The Glades carried more history than most of Star City cared to remember. Long before the neighborhood became synonymous with poverty, violence, and boarded-up storefronts, it had been home to the city's growing middle class. Families had once filled these streets, children had played beneath the streetlamps, and the buildings had stood as symbols of a community that believed it had a future.
One of those buildings still remained.
The old mayoral office stood deep within the Glades, its once-impressive stone facade weathered by decades of neglect. The windows were cracked or boarded over, ivy crawled up the walls, and the engraved seal above the entrance had been almost completely worn away by time. It had been abandoned years ago, left behind as the city expanded and the Glades slowly became something else.
Tonight, however, the building was occupied.
Inside, sitting behind a battered desk beneath the weak glow of an overhead lamp, was a man who seemed almost too large for the room around him. Brickwell was massive, a broad-shouldered wall of muscle with thick arms resting against the desk and a neck that seemed carved from stone. His size alone made the old office feel smaller, as though the building had been forced to accommodate him rather than the other way around.
He sat surrounded by several of his men, listening to their quiet conversation while the city beyond the walls disappeared beneath the darkness.
Outside, the Glades were nearly silent.
Clouds had swallowed the moon, leaving the streets beneath them in near-total darkness. The occasional streetlamp flickered weakly over abandoned storefronts and pothole-riddled roads, illuminating more shadows than it did pavement.
Then something moved. A figure slipped between two buildings and vanished. Another crossed the street several yards behind him.
Then another.
They moved with patience, keeping to the darkness and using the abandoned structures as cover. No shouted commands carried through the streets. No engines announced their arrival. Even their footsteps seemed swallowed by the night.
Dre emerged from the shadows last.
He stopped at the corner of a building and looked toward the old mayoral office.
There it was.
The heart of Brickwell's little kingdom.
For weeks, the man had made a habit of striking at the Underpass and disappearing before Dre could answer. He had hidden behind police intervention, used the chaos of the Glades to his advantage, and convinced himself that the streets belonged to him.
Tonight, Dre intended to correct that misunderstanding.
He raised two fingers.
The men behind him froze.
Dre waited.
A gust of wind moved through the empty street, carrying the distant sound of traffic from somewhere beyond the Glades. A loose piece of metal rattled against a building before falling silent again.
Dre lowered his hand.
The group began moving.
They crossed the street without a word, slipping toward the old mayoral office from several directions at once. Two men disappeared around the eastern side of the building while another pair approached the rear entrance. Dre remained with the main group, watching the front of the building.
They ducked into the shadows avoiding the men that watched the windows.
Dre reached the entrance and placed his hand against the old wooden door.
It opened with barely a sound. He looked over his shoulder.
The men behind him were already drawing their weapons.
Dre stepped inside.
The darkness swallowed them whole.
For several seconds, Dre remained just inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The old mayoral building smelled of damp plaster, rotting wood, and years of neglect. Somewhere inside the walls, an old pipe groaned beneath the strain of the building's age, followed by the faint drip of water somewhere in the darkness. It was almost peaceful. That was what bothered Dre. Brickwell had spent weeks attacking the Underpass with carefully planned strikes, yet tonight there wasn't a single guard visible outside the building.
Dre raised one hand, and the men behind him immediately stopped. He pointed two fingers toward the hallway on the left before gesturing toward the staircase. The group divided without a word, half disappearing into the darkness while Dre led the remaining men deeper into the building. Their footsteps were quiet against the worn tile, the sound swallowed by the thick walls. Dust shifted beneath their shoes as they passed beneath portraits of former mayors whose faces had faded almost completely with time.
It was strange seeing those men staring down at them from the walls. They had represented a city that believed the Glades would always have a place within it. Families had once walked these halls. Politicians had once argued over the future of the neighborhood. Now the building belonged to a criminal who called himself its mayor, and the people who actually lived in the Glades had learned not to expect anything from the government.
Dre passed beneath another portrait without sparing it a glance.
Tonight wasn't about the government.
It was about Brickwell.
A faint thud came from somewhere ahead.
Dre stopped immediately. The men behind him froze, their weapons rising as they searched the darkness. A second sound followed, softer this time. Footsteps were approaching from somewhere beyond the corridor.
Dre lifted one finger.
Wait.
A door opened at the far end of the hallway, and a man stepped into view with a rifle hanging loosely from one hand. He looked tired rather than alert, his attention focused on something inside the room behind him. He took two steps into the corridor before a suppressed shot quietly broke the silence.
The man dropped.
Two of Dre's soldiers immediately moved forward and dragged the body out of sight. Dre continued without hesitation, stepping through the doorway the man had emerged from. Three more men were gathered around a battered table inside, their attention drawn toward the distant noise coming from another part of the building.
One of them turned.
His eyes widened.
The first gunshot cracked through the room.
Then another.
The quiet attack was over.
Gunfire erupted through the old office, violently tearing apart the silence that had surrounded them moments earlier. Muzzle flashes illuminated the room in rapid bursts as Brickwell's men scrambled for their weapons, overturning chairs and throwing themselves behind desks. Glass exploded from one of the windows, showering the floor as bullets tore through the ancient walls.
Dre pushed through the doorway as his men advanced behind him. The defenders barely had time to organize themselves before the Underpass fighters were already moving through the room, forcing them backward and cutting off their escape. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled the air while smoke began to gather beneath the ceiling.
"Keep moving!" Dre shouted.
His voice disappeared beneath another volley.
The attack spread through the building.
Men who had been sleeping upstairs were suddenly dragged from their rooms by the sound of gunfire. Others stumbled into the hallways with weapons in their hands, only to find the Underpass already advancing toward them. Doors slammed open and closed as Brickwell's men tried to figure out where the attack was coming from, but the building offered too many corridors and too many entrances to defend at once.
Dre moved through the chaos with his weapon raised, following the sound of the fighting deeper into the building. He could hear his men shouting to one another, could hear bullets striking the walls, could hear boots pounding against the old wooden floors.
Then someone screamed from the upper level.
"THEY'RE INSIDE!"
Dre looked toward the staircase.
A smile slowly formed across his face.
"Yeah," he muttered. "We are."
Across the building, Brickwell shot to his feet when the first sustained burst of gunfire reached his office. The massive man had been sitting behind his desk surrounded by several of his lieutenants, but the moment the noise reached them, every conversation died.
"What the fuck was that?"
Nobody answered immediately.
Another burst echoed through the building, louder this time.
One of Brickwell's men rushed toward the door. "Boss, they're already inside."
Brickwell's expression hardened. He stepped around the desk, his enormous frame making the room seem smaller as he moved toward the doorway. "How many?"
"We don't know."
"Then find out."
His men scattered.
Brickwell grabbed one of them by the shoulder before he could leave. "And call the police."
The man nodded quickly and pulled his phone from his pocket.
"They're coming," he said after making the call.
Brickwell released him.
For the first time that night, the confidence returned to his face.
Then the gunfire grew louder.
The building shook beneath another sustained exchange of fire.
Brickwell looked toward the hallway.
"They're not slowing down," one of his men said.
"No shit."
Brickwell's jaw tightened. "Call the police again."
The man raised the phone to his ear. His expression changed almost immediately.
"Boss…"
"What?"
"They're having trouble getting through."
Brickwell stared at him. "What do you mean they're having trouble?"
"I don't know. They're saying the roads are blocked."
Brickwell's face twisted with disbelief.
"Then tell them to go around."
"They're trying."
The answer came with another distant volley of gunfire.
Brickwell turned toward the window.
Several blocks away, the first police cruiser had already reached the intersection closest to the old mayoral building, only to slam on its brakes when it encountered the barricade. An abandoned delivery truck sat sideways across the road, blocking both lanes. Two cars had been positioned behind it, leaving barely enough room for a pedestrian to squeeze through. Construction debris littered the pavement, forcing the cruiser to stop completely.
The officer behind the wheel slammed his hands against the steering wheel.
"Move the truck!"
Another cruiser pulled up behind him, its lights painting the buildings in alternating flashes of red and blue. An officer climbed out and approached the obstruction, shouting for the vehicles to be moved, but nobody answered. He looked down the side street and immediately shook his head when he saw another abandoned vehicle blocking that route as well.
"They've got the whole damn block sealed."
A third cruiser arrived and stopped behind the others.
The officers were running out of roads.
By the time they found one that remained open, the old mayoral building would be several minutes farther away than it should have been.
Inside, Brickwell's phone rang again.
He snatched it from the man's hand.
"Where are you?"
The voice on the other end answered quickly, but Brickwell's expression only darkened as he listened. His eyes shifted toward the hallway where the sound of gunfire continued to approach.
"They're blocked?"
Another burst echoed through the building.
Closer.
Brickwell lowered the phone slowly.
The police weren't coming.
Not yet.
And whoever had planned this had known exactly how to make certain they wouldn't arrive in time.
He looked toward the hallway.
For weeks, Brickwell had used the police as a shield. Whenever the Underpass came looking for him, he had simply called the authorities and forced them to retreat. It had worked every single time.
Tonight, someone had taken that shield away.
A gunshot cracked somewhere just beyond the office.
Brickwell's men turned toward the door.
Another shot followed.
Then another.
The fighting was moving toward them.
Brickwell slowly reached for the weapon resting on his desk.
His fingers closed around it as his expression hardened.
"Get everyone to the main hall."
One of his lieutenants stared at him. "Boss, that's where they're coming from."
"I know."
Brickwell chambered a round.
"That's where we're going to meet them."
Down the corridor, Dre emerged through the smoke.
He walked slowly now, surrounded by the remaining members of his crew. The old mayoral building had become a maze of overturned furniture, shattered glass, and drifting gun smoke. Bodies and wounded men were scattered throughout the halls, while the surviving defenders had begun retreating toward the center of the building.
Dre could hear them.
He could hear Brickwell's voice among them.
The big man was finally coming out to fight.
Dre stopped at the end of the corridor and looked through the haze toward the distant silhouette waiting in the main hall.
Brickwell was every bit as large as the rumors suggested.
A wall of muscle standing beneath the faded seal of the old mayoral office.
Dre's smile returned.
"The mayor's finally come out of his office."
Brickwell raised his weapon.
"Fuck you."
Dre's smile widened.
"That's not much of a speech for a mayor."
The two groups stared across the ruined hallway as the last echoes of gunfire faded into silence.
For the first time that night, neither side moved.
The entire building seemed to hold its breath.
Brickwell's eyes remained fixed on Dre for several seconds before his hand disappeared into his pocket. His fingers found a small inside and his thumb pressed down.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the building shook.
The explosion came from somewhere behind Dre, a deep concussive boom that rattled the windows and sent a violent tremor through the floor. Dust cascaded from the ceiling while a section of the corridor behind them erupted in smoke and debris. Dre instinctively ducked as chunks of plaster and splintered wood tore through the air.
Brickwell didn't wait to see the result.
"Kill them."
His men opened fire.
Dre dropped behind the stone frame of an old doorway as bullets punched through the wood beside his head. The remaining Underpass soldiers scattered, returning fire from whatever cover they could find. A chandelier hanging from the ceiling shattered under the barrage, its brass frame crashing onto the floor and scattering broken glass across the marble.
"Move!" Dre shouted.
He pointed toward the opposite corridor. "Cut them off!"
The building erupted into motion again.
Brickwell was already moving.
He shoved through a pair of doors with several of his men around him, heading toward a service corridor that ran along the rear of the old building. The route had probably been used by staff decades ago, back when the mayor's office had still functioned as a place of government rather than a fortress for criminals.
Dre saw him disappear.
"He's running!"
Dre broke from cover and pursued.
The service corridor was narrow, forcing Brickwell's men to move in single file. Dre followed with several Underpass soldiers behind him, but the moment they reached the first intersection, gunfire erupted from the opposite side.
They slammed themselves against the walls.
Bullets tore through the corridor.
One punched through an old framed photograph and sent the glass exploding across the floor. Another struck a metal fire extinguisher mounted to the wall, knocking it loose and sending it clattering across the tiles.
Dre leaned around the corner and fired twice.
The muzzle flash briefly illuminated the hallway.
Brickwell's men disappeared behind a concrete support column.
Dre ducked back.
"They're using the service hall!"
"Cut them off!"
Two men broke away, disappearing through a side door.
Dre continued after Brickwell.
The corridor opened into an old records room, and suddenly the chase became a maze. Filing cabinets stood in crooked rows from decades of abandoned paperwork, some rusted open and spilling yellowed documents across the floor. Brickwell's men fired through the gaps between them, forcing Dre to weave between the cabinets rather than expose himself in the open.
A burst of gunfire ripped through the metal beside him.
Dre dropped behind a cabinet and waited.
He could hear footsteps.
Brickwell was close.
Dre pushed the cabinet aside just enough to create an opening and fired down the aisle.
Three rounds struck Brickwell in the back.
The impact drove the massive man forward.
For a moment, he seemed to stumble.
The bullets had broken through his clothing and lodged shallowly beneath the skin, but they hadn't penetrated nearly as deeply as they should have. Brickwell grunted, reaching instinctively toward his back as his men dragged him around the corner.
Dre's eyes widened.
"Son of a bitch."
Brickwell looked over his shoulder.
The wound was bleeding, but not nearly enough.
"Keep moving!"
His men opened fire again.
Dre ducked as rounds punched through the filing cabinets, sending shredded paper and metal fragments across the room. He grabbed one of his men and pulled him behind a concrete pillar as bullets chewed into the cabinet they had been using for cover.
"He's tougher than he looks," one of the men muttered.
Dre glanced toward the blood smeared across the floor.
"Yeah."
He smiled grimly.
"But he bleeds. Shoot him in the fucking head."
Brickwell continued running.
The chase spilled out of the records room and into an old administrative wing. Brickwell's men slammed through doors behind them, leaving them swinging open as they retreated. Dre followed, refusing to give them enough distance to disappear.
The environment changed with every room.
One moment they were fighting through narrow hallways where there was barely enough space to shoulder a weapon. The next they burst into an abandoned council chamber with rows of wooden benches stretching across the floor. Brickwell's men overturned the nearest benches as they retreated, creating crude barricades that forced Dre's men to either climb over them or move around.
Dre vaulted one.
A rifle cracked.
He dropped behind a wooden desk as the bullet tore through the chair behind him.
He returned fire.
The shooter disappeared behind a stone pillar.
Dre waited, listening.
A door slammed somewhere ahead.
"He's going for the west exit!"
Dre sprinted after him.
They burst into another corridor, then another. Brickwell knew the building better than Dre had expected. He wasn't running blindly. Every turn was deliberate, every corridor chosen because it gave his men another position to fire from.
It was a fucking cat-and-mouse game.
And Brickwell was good at it.
But he was wounded.
Dre could see the blood.
It streaked down the back of Brickwell's shirt as he disappeared through the next doorway.
Dre followed.
They emerged into an old loading area at the rear of the building. Moonlight spilled through the broken roof above, illuminating a collection of abandoned vehicles and rusted equipment. Brickwell's men scattered toward the waiting vehicles while Dre raised his weapon.
"Stop!"
Brickwell turned.
Their eyes met across the loading bay.
Dre fired.
Brickwell twisted aside as the rounds struck the concrete behind him.
He disappeared behind an old delivery truck.
Dre advanced cautiously.
"Come on, Brickwell."
Nothing.
He moved around the truck.
Empty.
Dre's eyes narrowed.
Then he heard an engine.
A battered SUV roared to life on the other side of the loading area. Brickwell climbed into the passenger seat while two of his remaining men piled inside.
Dre raised his weapon and fired through the windshield.
The SUV lurched forward.
One of the bullets struck Brickwell in the shoulder.
His body jerked violently, but he remained conscious.
The vehicle smashed through the old service gate and disappeared into the night.
Dre lowered his weapon.
"Fuck."
Then something vibrated against his wrist.
Every member of the Underpass team felt it at almost exactly the same moment.
Dre looked down.
The screen of his watch displayed a single message.
RESPONSE WINDOW APPROACHING.
His expression changed immediately.
"Goddammit."
Around him, the other men were checking their own watches.
"Police response is almost here."
"And the Arrow team?"
Dre's jaw tightened.
"Close enough."
Nobody argued.
The Underpass had spent too long studying Star City's response patterns to get caught in the aftermath of their own attack. They knew how long it took police to clear the roads. They knew how quickly the Arrow team could respond once they realized something significant was happening. They had timed the operation around those numbers down to the minute.
The window was closing.
Dre looked toward the broken gate where Brickwell had escaped.
He wanted to chase him.
Every instinct screamed at him to chase him.
But Brickwell was wounded, and Dre knew exactly what that meant.
The man would be slower.
He would be bleeding.
And most importantly, he was no longer a threat tonight.
"Fall back," Dre ordered.
One of the men hesitated. "We're just letting him go?"
Dre stared into the darkness beyond the gate.
"For tonight."
He turned away.
"Move."
The Underpass soldiers disappeared into the building's shadows as quickly as they had arrived, abandoning weapons, shell casings, and the ruined remains of Brickwell's little kingdom behind them.
Within minutes, the old mayoral building was empty.
Only the smoke and bodies remained.
And somewhere in the darkness of Star City, Brickwell was bleeding into the seat of a speeding SUV, one hand pressed against the three shallow wounds in his back as he realized that the Underpass had finally found a way to get at him.
***
The first police cruisers arrived several minutes later, their sirens cutting through the night as they raced toward the old mayoral building. Red and blue lights washed across the surrounding storefronts, flashing against broken windows and the smoke still drifting from the structure.
The first cruiser stopped hard at the curb.
Two officers stepped out with their weapons drawn, staring toward the entrance.
"Jesus Christ," one of them muttered.
The building was silent.
Too silent.
They advanced cautiously, boots crunching over shattered glass as they approached the entrance. One officer reached the doorway and pressed himself against the stone frame, peering inside.
He raised his weapon.
"Police! If anyone's still inside, identify yourself!"
No answer came.
The second officer moved beside him and glanced through the opening. His face immediately tightened.
"There's blood."
They entered.
The smell hit them before they made it ten feet.
One officer stopped dead.
Bodies were scattered throughout the entrance hall, some lying beneath overturned furniture, others sprawled across the marble floor. Blood had soaked into the cracks between the tiles and streaked the walls where people had tried to crawl away. Spent shell casings covered the floor like brass gravel.
The officer swallowed hard.
"Fuck."
His partner stepped inside behind him.
The moment he saw the hallway, he gagged.
He turned his head and covered his mouth with one hand, trying desperately to keep himself from vomiting. The smell of blood, gunpowder, and something far worse had settled thickly inside the building.
"Jesus…"
The first officer forced himself onward.
"Stay with me."
They moved deeper into the old mayoral office.
Every room told the same story.
Furniture had been overturned. Doors hung from broken hinges. Bullet holes scarred the walls, windows were shattered, and bodies lay wherever the fighting had caught them. Some of the dead still had weapons in their hands. Others had clearly been caught before they ever realized there was a fight.
A third officer entered behind them and immediately stopped.
"Oh, God."
He turned away, gagging.
The first officer looked down the hallway and slowly shook his head.
"How many?"
"I don't know."
"Call for ambulances."
The officer hesitated.
"For who?"
Neither man answered.
They both knew.
There were too many bodies.
The officer raised his radio anyway.
"Dispatch, this is Unit Twelve. We need multiple additional units at the old mayoral building. Request crime scene, homicide, and medical response."
He looked deeper into the darkness.
"There's been a mass casualty event."