Chapter 18: The Green Arrow's Trail
The freeze-frame glowed on Milo’s screen, a grainy monument to a leap between two brick warehouses. Green Arrow was mid-air, captured in a streak of emerald and shadow, her form coiled with a feral grace. The tight leather suit left nothing to the imagination, particularly the pronounced, athletic curve of her rear as she pushed off into the void. Milo leaned back in his chair, the leather sighing. He took a slow sip of tepid whiskey, his mind not on the vigilante’s body, but on her pattern. Erratic. Angry. Isolated.
A key turned in the lock.
He didn’t startle. He minimized the window with a practised tap just as Rachel burst in, a whirlwind of vibrant energy that disrupted the apartment’s calculating silence. Her fiery hair was piled in a messy bun, and she wore tight yoga pants and a thin tank top that did little to conceal her spectacular bust.
“You are not going to believe the day I’ve had,” she announced, dropping her backpack with a thud. “Professor Hendrix spent forty minutes droning on about liquidity ratios. I think I aged a year.”
Milo offered a half-smile, his eyes already performing their automatic inventory: the flush on her cheeks, the quickened breath, the way the fabric of her pants clung to the sublime, rounded shape of her ass as she bent to toe off her sneakers. “The crushing tedium of higher education. It builds character.”
“It builds a need for wine,” she corrected, marching to his kitchen. She knew where he kept the bottle of cheap Pinot Grigio she liked. He heard the cabinet open, the glug of a pour. She returned, plopping onto the sofa opposite his desk, curling her legs beneath her. “What’re you working on? More Fisk fallout?”
“Something like that.” He gestured vaguely at the screen. “Following a thread. Might be connected to Volkov’s old network.” The lie was smooth, effortless. Volkov was a mid-level enforcer he’d helped put away months ago; a useful ghost to conjure.
Rachel’s green eyes, bright with interest and the two glasses of wine she’d undoubtedly had before arriving, fixed on him. “Need help?”
“It’s dull stuff. Traffic cam logs. Warehouse permits.”
“I’m great at dull! I literally just spent my afternoon cross-referencing municipal bond issues for a poli-sci paper.” She uncurled herself and came to stand behind his chair, peering over his shoulder. Her scent—cheap floral body spray and the peach gum she was always chewing—wrapped around him. She pointed at the blank desktop wallpaper. “Is that the thread? A picture of the Caribbean?”
He had minimized the footage. But in his haste, he’d clicked on the wrong folder. A vacation photo from a long-forgotten trip with a long-forgotten source was now displayed.
He chuckled, a low, warm sound. “A man can dream.” He clicked, and the folder containing the Green Arrow clips reopened. He selected one at random—a distant, wide shot of a rooftop. “This is more like it. Shipping manifests from the docks near where Volkov operated.”
Rachel leaned closer, her front lightly brushing the back of his head. He could feel the soft, heavy weight of her breasts against him. Her focus, however, was on the screen. She squinted. “That’s not a shipping manifest.”
Shit.
“It’s a thermal overlay,” he said, his voice perfectly even. “See the heat signatures? We’re tracking movement.”
“Huh.” She was quiet for a moment, studying the blurry, green-and-black figure in the center of the frame. “That looks like… a person. A really agile person. In a… costume.”
Milo remained still. He could feel the shift in her, the sharp, intuitive curiosity cutting through the wine haze. He had two choices: shut her down with irritation, or redirect her enthusiasm. He chose the latter.
“It might be.” He swiveled his chair slowly, forcing her to take a step back. He looked up at her, his gray eyes earnest. “There’s talk. A new player. Vigilante. Some are saying she’s interfering with… certain investigations. Making a mess. I’m trying to get a read on her before she screws something important up.”
Rachel’s eyes widened. “A real superhero? Here?”
“Vigilante,” he corrected gently. “There’s a difference. Superheroes have codes. This one…” He nodded back at the screen. “She’s just angry. And anger is messy.”
“Can I see?” Her voice was hushed with excitement.
He gestured to the chair. She slid into it, her movements eager. He stood behind her, one hand resting on the back of the chair as he used the mouse to scroll through the clips. He played the rooftop sequence. Then the alleyway takedown. Then the grainy gargoyle shot.
“She’s incredible,” Rachel breathed.
“She’s a problem.” Milo’s voice was close to her ear. “Look at her form. No training, just rage. She’s going to get someone killed. Probably herself.” He clicked to another file, a map he’d marked with red dots. “These are her suspected sightings. See a pattern?”
Rachel leaned forward, her brow furrowed in concentration. The position made the yoga pants strain perfectly across her backside. Milo’s gaze lingered, a cold appreciation cutting through his performance. She was a magnificent distraction. All vibrant, youthful energy and unquestioning admiration.
“They’re all within a mile of the university,” she said slowly. “See? This cluster is near the old bio-lab. This one is by the stadium. This… this is right on the edge of Greek Row.”
He hadn’t seen that. He’d been looking for connections to warehouses, to docks, to the lingering scent of Fisk’s empire. He’d missed the obvious academic geography.
“Campus,” he murmured, genuinely intrigued now. “You’re sure?”
“I know that grid like the back of my hand. I run there every morning.” She twisted to look up at him, her green eyes sparkling with the thrill of discovery. “I could help! The campus security system is a joke. The feeds are archived on a server with, like, no firewall. I needed footage for a project last semester on pedestrian traffic flow and I just… walked right in.”
Milo’s mind raced, recalibrating. This wasn’t just a fun distraction with a great ass anymore. This was a key. A backdoor into the pattern of an angry, volatile ghost.
He let his hand, which had been on the chair, drift to her shoulder. His thumb stroked the bare skin of her collarbone. “That’s… actually a really sharp observation, Rachel.”
She beamed under the praise, leaning into his touch. “I could try to pull the feeds from those nights. See if we can get a clearer image. Maybe even see her… I don’t know, coming or going from a dorm or something.”
She was so eager, so brilliantly useful.The offer hung in the air between them, charged with potential. Milo’s hand remained on her shoulder, his thumb tracing slow circles on her skin. The city’s light through the floor-to-ceiling window painted a fractured glow across her flushed face.
“You’re a natural at this,” he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. He let the silence stretch, watching her absorb the compliment. Her breathing had deepened, the earlier excitement mingling with something else now, something more reactive to his proximity. He shifted, moving to lean against the desk, facing her.His knee brushed hers.
“It’s just logic,” she said, but her gaze dipped to his mouth for a second too long.“The system is wide open. I could start tonight.”
“You could.” He reached for his whiskey glass, took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. He placed the glass down carefully, the clink of crystal on wood sounding loud in the quiet room.“Or, you could take a break first. You’ve been running on that nervous energy since you walked in.”
He leaned forward, closing the space. He didn’t kiss her. He just hovered there, letting her feel the heat of him, smell the whiskey and the faint, clean scent of his soap. He saw the subtle tremor in her lower lip, the way her pupils widened, swallowing the green of her irises.
“I’m not that nervous,” she whispered, but the protest was weak, breathy.
“Aren’t you?” His hand came up, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of fiery hair behind her ear. He let his knuckles trail down the line of her jaw.Her skin was impossibly soft. “It’s a dangerous thing you’re proposing.Digging into a vigilante’s movements. Messing with Fisk’s world.That’s real. That’s not a professor’s ledger.”
He was reframing her fear, twisting it into a shared, intimate danger. He felt her shiver under his touch. “It’s just data,” she breathed, but she was leaning into his hand now.
“Data has consequences.” He finally closed the last inch, his lips brushing hers, light as a suggestion.He pulled back, watching her eyes flutter open. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. We’ll go back to the feeds.”
He knew she wouldn’t. He saw the conflict, the bright, investigative part of her brain warring with the part that was hopelessly drawn to the chaos he represented.She’d shown up here, after all. She’d walked into the lion’s den wearing yoga pants and a tank top. He knew what that meant.She didn’t tell him to stop. She made a small, desperate sound in the back of her throat and surged forward to kiss him, her hands coming up to clutch at the front of his shirt.It was all youthful hunger and clumsy urgency. He met it with controlled expertise, his mouth moving over hers, his hands sliding down her sides to grasp her hips. He lifted her effortlessly from the chair, settling her on the edge of his desk. The laptop was pushed aside, a hollow clatter ignored.
His lips moved from her mouth to her jaw, to the sensitive spot below her ear. “You’re sure?” he whispered, a final, hollow courtesy. Her answer was to arch her back, pressing her chest against him, her fingers tangling in his salt-and-pepper hair. He took his time, peeling the thin tank top over her head, his mouth following the path of his hands. He marveled at the sheer, stupid luck of it—a source this valuable, this eager, wrapped in a package this intoxicatingly perfect.
Later, in the tangle of his sheets with the city’s neon pulse washing over her sleeping form, he lit a cigarette. He studied the curve of her hip under the blanket, the frantic energy finally stilled. She’d be even more pliable now, more connected, more willing to dive headfirst into those campus servers for him. The Green Arrow’s identity felt closer, almost tangible.He exhaled a stream of smoke toward the dark ceiling. She was, without a doubt, the best lead he’d ever fucked.