In a dark corner of Starling City, the storm is bearing down on an alley of injured brick and widening gutters, and Detective Lance knows he's going to have to make this sweep fast or abandon it altogether. After all, seeing as he'd volunteered to treat this as yet another solo patrol, the higher ups will be requiring him to call in within the next half hour. He shines his torch down one byway, then another. All clear. But something keeps him pressing forwards, notwithstanding the authoritative commentary being issued by his commanding officer via the radio. Normally he'd hesitate before following up on a tip-off from the Arrow – the famous vigilante and his team have already cost Lance at least one promotion and a reputation, even if their activities do have results. But it's not normal procedure for the Arrow to call up Lance twice in one week. Something is up. As if to confirm his suspicions, there's a clatter from up ahead. He draws his weapon and sends a quick heads up to the chief, beginning to advance towards where the alley takes a sharp turn. Amid the tension, he thinks, as he always does in this moment of truth, of his wife and of his two girls. Although of he's honest with himself, the last few years have taught him that his younger girl would probably handle herself better in this situation that he would himself.
He raises the gun and rounds the corner.
"We've been expecting you."
Lances aims with both hands. The gunman in front of him is wearing a mask and what appears to be some serious body armour. The muzzle of his gun is level with Lance's own barrel. Behind him, at the end of the alleyway, there's a second gunman – and he has a girl. She's small and blonde and unconscious, obscured by the bulk of the mercenary, who's fumbling with a large steel case. Lance would like to get a closer look, but he can't take his eyes off the guard in front of him, just like he can't take his hands off the trigger to grab the radio that's crackling at his belt. He can't be sure, but he thinks the guard grins. The sky rumbles and a few drops of rain plummet to earth. Lance is prickling with tension. There's backup on the way, now that he's not responding, but he doesn't know how long they'll take to arrive, and now the other guy is lifting something metallic from the case. What the hell? He can't see the wretched thing in this darkness. Where's that Arrow when you need him?
"What's going on?" he demands.
"Wouldn't you like to know." The voice is hoarse, almost certainly modulated.
"You don't have to hurt the kid, come on." Lance gestures. "Let the kid go, huh, we can talk about this. We can work something out. What's it you want?"
"Don't worry yourself, Detective, we've already got it."
"Finish him." The second voice is deeper, colder, Slade-like.
The gun is raised and Lance readies himself. And then there's something whizzing through the air and an arrow glances off the wall beside them, just at head height. Instinctively all three of them look up – and the guard crumples, a second arrow lodged high in his forehead. The second gunman drops the girl and whips around with his own weapon, ready to open fire – Lance dives, but suddenly arrows are hailing down at crazy angles. There are running feet and the gunman thunders past, case in hand, firing backwards. Cursing, Lance scrambles to his feet, barking orders into the radio – his priority is the girl. He turns – and sees a shadows leaping into the countless other shadows that drape the upper reaches of the alleyway. He scrambles for his torch and the beam catches the silhouette of something long and sinuous, curving through the air before it disappears. It's no rope he's ever seen before.
A…tail?
There's a soft moan. The victim is stirring. He hurries over, reaching again for the radio. She appears unharmed, and in the harsh beam of the flashlight, strangely catlike with her fluid limbs and high forehead. Barely inches from her head, an arrow has embedded itself into the ground. He feels a surge of anger, but as he stoops to pick up the girl in a fireman's lift, he gets a closer look.
Two officers rush into the alleyway, followed by the guy in charge. "Medics are en route, E.T.A. three minutes."
"Did you get him?"
"Unfortunately, no, and it's looking unlikely that we will, with this storm about to break." He looks down at the dead guard, whose slowly draining lifeblood is adding yet another ingredient to the concoction of mud and grime that forms puddles over the stones. "The vigilante?"
Detective Lance stares down at the arrow. Like the others, it is roughhewn and feathered with the plumes of a common crow, and like the others, it seems to have been a chance shot. He counts seven arrows littering the alleyway before he turns to the other officer. "Not that one, I'm afraid. But let's get this kid out of here first."
Ten minutes later, he watches the girl being transferred to an ambulance, but unease infects the relief that never fails him. He checks that he's alone, then pulls out his cellphone and makes the call. The Arrow picks up at once. "Detective."
"Looks like you got competition. Again."
