Chapter 8
Felicity draws a shaky breath as she realizes the severity of what she's about to ask for from the head of the Bratva. The anger and determination that fueled her stride into the room has deserted her. Oliver's pain is almost constant now, and it's harrowing to realize she's becoming accustomed to it.
"You want to talk? Let us talk."
She consciously straightens and clasps her hands in front of her to stop the evident shaking. The silence drags on, she knows that. She should speak. Felicity's not dumb to that fact, but the words swirling around in her head aren't exactly the polite certain words she need to use here.
From what she knows, women don't have much status among the Bratva. She shouldn't be here demanding anything of these men. She's aware of that.
Her resolve is fading fast.
"Oliver is missing." The announcement is final, the words damning.
"So I gathered from your confrontation with Dimitri."
His response frustrates Felicity. He knows what she wants to ask, or at least has some idea. But he won't voice it out loud. This man is Oliver's friend. He's got to be willing to help, but here they have an audience. He can't just give in and agree to help her.
"You aren't worried about one of your captains?"
Anatoli grins. "My kapitans can protect themselves."
Sure, Oliver can defend himself, but not when the opponent is a non-existent shadow. Oliver wouldn't be going through waves of intense pain if he had made it out of there alive. Felicity nods in agreement. "I'm aware."
A particularly strong jolt of pain rips through her from right above the knee, and Felicity winces, unable to maintain her still façade.
Anatoli frowns. "You are unwell, Miss Smoak."
"Felicity," she corrects through gritted teeth. "And I'm fine."
"Curious. Orlov's serum is still working."
Her eyes narrow in a solemn glare. The severity of her connection to Oliver isn't exactly something she wants to make common knowledge. "There are limited effects. Nothing like the first dose."
"So, someone is torturing my kapitan."
Felicity nods. "We both know he won't talk."
Anatoli agrees. "So what do you want from me, Felicity?"
"Do you know where Oliver is?" She asks, no patience for round about polite conversations.
He shrugs. "I might have some ideas."
"You know who has him." It's not a question: Felicity already knows the answer.
"He is a dangerous man. We only know him in rumors and whispers."
Felicity scowls. That's nowhere near an answer, at least not one she can work with. "All I need are your leads and we can handle it on our own."
"But all information comes with a price." The men around the room shift at the warning in Anatoli's voice. "One favor for another. This is how Bratva works."
"A favor?" This can't be anything good. Every instinct she has screams at Felicity to run. This isn't something she wants to be involved in, but Oliver's life is on the line.
"Between friends," Anatoli assures her, a gesture with two fingers to someone in the shadows.
Felicity glances over her shoulder as a scuffle breaks out in the corner. Two looming figures move out of the darkness. They throw a third, bound man onto the concrete floor.
"Anton, here, did something very bad, something that went against the brotherhood."
Not good not good not good, Felicity repeats over and over in her head while outwardly she acts politely interested.
Anatoly reaches out to one of the men who places a gun in his outstretched hand. "As a personal favor, to save your beloved, it would help if you could take care of this issue for us."
He holds the gun out in her direction.
"Kill him and I'll tell you what you want to know."
...
When Oliver wakes this time, he's in a chair, wrists and ankles tightly bound to the cool metal. He rests the room the cord that binds him allows him, only to freeze as his feet splash in the bucket of water.
He's barefoot now, icy water running between his toes. The metal tub is large, almost the size of a kiddie pool, with the whole chair submerged in it. An instant later, he spots the cables clipped to the edge of the tub. They lead, as expected to a car battery connected to a switch.
Oliver shifts, remembering his time on the freighter. The tension in his abdomen indicating he's been stitched up.
Dread pools in his stomach.
If Malcolm took the time to patch him up, that means some new hell is in store for him.
A hell that inevitably includes the electric shocks.
Fear invades his system, fear of the searing pain he knows it about to come, fear of how it's going to affect Felicity. His death...it just might break her.
And he has no doubt this will end with his death. He might break, might spill his guts over the course of this torture, but if he doesn't Malcolm will kill him. If he talks, Malcolm will still kill him. So he's not going to say a word.
Malcolm Merlyn.
That's another revelation he doesn't have the proper time to appreciate. Malcolm, his father's best friend, is after information Robert passed on before he died. It reveals a whole aspect to his exile that he never considered before: sabotage.
The Queen's Gambit was meant to be lost at sea, along with all its occupants. He'd been so preoccupied with the surviving part, that he'd never thought to question what nearly killed them. He always thought it was the storm that did them in. Now he's forced to reconsider his earlier preconceptions.
Malcolm knows about the book, but Oliver's been through the book more times than he can count: Malcolm's name isn't in it. So either he compiled it or he works for whoever did.
But Merlyn's not the type to work under someone else.
No. Malcolm's in charge of his operation.
And he chooses to conduct interrogations personally, which is a whole other level of in-charge. Even Anatoli doesn't do his own dirty work: he takes no pleasure in it. Malcolm...he revels in it. Oliver can see that clear as day even in this dingy room.
He needs to get out of here.
The cord around his wrists is tight. If he had been awake when they bound him, he might have been able to get out of it. Now, though...the bonds were too tight and there's nothing up his sleeve to sever the bonds. He's caught.
Oliver moves his head from side to side to relieve his tension. He's alone in the room. He knows that even if his back is to the door. If he wasn't alone, Malcolm would have shocked him by now.
All there's left to do is wait.
It's not a tactic he would have used in the situation, but Malcolm's a busy man with a business to run. It's not surprising that he got sidetracked.
Morbidly, Oliver contemplates how he would precede with the interrogation. He wouldn't have started with stabbing. Electrocution would almost seem to be stepping backwards, except he doubts Malcolm sees it that way. He's not sure if he should be thankful to be done with the stabbing or terrified of what's to come.
He closes his eyes. Whatever comes he's just glad Felicity's safe. John will stay with her. She's protected. At the very least, his soulmate will never be touched by this darkness. He has to keep it in perspective. That's what matters.
"Had time to reevaluate your life choices, Oliver?" Malcolm taunts to the sound of a metal door squeaking open.
Oliver straightens. He sits in the chair like it's a throne and not possibly a death sentence.
Malcolm moves to stand before him, his black uniform from before exchanged for a three piece suit. "Are you going to answer my questions now or are we going to play with electricity?"
He tilts his head at Malcolm. "What did you ask again?"
His face sours, a genial smile one moment that shifts to a scowl in an instant. "I'm not playing game, Oliver. You're stitched up because I think your mother and your soulmate will appreciate it. Lovely girl. What's her name again?"
Oliver's hands curl into fists around the arms of the chair as he struggles not to react. He knows that's exactly what Malcolm's looking for. He needs to remain neutral.
"Fiona? Felicia...No. Felicity."
The metal chair screams as Oliver jerks involuntarily at the sound of Felicity's name from the putrid lowlife before him.
"Oh. You don't like me talking about her." Malcolm squats down in front of Oliver. A fingernail taps the edge of the metal basin. "You know what's about to happen here. Tell me what I want to know, and after I kill you, I won't go after your girl."
"You won't get to Felicity." The Diggles wouldn't allow it.
"You couldn't stop me, and your little bodyguard won't do any better." At the determination in Oliver's eyes, Malcolm heaves a sigh, leaning back to crouch on his heels. "What did your father tell you before he died, Oliver?"
"You mean before you had the Gambit destroyed?" Oliver challenges.
"I always knew you were smarter than you looked. Last chance to answer the question." Malcolm moves. His hand hovers over the controls of the switch.
Oliver's silent until the crippling electricity rips a scream from his throat.
...
The gun is a heavy weight in her hand, far heavier than it has any right to be. And it's cold, so cold. Felicity fights the urge to shiver.
She's held a gun before. And she knows how to shoot one. She'd be a fool if she didn't, especially in the mayhem her life turned into since Oliver came home. Lyla had been the first to take her to the shooting range. She wasn't a spectacular shot – she certainly had nothing on Oliver – but in close range like this, she couldn't miss.
The question was should she shoot?
She doesn't have much time to decide with at least ten members of the brotherhood and Diggle staring at her. This is a test, a test of her mettle, of how much this information is worth to her. This is what hypothetical question people ask: how far would you go to save someone you love?
Felicity's never considered it in more than that hypothetical, what-if stance. In a dark warehouse that reeks of gasoline and grease, the question takes on a whole new meaning. There are people at stake.
She could choose not to shoot this man, and she's fairly certain Anatoli would let her walk away unharmed. The man would die anyway, just not by her hand. She would be in the clear, her soul untarnished by blood on her hands.
But she wouldn't find Oliver. Any other leads she could find would get her to him too late.
If she shot the man, it would kill a part of her soul. She knows that. All she needs to do is think of Oliver and she sees the kind of toll it takes on a person. Yet in doing so, Felicity would get the information she so badly needed to find Oliver and save him, her soulmate.
Oliver would tell her to leave, to drop the gun and walk away from the garage. He wouldn't want her to lose a part of her soul to find him. Hell, Diggle never even wanted her to come. Lyla probably would have shot the poor bastard already.
But Felicity wasn't any of them.
She was her own person.
Felicity adjusts the gun in her grip. The part of her soul that she loses just might be Oliver. She's heard about it before: one soulmate does something so jarring, so out of character, that it throws two souls out of sync.
Is it worth it?
She could save her soulmate and still lose him.
If she knew the crimes of the man before her, if she knew he was actually a bad person, Felicity wouldn't be pondering this so much. If he was a bad guy, then wasn't there some logic in taking him out?
But the Bratva aren't going to let her look up the man on a computer before she maybe shoots him. No, she has to take them at their word, as true or false as it might be.
And if she raises the gun to him, will she even be able to pull the trigger?
Felicity's only ever pointed the gun at paper targets. From this distance, she'll be able to see the life leave his eyes, to watch his soul depart his body. She'll stand there as his blood pools on the floor.
God help her, all Felicity can see in front of her eyes is Oliver writhing in pain as another spasm of pain flares inside her. It doesn't hurt as much now. Maybe it's a side effect of her even contemplating this harebrained idea.
She should turn on her heel now, march past Diggle right out the door before a member of the Bratva can stop her.
Then she stops and thinks about what Oliver would do, what she would tell Oliver to do in this situation. If she was the one kidnapped and he was the one searching for her.
She would tell him to do whatever it takes to reunite them.
Felicity raises the gun.
...
"Aaaaahhhhh!" The cords around his wrists bite into the skin as Oliver fights against the current of electricity racing through his system.
"I honestly didn't think you could hold out this long. The electricity usually breaks the strongest subjects." Malcolm observes quietly over the labored sounds of Oliver's breathing. "It's actually quite impressive."
He doesn't ask the question again before flipping the switch.
Oliver gave up the guise of keeping silent eons ago. It feels like hours, but Oliver can't be sure. He doesn't even know how much time has passed since Malcolm grabbed him. John has to be looking for him by now.
No light leaks into the concrete room, probably a basement: somewhere Oliver's screams won't be heard or questioned.
Malcolm releases a dramatic sigh. "Alright, let's try an easier question: Did. Your. Father. Make it off the boat?"
Oliver's head lolls from side to side, his muscles twitch erratically. He doubts any answer he could come up with would be coherent at this point. He could nod. It would end the pain for now. In all honestly, Oliver's not entirely sure why he's keeping his mouth shut at this point. It's obvious to everyone involved that Oliver knows something.
Felicity. Oliver seizes the thought and refuses to let it escape. He's protecting Felicity by holding out right now. If Malcolm knows how extensive their operation is, he'll most likely kill everyone involved, including Felicity.
He can't let that happen.
"Who are you protecting, Oliver?" Malcolm asks, jerking Oliver's head back by the hair on his head. "You just have to tell me what you know, and I can let you go."
Oliver huffs. "Am I supposed to believe that?"
Malcolm stares at him for a moment. Anger flashes in the depths of Malcolm's eyes before he moves back towards the electric switch. "You're the son of my best friend. I don't want to do this."
"Then don't," Oliver advises half-heartedly.
"I need to know how much you know. Tell me and this can all be over. Come now, Oliver. It's clear you're not fond of electricity. Just tell me what I want to know and you can go home to your beloved."
Oliver's body shakes despite the absence of electrical current. His muscles are still seizing and he has to admit that Malcolm knows his torture techniques better than Slade ever did. But Oliver's body is getting to the end of what it can take. Malcolm either has to kill him soon or move on to something else.
There's no way Malcolm's setting him loose.
Oliver's content to pass out, but Malcolm's hand clamps down on his throat. He applies pressure, lifting Oliver slowly with that grip. Adrenaline surges through Oliver's body, keeping him awake as his instincts urge him to fight.
The bonds dig into his wrists, blood welling along the already defined lines. Dark red drips down the leg of the chair, slowly turning the water a faint shade of pink. Oliver thrashes in desperation until Malcolm shoves him backward by the throat, knocking over the chair. His shoulder collides with the concrete floor and Oliver blacks out in the blinding pain of his collarbone breaking.
...
BANG BANG BANG.
The recoil isn't as bad as Felicity thought it would be, a stunningly blaisé thought in light of the dead body now sprawled on the concrete floor. A pool of red blood spreads from the crumpled form on the floor.
She wants to throw up, but Felicity refuses to show weakness in front of the ruthless men filling the room. To her side, Diggle looks appalled with her decision, paler than normal. Felicity can't express what she feels: it's too complex.
In a couple hours – once they get Oliver back – everything will hit her and she'll find herself emptying the contents of her stomach, curled in a ball crying somewhere. Right now, all she can focus on Oliver and bringing him home.
With a steady hand, Felicity holds the gun back out to Anatoli.
It takes him a moment to grab the weapon as he blinks away his surprise. His motion prompts the rest of the mobsters into action. At Anatoli's signal, the two men who carried Anton into the room carry his body out of it.
The pool of red that remains behind has Felicity's stomach rebelling, but she swallows it down.
"I wasn't sure you had it in you," Anatoli mutters as his eyes dart from the puddle to her and back. "Your bodyguard seemed to think you couldn't pull the trigger."
A glance at Diggle confirms that opinion. In fact, Felicity imagines he's already preparing his apology to Oliver for letting this get this far out of hand. She gets that he feels responsible, but he and Oliver need to stop going over her head.
She made this decision. The consequences are on her, not them. She doesn't regret what she's done, even if that makes her a bad person.
"I did as you asked. Now: where is Oliver?"
"Straight to business then." Anatoli raises an eyebrow.
Felicity crosses her arms over her chest. She fulfilled her end of the bargain.
"Oliver's in the basement of warehouse on the corner of Hampton and Lake. Security is tight, un-breachable."
"Is that why you haven't gotten him out?" A point that's more than a little irksome to her at the moment. Oliver's important to their organization, to Anatoli. She should probably be more cautious that the Bratva don't want to get involved in this situation.
Anatoli shifts uneasily at the question.
"There's something you're not saying," Felicity points out, satisfied that she's gained some ground in their conversation. "Why haven't you gone after Oliver?"
Her voice rose with each unanswered question until both Digg and Anatoli are ushering her into the back of the garage and the small office hidden there.
"If Oliver's so important to your organization-"
"Felicity," John cuts her off until the door to the office shuts behind them. His voice is low and full of awareness of the danger of the situation.
"No! I want to know why they're leaving Oliver to die!" Felicity shouts over him, eyes latched on to Anatoli.
The man meets her eyes and turns back to the desk. He doesn't answer the question, just reaches into a desk drawer. A bottle of clear liquid lands on the wooden surface with a thunk followed by three shot glasses. He pours a healthy dose of liquid into each glass and holds two out to Felicity and John.
Felicity sniffs it suspiciously as Anatoli raises his own glass.
"прочность," he cheers before he downs the drink. "Vodka," is the only explanation he offers as he pours himself another glass.
Feeling her hand start to shake, Felicity raises her glass in salute and drowns the liquor in one swallow. It slides smoothly down her throat, the aftertaste a burn. She doesn't even offer a token protest as Anatoli fills her glass again. This time, she clinks her glass against his before throwing the shot back.
John gently sets his glass on the table. Anatoli downs the drink instead.
"Why don't you tell us what's really going on?" Digg suggests.
Felicity nods at his no-nonsense attitude as she swallows through the burn of alcohol.
"The man who took Oliver isn't someone to mess with," Anatoli responds. "Oliver – as strong as he is – won't last long there."
"He's still alive," Felicity answers. Pain radiates from her shoulder, and Felicity pours herself a shot. "I'm not leaving him to die."
"The Triad has him?"
Felicity jerks her head towards Diggle.
"The Triad?"
"Worse," Anatoli mutters. His shot glass is already full. He doesn't take a sip as he avoids eye contact. "The man who kidnapped Oliver owns this city. Going after him is suicide. Oliver would not forgive me if I let you go."
She scowls. "Let's get one thing straight: neither you nor Oliver lets me do anything. I am going after my soulmate. I just killed a man in cold blood because nothing means more to me than bringing my soulmate home alive. If you think posturing and vague declarations of my opponent's strength is going to stop me, you couldn't be more wrong."
"If you go against him, he will kill you. I cannot be responsible for your death. I owe that much to my friend." Anatoli points at her. "You are under our protection. I cannot allow you leave."
Unacceptable. She will not be held prisoner while her soulmate suffers. It would not be acceptable under any circumstances, but especially now when his pain echoes through her body and makes it hard to move. She cannot stand by while this happens.
She glances back at Diggle whose obstinate scowl shows they're on the same page. He nods solemnly at her unasked question before Felicity turns back to the head of the Bratva.
"Thank you for your advice, Mr. Kynazev," she says diplomatically. Her hands clasp before her as she forces a smile on her face. "We appreciate your assistance."
"Please, call me Anatoli." He considers her for a moment. Her determination must show on her face because instead of protesting again, Anatoli pulls the gun from earlier out of the waistband of his pants and places it on the desk. "You're going to need this."
Felicity hesitates, not keen for the feel of cool metal in her hand again.
"We have our own weapons," John says with a nod. "Thank you for your help."
His hand lands on Felicity's elbow, pulling her towards the door. Felicity pulls back for another moment. "Just one last thing: Give me the name of the man who has Oliver."
Anatoli jerks in the approximation of a nod. "Of course. The Dark Archer."
She frowns. That tells her nothing. Absolutely nothing. They haven't come across another archer in the past couple months. Seeing her confusion, Anatoli clarifies:
"Malcolm Merlyn."
A chill runs up Felicity's spine at the information. Everything starts to click into place, her brain making connections as Diggle leads her quickly from the office and through the garage full of gangsters. John's the only reason they manage to get out of the building before her babble spews out:
"Should I call Tommy? I should call Tommy. This is his father we're talking about. He wouldn't kidnap Oliver, would he?" Felicity types commands into her phone to send searches to her computers in the Foundry as she speaks. She barely notices her actions as she slides into the cool leather seat of the town car. She's not even sure about the words that are coming out of her mouth anymore. They're just keeping her mind off what just happened.
"Of course maybe that's just part of the deception. Maybe Tommy really is evil. Then he's really good about it because who would suspect Tommy Merlyn. He's so light-hearted and happy all the time. Not that he's flighty, but he doesn't seem capable of murder and kidnapping or torture, or instilling fear into the blackest hearts of Starling's mob bosses.
"I don't think Tommy knows," John points out. Felicity throws him a glare as his calm grates on her nerves. She fidgets with her seatbelt and redirects her gaze to the road ahead.
He's right though. Tommy's too nice to accept this. Felicity only met Malcolm on one occasion, but even she could tell he and Tommy weren't close. It's not unthinkable that Tommy had no idea what his father's doing.
Felicity starts flicking through the results of her Malcolm Merlyn search as John carefully drives them back to the Foundry. The more she thinks about it, the more convinced Felicity becomes that Malcolm really is a terrible person. Sure, the big, public things Malcolm does are golden, but the more Felicity digs, the shadier his enterprises become.
She can't help but consider that Oliver's best friend might have betrayed him. Her mind is on a rollercoaster of worst-case scenarios. She hasn't felt any change in her pain in the past hour of waiting. Instead, her whole body just aches, pulsing in intensity.
The only comfort she can find is that her mark is still inky black.
"I just hate waiting!" Felicity exclaims. "We need to do something!"
"I did something. I send a text to Lyla," John explains calmly.
"Lyla? How's that supposed to help? I get that you're all 'secret agent' and everything, but this doesn't have anything to do with A.R.G.U.S.? We have to save Oliver! Now! Why are we heading to the Foundry and not that warehouse?"
"Because we need to research, and we need back-up."
Felicity scowls, but nods in acknowledgement. "Fine. But only because I'm not longer in piercing pain."
...
"How much longer until they get here?"
John sighs. "It's been forty minutes. I had to call in quite a few favors to do this."
"I don't think you understand, John. The love of my life is dying and we're sitting here waiting on a shady government organization to send reinforcements. There has to be something we can do!"
"We talked about this after the garage," John explains patiently for the fifth time. "There is no way the two of us could have rescued Oliver."
"We don't know that!" Felicity whirls on him, turning away from her three hardworking computer screens. "We just took Anatoli's word for it. Who knows? We could have succeeded!"
"Felicity, I know you're desperate to get Oliver back, but we need to know what we're up against. There's no way the two of us would have been able to save him on our own." He sighs and leans forward. "We need to talk about what you did back there."
She waves him off as she turns away. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Nothing to talk about? Felicity, you killed a man."
Felicity winces at the reminder, but dismisses it. She's not stupid: they need to talk about what happened. It was messed up, morally ambiguous, and emotionally compromising. She just can't stand to think about it right now. "We can talk when Oliver's home."
"Or we can talk now while we wait for back up." John leans back against a table, hands clasped in front of him.
"Or I could get back to digging up dirt on Malcolm." She rolls her shoulder, the only tell that Oliver's pain still bothers her.
"Felicity." He pulls her chair back from her computers and spins her around. "I'm not going to lecture you. I understand why you did what you did." He sighs. "I don't like it, but I get it. All you want is Oliver back as soon as possible, but killing takes a toll, especially your first kill."
She's fine. She's accepted what happened until those last eight words hit her like an anvil. She's the Wylie Coyote brought down by her own actions. She's hardly aware of her actions as she crumples under Digg's gaze.
The shaking returns with force and tears coat her cheeks as she clings to John. With her eyes closed, Felicity can almost imagine that the arms around her belong to someone else. Almost.
Anton's body flashes before her eyes, the pool of spreading blood spreading to engulf her. It sends her racing from Diggle to the garbage can she keeps at the end of her desk. Her body rebels against her, spewing the contents of her last meal, whatever that was.
Her body forces every existing bit of food and liquid from her body in violent expulsions until there's nothing left. She pukes until her abs hurt from exertion. Her whole body feels even more abused than it did from Oliver's torture.
She can barely stomach the water Digg hands her to rinse out her mouth. She spits it back into the garbage bin before she wipes her mouth and gets shakily to her feet.
"Thank you." Felicity toasts with the water bottle and takes a tentative sip. There's a suspenseful moment when she thinks she might throw up again, but it stays down and she swallows more.
"You handled it about as well as any soldier I've ever known, and certainly better than I did," John admits even though he still eyes her carefully.
"I'm not sure if I should be flattered or not."
John shrugs and leans back into his seat like it doesn't matter to him one way or another.
Felicity's not done though. "You do realize that you calling in A.R.G.U.S. defeats the purpose of us not going to them earlier, right? I mean, that was why I decided the Bratva was the easier choice rather than becoming indebted to Amanda Waller. Yet, here we are waiting on Waller's troops. We're still in trouble."
"Waller deals in information. Foot soldiers are nothing. I might know them through A.R.G.U.S., but technically they're the task force Lyla and I are in charge of. This is an official mission." John grins smugly.
Felicity tilts her head. "How do you figure?"
"If the Bratva is scared of Malcolm Merlyn, that means he's worse than the organized crime we've been going after. The reasons might be skewed, but it works. Lyla agrees with me. How are you feeling?"
The question catches her off-guard and Felicity blinks before answering. "Fine. I'm fine."
"No more pain?"
It's disturbing that he's that astute. Felicity thought she had been hiding it well, or at least well enough that he hadn't realized it. She takes stock of all her aches. "There's pain, but none of it's new, which I guess means they've stopped for now. I'm just not sure if that's a good thing or not."
Digg nods solemnly. Then he picks up the bottle of pills, a quick shake making it evident there was a single pill left. "How many have you had?"
She winces. She can still feel the piercing pain in her shoulders, but she's had more than she probably should have already and they both know it.
"How bad is it?"
It's his gentle voice that breaks her. She's held it together for hours, held it together when she didn't think she could. She was sure she screamed a little bit when the pain burst around her collarbone as she pulled the trigger.
She didn't tell John because she didn't want this: the false assurances that everything will be okay. They both know this could go either way. Maybe they can get Oliver out of this mess. He's still going to be damaged and hurt, but he'll be in their care. Unfortunately, the only other option is Oliver's death.
That option's unacceptable.
That's the pain she can't stand.
Beep.
Felicity's head jerks up at John's text tone, waiting with baited breath as he reads the message. She's standing and ready before he even announces the verdict:
"They're here."
She nods and wipes the remaining wet spots from her cheeks as she stands tall. The time for weakness is over.
It's time to bring Oliver home.