Under the Gun

Oliver crouches on the upper floor of the warehouse in the green Vigilante gear, curious to see how the guns will be exchanged. A careful watch on the police has informed him that a new group has been operating out of the Glades, selling weapons to the highest bidders. It's his hope that he can finally get a lock on the mysterious Deathstroke, the man who seems to be buying up enough weapons to power an army. Oliver has been tracking them for months, but he knows better than to try and take out the small-time runners when he can catch the big fish.

He doesn't have to wait long before a dark van pulls into the building, and a man taller and more muscular than him steps out. His beard is peppered with gray and he looks like he's been through similar wars to Oliver, but he stands tall and prepared nonetheless, with two swords at his sides. Two other men follow him out, but they're wearing masks. The only thing obvious about them are that they're big—which means this is probably the meet Oliver has been waiting for.

A second black van of similar specifications pulls into the lot next to the other, and the man who steps out isn't who Oliver is expecting. It's immediately obvious that he's ex-military, with broad shoulders, a proud stance, and well-muscled arms. Instead of going to meet the other man, he stands by the sliding passenger door on the van, waiting next to it. Oliver doesn't think it's coincidence that he also manages to flip his suit coat so that the Beretta at his side is exposed in a quiet threat.

The first face to exit belongs to a man just as likely to be called a boy. High cheekbones and dark eyes study the room, part of his face concealed beneath the red hood pulled up over his face. An assault rifle is strapped to his back, and he pulls a gun from the van that's nearly as tall as he is. He holds it under one arm as he holds out the opposite hand.

Delicate fingers take the offer, her nails painted blood red. Oliver expects many things from the woman he's about to see, but the last thing on his mind is a stunning blonde in a short, black pencil skirt and a colorful blouse under a purple peacoat. Piercing blue eyes survey the scene with care, and her heels click against the concrete floor when they finally meet. She pats the boy's shoulder with a smile of thanks, which he returns with the slightest nod. Her hair flows free, and, when she adjusts her jacket, he's surprised that she doesn't appear to have a weapon on her.

He assumes that's the team after watching them exit—three people for each side to make any potential fights fair—but then boots stomp on the concrete behind them. The blonde has a white, square patch pulled over one eye, and, unlike the other woman, she moves like a fighter. A long bo-staff is in her hand, and she's dressed in black from head to toe. Her head swivels in all directions, and Oliver's eyes widen when she looks in his direction. Sara Lance apparently survived the shipwreck, too.

And, more importantly, she's working for a gun runner.

The other blonde, the one with the stoic expression and piercing eyes, isn't so observant of her environment, walking up to the older man with a smile on her face. "Good evening, Mr. Wilson," she greets him with a smile, extending her hand casually, as though she does this all the time. Maybe she does, for all Oliver knows.

Wilson takes it, shaking her hand before twisting it to brush his lips across her knuckles. "Always a pleasure, Miss Morgan," he answers in a thick Australian accent. Oliver is surprised that she'd give him her real name, but then he realizes that the accent threw him off. Wilson didn't say Morgan, but Morrigan. It registers somewhere within, then he remembers something associating the name Morrigan with war. It's her codename of sorts. "I trust you have the merchandise?"

She pulls away, smiling. "Of course," she answers. "Your new shipment—fifty high-caliber, long-range rifles with scopes, to trade for some to be refurbished." She makes a gesture like she's reaching up to adjust her glasses, even though she isn't wearing any, and then she crosses her arms. "Before I can offer you my price, I need to see your merchandise, Mr. Wilson." He hesitates, and she notices. "I trust that won't be a problem?"