Chapter 13: Safehouse Strategy
The safehouse air was thick with the smell of dust and old paper. Milo stared at the cracked screen of his laptop, the decryption progress bar ticking from 87% to 88%. Every percentage point felt like a mile. His shoulder was a hot, tight knot of pain beneath the fresh bandages Sofia had applied with efficient, impersonal hands.
He could hear her moving in the small space behind him, the soft whisper of her green leather suit a constant, distracting reminder of her presence. She was a puzzle. Driven, resourceful, wounded. And, he had to admit, devastatingly attractive in a way that felt like a trap being laid just for him.
“They’ll have reinforced the perimeter after the Granitwell breach,” she said, her voice cutting through his static thoughts. She’d pulled a city zoning map up on a tablet, her finger tracing lines. “Standard OmniGuard protocols. They’ll treat it as a Tier-2 security event. That means motion sensors on a tighter sweep, patrols in pairs, and a dedicated comms watch.”
Milo swiveled his chair. She was leaning over the small, wobbly table, the map illuminated by the single hanging bulb. The pose arched her back, making the leather strain across her hips and backside in a way that was both unintentional and utterly compelling. He let his gaze rest there for a beat—a flat, acknowledged fact—before dragging it back up to the map.
“You sound like you’ve read their manual.”
“I have.” She didn’t look up. “Online course for private security certification. They’re surprisingly lax with their digital archives if you know where to look.”
A smirk touched his lips. “Of course you do.”
The progress bar hit 92%.
“Sarah won’t wait for the manual,” Milo said, the name making Sofia finally glance at him. “If she found the Ravenswood lead, she’ll go in hard and fast. Probably tonight. She’s not a tactician. She’s a force.”
“And your detective? Scott?”
“He’ll try to temper her. He’ll have a plan. But she’s…” He searched for the word. “Impermeable when she’s like this. The suit, the persona… it makes her feel invincible. It’s her biggest strength and her most obvious flaw.”
Sofia straightened, turning to face him fully. The movement was fluid, practiced. “You love that about her.”
It wasn’t a question. Milo held her gaze. “I do. It’s also going to get her killed one day. Possibly tonight.” The raw truth of it sat between them, ugly and cold.
“So we beat her there.” Sofia walked to the window, peering through a slit in the blinds at the dark street below. “The files decrypt. We see the full board. We know every player. Then we go to Ravenswood, we get inside before the alarm is raised, and we extract you as an asset. We use their own protocols against them. A quiet in-and-out. She shows up to a party that’s already over.”
“And then what? We all go out for pancakes?”
“Then we publish,” Sofia said, turning back. Her eyes were alight with a fierce conviction that made her look older. “We drop the whole, unfiltered truth onto every server, every dark web forum, every major news desk that still has a spine. We don’t give it to an editor. We are the press. You, me. We burn OmniGuard, The Clearing, Javelin, all of it. The scandal would be too big, too public to contain. It’s the only thing that might actually protect her. Protection by nuclear exposure.”
Milo stared at her. It was the idealist’s dream, the journalist’s fantasy. It was also, he realized with a jolt, exactly what he would have suggested twenty years ago. Before the compromises. Before seeing good stories die in committee. The youthful fervor in her plan was both enviable and terrifying.
96%.
His phone, a burner Sofia had provided, buzzed on the table. A single, encrypted message flashed on the screen. He recognized the string of numbers—a code he and Scott had set up a lifetime ago, for real emergencies.
`Ravenswood confirmed. Vanguard thermal sigs on site. Going in at 2300. Stay dark. -S`
Sarah wasn’t waiting. Scott was going with her. The clock had just accelerated.
“They’re moving,” Milo said, his voice tight. “Tonight. 11 PM.”
Sofia checked her own watch. “That’s in less than three hours. We need that data now.” She strode back to the laptop, as if her proximity could intimidate the progress bar to move faster.
99%.
The silence in the room became a physical thing, stretched thin. Milo watched her profile, the tense line of her jaw, the focus so absolute it seemed to vibrate off her. The attraction was still there, a low hum in his blood, but it was tangled now with something else—a profound respect, and the dawning realization that this young woman wasn’t just seeking revenge. She was building a pyre for the entire rotten system, and she was willing to be the one to strike the match.
He thought of Sarah’s uncomplicated fury, her direct, physical love. He thought of the way Scott looked at Sarah when he thought no one could see—a mixture of longing and deep, seasoned fear. Connections that felt like mooring lines in a storm.
This thing with Sofia was different. It was intellectual, combustive. It was the shared language of secrets and strategy. It was dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with bullets.
100%.
A soft chime. The screen cleared, replaced with a directory listing—hundreds of files, folders within folders, labeled with cryptic project names and alphanumeric strings.
“We’re in,” Sofia whispered. She didn’t smile. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, opening files, scanning. “Javelin… asset manifests… cross-references with Senate appropriations committees… Oh.”
Her breath caught. Milo pushed himself up, wincing, and stood behind her, looking over her shoulder. On the screen was a scanned document. A memorandum of understanding. At the bottom, next to the signature of a now-deceased general, was the witnessing signature of a corporate legal officer.
The officer’s name was Alistair Finch.
“Finch?” Milo’s mind raced. “The mayoral candidate? The ‘clean hands’ reformer?”
“The same,” Sofia said, her voice hollow. “OmniGuard’s former chief counsel. He didn’t just know about Javelin. He helped legalize the funding streams. He’s not just a beneficiary. He’s an architect.”
The conspiracy didn’t just have tendrils in the present. It had a candidate poised to take the city’s highest office. This wasn’t just exposing the past. It was preventing a future.
“We need to go,” Milo said. The ache in his shoulder was irrelevant now. “Right now. We have to get to that plant before they do.”
Sofia was already moving, transferring the core files to a pair of ruggedized flash drives. She tossed one to him. He caught it, the cool metal solid in his palm.
“Wear this,” she said, pulling a dark, lightweight tactical vest from a duffel bag. It wasn’t Kevlar, but some kind of layered polymer. “It won’t stop a rifle round, but it’ll confuse a thermal scan and slow down a pistol shot.” She helped him into it, her hands brisk and professional, tightening the straps over his injured shoulder with careful, firm tugs.
Her face was close to his for a moment. He could see the faint freckles across her nose, the determined set of her mouth. That distracting hum grew louder.
“Sofia,” he said.
She looked up, met his eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you’re about to say. The ‘complicated’ talk. The ‘Sarah’ talk. We have a job. That’s it.” Her words were firm, but her gaze flickered, betraying a vulnerability she instantly locked away. She turned, grabbing her helmet. “I’m Green Arrow now. You’re the asset. Let’s move.”
As she secured her helmet, the modulator clicked on. “Vehicle’s downstairs. It’s a nondescript service van. We’ll be there in forty minutes.”
—
Across the city, in the safehouse above the print shop, Sarah slammed the chest plate of the Black Cat suit into place. The click of the seals was a sound of finality. Scott watched from the doorway, already dressed in dark, non-descript tactical gear, a bulky vest over his shirt. He looked like what he was: a tired cop going into a bad situation.
“The Finch connection changes everything,” Scott said, checking the magazine of his service pistol before sliding it into a hip holster. “If he gets wind we’re coming, he could have the whole place scrubbed before we’re within a mile.”
“Then he doesn’t get wind,” Sarah said, her voice filtered and cool. She focused on the mask in her hands. “We go in, we find Milo, we get out. We deal with Finch later. With the files.”
“It’s not that simple, kid. If Finch is tied to OmniGuard, then the guards in that plant aren’t just following orders. They’re protecting their boss’s future. They’ll fight harder. They’ll have less to lose.”
Sarah turned to him, the mask now making her a faceless icon. “I’m not going in there to fight a war. I’m going in to get him. Anyone gets in my way, they’ll regret it. That’s the only politics I understand right now.”
Scott saw the tremor in her hands before she fisted them. The mask hid her face, but it couldn’t hide the fear vibrating off her. He stepped forward, into her space. He didn’t touch her. “Listen to me. We do this my way. We find a weak point, we exploit it, we extract. No heroics. No doubling back. We get him and we vanish. Promise me.”
The blank lenses of her mask stared at him. “I promise I’ll get him out.”
It wasn’t the promise he wanted. He sighed, a sound of weary acceptance. “Alright then. Let’s go buy a pot of trouble.”
—
The old Ravenswood Water Treatment Plant rose out of the marshlands like the skeleton of a beached industrial whale. Girders clawed at the night sky, rusted pipes snaking around concrete silos gone dark. In its center, one low, windowless administrative building glowed with sterile, fluorescent light. The only signs of life were the two black SUVs parked near a sealed roll-up door and the faint glow of cigarette tips near a side entrance.
From a ridge three hundred yards away, Sarah and Scott lay prone in the damp reeds, surveying the site through night-vision binoculars.
“Two on the door,” Scott murmured. “One walking the south perimeter. Thermal shows… maybe five, six heat signatures inside the lit building. Could be more in the cooler sections.”
“Where would they hold him?” Sarah’s modulated voice was a tightwire.
“Basement. Most of these old places have pump rooms, filtration vaults. Soundproof, isolated. If I were them, that’s where I’d set up shop.” He pointed a gloved finger. “There’s a storm drain access at the base of that eastern silo. Old schematics show it connects to the main facility’s utility tunnel. It’s a crawl. Probably alarmed.”
“It’s a way in.”
“It’s a possible way in. Let’s watch the patrol. Timing is—”
He was cut off by the sudden, sharp sound of an engine approaching not from the road, but from the old service track that wound through the marshes. Headlights off, a plain white panel van rolled to a slow, careful stop behind a derelict chemical hopper, a hundred yards from their position.
Sarah’s lenses zoomed in. “Who the hell is that?”
Scott adjusted his binoculars. The van’s doors opened silently. Two figures emerged. One was tall, moving with a journalist’s cautious hunch, wearing a dark vest. Milo.
The other was a silhouette of green leather and sleek armor, a bow already unslung from their back.
—
Time fractured.
Sarah’s mind blanked, filled only with a white-hot surge of relief so potent it hurt. He was alive. He was here.
It was followed instantly by a colder, sharper stab. He wasn’t alone. The Green Arrow. The new player. She had him. She’d gotten him out and now she was here, with him, leading him right back into the lion’s den.
“What is he doing?” Scott hissed, more to himself than to her.
They watched as Green Arrow gestured sharply, directing Milo to crouch behind the hopper. She pointed toward the storm drain access Scott had just identified. She’d seen it too. She nocked an arrow, not aimed at the guards, but at a junction box on a pole near the perimeter fence. She loosed.
A tiny, puff-like thwump. A spark fizzled at the box. The perimeter lights along that section flickered and died, plunging a stretch of the fence line into deeper shadow. It wasn’t the main power. It was surgical, creating a pocket of blindness.
“She’s good,” Scott muttered, a reluctant professional respect in his tone.
Sarah said nothing. She watched as Green Arrow touched Milo’s arm—a brief, utilitarian contact—and then led him in a low, fast sprint toward the storm drain. They worked the heavy grate loose together and vanished into the earth.
They were already inside.
Sarah was moving before Scott could stop her. She wasn’t thinking about protocol or seams or tactics. A rival was in her territory, heading for her prize. Her body acted on a primal current of possessiveness and fear.
“Cat! Damn it!” Scott scrambled up, but she was already a streak of black, using the same shadowy path the others had taken, a silent, angry ghost flushing behind its quarry.
—
The utility tunnel was a dripping, claustrophobic artery of brick and slime. Milo’s breath echoed in the confined space, his shoulder screaming with every awkward movement. Sofia led with a small penlight, her steps sure.
“Thirty meters ahead, there should be a maintenance ladder leading up into the basement levels,” her modulated voice whispered back.
“How do you know?”
“Public works schematics. They’re even easier to get than security manuals.”
They reached the ladder. It was iron, rusted but solid. Sofia went up first, her form agile, pushing open a heavy hatch a few inches to peer through. She gestured him up.
He climbed, the effort burning through his injury. She reached down, her grip strong, and hauled him the last bit into a dark, dank concrete corridor lined with peeling pipes. The air was cooler here, smelling of mildew and ozone.
A voice echoed from around a corner, getting closer. “...check the north tunnel feed. Boss wants eyes everywhere.”
Sofia pulled Milo into a shallow alcove, pressing them both back into the shadows. She was flush against him, the cool, smooth leather of her suit against his chest. They were motionless, barely breathing. The guard’s footsteps clumped past, his flashlight beam sweeping the floor, missing their hiding place by inches.
In the absolute stillness, Milo was aware of everything. The rapid beat of his own heart. The subtle, clean scent of her hair cutting through the tunnel’s dankness. The firm pressure of her body.
The guard moved on.
She didn’t pull away immediately. Her helmet turned slightly, the blank visor regarding him in the near-total dark. Their breaths mingled. For a second, the world narrowed to this alcove, to the heat between them, to the silent, charged acknowledgment of the thing they weren’t discussing.
Then a new sound, slight but alien in the silent corridor, came from the direction of the hatch they’d just come through. A scrape of boot on wet iron.
Sofia reacted first, shoving Milo behind her and raising her bow, an arrow drawn back in one fluid motion, aimed at the hatch.
Black Cat rose from the darkness like vengeance given form, her lenses glowing faintly in the gloom. She took in the scene: Milo, pressed against the wall, and Green Arrow, standing protectively in front of him, weapon aimed.
No one spoke for a long, suspended second.
The standoff held, a triangle of tension in the dripping dark. Sarah’s voice, when it finally came through her modulator, was a low. venomous hum directed entirely at the figure in green.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
The arrowhead didn't waver, aimed at the glow of Black Cat’s lenses. "He belongs to himself," Green Arrow's modulator stated flatly. "And right now, he's with the person who didn't lose him to a blacksite extraction team."
Milo shoved himself forward, wincing as he stepped between them. "Sofia. Stop."
"You know her name," Sarah breathed, the tech in her mask fraying the edges of the words with static. She pouted, her jealously a physical force in the tunnel.
"It's not what you think," he said, his hands up in a placating gesture that felt pathetic. "She pulled me out of the van. She's got intel. She knows about Finch."
Green Arrow lowered her bow a fraction. "The sentiment is touching. It's also going to get us all tagged by acoustic sensors. This facility is wired for sound analysis. Your emotional reunion is a liability."
"Listen to the kid, Cat," a new, weary voice cut through from the hatchway. Scott dropped down, landing with a soft thud, his pistol drawn but held low. He scanned the three of them, his gaze lingering on the tense set of Sarah's shoulders before settling on Milo. "You look like hell, kid. Shoulder?"
"Through and through. I'll live." Relief at seeing Scott was immediately tempered by the detective's grim expression.
"Finch is the play," Scott said, his voice all business, immediately redirecting the storm in the corridor. "We confirm he's connected to this place, we get proof, we get out. This isn't a rescue anymore. It's evidence collection. Your new friend here have the files?"
Milo tapped the drive in his vest pocket. "Everything. Javelin, the asset lists, the shell companies. Finch's signature is on the original funding docs."
Scott gave a slow, grim nod. "Then that's the mission. We find a terminal, we upload a slice of that to a server I have pinged, and we leave. The public expose is the only shield that might work now. Agreed?"
He was looking at Green Arrow. She gave a single, sharp nod. "The central security office should be one level up. It'll have a hardline and limited external data oversight. It's our best shot."
"Fine," Sarah spat, the word metallic. She couldn't leave. Not without Milo. The mission had suddenly been co-opted by this stranger in green, and the logic of it was a cage she had to step into. "We do it fast."
They moved as a fractured unit, Scott taking point with Green Arrow directing turns. The corridor opened into a wider service area, abandoned filing cabinets slumped like forgotten tombs. A staircase led upward.
Suddenly, Green Arrow went rigid, holding up a closed fist. She pointed to a small, dark globe in the corner of the ceiling. A microphone icon was etched below it. Audio sensor. She gestured along the wall, beneath its range.
They pressed single-file against the concrete, holding their breath as they passed. Milo’s injured shoulder brushed the wall; he swallowed a gasp. Sarah, behind him, saw the sweat on his neck, the pallor of his skin in the emergency light. The anger bled out of her, replaced by a colder, more familiar dread.
At the top of the stairs, a heavy door labeled 'SECURITY – AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY' stood slightly ajar. A strip of yellow light leaked out, along with the muted sound of a sports commentator.
Green Arrow leaned close to Scott, her modulator a bare whisper. "Two inside. Watching a game. Standard monitoring setup."
Scott nodded, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol. He held up two fingers, then pointed to himself and Black Cat. He mimed a door breach. They would take the guards.
Green Arrow shook her helmeted head sharply. She pointed to a small vent high on the wall, then to her bow, and finally made a sleeping gesture with her hands tilted. A silent takedown.
Sarah bristled, the impulse to charge in warring with the logic of the quieter approach. Scott squeezed her armored bicep, a firm pressure that said wait. He gave Green Arrow a curt nod.
In one fluid motion, Green Arrow nocked a specialized arrow with a thick, cylindrical head. She aimed, not at the door, but at the vent grating. The shot was a soft thwip. The arrow lodged itself silently in the metal lattice.
A faint hiss echoed from the security room, followed by two distinct, heavy thumps.
They waited three heartbeats. Scott pushed the door open.
Two guards in OmniGuard uniforms were slumped over a console, a sports highlight reel still playing on one of the monitors. A faint, sweet chemical odor lingered around the vent. Green Arrow shouldered past, pulling the specialized arrow free and quickly capping its emitter.
"Non-lethal aerosol sedative," her modulator explained as she moved to the main terminal. "They'll be out for twenty minutes, wake up with a headache and no memory gaps. Standard internal audit procedure for them. They'll blame each other."
Milo eyed the sleeping guards. "You just carry arrows for corporate espionage?"
"Adaptability is key." Her fingers were already flying across the keyboard, bypassing a password screen with a sleek USB device. "Scott, I need your server node."
Scott rattled off a string of numbers and letters. Green Arrow typed, her concentration absolute. The screen flickered, a progress bar appearing. "Uploading the Finch memorandum and asset manifest first. That's the ignition spark."
Sarah stood guard at the door, her senses stretched tight. Every drip of water in the distant pipes sounded like a footfall. She couldn't look at Milo, who leaned against a wall, his breathing shallow. The sight of his pain was a physical claw in her ribs.
"Seventy percent," Green Arrow announced.
A harsh, electronic beep shattered the quiet, erupting from a panel on the wall. A red light began to strobe. They all froze.
"Motion sensor in the corridor," Scott growled. "We missed one."
"Upload at eighty-five," Green Arrow said, her voice tense but focused. "We need ninety for verifiable chain of custody. Ten more seconds."
Boots pounded in the hallway outside. Sarah slammed the security door shut, throwing her weight against it. "No lock!"
Milo stumbled forward, helping her brace. Scott yanked a filing cabinet over, grating it across the floor to wedge against the door. The first impact shook it in its frame.
"Ninety-two! Initiate cascade copy to backup servers now!" Green Arrow yelled, ripping her drive from the terminal. "Go, go, go!"
Scott fired three rounds through the door at shin height. A choked cry from outside was followed by cursing. "That bought us a window! Other way out?"
Green Arrow pointed to a second door on the far side of the room, labeled 'MAINTENANCE'. "Should connect to the pump yard!"
They ran. Scott kicked the maintenance door open, leading with his gun into another dank corridor. Sarah grabbed Milo’s good arm, hauling him along. Green Arrow took up the rear, launching a smoke arrow back into the security room to cover their retreat.
The corridor ended at a heavy steel emergency exit. Scott hit the bar, and they burst out into the cool night air of the sprawling, derelict pump yard—a concrete jungle of towering, empty silos and deep, vacant filtration basins.
“Freeze! OmniGuard!”
Figures emerged from the shadows, weapons raised. They were flanked. Six men, tactical gear, no police patches.
Scott and Sarah shoved Milo behind a crumbling concrete plinth for meager cover. Green Arrow dropped into a crouch behind a rusted valve assembly.
“You’re trespassing on a secured site,” the lead operative barked. “Drop your weapons and come out. Now.”
Sarah’s mind raced. They were pinned, outgunned. The files were out, but they wouldn’t live to see the sunrise. She looked at Milo, his face pale but determined. She looked at Scott, his jaw set, calculating angles with a cop’s hopeless precision. She looked at Green Arrow, who gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod towards the tallest silo.
Then, a new sound cut through the standoff—the sudden, wailing crescendo of sirens. Not facility alarms. Police sirens. Dozens of them, converging from all directions, their red and blue lights painting the skyline beyond the fence.
The OmniGuard commander snatched at his radio, his voice confused. “Who called in the staties? This is a private—”
“I did,” Scott said, his voice loud and clear in the sudden quiet between siren wails. “Fifteen minutes ago. Anonymous tip about a hostage situation and illegal military contractors. I believe the phrase was ‘heavily armed insurgents’. CPD’s Emergency Response Team tends to over-prepare for that.”
He’d planned a distraction they couldn’t ignore. The OmniGuard operatives hesitated, their tactical advantage evaporating under the glare of official response.
“Now!” Green Arrow shouted.
They all broke out together.
Scott laid down precise covering fire, keeping the operatives’ heads down. Sarah scooped Milo’s good arm over her shoulder, practically carrying him as she sprinted for a gap in the fencing Green Arrow had indicated. Green Arrow herself provided a running rear guard, firing blunt-tip arrows that cracked against body armor, staggering their pursuers.
They crashed through a section of weakened chain-link and stumbled into the chaotic cover of the marshland as the first police armored vehicle screeched to a halt at the plant’s main gate. Shouts and new lights erupted behind them, but the police engagement with OmniGuard created a perfect, chaotic screen.
They didn’t stop running until the sirens were a muffled echo and the only light was the distant, cold glow of the city. They collapsed, breathless, behind a leveed embankment far from the road. The adrenaline drained away, leaving them shaking in the damp grass.
For a long minute, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city.
Sarah finally tore off her mask, her red hair plastered to her sweat-slicked forehead. She stared at Milo, who was leaning against the embankment, eyes closed. The fear, the jealousy, the hours of terror coalesced into a single, sharp point.
She crossed the distance between them in two strides, grabbed the front of his vest, and pulled him into a fierce, desperate kiss.
It was all salt and relief and unspoken apology. He kissed her back with equal force, his good hand tangling in her hair, anchoring himself to her. The world—the plant, the operatives, the green-clad archer—fell away.
As Scott and Sofia looked away for different reasons.
Scott turned, busying himself with checking his pistol’s magazine, a faint, unreadable tension in his shoulders. Sofia carefully removed her helmet, her dark curls springing free. She looked into the middle distance, her expression carefully neutral, refusing to watch.
Finally, Sarah pulled back, her forehead resting against Milo’s. “You idiot,” she whispered, her voice rough.
“Your idiot,” he breathed, a weak smile touching his lips.
She playfully pouted, the earlier jealousy still a fresh wound. “You knew her name.”
“I had to call her something.” His smile grew a fraction. “Besides, she’s a better shot than you. Definitely quieter. More of a strategic thinker, really.”
Sarah’s eyes widened in mock outrage. She swatted his good arm. “You’re impossible!”
He chuckled, catching her hand and squeezing it. “And you’re jealous. It’s kinda cute.”
The moment of tender reunion was shattered by the sound of engines gunning on the service road—not police cruisers. The low growl of performance SUVs.
The Clearing agents interrupted their short-lived reunion.
Headlights speared through the reeds, pinning them. Doors flew open. Men in dark, unmarked tactical gear poured out, moving with a silent, lethal efficiency that made the OmniGuard crew look like rent-a-cops.
“No… how?” Sarah gasped.
“Finch must have triggered his own cleanup crew,” Scott spat, raising his weapon. “They were the fallback!”
“We can’t hold them here!” Green Arrow—Sofia— snapped, already resettling her helmet. The modulator clicked on. “Split up. Misdirect. It’s the only way.”
The logic was brutal and immediate. Staying together was a single, easy target.
They were forced to separate, with Scott and Sarah one path, Sofia and Milo another.
“The van is two hundred yards north along this levee!” Sofia yelled at Milo, grabbing his arm. “Run!”
“Milo!” Sarah’s cry was pure anguish.
“Go! I’ll keep him safe! Trust me!” Sofia’s modulated voice was command incarnate. She didn’t wait, pulling Milo into a staggering run along the water’s edge, away from the lights.
Scott fired a volley towards the SUVs, not to hit but to draw fire. He grabbed Sarah’s suit. “We have to go, Cat. Now!”
She was paralyzed, watching Milo disappear into the dark with the other woman. “Sarah!” Scott barked, using her real name like a slap.
Another spray of automatic fire chewed up the dirt at their feet. She turned, and they ran in the opposite direction, plunging into a dense thicket of sawgrass and murky water, the shouts of The Clearing agents following them.
It took an hour of evasive maneuvers, through wetlands and stolen cars, before they finally stumbled back into the dusty silence of the loft above the print shop. Sarah ripped the rest of her suit off, letting it pool on the floor like a shed skin. She stood shivering in the middle of the room, arms wrapped around herself.
Scott deadbolted the door, checked the window blinds, and only then did his posture slump. He leaned back against the door, watching her.
“He’s with her,” Sarah whispered, the words hollow.
“He is.”
“I don’t… trust it.”
“You don’t have to trust her,” Scott said, his voice low and steady. He pushed off the door and walked to the small sink, filling a glass with water. He brought it to her. “You have to trust him. And you have to trust that she needs him alive. Those files are her crusade. He’s the key witness.”
Sarah took the glass but didn’t drink. She looked at Scott, really looked at him—the exhaustion in his eyes, the steadiness that had gotten them out. “They’ll keep looking for us.”
“Yeah. They will.” He took off his own vest, wincing at a fresh bruise on his ribs. “But right now, they’ll be scrambling to contain the police incident and figure out what data leaked. We bought a little time.”
“She’s good, Sarah,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Annoyingly competent. She got him out of a moving van. She got us the files. She had a sedative arrow, for Christ’s sake.” A faint, grudging smile appeared. “He’s a pain in the ass, but he’s valuable to her. She won’t let anything happen to him.”
The logic was cold comfort, but it was all she had. Sarah nodded slowly, finally taking a sip of water. The safehouse felt like both a prison and the only sanctuary left. Outside, the city held its breath, unaware of the war brewing in its shadows. And somewhere in that vast, glittering darkness, Milo was with Green Arrow, an ally she respected but one she couldn't fully trust, not yet anyways. Not with an ass like hers.