Two arrows, two guards down.
Thea moved fast, crouching beside their limp bodies. She yanked off their gas masks—already feeling that faint, dizzy tug in her head. The toxins were getting to her again.
At best, she was running on sixty percent of her strength now.
She studied one of the masks, grimacing.
It would block the gas, yes—but it had just been peeled off someone's sweaty face. Disgusting.
No time to dwell. She stuffed both masks into her pack. Maybe Felicity could analyze them later and identify the compound.
She turned back to Gordon and Barbara, both tied to their chairs. The captors hadn't underestimated them; heavy steel chains looped through padlocks, binding them tight.
Her slim arms weren't built for brute strength—she couldn't break them, and the guards didn't have any keys.
Every second counted. For all she knew, there were cameras somewhere in the room.
She summoned her hoverboard closer and drew out the steel rescue cable coiled along its edge. It was designed to haul half a ton of weight. Perfect.
"Sorry about this, old man," she murmured.
Looping the chain around their chairs, she fastened them together, anchoring the whole thing to the board's line. From a distance, the setup almost looked artistic—two people bundled up like oddly shaped dumplings.
With a steady push, she guided the board toward the door, towing the pair behind.
Lyla was already strapped to one side of the board, leaving zero room. Gordon and Barbara would have to… hang on. Literally.
It was a terrible plan, but it was all she had.
The doorway was too low. With their added bulk, the board couldn't glide out smoothly. She tried to keep the movement quiet, but the more she tried to tiptoe, the louder the universe laughed.
"Move! Move, someone's inside!"
Footsteps thundered from the hall—at least ten, maybe more.
So there were cameras. No time left. Thea vaulted onto the board and hit the thrusters.
The craft blasted forward, scraping the doorframe with a metallic shriek as she tore through the exit.
Clangs, bumps, and thuds followed—chairs hitting walls, chains rattling, bodies bouncing behind her like poorly packed cargo.
The guards outside froze for half a heartbeat—just long enough for her to punch the accelerator and shoot straight up.
Muzzles flared below. Bullets snapped through the air.
By the time they realized what they were seeing, Thea and her unlikely passengers were already three hundred meters high.
She could've climbed higher—five hundred, maybe more—but Gordon and Barbara were dead weight without pressurized suits. The thin air up here would already be punishing.
She glanced sideways. Lyla, strapped to the board's flank, stirred faintly, grimacing as the wind whipped her face. Compared to the two "passengers" dangling from the line below, she was practically in first class.
The Gordons, meanwhile, were a mess. Blood streaked their faces. For a moment, Thea's heart jumped—but then she noticed the giant lump swelling on Barbara's forehead, and one of Gordon's shoes missing. The blood wasn't altitude sickness; it was blunt trauma from being dragged through a doorway.
Thea sighed inwardly. Sorry, Commissioner. You'll live.
She couldn't resist a mental jab at Barbara. Your poor father, and you can't even buy him new socks? All that time flirting with Robin… shameful.
Then—an explosion flared below.
A rocket-propelled grenade spiraled past, missing by meters.
"Great," Thea muttered. "They've got toys."
Dodging the shot, she knew she couldn't go back. The searchlights below swept the compound; at least thirty or forty armed men had regrouped.
They weren't trained for aerial combat, thankfully—their gunfire was wild, unfocused—but there was no chance of slipping in again for Robin.
"Sorry, kid," she whispered, banking away. "Hang on down there. I'll come back for you."
She sped toward the outskirts, skimming low over rooftops until the danger was far behind.
By the time she reached the safehouse, her arms were trembling from the strain. Felicity was still unconscious where she'd left her, face pale and damp with sweat.
The lack of an antidote gnawed at her. She was about to head back out and grab a live prisoner when a faint groan stopped her.
Lyla.
The woman's eyelids fluttered open. Her voice was hoarse, unsteady:
"Who… are you? What do you want? You won't get anything from me…"
She tried to stand but collapsed almost immediately, arms shaking.
Thea's brows lifted. Impressive. Other than herself, Lyla was the first to wake naturally. Maybe it really was a matter of conditioning—decades of fieldwork, caffeine, and microdoses of tranquilizers giving her an inhuman tolerance.
Which raised another question—how had she woken up? She liked to think it was sheer willpower and superior stamina.
Thea knelt beside her, steadying her shoulders. "Look closely—I'm Thea Queen. We met two days ago. You were hit by the gas. This is a safe house I found."
Lyla blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Her gaze sharpened, suspicion giving way to recognition. Good. That made things easier.
"Easy," Thea said softly, grabbing a basin of cold water and a towel. "You're safe for now."
But when she tried to wipe Lyla's face, the agent shoved her hand aside, took one deep breath—then plunged her entire head into the basin.
Thea froze, then couldn't help a small grin. Efficient.
When Lyla surfaced again, water streaming down her cheeks, she looked like a different person—still pale, but alert, dangerous. Her eyes locked onto Thea, sharp and fierce.
"…You're Thea?"
"Last I checked."
"Where am I? Where are the others—my team?"
Thea sighed. She didn't hear a word I said. So she went through it again—everything: the gas, the raid, the rescue, the others still unconscious.
"That's the situation," she finished. "Right now it's just you and me awake. I didn't see your people… and even if I did, I probably wouldn't recognize them."
For a moment, silence. Only the steady drip of water from Lyla's hair.
Then the soldier's jaw tightened. "Then we find them."
Thea nodded. "Yeah. After I figure out who the hell did this."