him to let the man die. At the risk of sinking in himself, he pulled him to safety. His torturer lay on the ground for a very long time, gasping for air. Finally, he rolled over and sat up. He no longer looked dangerous and cruel; he looked pathetic and helpless. And grateful.
But with lightning speed, he lashed out and struck Oliver in the head with a muddy rock. Everything went black.
.
15 . . . . . . .
Oliver closed his hand around Jeremiah's wrist just as his sweaty hand slipped and they both dropped. With a burst of strength and a bit of luck, he looped a leg around a diagonal steel strut and stopped their fall. When he got his strength back, he climbed down to the level below, carrying Jeremiah with him.
Jeremiah lay face-down on the catwalk, gasping for breath. Finally, he pulled himself up by the guardrail and stood motionless, staring. "You risked your life to save me. Why?" he asked.
"Why not?"
"But, I tried to kill you. Twice."
"Tried. Didn't. Couldn't."
"I don't understand . . ."
"Let's just say, you're not your father."
"No, but I am!" hissed a gruff voice from the side. Maurice Castle stepped out of the dark and pressed the barrel of a gun against Oliver's head. "You've caused me a lot of misery, but you're through."
"Why are you doing this?" Oliver pleaded. "You have more money than you could ever need. Why?"
"You're right. I don't need any more money. But I WANT more, as much as I can get." He turned his eyes briefly toward Jeremiah. "Something I need to drill into my useless son's head, one of these days."
"Think of all the people you're going to hurt. Your son, for one."
"Oh, don't moralize to me!" Maurice scoffed. "Besides, how do you know I don't have purely altruistic motives? Maybe Icarus will bring stability to governments. And the economy. Peace and prosperity for all!" He erupted in deep guttural laughter followed by a ragged nicotine cough.
"You expect me to believe that? I wasn't born yesterday."
"You might have been, for all I know. You just popped out of nowhere. Like the damned Swine Flu."
"I must have misjudged you," Oliver said, contempt in his tone. "Is altruism YOUR idea or Kua Fu's? Would they even tolerate it? If it was true, of course."
Maurice looked momentarily surprised, then, "Huh. So you DID manage to read those files. My techies will be very impressed." He snorted. "As to Kua Fu, they'd tolerate it. If it was true, which it's not, of course. You see, I AM Kua Fu, stupid!" He looked triumphant, imperial.
"Kua Fu?" Jeremiah asked, "what's Kua Fu?"
"I'll tell you when you grow up," Maurice said, his expression changing from triumph to disappointment. He looked around and said, "Ah, a callbox." He moved toward Jeremiah, keeping the gun locked on his target. Then he passed it carefully to Jeremiah. "Keep this on him while I call for security. If he so much as sweats, blow his head off."
He shuffled backward a few steps to the callbox, never taking his eyes off Oliver. Holding an ID card in one hand, he used his other hand to type a seven-digit code into the keypad.
Jeremiah stared at Oliver as if he was trying to burn a hole in him, holding the gun rock solid. Oliver stared back, just as intently. Suddenly, he noticed something. Something very familiar: the expression on Jeremiah's face. He'd seen that look endless times over the years. It was a look of pure childish innocence. He used it all the time to defuse potentially-dangerous situations and disarm justifiably-suspicious young ladies. But why now?
As he watched, and wondered, he saw the gun drop out of Jeremiah's hand and fall, tumbling over and over, almost in slow motion, eventually hitting the open-grate metal floor with a 'clank' and bouncing three times before coming to a stop.
"Oops . . ." Jeremiah said with boyish innocence, matching the expression on his face.
Maurice turned, gaped with an expression of rage and screamed, "Are you CRAZY, you idiot!" He lunged for the gun, crawling across the floor on all fours. "What are you doing! You . . . you . . ." He grabbed the gun, sat up and pointed. But his intended target, the vigilante, was gone. He stood up, staggered around for a moment, then threw the gun into space. "Get out of my sight before I . . ."
.
16 . . . . . . .
The next evening, after supper, Oliver and his family were in the first-floor Sitting Room overlooking the garden. He preferred to call it the 'Family Room' because it was everyone's favorite room to use when they were alone: small, casual, friendly. Unlike the rest of the rooms which were designed to entertain crowds of guests in formal splendor. Moira, however, preferred 'Sitting Room' because 'Family Room' sounded too much like something you'd find in a tract home.
Moira and Walter were using the loveseat in the corner, as usual, talking quietly. Too quietly, Oliver thought. Thea was lying on the window seat, with a mountain of cushions stuffed under her head, talking on her cellphone. Oliver was stretched out on the leather couch with a bottle of beer, watching a basketball game on television.
Oliver, dear," his mother said, "could you please turn the sound down a little."
"Sure thing, mom," he answered. But before he could find the remote hidden between the cushions, a news bulletin appeared on the screen. A reporter was talking:
". . . result of recent news story. Prominent local businessman, Maurice Castle, President and CEO of Castle Enterprises, and major stockholder, has been taken into custody at the airport by the FBI. Specifics are sketchy, and charges have not been announced. But sources say he is facing the possibility of life in prison. Channel 8 news has learned that Castle Enterprises is now under Federal control and Mr. Castle's personal assets have been frozen.
The reporter became excited, then ran, camera in toe. "Detective Lance," he called, "is the arrest related to the fire at Castle Enterprises last night?"
"We're still investigating," Lance replied.
"Is there any truth to the rumors that the hooded vigilante was seen leaving the facility during the fire?"
"No comment!" Lance growled, pushing through a crowd of reporters.
"Well, that's all for now. This is Martin Wells reporting. Join us a eleven for . . ."
"My goodness," Moira said, "how terrible! Maurice is an old and dear friend." She stood and headed for the door. "I have to call Beatrice."
Oliver couldn't help but notice that Walter got unusually quiet. "Uh, I need to, uh, call," he said as he left, "and see if there's anything I can do to, uh, help."
Thea hadn't even noticed.
Oliver's iPhone rang. "Yeah, just heard," he whispered to Diggle. "Couldn't happen to a more deserving guy. I'm going to let Felicity cross his name off the list. She earned it." He laughed at something Diggle said.
Thea looked up and lowered her cellphone. "Did I miss something?"
.
17 . . . . . . .
The door to Walter Steele's office at Queen Consolidated opened and Oliver came out. He nodded to the secretary and headed down the corridor. He was there to receive new security codes. Maurice Castle was gone, he speculated, but not the threat. Even behind bars, he could still be dangerous. Oliver was impressed at how fast Walter had taken action.
Behind him, he heard the distinctive 'ding' of the elevator arriving, followed by rapid footsteps in his direction. Then he heard a familiar voice.
"Oliver, wait up." It was Jeremiah. "Thea told me you'd be here."
Feeling uncomfortable, Oliver made small-talk. "Not for long, if I can help it." And, as Jeremiah got closer, he felt increasingly more uncomfortable. So, more small-talk. "Say, uh, sorry about your father."
"Thanks, but that's his problem, I guess."
Oliver looked puzzled. "He's still your father, Jerr. You don't seem too broken up."
"Yeah, well, about that. We sort of, you know, had a falling-out." He chuckled nervously and rolled his eyes. "Again."
"Sorry. Probably ends your involvement with the, uh, business. Before it starts."
"Oh, I dipped my toe in, just a little, but, it was, well, a tad too, uh, unnatural for me." He shivered. "You know, too much like WORK!"
His discomfort easing slightly at the old familiar Jeremiah, Oliver said, "We should start a club. Of two."
"Yeah. A club of USELESS people . . . my father's word, not mine."
Oliver laughed. "So, what's up?"
"Oh, yeah. Just wanted to say goodbye before I leave."
"Ah, back to the Monastery of Carnal Delights?"
"Don't I wish! No, I'm going to Marseille to visit mommy dearest." He seemed to deflate like a balloon. "She's so lonely, you know. No husband. No family. No lives to run. Poor thing. So I'm going to visit and give her a reason to live. For a while."
"Translation: your father's finances may not be around to support you in the style to which you've become accustomed."
"Oliver, how could you?" Jeremiah punched him in the shoulder, playfully. "I still have my trust. Wasn't seized by the Feds. Yet."
"The way you live, how long will it last?"
"Oh, long enough to get me to Marseille. I hope!"
"Well, we'll have to get together. I'm going to be at the company villa outside Rome. A stone's throw away."
"Totally fabulous!" Jeremiah said as he gave Oliver a sly look. "Uh, alone or . . ."
"With Felicity."
"More fabulous! I guess that means you're finally over Laurel."
"I told you, Laurel and I are friends. Period." DEAR friends, remembering Laurel's words.
"Fabuloso, as the Romans say."
"Yeah. On my way to tell Felicity now."
"Tell me what?" a cheerful voice said from behind. Oliver turned and saw Felicity.
"You know," he said, "that vacation at the company villa I promised you."
"Really . . ." she said, suddenly looking suspicious, "does Mr. Steele know?"
"Of course," he lied.
"And your mother?"
Jeremiah broke in. "Uh, well, I'll just leave you two kids to work out the details. I have a plane to catch. So, bye, and you better call me."
"It's a promise," Oliver said.
"Better be. I can't take being mommied for too long or I shrivel and die." He stopped smiling, looking strangely serious. "And, just in case I've never said it before, thanks."
"For what?"
"Oh, you know, for always being a good friend." The elevator arrived with another 'ding'. He winked and ran to catch it. "Gotta run. See you in Rome."
"Ciao!" Oliver said as the elevator door closed.
"Uh, what was all that FRIEND stuff?" Felicity asked.
"No idea."
"Do you think he knows? Maybe, suspects? A little?"
He shrugged. "I don't think so. I mean, he seems exactly the same as ever. Except for that last comment. And he's, presumably, not like you . . . doesn't have that extra sense."
"I don't know. When it comes to a dear old friend, especially one who punched him out in preschool, people sometimes grow another sense just FOR him."
"Like I said, I don't know. I certainly hope not. But I just don't know. He may be lazy and useless and spoiled, but he's not stupid. And he knows me like, well, like a brother. So . . ." he shrugged again, "only time will tell." He stared into space, thinking, remembering, wondering, worrying . . .
Felicity saw his concern, momentarily felt his pain. She tried to help, "You didn't answer my question."
"Huh . . ." he said, turning to her.
"You didn't tell me whether your mother knows we're going to Rome."
"Oh, of course I told her." he lied again. "I don't care what she thinks. I'm an adult."
"Right," she said, shaking her head slowly. "You're one totally amazing guy, Oliver Queen, but you're a pathetic liar." She gave him that playful look of hers, the one he always liked. "Cute, but pathetic."
"Are you flirting with me, Miss Smoak?"
"Wouldn't that violate company policy, Mr. Queen?"
"I certainly hope so."