Chapter Eight

A/N: And I'm back. With a brand-new title and summary to boot.
So, suffice to say, I've done some thinking. When I first started this story, it was a plot bunny and nothing more. After Season 3 picked up again, I expected that I would probably end up abandoning this.

But, I just finished watching the finale, and Season 3 left me wanting. Don't get me wrong, there were lots of good parts, and some that I'll likely keep moving forward. But nonetheless, I feel like it could have been done better. And this will be my attempt at that.

For the first time ever with any of my stories, I've actually plotted out my chapters. I should have enough material for about 30, maybe even a few more depending on what comes along. And with that guide to follow, I plan to update much more regularly.
So, welcome to my official Season 3 AU. The Descent from Barenton begins now.

"Now tell me, Thea; what do you fear?"

Ra's' words echoed endlessly through her mind, bouncing off the inside of her skull and filling her mind with a relentless throbbing pain.

Her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow and rapid as she struggled to control the fear coursing through every vein in her body. The hallucinogen was wreaking havoc upon her mind, spinning illusions out of the very air around her and the ground under her feet. She tried to scream, but no sound would come forth, her voice paralyzed in terror.

She had screamed when they had taken her, loud and profane, for hours on end, cursing Ra's, the League, her father, and anyone or anything else she could think of that had led to her current situation. But it had done no good; the echoes of her cries simply mocked her, bouncing back to her from somewhere in the utter blackness.

Shadows rose up in front of her eyes, nameless, shapeless creatures of the night, whose breath was the icy chill of the grave. She tried to turn, to run and hide, to abandon that cursed place they called Nanda Parbat. But she could not; her feet were rooted to the floor, held in place by a teeming mass of stygian tentacles that writhed and wriggled out of the wood, entrapping her as surely as chains.

Her wrists were raw and bloody, her every move chafing painfully against the steel manacles that entrapped them. Those too she had struggled against, had fumbled desperately in the darkness to break or loosen their hold. But they remained implacable, impervious to her efforts, and so she had given up all hope, collapsing onto the cold stone.

Powerless to flee, she watched in horror as the shapes began to coalesce into forms that she knew; twisted, mocking caricatures of those she had once called family. First there was Oliver, his eyes now black as night and his voice thundering as he swore, "It was all to protect you, Thea! Everything I ever did was to protect you!"

"Liar," she tried to whisper, but her voice would not obey. And so the shadow-Oliver passed, his form dissolving back into the darkness.

It was his lies that had hurt the most. She knew her mother was a duplicitous woman, but Oliver she had trusted. Oliver, she had delusionally thought, understood what lies and secrets had done to their family, and would not betray her. And when he had, that betrayal had sunk the deepest, piercing her heart and allowing a corrupting venom to seep out, poisoning the memory of her half-sibling until his image brought her nothing but hate, until she saw him all around her in the mocking shadows.

Even as his snarling face was reclaimed by the darkness, however, a new form came forward to take his place. This time it was her mother. Moira Queen, defiant to her last breath as Slade's katana slipped through her ribs. She said nothing, but her gaze said all, fixing Thea with a stare that communicated everything she would ever need to say. "I will die before you understand," it whispered to her, a voice familiar and yet alien inside her mind. "I will preserve this family with the only silence that can protect all our secrets: the silence of the grave."

And then she too was gone.

Would it have been so difficult to be honest with one another? To simply tell the truth instead of covering it with lies upon lies? Lies which brought deceit, and darkness, which smothered the light until she was blind and alone, trusting no one, scrabbling in the shadows to find any ray of hope.

One more figure loomed before her. Malcolm Merlyn rose from out of the void, his armor and bow forming out of swirling mists of shadow. "Come, Thea," he said, extending a beckoning hand. "Come with me, and I will show you the truth."

She wanted to go, to take his hand and trust him, but she hesitated, still unsure of the father she barely knew.

And so Malcolm hissed, "You would deny me, Thea? Your own father?" The darkness began to cloud his face, drawing together in an opaque mask, but behind it, his voice still rose, terrible and furious, "I have sacrificed all for you, and this is how I am to be repaid!?"

And where was Malcolm now? Where was the father who had appeared in her life, who had promised an end to the lies and secrets, only to abandon her in the care of the League of Assassins and then vanish once again? Where was the man to whom she had given her last ounce of trust? Where was he now while she rotted in the dark?

Malcolm made as if to lunge for her, but before he could, his form dissolved in a tenebrous cloud, billowing up before her. His face loomed large, grinning maniacally, and swelled until it seemed to fill the entire world. Then he vanished, consumed by the cloud, only to be replaced by Oliver, vowing once again to protect her even as he aimed an arrow at her heart. He, too, was reclaimed by the shadow, and the cloud brought forth Moira, grasping futilely at the blade imbedded in her chest, but with eyes pleading for silence.

There was Malcolm again, and then Oliver, and then Moira once more, the enraged and terrified faces of her family blurring together and melding into one until they were all absorbed back into the growing darkness, the lightless cloud which swelled and swelled until her vision itself was blotted out, and she passed into unconsciousness.

How long she had so far spent in the darkness, she had no way of knowing. Time had no meaning to her, bereft of any light to define it. Sleep came fitfully, if at all, and so the hours stretched on end upon each other, endless and meaningless amidst the unfathomable void.

When she finally awoke, laying on a bed in a softly-lit room, Ra's was there. She started at the sight of him, but he laid a soothing hand on her forehead, offering water, and food. When she had eaten and drunk her fill, he sat next to her.

"What was it, Thea?" he asked, his tone quiet but urgent. "What did you see?"

Thea flinched, her mind fetching vivid memories of the things she had experienced in the chamber.

"I saw the dark," she whispered, her voice trembling

"And is the dark what you fear?" Ra's pressed.

Thea shook her head. "Not just the dark," she said. "I saw, and I feared, but I could not look away. I was trapped, imprisoned without truth or light in the void of its corrupting secrets, in the ignorance and helplessness that destroyed my family."

Ra's had nodded then, and bade her rest, which she did gladly, knowing not that her most terrible trial was yet to come.

The memory was painful, but hardly as painful as her present. Her stomach churned, turning violently in on its empty self, and her throat was parched from thirst. The air around her was thick and stale, heavy with the stench that comes from imprisoning a human being for days on end with not even a breath of fresh air to stir it.

They had come for her in the morning, in the midst of her meditation. How many men, she could not tell, but it was more than enough to beat her into submission and carry her down, down, into the depths of the monastery to a forgotten cell. There, they threw her, chaining her to the floor and shutting the door, around which not even so much as a crack of light could be seen.

And so now she sat, alone and shivering in the darkness.

This was some sort of sick test, she had known when it began, some task for her to "face her fears". But with no idea of what to do, chained to the floor, in darkness so complete she couldn't even see her own hand in front of her face, she could do nothing, nothing but scream until she was hoarse at the hallucinations her addled mind concocted to try and fill the void that her senses could not.

With every second she remained penned up in the darkness, she could feel her sanity beginning to slip away. Surrounded by fear, unable to escape, there were times when she wished death would come, if only to release her from this prison.

But for all the fear and confusion that permeated her body and mind as time dragged on, there was another force that began to grow alongside it: a kindling rage, burning in her chest, pushing away the terror and replacing it with a molten anger. Rage at those who had placed her in this position, but more than that, rage at herself, for giving in so easily, for allowing the fear to pollute her mind and body. It was the same rage, the same resolve that had carried her up the perilous climb to Nanda Parbat, that unstoppable drive to reject her past and forge herself anew in the fires of adversity.

Conquering her fears was only just another step in that path, she began to realize. And so she ceased her whimpering, ceased her indignant screams and focused on that feeling, embracing the anger that seeped throughout her body, the only warmth and the only light she had.

Thea Queen had been fearful. Thea Queen had been weak. She would have died in this cell long ago, given up all hope and surrendered to the terrifying dark.

But if Thea Merlyn was to die in this cell, then she would not die a coward. And if this was a test, then Thea Merlyn would do whatever it took to prove her worth.

For many more hours she meditated upon these resolutions, welcoming the fear into her mind, recognizing its presence, but refusing to give it dominion over her. And as this process continued, she began to see the darkness as something else. Rather than the empty void, from which was summoned forth all the secrets and tragedies of her past, the darkness was necessary destruction. It had pushed itself upon her, breaking down her barriers and reducing her to the most primal level of fear in order for something else to take the place of that fear, in order for her anger to gain control, in order for her to master her own mind.

This darkness was to be her crucible. And if its pressure was making her stronger, she would stay in its embrace as long as was necessary.

With this newfound determination, her perceptions shifted. Time no longer seemed to drag on endlessly, mocking and torturing; now it was in short supply, draining away too fast, every second precious to her continued progress. She forgot the ailments of her body; they would only drag her down. The chains which had once bound her in fear and in ignorance now seemed as light as feathers, instruments for her further instruction.

And as that instruction continued, the nature of her anger changed. What was boiling, uncontrollable rage was tempered by her meditation, hardening, and becoming cold, focused. Her hatred had given her strength in the past, but it was unsustainable; like all powerful emotions, it eventually faltered, the fire dying and allowing doubt and fear to grow in its place.

The cold would never leave her. It was constant, effortless, focusing and crystalizing. And so the ice grew around her heart, as sharp and clear as a diamond, shining in the darkness.

And then the door opened.

Thea's eyes screwed shut, crying out in pain as a flood of light entered the cell. Hissing in distress, she pushed herself back into a dark corner, as far as the chains would allow, squinting against the light.

A figure entered the cell, holding a blazing torch high, and Thea once again was forced to avert her eyes, days of darkness having conditioned them to the point wherein the sudden light was agonizing.

"Daughter of Merlyn," the figure said. "You have survived the test. Come with me, and I will show you out."

Thea said nothing, merely glaring at the floor, blinking rapidly as she forced her eyes to adjust to the new light.

She hated that light. The torch she wanted more than the entire world when this test first began was now her enemy, driving away the darkness within which she had found shelter and strength.

"Come, Thea," the figure said, walking closer. "Step into the light."

Thea gave no response save to lift her head, her eyes finally having adjusted to the point where she could see, albeit squinting heavily.

The man approaching her was a League member, undoubtedly, but unfamiliar to her. He held the torch high before him as he approached, either completely unaware or perfectly aware of how much she hated it, of how it was destroying the darkness that she had embraced. "I've come to get you out," he told her, even as she counted his steps and evaluated the distance between them.

His next step took him to within a few feet of her, and he began to crouch down, the torch now stiflingly close, its light and heat completely alien to her. "I've come to-"

Before the next words could even leave his mouth, Thea acted.

Throwing herself forward, she headbutted him directly in the stomach, feeling a rush of satisfaction as he gasped in surprise, doubling over and dropping the accursed torch to the stone floor. Capitalizing on his shock at being attacked, she threw out an arm and looped one of her chains around his neck, pulling him back towards her, into the dark.

He struggled mightily, thrashing against her hold, and a few days prior, he likely would have succeeded, her boiling rage blinding her and causing her to make a mistake that he could exploit. But now, her anger was frigid, and her motions were perfectly executed. Immobilizing his lower body by wrapping her legs around his waist, she looped her chains several times around his neck and proceeded to pull her arms in opposite directions, slowly constricting the metal. The man's eyes bulged in his sockets, his face turning red as he struggled for air, but Thea did not relent, her face expressionless as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. She unwound the chains, and his body collapsed limply to the floor.

He wasn't dead; she hadn't applied enough pressure for that, nor had she intended to kill him in the first place.

But what she did want to do was send a message to Ra's al Ghul, that the Thea Merlyn exiting this cell would not be the same as the one who entered it. And she did not intend to make that impression by hobbling out into the light, leaning helplessly on her rescuer.

Reaching over, she pulled the man's body to her, and ran her fingers over his belt until they felt the contours of a key ring. Ripping it off of him, she inserted the key into each of her manacles and twisted, watching with little emotion as they fell away.

She stood, able to do so for the first time since her captivity began, and her legs wobbled briefly underneath her as she stretched, but she paid the cramping no mind. Kicking the discarded torch into a far corner of the cell, she strode out into the hallway beyond.

Ra's was waiting for her, standing expectantly at the far end of the hallway, along with a pair of attendants. He nodded when she emerged, but his eyebrows twitched upwards when he noted her lack of a companion, as well as the new determination in her eyes.

"You survived," he said succinctly. "I hope the same can be said of your rescuer."

"He's alive," she confirmed, her voice as cold as her eyes. "But he learned that I am in no need of rescuing."

Ra's' lips twitched in a rare smile. "Of course." He held her gaze for another moment, but Thea did not feel cowed or intimidated, as she always had in the past when locking eyes with the Head of the Demon. Now, it felt as if she had finally earned the right to speak with him.

And she was not the only one who noticed the difference. Ra's' smile widened as he perceived her newfound confidence, and he spoke quietly. "Three days and three nights in the dark, Thea," he said. "You must have learned much."

"I did," she said. "But I am ready to learn more."

"In good time." Ra's folded his arms, hands disappearing inside the sleeves of his robe, and the attendants at his sides stepped forward, one holding a jug of water, and the other a loaf of freshly-baked bread. Thea's stomach practically leapt out of her skin at the sight and scent of the food, but her mind once again restrained herself. She looked to Ra's, and he gave her a curt nod.

Taking that as permission, she availed herself of the offerings, draining the water first, down to the last drop, before devouring the bread in less than a minute.

"You may take as much food and drink from the kitchens as you need," Ra's told her as she finished. "But before you do, there is yet one more task you must undertake."

Immediately, Thea set aside the empty jug. Her stomach still clamored for more, and her thirst was barely slaked, but the words of Ra's al Ghul took priority over all.

"I am ready," she declared.

"Then follow me," Ra's ordered, and turned.

Without question, Thea followed. Unlike before, however, when Ra's had led her to high towers or secluded chambers, this time he followed a familiar path.

The path to the armory.

"You have conquered your fear," Ra's told her as he paused at the door. "And so you have become one with yourself. The training of your mind is complete; now, we must finish the training of your body." He opened the door, and led her in.

"Choose one," he told her.

Thea blinked, looking around in awe at the racks upon racks of glittering weaponry which decorated the room. "I get to choose?" she said, amazed.

Ra's nodded. "Every warrior gets to choose, when they have finally mastered themselves. The true assassin knows that their weapons are an extension of their mind; you will become proficient with all, but there will be one which commands your body and your soul in a way that no other can. For me, it is the sword. For your father, it was always the bow. But you must find your own way, Thea."

"How do I choose?" she asked, still slightly amazed by the sheer variety of weapons that beckoned from the shelves; swords, daggers, spears, bows, throwing axes, and all manner of items she never even knew existed.

"Try them," Ra's said simply. "When you find the right one, you will know. It will be as natural as breathing."

Thea nodded slowly, hoping for more advice, but Ra's remained silent, watching expectantly.

Moving hesitantly over to the nearest rack, she found it contained swords of all manner and design. From simple, straight-bladed longswords of the kind she had seen in countless movies, to more exotic Mid-Eastern and Asian varieties with curved, notched, and even ringed blades. She took several of them in her hands, giving them a few experimental swings, but none of them felt quite right, all of them too long and unwieldy for her small frame.

Setting the swords down, she moved on to the bows next, memories of her childhood archery tournaments coming to mind. Ra's didn't seem surprised at the decision, but said nothing, watching intently.

Again, the variety of bows was breathtaking. To simplify the decision, she selected one from the center of the rack, a black, compound design that she had seen her father, as well as many other members of the League, use.

Holding the bow in a firing stance, she selected a black arrow from a nearby quiver and nocked it on the string, pulling back to full draw. It was no easy task, but she was far stronger than when she had arrived in Nanda Parbat, and so managed it without too much trouble.

As she held the bowstring to her cheek, however, and peered down the length of the shaft, memories came rushing back. Memories of her father, a man she still scarcely knew, but even more so memories of her half-brother, who had used the bow to sow death and terror in the streets of Starling City under the guise of justice, all the while lying to her face and bringing ruin to their family. And as her eyes locked on the glittering tip of the broadhead, her mind saw reflected in its steel the image of a green hood.

Thea shook her head violently, relaxing the string and plucking the arrow out to return it and the bow to their resting places as Ra's looked on with an intrigued expression. Her father and her brother were both men of the bow, but that weapon had caused too much damage to her family for Thea to take it up herself. Certain in that choice, she left the bows behind and moved on.

For close to an hour she wandered the armory, testing and experimenting, but nothing seemed to fit. Several times she looked back to Ra's for guidance, but he would simply shake his head and indicate for her to keep looking. "I cannot influence this decision for you, Thea," he said. "This choice is one you must make on your own, or else it will be false, and you will never bond with your weapon."

It made sense—in a strange, assassin-y way—and so Thea resolutely continued, methodically working her way through rack upon rack of weapons in the hope that something would connect.

And then she saw them.

They were resting solemnly in a display case just beyond the slings, glittering in the shifting candlelight. Beautifully-crafted daggers, row upon row, all of them with razor-sharp tips and rounded pommels. Drawing in a breath, she reached reverently down to pick one up, marveling at how perfectly the hilt seemed to fit into her hand. On a whim, she took it and placed it horizontally upon the tip of her finger, where the blade met the hilt, watching as it balanced perfectly halfway along its length. It practically begged to be thrown, its design as sleek as any arrow.

"The throwing dagger," Ra's remarked from where he stood. "A timeless weapon for an assassin. Easily concealed, but no less dangerous for it."

Thea smiled, returning it back to her hand. It fit like a glove, ready to be propelled with the flick of a wrist.

And so she did. Flexing her wrist, she wound up and released, watching as the dagger sliced through the air at incredible speed to bury itself, quivering, in the far wall.

"Have you made your choice, then?" Ra's asked as Thea grinned and made her way over to retrieve the weapon.

"Yes," she said, pulling it from the wood and folding her fingers neatly around the hilt. It was small, but deadly; simple, but elegant.

Just like herself, she thought.

"Yes, I have."

Ra's smiled. "Then we may begin."

000

Felicity Smoak was conflicted.

She hated it when that happened.

It was too late to turn back now, she knew. She was already dressed in her favorite gown, a deep scarlet color, with a hairstyle that had taken all day to perfect, and ninety minutes' worth of painstakingly-applied makeup. Plus, the cab was on its way, and she really didn't want to have to pay the cancellation fee.

She was going to dinner with Harvey Mitchell.

Now she just had to decide whether or not to tell Oliver.

He was out at a last-minute meeting with Joanna, preparing for the pre-trial hearing tomorrow. That was the first excuse she had used to justify not calling him, not telling him earlier. Oliver Queen was a busy man.

But he was also a prideful and sometimes jealous man. And Felicity seriously doubted that he would be fine with her going out to dinner with the District Attorney, even if she stressed the business-oriented nature. Oh, he might act the part, might wish her the best and tell her to have a good time, but whenever she saw him again, he would be cold and distant again, doing his best to stay out of her business but only confusing her and him and everyone else around them even more in the process.

And oh, how it irritated her. This is how real life works, Oliver, she wanted to say to him, to call him and let him know that she had a perfect right to go to dinner with whomever she pleased. People go to dinner with other people. Which you would know if you could ever get over your damn hero complex and just ask me already.

But now she was getting off-track. Oliver's infuriating mixed messages notwithstanding, they wouldn't be going to dinner anytime soon. But, as her phone buzzed, informing her that the cab had arrived, she had to make a decision.

Her thumb hovering over the 'call' button next to Oliver's picture, she weighed her options. Make the call, have an awkward conversation, and deal with passive-aggressive Oliver for a week or two. Or, don't make the call, enjoy the dinner, and hope he didn't find out.

Sometimes, Felicity thought, it was best to live dangerously.

Sorry, Oliver, she thought, slipping the phone into her bag. But not really.

Stopping by the mirror one last time to adjust her hair, she took a deep breath and headed out the door, navigating the sidewalk towards where the cab was parked quite quickly given the considerable heels she had chosen for the evening.

"Del Noce's on 34th, please," she told the driver, climbing into the backseat. He nodded and pulled back out into the street.

If she was being honest with herself, she had no idea what to expect. She trusted that Harvey intended this as a business meeting—surely a guy like him didn't need to resort to trickery to get women to go out with him—but she was still completely confused as to what he wanted. Her help with a case, that was clear, but what help she was in a position to provide was a mystery to her.

And then there was that thing he had said about Oliver and the company. What could the District Attorney possibly know or care about Oliver's attempts to regain control of Queen Consolidated?

It was a pretty puzzle indeed, and that frustrated her. Puzzles needed to be solved.

Focus, Felicity, she told herself. At the very least, you're getting a free dinner out of it.

She frowned. At least, she had assumed that Harvey would be paying. Even if it was a business dinner, he seemed like the kind of guy who would pay.

She hoped so. Del Noce's was one of Starling City's premier gourmet restaurants, and there was no way she could afford a night there on a TechVillage wage.

"Here you are, ma'am," the driver said as he pulled over to the side of the street.

"Thanks," she said distractedly, handing him the cash and climbing out onto the sidewalk.

The night was cool, and so she hastened her steps, climbing up the short flight of stairs towards the glittering glass doors over which the sign Del Noce's: Starling's Finest Since 1933 hung with pride.

Pushing through the doors into the foyer, she was already taken aback by the sheer opulence of the place. Impeccable black and white tile comprised the floor, which glimmered under the soft lighting. Peering past the receptionist's lectern, she could see into the main dining area, a vast, high-ceilinged room lined with bubbling fountains and marble statues. Men and women wearing Italian suits and designer dresses occupied the small, intimate tables, exchanging conversation over glasses of wine and gourmet meals that surely cost more than she could even imagine.

Felicity gulped. No, this was most definitely not her scene. She wondered briefly if this was the kind of place that Oliver had frequented when he was still a billionaire, and was glad that he had preferred instead to take her to Big Belly Burger. Here, 'fish out of water' didn't even come close to describing how she felt.

"Excuse me, ma'am," interrupted a voice to her left. "Do you have a reservation?"
Felicity blinked, pivoting sharply to face the receptionist, a balding man in a tuxedo bearing an expression akin to someone who had just bitten into a sour apple.

"Oh," she said, fumbling for words, "I, uh, well-"

"She's with me," cut in a familiar voice, smooth and masculine. Felicity glanced back to see Harvey Mitchell step through the door into the foyer, and she couldn't help but raise an appreciative eyebrow.

Clad in an immaculate black three-piece suit starkly contrasted against a white shirt and pocket square, and with blonde hair neatly parted and combed, Starling City's premier lawyer looked as if he had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Sleek, shined dress shoes clicking softly on the marble floor, he crossed over to her, taking a moment to adjust his cufflinks and allowing her a brief whiff of his aftershave. Or cologne; she couldn't quite tell. Whatever it was, it was intoxicating, and very expensive.

"Mr. Mitchell, of course!" the receptionist stammered. "My sincerest apologies." He ran a finger down his logbook, stopping as he read the correct name and checking it off. "Right this way, sir," he said, indicating them to follow.

"You look stunning, by the way," Harvey said as he caught her eyes, offering her his arm.

Felicity smiled nervously as she accepted, threading her arm through his as they began to follow the receptionist into the dining area. "Thank you," she replied automatically. "I tried."

Harvey smiled, and Felicity inhaled sharply as she once again realized late the connotations of her answer. "Not that I was trying to impress you or anything," she hastily offered in addition. "Not like this is a date. Because you said it wasn't. So yeah. None of that. Just dinner." She took in another breath to calm herself even as her eyes darted around. "Very fancy dinner."

Harvey's smile stretched even wider, a sight that would have surely charmed the heart of almost any woman. But for Felicity, it was automatically compared to the smiles of another man she knew, smiles which were far rarer, but all the more enrapturing for it.

And there it was. She was thinking about Oliver again. On an evening that was meant to be specifically Oliver-free.

She was hopeless.

"Right here, sir," said their escort, guiding them towards a small, circular table sequestered from the rest of the main dining area by a boundary of low curtain walls. "Your waiter will be with you presently."

Harvey nodded his thanks, but made sure to help Felicity into her seat before unbuttoning his suit jacket and taking his own across from her.

True to the receptionist's word, the two barely had time to get settled when an impeccably-dressed waiter appeared at the edge of their booth. "Shall we begin with drinks?"

"Macallan for me," Harvey responded immediately. "Number 18. Neat."

"Of course, sir," the waiter responded with a polite nod before turning to Felicity. "And for the lady?"

Felicity blinked, nonplussed. "Is…is there a menu, or something?"

Harvey smiled. "If you've heard of it, Ms. Smoak, they have it."

Felicity's eyes widened, and she looked up at the waiter for confirmation. The man simply nodded.

"And I assure you," Harvey added, "price is no object."

Still slightly bewildered, but emboldened by the last statement, Felicity looked up at the waiter. "Lafite Rothschild," she stated, with conviction. "1982."

"Certainly, madam," the waiter acknowledged, leaving with a bow.

Harvey raised an eyebrow as she returned her gaze to him. "An informed selection," he said admiringly. "Forgive me, but I hadn't guessed you for a connoisseur."

"I like wine," Felicity said simply, shrugging.

"Reason enough," Harvey conceded. Then, as silence settled between them, he laid his hands on the table. "Felicity—may I call you Felicity?"

She nodded, slightly touched by the gesture, and he smiled his thanks. "Before we begin, Felicity, I have some apologies to make."

Felicity frowned. "Come again?"

"You don't have to pretend like this hasn't all been incredibly strange," Harvey said, the corner of his mouth puckering. "I've hardly been forthcoming with the answers I know you're dying to hear, and from the outside, I'm sure this all looks rather…creepy."
"What? No," Felicity responded immediately, putting her hands up. "Not creepy. A little weird, yeah, but never creepy. Creepy would be, like, some guy wearing a hood and jumping around on rooftops." She clapped a hand over her mouth. "Not that I've had any experiences with the Vigilante. Just…the first guy that came to mind," she finished slowly, picking idly at the corner of the tablecloth and wondering if she could dive under it.

Harvey chuckled, by now accustomed to her rambles. "Well, as comforting as it is to know that I am still less creepy than the Arrow, I nonetheless insist on apologizing." His face grew serious, and his voice lowered. "Approaching you at work, asking you here, escorting you to the table; it was all very unprofessional, and I sincerely apologize."

Felicity's brow furrowed. "So why did you do it?"

Harvey blew out a breath through his nose. "Like I said, I need your help. And I needed this conversation to be inconspicuous."

Felicity gestured around, indicating the opulent restaurant. "This is your idea of inconspicuous?"

Harvey shook his head. "No, this is," he replied, gesturing between them.

Felicity shook her head. "What?"

"Imagine you're someone else in this restaurant," Harvey said. "Anyone else. What does this look like?"

Felicity thought for a moment, trying to find the right way to phrase her response, but finally, she simply stated the truth. "It looks like we're on a date."

"Exactly," Harvey said, leaning back. "Which is precisely the cover I need."

"Cover?" Felicity repeated incredulously. "What, are you a spy or something?"

Harvey's cheek twitched, and Felicity's eyes widened. "Oh no," she whispered, hands grasping the sides of the table. "Please tell me you're not a spy. Because I absolutely cannot deal with any more craziness in my life right now-"

"I am not a spy-," Harvey began, raising his hand.

"Which is exactly what a spy would say," Felicity replied before he could finish.

Harvey paused, searching for words, and settled on a chuckle. "Fair enough. But I assure you, I will not be ordering any vodka martinis over the course of this meal."

"That is of dubious comfort," Felicity answered. "And it still doesn't explain why you need a 'cover'."

Harvey pursed his lips for a moment, as if debating whether or not to tell her something, which only served to ramp up her suspicions even further. Just as he began to open his mouth again, however, the waiter returned with their drinks.

"For you, sir," the waiter said to Harvey, placing a crystal glass half-filled with beautiful amber scotch down before him, to which Harvey nodded his thanks.

"And for the lady," he continued, retrieving from his platter a tall, elegant glass filled with swirling vermilion wine. Felicity could smell it from across the table, a rich, sweet aroma, and it took all of her self-restraint to keep from downing the glass immediately and asking for another.

"Thank you," she said instead, accepting the glass.

The waiter wasn't finished, however, as he produced a pair of glossy leather-backed menus and placed them before the two diners. "Tonight's menu," he informed them proudly. "Additionally, we have a special tonight of the finest herb-roasted lamb, made with artichokes, green garlic, fava beans, and pimenton jus."

"We'll keep that in mind, thank you," Harvey assured the waiter, who dipped his head graciously and withdrew, promising to return shortly for their orders.

"Well, I don't know what any of this means," Felicity said after skimming over the menu, filled with foreign words and dishes she had never heard of printed on stationery she probably couldn't afford with a month's pay. "So I'm going to use my lifeline here, if you would."

Harvey's face cracked into a smile again. "The lobster is delightful," he said, to which Felicity shook her vehemently. "Uh-uh," she said. "No go. Very much not kosher."

One of Harvey's eyebrows jumped as he tilted his head. "You're Jewish?"

"Guilty," Felicity admitted.

"Understood," Harvey said, without missing a beat. "The salmon, then?"

"Sounds great," Felicity replied, reaching for her wine. "Now," she said, bringing the glass up to her lips, "I believe you still owe me an explanation as to why you're being all mysterious—oh, damn, that's good."

Harvey's face split into a grin, and Felicity wanted to slap herself. "I mean, um, I have good taste," she corrected.

"Indubitably, Ms. Smoak," he concurred.

"Well, go on, then," Felicity urged, desperate to move the conversation away from herself once again. "Please explain."

"As you wish," Harvey replied. He raised his glass and took a sip, savoring the drink before swallowing. He then placed it on the table and spoke, his voice low and earnest.

"I don't know how much you know about me, Felicity," he began, "and I know that at first glance I look like just another rich asshole—pardon my French—but there's one thing you need to know above all else: I'm not like most lawyers."

"I'm pretty sure every lawyer ever has used that line, actually," Felicity interrupted immediately, then blinked as she realized she had said that aloud. "Sorry," she stammered. "I'll just, go back to my wine." She took another drink, a longer draw this time, contemplating if it was possible to drown oneself inside a wine glass.

Harvey, to his credit, showed no irritation, only gave yet another of his easy smiles. "True enough," he admitted, "but unlike most of them, I am telling the truth." He, too, then took another sip from his glass, contemplating his words before continuing.

"At school, I was taught that the law was absolute. Sacred. The pinnacle of a civilized society, towards which we should all strive. Most of my classmates bought into that; they had to, they thought. After all, as a lawyer, the law is the source of your profession, your employment; how could you not be expected to defend its nature? But I was always a bit more cynical, never as quick to forget the great wrongs perpetrated by men throughout history pursuing what they thought to be the lawful course. Law and justice, I knew, were not always the same."

Felicity swallowed nervously. This type of rhetoric sounded entirely too familiar. Please don't be another vigilante, she thought desperately. Please no.

"Then I got out into the real world," Harvey continued, his eyes locking with hers, "and my beliefs were confirmed. In my first case as Central City's District Attorney, I was called upon to prosecute a preschool. Its owners, as a result of a shortage of available preschools in the city, had taken in a few more children than their license permitted in a fit of charity, and in so doing, 'jeopardized their ability to provide a safe learning environment'." He snorted. "At least, those were the words of the city councilman who insisted that I take the case. That being my first week on the job, I didn't have much ability to say no, so I, the District Attorney of Central City, took Little Steps Preschool to court."

He shook his head in disgust, taking another, larger sip from his scotch. "It was a slam-dunk of a case, open-and-shut. Now, I wasn't heartless; I tried to convince the judge in chambers to reduce the fines to a level befitting the 'crime'. But the judge insisted that 'the law is the law', and so he fined that establishment over twenty thousand dollars."

Felicity raised her eyebrows, but Harvey wasn't done.

"The owners filed for bankruptcy the next week," he continued, his voice seemingly dispassionate, but Felicity could easily detect the undercurrent of anger that ran through it. "The preschool was sold to a construction company, who then demolished it and put up a high-rise tenement building in its place. A tenement building, I later found out, which was owned by none other than a close friend—and donor—of the city councilman who ordered me to take the case." He blew out a breath, and then looked Felicity in the eyes again. "I helped keep eighty-three children out of an early education so that a slum lord could put up another one of his rent-controlled prisons, and so that slug of a councilman could keep his position come re-election."

Felicity watched, amazed at the emotion playing across the formerly-irascible lawyer's face. "Harvey, I'm so sorry," she said, "but that's not your fault. You can't think of it as your fault."

Harvey looked up at her. "Why not?" he asked. "I brought the case. I made the arguments. I may not have torn down the building, but I signed its death warrant surely enough."

Felicity made to object, but the look in his eyes silenced her. Harvey drained the last of his scotch, then looked up. "I learned that day the truth about my job. That laws are written by the rich and the powerful, and they protect the rich and the powerful. And that sometimes, justice demands a healthy skepticism of the law."

He set his glass down, a wan smile creeping back onto his face. "Now unfortunately, as the District Attorney, I can't exactly shout those facts from the mountaintops. If I'm going to pursue justice in this city, I need to be discrete. Which is why I needed a cover to meet you here."

Felicity tilted her head, evaluating the man before her. Her mind was torn; the paranoid part of her, conditioned by years of working alongside Oliver, was convinced that this was all a ploy, some elaborate hoax by the lawyer to get her to admit to her association with the Arrow and force her to divulge his identity.

But the stronger part of her knew the look in Harvey's eyes, the look of a man who was divulging a long-guarded secret. It was a look she had seen too many times from others in her life to ignore.

"Well," she said at long last. "Here I am."

Harvey smiled once more, but this time, she could tell it was as much with relief as with amusement. "Thank you, Felicity."

"Oh, I haven't agreed to anything yet," Felicity reminded him, finishing her wine and setting it down with a longing glance at the bottom of the glass before looking up again. "But you've piqued my curiosity. So tell me: what exactly did you plan on asking me to do? And please don't tell me you're planning on becoming a vigilante, because in case you couldn't tell, our city has more than enough of those already."

Harvey chuckled. "You won't have to worry about me running around in leather tights anytime soon, Ms. Smoak," he assured her. "No, my crusades are of the far more boring variety, I'm afraid."

"Well in that case, I'm going to need more wine," Felicity said as she observed the waiter beginning to make his way back over.

Harvey leaned back in his chair. "Of course," he said, nodding politely.

"Are you ready to order?" the waiter asked as he approached the edge of the table, with a slight bow.

"We are," Harvey confirmed, passing the menus back to him. "The lady will have the salmon, and I the lamb."

"Excellent choices," the waiter approved, collecting the menus. "And shall I refill your drinks?"

"Yes, please," Harvey responded immediately, leaning in towards the waiter. "And let's not have to ask that question again for the rest of the night, shall we?" he said conspiratorially.

The waiter nodded, the barest trace of a smile at his lips. "Of course, sir."

"Harvey Mitchell," Felicity said with feigned outrage, "are you trying to get me drunk?"

The million-watt smile returned as Harvey straightened back up and adjusted his jacket. "Mainly just myself," he answered, "though if you should happen to find yourself there as well, who am I to frown on such a happy coincidence?"

Felicity gave a small laugh, which trailed off into a pleasant silence as she met his gaze.

Was he flirting with her? She was momentarily confused, and grew annoyed as she

realized that two years of working with the emotionally-frigid Oliver had significantly clouded her ability to interpret normal male behavior.

He's just joking around, she told herself. Like a normal person.

Her thoughts were then interrupted by the fortuitous return of the waiter, bearing another pair of drinks as he cleared away their old glasses.

"Well," she said as she collected her new glass, "happy coincidences aside, if you want me to remember this conversation tomorrow morning, you'd best start explaining."

Harvey smirked. "If you insist." He took a sip from his scotch, and then laid his hands flat on the table, his voice and expression now all business. "Felicity, are you familiar with Bainbridge Capital Management?"

Felicity frowned, swirling the wine around her glass. The name sounded familiar, but why?

Ah yes. Because about a year ago, Oliver had put an arrow in the shoulder of one of their vice presidents in order to get him to confess to stealing deposited pension funds. Surprised to see them again, she thought sarcastically.

"I've heard the name," she said vaguely. "Big slimy investment bank, right?"

"The biggest and slimiest in Starling," Harvey confirmed. "Their CEO is a one Mr. Nikolas Sokolov. He's a grade-A scumbag; been financing human trafficking operations for the bratva for years according to my sources, but none of them want to compromise their identity, and he's smart enough to cover his tracks so that I can't put together enough evidence to indict him." Harvey drew in a breath. "And he was also one of the largest single contributors to Sebastian Blood's mayoral campaign."

Felicity snorted, unsurprised. "Well, you know what they say: scum of a feather and all that."

Harvey nodded. "So it seems. Especially since one of Blood's few acts in his short term as mayor was to drop the city's claim to a plot of land on the outskirts of Starling that Sokolov had been trying to purchase to build himself a new mansion or something. It was enough of a connection for me to ring up some basic bribery and corruption charges for an indictment and get the bank to surrender its books so I could investigate further. I thought I'd finally gotten the son of a bitch."

"Sounds like you did your job," Felicity observed, a little confused as to where this was going.

"That's not where the story ends," Harvey continued. "While Sokolov evidently didn't think that the timing of Blood's gift was suspicious, he was certainly smart enough to cover his tracks by breaking the donations into smaller sums and routing each separately through a series of different shell corporations before it ended up in Blood's hands."

"So you need me to unscramble the breadcrumbs," Felicity realized, then shook her head. "Sorry. Mixing metaphors again."

Harvey gave an amused huff, but continued. "In essence, yes. I need to prove a direct link from Sokolov's money to Blood so I can subpoena records from the Blood administration and look for any further communication between the two. But because all those shell corporations are technically separate entities, I'd have to subpoena their financials separately. It could take me weeks to hunt through all the transfers and find all the links, which will give Sokolov even more time to cover his tracks." He paused to take another drink, and looked back up at Felicity. "If, however, I knew exactly where to look, it would expedite the process considerably."

Felicity tapped her chin. "Assuming then, I was willing to infiltrate all those companies, examine their records, and find the money trail, what's in it for me?"

Harvey splayed his hands out on the table, palms up. "Surely the pursuit of justice is its own reward?" he said innocently.

Felicity didn't bat an eye. "Nice try," she said. "But you told me at the store that if I had an interest in helping Oliver Queen get his company back, I should meet you."

Harvey folded his hands back together. "I was wondering if you would remember that."

"I may be clumsy, but I'm not a complete airhead," Felicity replied, taking another sip from her wine. "So go on. Cough it up. What's the connection to Oliver?"

Harvey nodded, as if approving her tenacity. "Nothing concrete as of now," he stipulated, "but in the course of my digging, I uncovered an interesting fact: Nikolas Sokolov has had dinner with none other than Mr. Stephen Latimer a half-dozen times over the past few months, prior to his ascension to CEO of Queen Consolidated."

Felicity blinked. "That's it?"

Harvey held up a hand. "I know it doesn't sound like much, but I did my homework. Stellmoor International has absolutely no business dealings with Bainbridge Capital; they prefer to use their in-house investment-banking division. So if Sokolov and Latimer weren't discussing business, what were they talking about over the course of six different dinners?"

Felicity shrugged. "I don't know. Their stock portfolios. Betting on who could be the richest douchebag, or whatever else slimy CEOs talk about. It seems like a pretty thin connection."

"It's thin because we haven't looked any deeper yet," Harvey asserted. "If you help me link Sokolov to the money and if I prove that in court, then I can name Latimer as a suspected accomplice and investigate further. And if I can prove Latmer knew about the bribery, well, he'll be swapping that corner office for a prison cell. Which leaves the CEO spot open for Mr. Queen again."

"That's a lot of 'ifs'," Felicity said, swirling her wine around in the glass.

"Welcome to the legal profession, Ms. Smoak," Harvey said with a sardonic smile. It faded a moment later, however, and he picked up his glass, swallowing another mouthful of his Macallan.

"I recognize I'm asking a lot of you, Felicity," he said quietly as he put the glass down. "Sokolov is a dangerous man, and by going after him publicly I've put a target on my back. It is perfectly within your rights to say no." He leaned forward then, elbows on the table as he looked her in the eyes. "But I came to you because I need help. Because this city needs help. And I can't save it alone."

A silence stretched across the table as Felicity considered the man before her. In so many ways he reminded her of Oliver, with his passion, his dedication, and his appeals to justice. Yet he was also different; more hopeful, more idealistic.

More naive, said a voice in her head that sounded remarkably like Oliver. He's going to get himself killed.

And how many times had she told Oliver the same thing?

"I'll help you," Felicity said finally. Harvey grinned, and opened his mouth to thank her, but she held up a finger, indicating she wasn't finished. "On two conditions."

"Name them," Harvey said, holding out his hands to indicate acceptance.

"First, this is completely off the record. I don't have to testify or anything. Anything I find will be mailed to your office as an anonymous tip."

"Of course," Harvey said, nodding. "And the second?"

Felicity took a deep breath. "You don't tell Oliver anything about this."

Harvey's eyebrow twitched up for a moment, but he quickly restored his expression to equanimity. "Agreed."

Felicity took another sip of her wine. "Well then, Mr. Mitchell, it appears we have a deal."

"And just in time for dinner," Harvey said as the waiter approached bearing a silver platter, a delectable medley of aromas wafting in front of him. "You will be staying, I hope."

Felicity laughed and shook her head. "Provided we're done talking about slimy CEOs."

"Done," Harvey agreed with a grin. "Small talk only from here on out." Felicity laughed again and finished her second glass of wine, feeling the warmth of the alcohol beginning to tingle in her blood.

"Small talk it is," she agreed, and placed her glass out to the side for the waiter to refill. "So tell me: what made you decide to go to law school?"

Harvey smirked. "Well, now that's a long story."

"I've got all night," Felicity replied, gesturing around.

Harvey's smirk stretched into a grin. "Well, you see, after my modeling career fell through…"

000

"…and I am very grateful for that, I assure you-"

"Sir."

"-yes, I'll be sure to remind him of that-"

"Sir."

"Absolutely. Anything I can do to help-"

"Sir."

Stephen Latimer, CEO of Queen Consolidated, gritted his teeth in annoyance and lowered his phone from his ear to look across the limousine at his head of security, a tall, bald man by the name of Phillip. "What?" he spat out irritably.

"We're here, sir," Phillip said simply.

"Ah, Of course. Thank you, Phillip," Latimer said with false gratitude. Phillip gave no indication of offense, merely nodded politely and opened the door, stepping outside to join the rest of the security detail that was now disembarking from the two black SUVs which bracketed their limousine, front and back.

"My sincerest apologies for that, sir," Latimer said, returning the phone to his ear. "My head of security was just informing me that we've arrived."

"No need to apologize," the voice on the phone replied. It was a smooth voice, cold and confident; the voice of a man who knows he is in absolute control. "You have your instructions, and the asset is at your disposal. I wouldn't want to keep you waiting."

"Thank you, sir," Latimer said.

"Goodbye, Mr. Latimer."

"Goodbye, sir," Latimer replied, ending the call and returning the phone to his pocket.

He got up, glancing disdainfully at the darkened, raining night sky, and opened the door to the limousine but did not exit. Presently, Phillip appeared by the door, opening an umbrella and holding it above the door.

"Thank you, Phillip," Latimer said, stepping outside, dress shoes clicking on the concrete as his dark-suited security personnel formed up around them.

He stood there for a moment, hearing rain patter against the shelter of his umbrella as he buttoned his suit jacket and considered the building before them. It was an old ruin of a warehouse, deep in the Glades, another former cog in the vast industrial machine that had been Starling City's poorest neighborhood years ago but was now merely a decaying urban jungle of rust and rubble.

He hated the sight of it.

"You've swept the building?" he asked Phillip.

"Three times," Phillip confirmed. "It may not look like much, but it's safe. And quiet."

"And filthy," Latimer observed acidly. "Unsurprising that he would choose to meet here; it suits him."

Phillip gave no reply.

Latimer sighed. "Well, I suppose I may as well get this over with. Come on."

He moved forward, his detail escorting him and Phillip holding the umbrella high every step of the way to the front entrance. Once there, Phillip passed the umbrella to a subordinate and stepped up to the door, knocking four times.

There was a moment's pause, and then the door cracked open, partially revealing a grubby-faced man with snarled dark hair and heavy stubble. He looked Phillip up and down, then glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the party.

Latimer tapped his foot impatiently. "Well?"

The man muttered something to himself, but reluctantly opened the door, allowing Latimer and his men to proceed into the building.

Latimer held his breath as he passed by the doorman. The scent of cheap vodka practically rolled off the man's clothing.

"They're here," the doorman announced into a radio. He then looked at Latimer. "Follow me."

Latimer sighed, but had no choice but to follow with his detail as the doorman led them down the hall, finally opening another door and entering into the warehouse proper.

It was a vast, cavernous room, only partially filled with towering stacks of empty crates. A few flickering lightbulbs hung from the ceiling, clinging faintly to whatever meager power could be put out by the dilapidated generators and casting a circle of pale illumination on the center of the warehouse floor, and the man who stood in the center of it, dressed in a heavy overcoat.

"Stephen, my friend," said Nikolas Sokolov. He was a large man, plump and balding, with a face like a basset hound and a voice like a bag of rocks. "It is good to see you again."

"We aren't friends, Mr. Sokolov," Latimer said irritably as he closed to within a dozen feet of the Russian, his security personnel spreading out behind him. "We were partners, but we both know why that's not the case anymore."

"You wound me, Stephen," Sokolov postured. "Whatever our disagreements, do you truly find it necessary to bring along your toy soldiers?"

Latimer gave no response, merely raised an eyebrow and swept an arm around, indicating the six leather-jacketed men who stood in a semi-circle behind the Bainbridge CEO, openly brandishing their submachine guns.

Sokolov waved a hand dismissively. "Come now, Stephen. You know my bratva brothers are only doing their job."

"As are my men," Latimer responded. "Now, can we please get to business? Let's start with you explaining why we had to meet in this forsaken warehouse instead of somewhere civilized."

"You know I am under investigation," Sokolov grunted. "Anywhere else would be watched. The DA is getting close."

"And whose fault is that?" Latimer asked sarcastically.

Sokolov bristled. "You know it was never my intention for this to happen," he said. "I had no reason to believe that the new DA would be so aggressive. I was merely capitalizing on an opportunity, like any respectable businessman. Surely you understand."

"Bullshit," Latimer snapped, taking a step forward. Some of the bratva members shifted uneasily, but Latimer ignored them. "What I know is that your greed and inability to follow simple instruction has compromised a year-long operation, and given us all exposure."

Sokolov narrowed his eyes. "Regardless of my actions, this is pointless," he retaliated. "Our employer still needs me, and my network. Without my funding of his campaign, Mr. Ross will never become mayor, and our employer then won't have his puppet in city hall."

Latimer chuckled. "Oh, but that's where you're wrong, Mr. Sokolov." He took another step forward, his posture menacing, and Sokolov instinctually retreated a pace. "You see, I spoke with him quite recently. We discussed your…indiscretion. And it was agreed that, in the light of your negligence, Queen Consolidated, under my direction, would take on the transfer of funds to Mr. Ross."

Sokolov's face paled, recognizing the consequences of such an action, but he was quick to bluster. "Impossible," he said. "He would never go behind my back. We are partners-"

"You overestimate your importance, Mr. Sokolov," Latimer spat, taking another step forward. The Russians made to raise their weapons, but at a flick of Latimer's wrist, his security personnel also drew their handguns.

A tense silence settled upon the warehouse as the two sides stared each other down. Latimer, however, was focused only on Sokolov, whose was now shifting anxiously.

"Your network was useful, yes," Latimer said, not breaking eye contact, "but it can easily be replaced by another. With our employer's approval, I arranged the first payments to Ross's campaign just this morning. Ross will become mayor, our employer's plan will proceed, but you will be left behind." He sighed. "You and I have always been mere tools; I knew that, and made my peace with it. But you chose to pursue your own interests, and in so doing, revealed yourself to be a liability."

"What are you going to do, then?" Sokolov challenged. "Shoot me right here? And invite a full-on war with the bratva?"

Latimer shook his head, a slight smile appearing on his face. "No, Mr. Sokolov, nothing so pedestrian. Your death now would only invite more suspicion from the DA's office. No, you will live. You will abandon your involvement with our employer. And you will stand trial." His voice became deadly quiet then. "But you will not breathe a word of this to anyone, or prison will be the least of your concerns."

Without even waiting for a response, Latimer turned and began to walk back towards his detail.

"Wait!" Sokolov cried. "Wait, there is still time! I can arrange a hit on the DA, make all of this disappear. Then we can continue our partnership."

Latimer stopped, turning back around. "Fear has turned you stupid, evidently," he stated viciously, and Sokolov flinched. "You think the death of the district attorney would not raise suspicions?" He snorted in disgust. "Perhaps it was fortunate you arranged that bribe when you did; now we can cut you loose before you do anything even more dangerous."

Sokolov took a step forward now, his face twisting into the snarl of a cornered animal. "You're too late," he hissed.

Latimer raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"I suspected you might come here to try and intimidate me," Sokolov said distastefully, "so I took the initiative. The hit has already been put out; five million dollars for the district attorney's life. Mr. Mitchell is a dead man walking." He crossed his arms smugly. "And with him gone, I have more than enough friends in the DA's office to ensure that my charges are cleared."

Latimer shook his head. "Your mistake, Mr. Sokolov," he said, "is presuming that all of this has not already been arranged."

Sokolov frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, quite frankly, that you don't have a choice," Latimer stated bluntly. Then, he stuck his hands into his pockets, and said loudly, "Now."

"Now what?" Sokolov asked. "Who are you talking to-?"

Almost faster than one could blink, the two Russians on the ends of their semi-circle collapsed simultaneously to the floor, hands grasping futilely at the darts embedded in the backs of their necks. Then, before the rest of the group could even cry in alarm, a black-robed form dropped down from above into the middle of them.

The odds were four to one, but that meant nothing to the dark-robed man. He moved like a panther, swift and powerful, blocking strikes with ease and breaking bones in return. A lone Russian managed to fire off a single ineffectual burst from his submachine gun before it was wrested from his hands and shoved back into his throat, then discarded on the ground.

When the melee ended in a matter of seconds, the assassin was the only one left standing amidst a pile of groaning bodies.

And he advanced on Sokolov.

"What is the meaning of this?" the Russian demanded. "Who are you? What do you want?"

The assassin said nothing. Only a brief flicker of light as a knife appeared in his palm hinted at his intentions.

Before Sokolov could move the assassin was on him, shoving him back against a tower of crates and pressing the knife to his throat.

"His name is of no consequence to you," Latimer stated. "The only thing that matters is that he is a fellow associate of our employer. And I assure you, he is more than capable of ensuring no one ever finds your body."

"Wait!" Sokolov pleaded as the assassin began to put pressure on the knife, pricking into his skin. "Wait, I'll stop it!"

"You'll stop what?" Latimer asked, idly picking at his fingernails.

"I'll call off the hit!" Sokolov gasped, his eyes desperate. A thin trickle of blood ran down his neck from where the assassin's knife had broken skin. "Just please, don't kill me!"

Latimer stood for a moment in silence, as if considering Sokolov's offer. Then, finally, he turned to face the assassin. "That will be all, Al-Saqr," he said. "Thank you."

Al-Saqr stepped back, sheathing the knife, and Sokolov collapsed to the ground, wheezing.

Latimer crouched, reaching out to lift up Sokolov's chin to look him in the eye. "Al-Saqr is only one of countless agents our employer possesses. You cannot run. You cannot hide. There are not enough guards in the world to protect you. Your only option," he said quietly, "is to comply."

With that, he stood and left, waving his security detail after him. Sokolov remained gasping on the floor.

When he looked up again, the assassin was gone.