From Chapter 1:

BANG!

When the right front tire exploded, Oliver gripped the wheel with both hands, fighting to keep the car on the pavement. Seconds later, a gunshot pierced the windshield and Oliver's right shoulder bloomed with blood.

Felicity gasped as she realized they were under fire. Diggle reflexively grabbed the dash assessing whether Oliver could keep control of the vehicle. "You got it, man?"

"Felicity, keep your seatbelt on but get your head down!" Oliver yelled.

When a third bullet rifled into the engine block, they knew the target of Gunhawk's mission in this desolate locale. He was here to kill them.

CHAPTER 2 – New Scars

Even though the motor was now out of commission, the car careened off the road at highway speed, slamming into a huge cactus. Oliver and Diggle tried to fight their way free of the deployed airbags which were now blood-stained.

"Felicity! Felicity, are you okay?" Oliver shouted, his panic rising. "Felicity!"

Oliver checked Diggle to his right. "You all right, man?"

"Yeah," Diggle replied, his fingers bloody where they had touched the side of his head. "Cracked my noggin is all."

Oliver twisted in his seat, looking for a familiar blond ponytail but the airbags restricted his range of motion. "Can you see her?" he asked his partner.

John shifted his massive shoulders to adjust his angle. "Yeah, she's moving."

"Felicity!" Oliver yelled.

A small series of coughs erupted in the backseat as she slowly surfaced, her glasses askew and a shocked expression on her face.

"Still here. I think," she said, ducking her head again to search out the latch of her seatbelt.

Oliver had beaten down the airbag enough to open his car door and half tumbled to the ground. He dragged himself upright, opened the passenger door for Felicity and raked her with intense worried glances. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm good," she answered, straightening her glasses and climbing out to stand beside him. Oliver's hands skated across her arms to reassure himself that she was in one undamaged piece. Then, he compulsively pulled her to his chest, his arms wrapping gratefully around her slender frame.

Her eyes darted to his wounded shoulder. "Oh, Oliver. You're hurt," she gasped. She pulled back from his embrace and stepped to his side to spy a second blood stain, confirming there was an exit wound. "Two new scars," she sighed, sadness showing in her eyes.

"I'm fine," he said. Because that's what injured Oliver always said.

Felicity rolled her eyes. Because that's what she always did when Oliver refused to admit he was a mere mortal. "Of course you are," she replied, with a broad hint of sarcasm.

"The shooter's still out there so keep a low profile. Let's get John out," he suggested, already heading around the vehicle.

The frame on Diggle's side of the car had been bent in the wreck and it quickly became apparent that his door would not be opened without a crowbar. With major effort, considering his size, Digg crawled across the center console and under the steering wheel to extricate himself.

"Felicity, make a note: Next time, we're renting a bigger model," he huffed.

"Sorry, Diggle. I forget how much space to allow for all the ridiculous man muscles," she confessed, her hands vaguely waving in their direction.

Oliver had opened the trunk, removing a long bag containing his bow and arrows while keeping a weather eye on a nearby bluff studded with rows of wind turbines.

"You think he's up there?" Diggle asked, following the archer's line of sight.

With a slight nod, Oliver answered, "It's where I'd be."

Felicity had returned to the car's backseat, checking her electronic devices. Her tablet had not survived the collision, its screen broken and dark. But she was hopeful when she pulled her smartphone from her purse to see that it was fine. However, on closer inspection, there were no bars indicating reception. "Frack," she cursed. "No signal."

Oliver and Diggle continued to gather supplies from the rig. "What are you thinking?" Diggle asked, scanning the empty road with worried eyes.

"Stay with the car. Keep our heads down. But come dark, we're walking out of here."

Their supplies were limited, but for a former castaway like Oliver, who had survived for years in a chronic state of need, their situation was far from hopeless. They had weapons, having flown to Nevada by private jet. Felicity had packed several water bottles, an assortment of snacks and, most important to their line of work, a first aid kit. After years of dealing with traumatic injuries, Felicity never traveled without basic medical necessities. She had come to rely on antiseptic, gauze and sutures as much as she did her Wi-Fi.

Felicity cleaned and applied a butterfly bandage to the cut on Diggle's forehead and he kept watch on the nearby mesa while she tended to Oliver's shoulder. Trails of blood still seeped from both wounds so she closed them with neat stitches as her nimble, purple-lacquered nails worked next to his clenched jaw. There were scarlet bruises forming around his torn flesh and she worried about the internal damage that was beyond her skill set.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"For what?" he asked, turning his face toward hers as she closed the final suture.

"That you were shot. Again," she answered, laying her hand upon his chest. "It just seems you've been hurt enough for this lifetime." Felicity felt an onset of tears so she studiously returned her attention to his wounds.

"I'm okay, Felicity," he assured her, his fingers lifting her chin so she met his eyes. "Really."

"Okay," she sniffed with a watery smile. "Do you want me to make up a sling for this arm?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "I have a scarf..."

"Absolutely not," he bellowed.

"You don't have to yell about it," she said, slightly offended.

"I've seen your scarves. In every candy color. There's no way," he sputtered.

"Oliver," Diggle began, opening the blade of his buck knife, "I've got your back, man. And your shoulder." To Felicity's horror, he stabbed the blade into the car's leather upholstery and sliced a long width from the backrest.

With a smile, he handed the smooth leather strip across to Felicity, who simply shook her head, muttering, "Well, we're not gettin' that rental deposit back."

The early afternoon was quiet and the trio rested in the car after packing what they could carry after nightfall. Felicity dug out snacks from her "possibles" bag and she dived into her portion.

"What's she eating?" Oliver quietly asked Diggle.

"Hmmm?" Diggle raised his head, peering in Felicity's direction.

"Looks like puppy chow," Oliver murmured.

"Oh. It's just her Cocoa Puffs!" Diggle replied.

"Girl eats like a three-year-old," Oliver sighed.

Diggle nodded, looking thoughtfully at Felicity as she happily munched. "Works for her though."

Oliver replied with a small grin. "It does."

As the day dragged on, Oliver grew restless, his dark eyes troubled by the unseen menace that hunted them. For too long, he had been prey to the cruelty of others. The experience had turned him into a lethal predator. But in their present circumstances, Oliver and the people he cared most about, were at the mercy of the merciless. The Arrow could not, would not, let that stand.

Felicity stared at the line of windmills to their far right, wondering aloud, "What's his game? What's he waiting for?"

As if on cue, a withering barrage of bullets hailed down on them, turning the quiet, sleepy desert into a killing field.