Chapter Eleven: Trapped

The first thing that Oliver was conscious of was the smell of alcohol, the unusually strong aroma drifting through his nostrils and into that part of his mind that was struggling to break free of the shackles of sleep. For a few moments he lay unmoving, half aware that the smell was in some ways unexpected, but not fully comprehending its meaning. He knew he had been asleep, but for how long he did not know. What he did know was that the sleep he had enjoyed (no, enjoyed wasn't the right word – endured was more like it) was unlike any sleep he'd ever experienced before. The sleep he had snatched during his long captivity in Lex's cage had never satisfied his need for rest, but even those dark days were as nothing to what he was feeling at that moment, as he tried to drag his mind and body into the land of the living. He felt so tired, so utterly, terribly tired! What sort of sleep was it that left you feeling ten times more exhausted when you finally woke up? Indeed, as Oliver thought about it, he realised he had no recollection of falling asleep – in fact his memory of everything after Chloe had left was a blank....

Chloe! His mind was clearing a little now – certainly it was clear enough to allow the sting of regret he had felt at his foolishness at allowing his pride to cloud his judgement to prick his conscience once more. Inwardly he groaned as he recalled how she had left his bedside so quickly, her distress at his thoughtlessness all too obvious from the tears that had started to slip down her cheeks. The sharpness of that memory gave rise to a new resolution; when next he saw her he would apologise without reservation, and declare once more the depth of his love for her. He could never say that enough – how blessed he was to have found a woman like Chloe Sullivan....

Slowly he forced his eyes open, and to his surprise he found himself staring at the ceiling not of his bedroom, but of the main living area of the penthouse. To add to his confusion he could now taste as well as smell alcohol; as he ran his tongue along his lips he could detect the unmistakable flavour of his favourite single malt whiskey. It made no sense – he'd not touched a drop since he'd given his solemn word to Chloe. Gingerly he swung his body round and into a seated position, as he did so the empty bottle of whiskey rolling from where it lay on his body onto the floor. Oliver stared at it for a few seconds, trying to comprehend its meaning. Why was it there? Why was he on the couch, and not in his bed? None of it made any sense, but try as he might he could not summon to mind any memory that would explain his current predicament.

Suddenly he felt a powerful need for water, his body making known its need for rehydration. He pulled himself up from the couch, swaying for a moment as he found his balance. It was then that it hit him – a wave of nausea such as he had rarely encountered before. Aware instinctively that he would not make it to the bathroom in time, he dashed towards the kitchen; he just managed to get his head over the sink before the muscles of his gut contracted and he vomited violently. And so it began – for what seemed like an eternity he was rooted to that spot as his body spewed forth the contents of his stomach. The retching was uncontrollable, and continued long after the contents of his gut had been washed away by the tap that Oliver had fumbled to turn on; when at last it stopped Oliver felt physically drained, sweat pouring off him as he at last managed to pour himself a glass of water.

It was as he gratefully drank the water that an image flashed into his mind, twenty times more vivid than any normal memory. Oliver had to use his free hand to steady himself on the side of the counter, such was the power of the picture that flashed into his mind - a terrible picture, a picture of Chloe's head in a noose, her neck broken and her eyes staring forwards, lifeless and unseeing. Where had that come from? It felt real – in fact, it felt more than real, if that was possible – but Oliver had no understanding of where the horrific picture had come from, or what it meant. Nothing seemed to make any sense, nothing at all....

Instinctively he reached for his cell, dialling Chloe's number. He needed her – he needed to say sorry, he needed her reassurance, he needed her touch. His heart sank when she did not answer, before a far more worrying thought came into his mind. Had he been drinking? The bottle, the alcohol on his lips, his sickness, the inexplicable flashback – weren't these the things you'd expect after a major drinking session? After all, he couldn't remember anything after Chloe had left – maybe he'd hit the bottle? It all made perfect sense, and as Oliver slowly made his way towards the shower the thought that he had broken his promise to Chloe grew ever larger in his thoughts.

Fifteen minutes under the shower had a rejuvenating effect on Oliver's body, if not his mind. As he walked back into the main area of the penthouse, pulling on a tight white t –shirt as he did so, he was filled with a fresh sense of anxiety. As he had stood under the water he had convinced himself that he had been drinking – it was the only thing that made any sense to him – but now he was possessed by the fear that perhaps Chloe had come back and found him in a drunken state. Maybe that was why she wasn't answering her phone – the hurt she felt at his betrayal was too raw. Anxiously he picked up his cell for a second time, desperate to hear the reassuring sound of her voice; it was with immense relief that he heard the sound of his call being answered.

"Chloe, it's Oliver. I tried calling earlier, but you weren't answering. I just wanted to say...."

"I'm afraid Miss Sullivan can't come to the phone right now."

Oliver was stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of an unfamiliar voice at the end of the line. A man's voice – breathless, excited, slightly lacking in control....

"Who is this?" said Oliver after a few second's pause, uncertainty audible in his voice. "Where's Chloe?"

"Miss Sullivan is fine, Mr Queen – and she will remain so for as long as you do exactly as I say."

Oliver's heart missed a beat – Chloe had been kidnapped!

"Who is this? What have you done with Chloe?" he demanded, struggling to keep the mixture of anger and fear that he felt at that moment from his voice.

"Meet me at the gate to Fincham Cemetery in forty minutes. Come alone – or you'll never see your pretty little fiancé again."

"What do you ...?" Oliver did not get a chance to complete his question, as the line went dead. He stood for a moment, his mind reeling from the short conversation which in the space of a few seconds had turned his world upside down. Chloe had been taken, but by who? There had been no clues in what the man had said – just a certainty that came from the knowledge that he was in complete control. For a moment he thought about ringing Clark, or even contacting the guys. He quickly rejected the idea – the man had said come alone, and he couldn't put Chloe's life at risk by disobeying his instructions – not until he knew more about who he was up against. The kidnapper probably intended to force Oliver to pay a ransom; after all the coverage his engagement to Chloe had got in the press in recent weeks, he might have known that they would become the target for every low life and criminal in the city. Oliver cursed himself that he'd not done more to keep Chloe safe, but at least he wasn't up against someone in Lex's league – at least, he thought he wasn't.

Seized by the need for urgency, he dashed into his bedroom. Fincham Cemetery was quite a distance; realising he'd already wasted five minutes, Oliver decided to take his motorbike so as to be certain he could beat the traffic. Swiftly he pulled on his black leather pants, before donning his biker jacket and grabbing his helmet from a cupboard. It was the gear he wore when he went riding on his Ducati, the speed he achieved on the bike often giving him a much needed feeling of liberation after a long day in the boardroom constricted by diary and tie. Today the bike would fulfil a very different role – it would deliver him to a meeting with a man who threatened the life of the woman he loved.


It was dark by the time Oliver arrived at the gates to Fincham Cemetery. As he brought the Ducati to a halt he scanned his surroundings closely, alert to the slightest danger; his body was still fragile from the effects of the drug he had unwittingly taken, but his senses were tingling, ready for whatever Chloe's kidnapper might have in store. Seeing nothing, he dismounted, taking off his helmet and hanging it from the handle of his bike. He could hear clearly then, and after the roar of the motorcycle combined with the sounds of Metropolis's traffic the silence that greeted him was almost eerie. The place seemed deserted – the perfect location for a meeting that was not intended to be observed.

Oliver glanced at his watch; he was on time, almost to the minute. He could hear his heart thumping in his chest, his anxiety for Chloe mixed with expectation of the coming confrontation. What was about to happen? What demands would the mysterious kidnapper make? Whatever the case, he would find out soon enough.

"You're on time, Mr Queen. I'm glad – I would have hated to have had to hurt Miss Sullivan so early in our little game."

Oliver spun round in the direction of the voice. Before him, standing next to the stone pillar that anchored one of the enormous cemetery gates in place, stood a man, partially obscured by the darkness. He was not what Oliver had expected, not that he really knew what he expected; short and clearly overweight, the man appeared to have no weapon of any sort. There was nothing of the professional about him, no sense that he was a hardened mobster; if anything the figure that lurked in the shadows appeared almost comical.

"Where's Chloe? What have you done with her?" demanded Oliver, his confidence that this was a situation he would be able to handle growing with the sight of his adversary.

"All in good time, Mr Queen – all in good time. After all, you and I have so much to catch up on." The man spoke with control, but Oliver could sense that he was struggling to contain his excitement; despite his unimpressive appearance, he was clearly feeling the thrill of being in charge of the situation.

"What have you done with Chloe?" demanded Oliver a second time, not willing to be drawn away from his primary purpose.

"Don't you recognise me, Mr Queen? I'm disappointed – I really am. Perhaps if I stepped into the light I might jog your memory a little."

The man took a couple of steps forward, so that he was clearly lit by the light that stood on top of the stone pillar.

"Winslow?" said Oliver, recognising instantly the bespectacled figure who now stood grinning just a few feet from him. Knowing who Chloe's kidnapper was instantly filled Oliver with a strange mixture of relief and heightened anxiety. He was relieved that he was not facing a more powerful foe; Chloe had not been taken by organised crime, or a gang of hardened criminals. But at the same time he felt a small shudder of fear run down his spine. He remembered Winslow all too well; the powerful intelligence, the obsession with explosives that had resulted in his dismissal, the unstable personality....

"So you do remember! Of course I'd be disappointed if you hadn't, Mr Queen – after all the money you've made from my inventions, it would be hard for you to forget."

"What have you done with Chloe, Winslow?"

"That's Mr Schott, to you – I think it's time you started to show me a little respect, don't you?"

"Just tell me what you want," replied Oliver abruptly, not willing to give Schott the satisfaction of complying with his demand.

"What I want, Oliver Queen, is justice – justice for all you've stolen from me, justice for how you've ruined my life!" Schott was starting to lose control now – his eyes flashed with anger, and Oliver could sense the pent up emotion building within him.

"Is it money? Is that it? Is that what you want?"

"Oh, I want money, Mr Queen – I want my share of what you stole from me, with interest! But I want more than that – so much more!"

"What do you mean?"

"I want to play a game, Mr Queen. Would you like that? Would you like to play my little game?"

"I'm not playing any games," replied Oliver, frustrated at the unwillingness of Schott to make his demands clear. "Just tell me what you want to let Chloe go, alright?"

"You don't have any choice, Mr Queen – you will play my game. You see if you don't, the lovely Miss Sullivan will die."

Something snapped within Oliver when he heard those words, said with such unsettling certainty. He lunged at Schott, grabbing him by his lapels and slamming him back against the hard stone of the pillar.

"If you do anything to hurt her I'll kill you, do you hear? Anything – anything at all!" It was Oliver who had now lost his composure, his rage at his apparent impotence finding an outlet.

"Oh, but I will hurt her Mr Queen – if you don't play my game, Chloe Sullivan will certainly die," replied Schott, meeting Oliver's angry glare with a look of supreme confidence. "You see I've hidden Miss Sullivan very well – very well indeed. I'm sure you could beat it out of me eventually, but by then it will be too late. You see your beautiful fiancé is even as we speak wired to a device that is set to explode unless I send a delaying code on the hour, every hour. And the code changes every time, so you'll never save her – not unless you do exactly as I say. I'm in control here, Mr Queen – the triumph of brains over muscle, don't you think?"

For a moment Oliver said nothing, and if anything his grip on Schott tightened even as he realised that Schott's grip on him was complete. The man had thought of everything, and Oliver knew that he was trapped; he had no choice but to go along with Winslow's demands, at least for now.

At last Oliver let go, and took a step back. He said nothing as Schott recovered his composure, straightening his collar and readjusting his coat.

"What is it that you want me to do?" asked Oliver quietly, the sound of resignation in his voice.

"I've told you, Mr Queen – I want you to play my little game! And you have my word – if you play my game and win, then Miss Sullivan will be released unharmed."

"And if I lose?"

"Lose? You're not going to lose – you're the Green Arrow!"

For a split second Oliver was unable to mask his surprise at hearing Schott say out loud the name of his alter ego. How did he know? A situation which had appeared manageable just minutes earlier now felt as if it was slipping from his grasp.

"Yes, Oliver, I know about your secret double life – and it wasn't Chloe who told me, I can assure you. I know everything, Oliver – everything. So if you were thinking about asking those freaks you know to come to your aid, don't – any contact with your team and Chloe will die, understand?"

Oliver nodded, his face clouded with frustration and anger.

"Good! Now shall we begin my little game? I am eager to start."

"So...?" asked Oliver, unclear about what he was meant to do now.

"So now back to your penthouse, Mr Queen," said Schott, reaching down and picking up a motorcycle helmet he had placed to the side of the pillar. "I must say I'm looking forward to riding pillion on a Ducati – such a magnificent piece of engineering!"

Oliver looked at the helmet in Schott's hand, a question forming in his mind.

"You're wondering how I knew you'd be on the bike? I told you, Mr Queen – I know everything. Now, shall we go? I'm so looking forward to seeing the penthouse that my genius helped to buy!"


Toyman's in control - we wouldn't want it any other way, would we? Lots of angst and danger to come, and not just for Ollie and Chloe....

I just had to take the opportunity to get Ollie on his Ducati in this chapter - he looked so awesome on his bike in Rabid, I just couldn't resist!

Thanks so much to the wonderful reviewers who keep me going - Your thoughts mean a huge amount to me! Please do review if you can - it helps to know that there are readers out there when writing gets tough. I'll try to post the next chapter next week, but life is about to get busy, so there may be a delay - sorry!