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My mother shot me. I'd wondered if the electronics and the costume would be enough camouflage. Now I know.
She's calling for security. Who will probably come straight up the elevators. So I have to go down the stairs. All 39 damned floors plus if I'm going to get down to the garage. Get a move on, fool.
Walking isn't as easy as it used to be, but the bow helps with my balance. I just have to be careful not to leave any more blood samples on the walls. Not that the puddle I've left in my mother's office won't be plenty for the cops to work with.
Part of me is outraged that the stairwells are not teeming with security personnel. My mother has been attacked in her own office in her own office building and even though she's proved amazingly, if aggravatingly, resourceful, this level of non-response is upsetting. Of course, since I'm the crazy man who accosted her I'm aware of the irony in my outrage.
The gun was a surprise, since I don't remember a mention of her having or practicing with one. No way to know if it's because of Walter's disappearance or my own campaign or something else entirely. In any case I could wish that her aim hadn't been so good.
I manage to get down to the garage without a faceplant or any other disaster. Like getting caught. I'd originally intended to zipline my way back out the window I'd come in through to get back to my bike. It had seemed a better idea than having Diggle wait for me with the family car anywhere in the vicinity during this operation. Clearly not one of my better decisions.
It's also clear that my first thought for coming down here, which was to steal a car and drive myself out of here to someplace I can contact Digg, is a complete bust. I've lost enough blood that I'm getting lightheaded so that course is more likely to be suicidal. I'm going to need outside help getting out of here.
My mother's limo is still here, but the chance that there would be a search of her car before they let her get into it is one I can't risk. Might as well have simply stayed on the floor of her office. I hear sirens coming, which meant that they'd finally called the cops.
Felicity's car was still in its slot, though. At least this much was going right tonight. I managed to get into the back seat without leaving smears of blood all over the door handle, but I doubt the upholstery will survive me intact.
I'd been thinking about how to recruit Felicity. I need intel and I need someone who knows more about computers than I do. I had a bet with myself that she would probably be less surprised by my alter ego than Digg had been at the outset. At least I'd be able to be honest with her when I need help, 'cause Digg is right about my cover stories.
Lying there in her car it occurs to me that I am betting my life on her levelheadedness. If she panics or balks at taking me back to the Glades, at the very least my career as the Hood is over. Lance will be ecstatic to find his two least-favorite people in one conveniently-indicted body. Assuming I don't simply bleed out here in the car waiting for her.
I hear the door open and the car shifts as she gets in. She turns to back out of the space and she sees me.
"I'm not going to hurt you Felicity."
"How do you know my name?" I can hear the shock in her voice.
I lift the hood up off my face. "Because you know my name."
Her eyes widen. "Mr. ...Oliver! Oh, wow! Everything bout you just became so unbelievably clear! ... You're bleeding!"
"I don't need to be told that." Even now she babbles. Pull it together, Felicity. I don't have all night.
"You need a hospital!"
"My father's ... my father's old factory in the Glades."
"You need a doctor not a steelworker."
"Felicity! You have to promise me that you are going to take me to my father's factory and nowhere else."
"Promise."
I win.