Connor Hawke felt hot and sticky. Even with his eyes closed, and his mind focused on the beating of his heart, he couldn’t block out the heat of Napa Valley. His skin felt like it would combust at any moment; he was sure that the weed tickling his knee was doing it on purpose. “Perhaps it’s been too long,” Connor thought to himself as he sat with his feet resting on the tops of his legs, his eyes closed as tightly as he could muster.

The Ashram was deathly quiet. Neither wildlife sounds, nor chatter from students and monks made it to the archer’s ears. The heat seemed to be all there was to keep him from the day’s meditation. He let out a sigh and opened his eyes once again. The sun’s presence was quickly noted by a sight of orange glare, taking up the boy’s full spectrum of vision. Quickly he closed his eyes back tight.

It had been almost a year since he had set foot on the grounds of the Ashram. However last time was not one of study and understanding. He had gone with the Green Lantern, to stop it from becoming the newest hot spot for rich tourists, a Zen Buddhist amusement park. He should have returned back to the Ashram with Jansen but he had his father’s legacy to continue - the Green Arrow. And as easily as putting on a new pair of shoes he turned his back on the only home he ever had known, and tried to do like his father. Of course he never had an inkling that as easy as it was to assume the role of a Super-hero, it was also just as easy to make a farce out of his way of life.

Just six months of going from place to place had easily broken him, and his way of life. He lost his center… his purpose. When he arrived only a few months ago at the gates of this very Ashram, he had no idea who he was. He thought that perhaps, here he would claim some sense of purpose both for himself and for Green Arrow. However, he was just as lost today as he was when he entered the temple.

“CONNOR!” a voice shrilled from behind him. The blond youth brought his two palms onto the soft soil pushing his sitting body to the side. His thin neck whisked the rest of the way around, before those shimmering green eyes were finally released from the recesses of his eye lids.

“Mickey,” Connor said simply. His voice was drawn out and soft. A relaxed timbre he had perfected years ago. The way a monk was supposed to talk. “Can I help you my brother?”

The young boy lowered his shaven head, his waist pushed his torso forward as he bowed, his two small arms sticking out straight from his shoulders, only to bend at the elbows and smash into each other at the hands. “Master Jensen says you must see him. It is very important.”

“Important enough to send you, out here away from your studies?” Connor asked, a smile slipping across his boisterous lips. “Then I suspect I should see him without delay.”

The little boy smiled and let out a laugh. His tawny form jiggled as he did so, the burgundy outer robe creasing in tides across his stomach. “Studies have been over for three hours now, Connor.”

“A man with one watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never quite sure,” Connor recited, as he pulled his feet from the tops of his legs. He slowly raised himself from the warm ground, his own monastic robe sliding back over his legs.

The small boy laughed again. “But really Connor, he said it’s very important. Something to do with a Moon’s Day.”

“Moonday?” Connor asked his smile fading from his face, replaced by a cold hard stare.

“Yes Moonday... Something about that.”

“That’s my mother’s name, Mickey,” Connor said in a harsh whisper.

	The Emerald Archer... Complications of Distrust
Green Arrow #11- September, Year 4	by Jae Lizhini

Connor sat uncomfortably against his bus seat. His cheek was pressed against the window, his eyes glued on the moving landscape outside. He held his duffle bag between his legs, the pressing of the wooden bow-- even through the bag’s fabric-- gave him a little to hold onto. He knew he once again was not ready to leave the Ashram. But he had little choice in the matter.

“You a runaway, Chico?” a deep voice asked, from the next seat over. Connor turned his head slowly from the window, his slender eyes shifted toward the man, taking in the Spanish features of the speaker.

“No,” Connor said simply.

The bronze faced man brought up a finger, running it over the pencil thin mustache that traced his upper lip. His caramel eyes did not meet the former monk’s. “That face has a story,” the man replied. “Painful by the looks of it.”

A rush of sincerity rushed from Connor’s cheeks and down his back. “It’s just luggage, that’s all,” he informed him.

“Luggage always feels better after you take it off your back, hombre. But I don’t mean to be nosy. Just looking for conversation, long ride and all, but if you don’t want to say, that’s fine.”

“I appreciate the compassion,” the archer spoke, withdrawing a hand from his lap and extending it to the occupant of the seat next to his own. “My name is Connor, by the way.”

The man’s face lit up right away. A great smile formed over his face, causing a spider webbing of creases to rise below his eye. “Well Connor it’s a pleasure,” he spoke grabbing the offered hand in his own. “Alejandro,” he answered the archer, in the same jovial manner.

Connor squarely pushed his back into the seat, not a moment after Alejandro had given him back his hand. The nineteen-year old archer laid his head back into the leather seat. His two hands rested neatly across his lap, his eyes closed gently.

Alejandro let his brown eyes fall from the gaze of the young boy, whom he could tell was not a boy at all, and turned to the newspaper that he had left folded in the seat pocket in front of him. The tough and aged fingers fumbled for a few seconds as he managed a grip on the paper, and pulled it free from its prison. With a simple snap of his wrist the paper unfolded vertically and horizontally, flipping open in front of his eyes. The worn man let his eyes scan over the articles as he leaned back in his seat.

“A well known monk said something once,” the blond haired boy said, after ten minutes had passed between the last words spoken. However Connor’s eyes had not opened, and his body appeared to be just as relaxed.

“They tend to do that. Seems to be the only way that monks ever got to be well known,” Alejandro replied.

“Well, we will have to disagree with that. History shows that this isn’t true. But none the less this famous monk said, “To understand the soul you must possess it.” The boy continued to stay relaxed in the chair, even as Alejandro’s heart sped up a little. “I always figured it meant that something to do with knowing the person before hand. But just now I figured out what it meant.”

“Is that a fact now?” the Mexican man asked. His graying bangs slipped over his eyes as he looked towards the beat-up denim jeans he wore, focusing on the sizable lump near his left hip. “What do you think it means then, Connor?”

“I think in order to know what someone is feeling, you have had to be there.” Connor’s expression never changed. He continued sitting, his body relaxed. “It probably would have been better if you didn’t try to relate to me. I was unsuspecting you know… totally off guard.”

“You think I’m here to kill you?” Alejandro asked, his head turning around to look at the still face of Connor. “Sorry we’re not even in the same league.”

“Things like that don’t matter,” Connor informed him, his voice still as slow and calculated as it was when he was at the Ashram. “As long as there is a check, that’s all that counts.”

“You wouldn’t understand kid. Always getting everything handed to you on a plate. Here in the real world things aren’t so easy.”

“I never asked for an explanation.”

“I’m not here to kill you though, quite the opposite actually.”

“Why would my step father send a professional hit man, if not to kill me?”

“I’m not a hit man.” Connor heard the shifting of the man’s weight as he leaned against Connor’s shoulder. “You probably felt my hand and assumed because I live by the gun, I’m a hit man. Truth is I used to be.” He could feel the handgun in the man’s pocket pressing against his ribcage, as he leaned in.

Connor turned his body completely around to face the hired gun. “It wasn’t just the textures of your hand,” he spoke. “That could have come from a number of places, but also the gunpowder under your nails, and the fact that you don’t look me in the eyes,” He shrugged, “hit man or not, I am your target, Alejandro.”

“You are not a hit mark, Connor,” the hired gun said. “That is unless you want to be. I’m just here to make sure you don’t cause harm to anything... or more importantly anyone.”

“My stepfather must not have informed you, that I abhor violence. If you are here to make sure I do not cause any harm, to Milo, I’d not worry. I’m just worried about my mother.” Connor’s shoulder rolled into the hit man, his elbow rose with a single swing. The arm impacted the gun, which rested against the man’s hip, with enough velocity to cause it to spring from the waistband. The archer’s eyes opened as he brought his hand in front of the hit man’s face swiping the gun from the air.

Alejandro tried to grab for the gun as Connor’s hand retracted back towards his lap. “They told me you were some sort of martial arts expert. But magnificente, Connor, I didn’t even see that coming. But don’t press your luck kid.”

“I can take care of myself, Alejandro,” Connor told him, as he covered the gun with his left hand. “We will go our separate ways at the station.”

1^st Christian Hospital
San Francisco, CA

Connor hadn’t bothered to change into fresh clothes, or even take a shower, from the bus station. He knew there would be little he could do. But he wanted to be there. As quickly as possible, and without any more distractions from Milo, or from internal sources-- he just wanted to be at his mother’s side.

He pushed opened the twin glass doors of the hospital, as his walked into the explosion of sanitary whites. The linoleum white floor was filled with crowds of patients, doctors and nurses, buzzing between the doors that surrounded the reception area.

Connor strengthened the grip he had on the dark green duffle bag. Let the luggage carry-all lie flat across his thin back. His green eyes looked forward, past the swarms of white coats and metallic stretchers, toward the reception desk, meeting the gaze of the darkly tanned brunette. Connor took hurried steps sliding past the swarms of warm bodies as he approached the desk. The receptionist never blinked once as she watched his skillful approach.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked. Her dark brown eyes absorbed in the cappuccino colored flesh of the boy, and let her gaze drag down from his emerald green eyes to the full round lips he carried. His face a palette of converging ethnic character, simply eyed her back in worry.

“I’m here to see Moonday Hawke,” Connor said as clearly as he could. Even though inside he was shivering like a fish out of water. He clenched his hand against the strap he held onto.

The receptionist ducked her head silently to the monitor that sat in front of her, her fingers skillfully finding the awaiting keyboard, plugging in the data. “That’s M-double o-n-d-a-y? And Hawk like the bird?”

“Hawke with an “E. She might also be under Armitage, as that’s her husband’s last name.”

“Milo?” the receptionist asked, her head tilting upwards. “Yes here it is, Moonday Hawke-Armitage signed in by Milo Armitage. She’s in room 434. But you can’t go up. Family only.”

“I’m her son, Connor Hawke,” he told the woman.

“Sorry, but I’ll need to see some identification before I can give you a pass to the fourth level.”

The young archer shrugged his shoulders at the request. His eyes flicked down to the powder white desk, the shiny surface reflecting his own dour expression back up at him. “I don’t have identification,” the boy said in something less than a whisper. He knew he had a birth certificate and a Social Security number somewhere, but he never had much need of identification cards when living in an Ashram. All of the certificates and medical records were kept by his mother at his grandfather’s house. Connor had never given such things a second thought, until just about then.

“Not even a video rental card, or a student ID?” the receptionist asked. Her face displayed her shock.

“No,” Connor said weakly, feeling the need to describe himself, yet knowing it would matter little. The hospital did have protocols after all.

“I can vouch for him,” a deep voice called from behind Connor.

Connor recognized the voice even before the receptionist raised her head to get her sight over the left shoulder of the boy, to recognize one of the city’s well known patrons. “Yes, Mr. Armitage. I was about to call Miss Armitage’s room if…”

“But it’s all settled now,” Milo spoke with a grin spreading apart the gray beard that carpeted his face. His large hand stretched forward clamping onto Connor’s left shoulder. “I can take Connor to visit his mother.”

“As you wish Mr. Armitage,” the receptionist spoke, her voice soft and formal, as though she wanted to watch what she said in front of him. Connor on the other hand said nothing. Unlike most of the people who lived in San Francisco, he knew exactly the type of person of Milo Armitage was. He didn’t get drawn under by the selective press’s kind words, or by the numerous cover ups dealing with his business, of arms-dealings.

Milo led Connor towards the elevator, only a few steps from the receptionist’s desk. Unlike Connor’s transit in the hospital though, the doctors and nurses got clear of the wealthy man as he made his way to the wall, where the shimmering metal doors stood vigil. The clammy hand never left Connor’s shoulder as their foot falls came to a stop.

Milo brushed against his step-son, leaning in to press the white elevator call button. The simple white button, illuminated to a gold jewel upon Milo’s pressing. The arm’s dealer took a step back, his body close enough to Connor’s now, for the expensive cologne he wore to burn the boy’s nostrils.

Connor’s head finally turned to view Milo. The young hero took in the striking blue eyes the man had, the deeply tanned skin that easily contrasted with the peppered-gray hair, which was finely trimmed and groomed, to match the equally pampered beard. “Thank you for coming Connor,” Milo spoke, without a cordial smile this time. “Though your mother is still unable to gain consciousness, I’m positive your being here will help immensely.”

“Thanks,” Connor said nodding to the villain, not feeling the need to speak more. He knew how Milo worked, he had dealt with the man enough in the short months since he returned from the Ashram to know that what he said, and what he thought were never in sync.

The elevator car jarred both passengers ever so slightly, as the metallic box began to rise upwards. The soft hissing as it rode along its tracks however was drowned out by the light jazz that the building superintendent assumed was pleasant. Connor stepped backwards, pressing his back against the wall of the car. His left arm loosened as he lowered the duffle bag to the floor.

“So how was the trip?” Milo asked, jarring Connor from his fleeting moments of thought.

“Actually, I met a friend of yours,” Connor said, a slight grin covering his face. “A Mexican gentleman.”

Milo Armitage spun on the heels of his loafers. The arms of his charcoal sport coat bunched up, as he thrust his palms against the archer’s small shoulders. A look of anger displayed in folds across the man’s hair-lined cheeks. “Don’t pull this shit with me, Connor. Not while the woman we both love is hanging on a single thread! The last thing we both need to do is be grabbing at each other’s throats. We both know full well Alejandro was there to make sure that we weren’t going to be uncivil. However I can see that he didn’t quite do his job!”

DING! The Elevator doors came open, with an almost undetectable sliding of metal. The cool sterile air of the hospital flooded into the elevator, as Milo released the shoulders of his step son. Connor rolled his shoulders slightly as he bent his knees to grab the strap of the duffle bag.

“Now let’s go see your mother,” Milo said from over his shoulder. Not giving the simplest glance to Connor, who raised his body back to full height and slammed the duffle bag across his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Connor said from the back of his throat. “Must not keep everyone waiting.”

Milo continued to walk through the hallway as though he had not heard Connor’s diatribe. Or had decided it was not worth the struggle. Instead, he just briskly strode through the glowing white hallway. The linoleum floor clattering with the arm-dealer’s foot heels, and the sound battering off the plaster walls and ceiling like a hammer to a nail.

The duo pressed on in silence (aside from the clattering of the footfalls), until they reached an open doorway, halfway down the walkway... Connor continued his walk a score of steps behind Milo. However, he was not too far away to hear his stepfather greet a slender black woman, as she darted through the doorway, wedging past the man.

“Nurse Brady.” Milo spoke, his soft blue eyes focused on the inside of the room.

The nurse stopped as soon as she cleared Milo’s shoulder, her caramel eyes taking in the gray bearded face that looked toward the bed inside. “Dr. Tong should be making his rounds in a few minutes, Mr. Armitage; he can tell you what has happened since your last visit.”

A smile of satisfaction fell over Connor’s lips as he heard the transaction. It appeared to him that Milo was slipping at the loving husband routine. Though, he hadn’t been able to rid himself of the thoughts of Milo’s own innocence in his mother’s condition. He was still quite interested in what the Doctor would say, even if everything so far felt absolutely wrong.

The room Moonday was placed in was a private room, yet no less bright than any of the other parts of the hospital that Connor had visited thus far today. The walls were painted in a bright peach color which seemed to reflect the light coming in from the giant window from the east wall. The bed lay in the center of the room, lined with flowers and balloons. Connor would not have even noticed the three large machines pushed up against the walls beside his mother’s bed, if they weren’t so loud.

Of course it wasn’t the machines or the flowers he himself was focused on. Connor felt a dry gulp lump in his throat, as he looked at the small bed in the center of the room. Amongst the white and orange room, the bed seemed to glow, making it impossible for him to avoid seeing his mother who slept silently; her long dark hair running in silken rivers across her still pillow. The young man came to a stop before he reached her bed. His mouth formed an “O” as he watched her. His only strength for those first few minutes was the constant “beep” of the EKG machine.

Connor stood staring at his mother, until the door behind him abruptly slammed closed. He spun around on his heels, his large duffle slipping off his shoulder and pressing against his chest. “No need for alarm,” the doctor said, as he took a step towards the boy. His white lab coat ruffled across his hips as he advanced towards Moonday.

Connor let a deep breath fall from his mouth, as the silver haired doctor slowly stepped past him. “My apologies…” he said, bowing his head timidly. He was sure part of his actions was due to stress, but also he once again had left the Ashram much too early.

“There is little need for that… Connor isn’t it?” the doctor asked, as soon as he came to a stop at the side of Moonday’s bed. He had already flipped the clipboard against his forearm, and leaned down to examine the woman’s condition. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you.”

Both Milo and Connor looked at him with shocked expressions, for two very different reasons. “Y-You have?” Connor asked in a shaken voice.

The doctor beamed a broad smile, his complexion shifting to red circles across his cheek bones. “Yes, she spoke of you a lot, especially during the rough times,” the doctor explained. “I have been your mother’s doctor for a number of years, but of course you wouldn’t have known that. You have been in the Buddhist temple for quite a while now haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Connor said, his gaze locked on the charismatic doctor.

“Well anyways, I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to reminisce about your childhood. Quite frankly I am glad you came, so I could tell you in person exactly what is going on with your mother.”

The youth kept his eyes focused on the doctor, his gaze burning holes into the doctor’s flesh. He kept his mouth closed, his expression riddled with reflections of anticipation.

“Your mother was brought into the emergency three days ago along with a host of other victims of a fire that started in a restaurant she was eating at. Your stepfather was among the other victims. Like most of the others she suffered from asphyxiation from the thick smoke. However unlike the others, your mother’s respiratory system began to breakdown, even after the treatments she was given. Yesterday, she lost consciousness, due to a lack of oxygen. She has been in a coma ever since. The lung machine is all that is currently keeping her alive. We are baffled as to what caused this sudden breakdown of her lungs, and we have no idea how to jumpstart the air sacs to get her breathing.” The doctor sighed looking at the coffee colored loafers he wore. “Currently there is nothing modern science can do.”

Connor’s eyes gleamed as he continued to look at the doctor. “I don’t understand… you’re a doctor, you treat respiratory problems all the time. What do you mean there is nothing you can do? Are her lungs just that bad off?”

“No, the treatment of her lungs was fine. Her lungs and the major segments of her respiratory system are much healthier than someone in their early twenties. Just for some reason, her air sacs are not gathering oxygen. There have only been a few cases of this. I have personally dug up a number of those cases, of this rare side effect, and it appears that this condition is only being researched by one team of medical scientists at Macronics Labs, and that they have been developing an experimental treatment, that forces the air sacs to reengage after they have quit responding. Of course after contacting this lab I have continually been denied.”

“So there is no way for her to get this procedure?” Connor spoke, his voice iced with anger.

“Not unless a miracle falls upon us, and we can somehow get on the very small list of patients they are trying this treatment on.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “So they are treating a select number of patients with this treatment?” He paused as he put the lab’s name to memory and spoke it outwards, “Macronics Labs?”

Unseen by both the doctor and Connor, Milo Armitage watched with a grin marred across his bearded face. His eyes however never wavering from the face of his blond stepson, and his wife’s doctor, both of which similarly falling right into a spider web of his own design.

“Yes, Macronics labs, but I doubt any research on this place will help matters Connor. We have to focus on the now--what we have available to us, to keep your mother going, in the hope that her lungs will reset themselves.”

“Is there really much of a chance of that, doctor? That her lungs will reset themselves?” Connor’s eyes turned to his stepfather for a moment, as he spoke his next lines. “I can be resourceful, and I have friends in places, not even my step father would dispute.”

Milo’s eyes got wide for the span of a few moments, knowing first hand the sorts of people that his stepson had run around with. The members of the Justice League came to mind, as did that former CIA agent, Fyers. However, Milo finally nodded his head to the other two men. He knew he had to, as both his empire and wife were hanging by the very same noose. “Connor is very resourceful,” the arms dealer began slowly, his finely brushed beard scratching against the charcoal blazer he wore every time he spoke, his head looking more at the boy than the doctor. “And where I too have quite the contacts, and money to spread around… my hands are tied with this Macronics Labs business. I have tried to offer money, as well as resources, but to no avail. My hands are tied. Connor is the last hope we have on the option of this experimental treatment.”

The young archer stared at his step dad, as he spoke. He took in the nervous, lingering of his eyes, the slow monotone voice, and the quicker patterns of breathing. Milo was trying hard to be convincing, to put Connor into a positive light. The mutual distrust the two of them shared could explain the hardships of the arms-dealer’s body expressions, but something didn’t feel right to the hero. As though for the first time since he had met the man-- Connor had the distinct feeling that, dealing with Milo Armitage was too easy.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, the collar of the lab coat he wore bunched up into long slivers of fabric across his broad shoulders. “I don’t care if you try, Connor-- I personally think it’s pointless to consider it as an option, but if Mr. Armitage has no problems with you trying, and seems to think you have a shot, who am I to stand in your way?” His tender eyes took in the young boy, a sense of kinship blooming in an awkward silence that followed.

Connor could feel a sense of paternal love and hope being transferred with only the meeting of pupils. He bowed gracefully at the doctor. “Thank you Doctor, wei wei.” The one word repeated diction of the Zhougen dialect he actually knew.

“Your patronage astounds me, and pleases me,” the elderly doctor spoke, the smile cinched the rims of his dark eyes. “Knowing I was from the Zhougen region is not a trait exemplified much since I left the People’s Republic.”

“My master was from Kowloon, he taught me a little of the dialect. Thank you for everything doctor…”

“Tong, Doctor Suen Tong. Good luck Connor Hawke.”

Eddie Flyer’s Apartment
Oakland, CA

A single one-room apartment, on the corner of 5th Avenue and Apple Street, in the heart of Oakland, California, was not as one would say, the most prestigious of homes for a former government worker. However, the rough project neighborhoods that cornered the building he lived in, made it feel just about as home as any place could be for a man who was often known as Ironhorse-- a man who did not feel comfortable if there was not at least six people who looked like they wanted to kill him within eye sight.

He was lying shirtless in the queen-size bed-- which rarely had any occupants at all-- old sheets were crumpled around his shirtless form. His eyes lay wide open; a cigarette dangled below his thick brunette mustache. The lights from the street lamps slid through in small slivers laying glimpses of yellow radiance uncovering both his hairy torso, as well as the unconscious blond whose head lay on his broad left shoulder. The room itself was undeniably pitch black. Only the cloth covered floor seen by the daggers of light escaping through the Italian blinds, gave the room any ambience.

Though, this tranquil setting didn’t give Fyers the relapse of sleep. Not the hours of love making that put the woman into a voluntary coma, either. Flyers, was one of the old breed of government workers, the ones who spent their lives awake twenty-one hours a day. Years of such biological abuse and the body updates itself, and even after seven years out of the service, he still found it extremely hard to sleep. However tonight was one of those times he was glad Morpheus did not come, to rid him of consciousness.

His well trained ears registered the sudden shifting of the knob to his bedroom, only a split second before a flood of ambient light from the hallway flowed into the room. His quick left hand darted for the .45 that lay unattended on the nightstand. The rest of his body, rolled from the mattress taking the covers with him, to the floor.

Shocked by the sudden movement of the slumbering form, the would-be assassin shifted his form at the mouth of the doorway. Bringing his handgun forward, the form moved with the flow of covers that had flung off the bed. Of course he shot at the retreating fabric, puncturing holes with the cough of a silencer.

Eddie’s body rolled under the bed back peddling with his legs and right hand, as his left adjusted itself to the handle and trigger of his favorite gun. “I don’t know what the hell you’re thinking, but you done popped into the wrong flat, buddy,” the seasoned CIA expediter spoke as the bullets subsided.

“Just a little spring cleaning, land lord’s orders,” the silhouette said with a grin, his voice nasal and nervous. And not without reason, almost every criminal worth his salt knew of the legendary Ironhorse. He was the boogeyman that criminals whispered to their sleeping children. Even in his mid-fifties, he was a man who one would do well to fear.

“Remind me to have a word with him, especially for only bringing one gumba,” the crass mouthed gunman said with the urgency of a man whom was interrupted from relaxation. He slipped his left hand forward with a simple flick of his wrist the .45’s mouth coming to a stop at the edge of the bed. Posed with his wrist slightly bent to reduce the vibrations that a gun of this caliber carried, he waited for the right diversion. By the sound of the man’s voice there was more to this than met the eyes. It was a well thought out plan, at least from the assassin’s perspective. Course truthfully that wasn’t saying too much.

“I really don’t think you’ll have the chance Mr. Flyers,” the shadow said in a ‘matter of fact’ like tone.

“Eddie what’s...? Ahhh! A man with a gun!” the blond yelled as she woke from her stupor, trying to make sense what had just happened in the span a few seconds. The assassin’s gaze went to the sudden shrill of the woman, just the perfect opening Ironhorse needed. Bringing the assassin’s knee into view angling the gun upwards, he squeezed the trigger. A single bullet darted from the bed. The shell went through the man’s femur with deadly accuracy.

The assassin dropped his gun. His body fell catching the side of the doorframe. His olive skinned hand caught one of the slivers of orange that cut through the room, cracks of red blood flowed down his fingers.

“Don’t worry baby. This’ll all be over in a moment.” Eddie announced as he rolled from the bed, bringing the gun upwards to target the man’s head, before he squeezed the trigger.

Even before the second bullet made its lethal connection, streams of automatic gun fire danced through the room, shattering the window and the blinds, along with the bedside light and the bed itself. The blond moved her body back towards the wall as the bullets ripped apart the pillows and mattress. Her body shook in terror, tears glistening down her cheeks. “NO! NO!” she screamed out. She had seen things in her line of work in the past, but never had she been in a setting so close to a Columbian war zone.

Eddie had somersaulted across the room, his well trained motions seemed to suspend time as the bullets rained into the room. The former CIA man fell to a stop as the bullets subsided for the span of a few heartbeats. His nose took in the smell of the powder, his ears however far more accurate listening to the drop and echo of the clips being pushed in. He leaned his body toward the opened doorway. His left hand jerked as he turned the gun sideways and squeezed out three slugs. One of the bullets hit something, as a figure let out a high pitched squeal. The other two seemingly found homes in the apartment’s walls. The shock of his attack was what he was counting on. A moment’s hesitation was the fine line between life and death.

Eddie’s body lunged forward as the last of the bullets struck. His legs tensed as he vaulted into a quickened sprint heading to the door. His waist was bent inwards, a slow gait, low to the ground in case he misjudged the time. Fresh clips clanking into place caught his ears as he met the doorway. With a powerful spring he crossed into the dimly lit hallway. His shoulder smashed into the first of the darkly clad assassins. He felt the cold metal of an AK-47, strike his naked shoulder. This was followed by the gun being pushed back impacting the nose of the assassin.

He didn’t watch the first man fall, but Ironhorse did feel the warm jet of blood mist across his shoulder as the assassin crumbled to the ground. Stepping across the distance towards the other two, he let a smile rise across his lips-it had truly been a while since he had experienced something like this, even if they were virtually untrained. His left hand swung forward. The mouth of the .45 trained towards the figure that stood at the mouth of the hallway, locking his barrel for attack. He hadn’t quit moving. Rule 23 of the Fyers anti-assassination handbook: Like goldfish... if you quit moving you will quit breathing.

He took a long stride as he shifted his weight upwards. His large right hand swung outward, in an upwards arc. Eddie’s fist collided with the chin of the closest form. The cool pain of his knuckle allowed him some release from the moment. Enough release for his gun to veer to the head of the remaining assassin. The remaining assassin, looked on in horror, as he leveled his AK 47 at Eddie’s person. “A for effort.” Eddie smiled as he pulled the trigger twice, sending two large caliber shells into the man’s face and forehead.

It took a moment for the body to realize what had happened. It stood there motionless, two dime-sized holes sticking out from the dark mask-before it collapsed to the floor. Eddie veered his gun towards the man he had laid out only moments earlier with a fist. Normally he knew that his right hook wouldn’t have done quite so much damage, but the shoulder wound robbed the poor sap some of his initial spirit. He squeezed his trigger just once at the fallen assassin. One bullet was a kindness he didn’t often deliver to his opponents. One bullet did not guarantee a kill. It was a show of pity.

A slow click gave him attention, as he as stood looking at the mess he had just created. Eddie’s head snapped around toward the door. His blue eyes widened at the sight of an assassin unmasked, the nose and lips caked in blood. “I was coming back to you, you know,” Eddie spoke as he brought his gun up. The assassin’s eyes widened, as he saw the glint of metal. For a split second his shaking finger hesitated. Eddie did not.

The .45’s shell spit a single slug as the Ironhorse squeezed the trigger. The bullet hit the forearm with a splash of gore. The pain froze the assassin like ice; his hands flexed momentarily dropping the gun with a clatter. A smile ripped across Eddie’s face.

Taking two large strides forward the cold barrel of the .45 met the forehead of the frozen assassin. “You look like shit.” Eddie smiled. “Now if you want to live, you should probably tell me what dumbass pulled this shit.”

“I... I don’t - “ Eddie didn’t let him finish his sentence. Instead the aging gunman slammed his large knee into the man’s chest, bones rattling as the impact was caught. The assassin let out a gasp of air as he fell forward, collapsing to his knees.

“Why do you all have to be stupid?” Eddie grinned. “Granted your boss had to be stupid sending you guys to take me on... but still I’m one to believe that I’ve been severely underestimated. That doesn’t happen to often.” He slammed the gun hard into the base of the assassin’s neck. “Now, again... who the fuck sent you?”

“Ca-ca-cable...” the assassin said sinking down to his knees.

“Brandon Cable?” he asked a smirk on his face. “Well you go on and tell Brandon to come up here personally. I don’t have time to deal with this. If he’s got a problem-“ Eddie’s voice was abruptly halted in mid sentence as he suddenly heard the intro to Wagner’s Ride of the Walküre. Turning his head from the injured assassin he sighed. “Get the hell out of here, and tell Cable I’m waiting for his call.”

Eddie heard the man pick himself off the floor and head down the hallway as he stepped through the bullet-ridden doorway and into his room. Wagner’s aria was repeating a second time. He snatched the silver phone from the nightstand, his eyes looking at the woman who continued to remain in a ball pressed against the wall. “It’s over babe. Money’s on the dresser whenever you’re ready.”

Sliding the gun back into his pants he unfolded the phone and pressed it to his ear. “Flyers here… talk,” he said.

-- Eddie, I thought for a moment you weren’t around. -- Connor’s voice spoke through the phone, in a rather hasty manner.

“Sorry, kid. Had a little problem here at the homestead. Speaking of which, I thought phones weren’t allowed at Buddhist central.”

--I had a family emergency. My mom is on life support at the moment. That’s why I called. --

“Look, I may be able to do lot things, but being a doctor isn’t one of them,” Eddie said in an almost bemused voice.

--No, look Eddie, I need information on a Macronics Labs- experimental medical firm. --

“Macronics Labs…” he repeated putting the name to memory. “What does this have to do with Moonday?”

--They have some sort of experimental procedure that will help my mom. Really it’s her only chance. I need to see who’s in charge… and see if I can’t get my mom on the waiting list. --

“I see. Well, not sure if it’ll work, even if you are Green Arrow. But I’ll see what I can do, kid. Come by in about an hour, and we’ll see what we can find. I got a little cleaning to take care of.”

--Thanks Eddie, I owe you one. --

“No, I owe your father a lot, and I’m slowly repaying that debt.”

NEXT ISSUE: Connor heads for Gotham in hopes of finding the people behind Macronics Labs. Only what he finds is not exactly as he expected. And I’m sure you can already guess who’ll be guest starring