Suicide Squad (6 page)

Lawton thought about what Griggs said, then turned and punched the bag.

“Griggs,” he said, “I’ll get out of here someday.” The man’s face appeared on the bag again. “Somehow I’ll be like the holy spirit watching over you. Then I’ll show you who wears the crown.” He glanced at his tormentor out of the corner of his eye.

Griggs’s façade cracked, just a little bit. He looked like he wanted to lash out and punch the living hell out of Floyd, but he knew better.

Instead, he spun and started to walk out. As he reached the cell door, he turned back and smiled.

“You just lost your mattress, for threatening staff,” he announced. “Enjoy.” He stood there, waiting for a response.

Lawton massaged his callused knuckles, then suddenly unleashed a series of blows against the wall—so hard that they cracked the cement. He looked back at Griggs with murder in his eyes.

“What?” Griggs said, but there was a catch in his voice. “Gonna take away the walls, too?” He was going to say something more when Dixon tapped him on the shoulder.

“We’re needed, Captain,” the toady said. “We need to go.” Griggs hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“This ain’t over, killer,” he said. “See you soon.”

Counting on it
, Lawton thought.

Colonel Rick Flag took the steps three at a time. He was a big guy, large and imposing, but he moved silently, as did the two Delta operatives who shadowed him.

The colonel and his men were the best Tier One shooters in the military, as well, and they damn well knew it.

Flag paused to check the two dead cops on the stairwell floor. Broken necks. He gave his men a nod. It was time. Their target was on the next floor up. Heat scans showed that she was in the bathroom, lying down, probably taking a luxuriating bath.

Enjoy yourself for about forty-five more seconds
, he thought. His men flanked him as he used the passkey to silently open the door, then entered the apartment.

Ten more seconds for her to enjoy her bubbling bliss. Without a sound he counted down on his fingers. When his pinky folded into his fist, he kicked in the bathroom door.

As expected, June Moone was in the bathtub. Thick, foamy bubbles surrounded her, and there was an ominous black septagram painted on the wall behind her. She let out a startled little scream, and stared in wide-eyed horror at Flag and his men.

“Who are you?”

Flag stared at June for much too long. His comm crackled to life, returning him to the moment.

“Ma’am,” he said. “We’re on the X, if you want to get in here.”

Seconds later Amanda Waller entered the crowded little room. She wasn’t particularly large or powerful-looking, but when she gestured the soldiers away from June, they obeyed instantly. When she turned back to the woman in the bath, she smiled.

“Miss Moone,” she said. “My name is Amanda. I’m here to help you. I can free you from your burden if you do what I say.”

* * *

June stared at the newcomer, and then heard sirens approaching. Were the police coming to help her, or to side with these four intruders? Three of them were armed, yet it was the woman who seemed the most frightening.

“Ma’am,” the first man said to June. “No time to explain. You’re coming with us. Right now.”

The woman, Amanda, gave June her hand to help her up. That was when the young archeologist knew she had no choice.

* * *

The Belle Reve Prison pressure chamber was purposely kept dark. The better to see him if he tried anything.

Suddenly, a candle flame erupted, illuminating two black-as-pitch eyes set deep into a tattooed skull.

Diablo stared at the flame. It wasn’t rising from some store-bought candle, but freely floating just above his open hand.

His head was pounding, sharp daggers thrust into his brain, but he kept staring as the flames flickered back and forth…

…and ever so slowly, they took on the undulating shape of a woman, moving, swaying. He had brought her to life again, and she was beautiful. As always. Mesmerizing. As always. And so hypnotic he almost forgot his was a soul in constant pain.

As he blew out the flame, and tears streaked the terrible story told on his face, all he could do was quietly whisper.

“I am so, so sorry.”

The woman disappeared into the smoke.

As always.

The real work of Washington, D.C., didn’t take place in the light of day, but in a quiet back room, behind the leather-cushioned and mahogany-stained walls of the tried-and-true Washingtonian Steakhouse.

The important people still went there to sip fine wine and cut into a juicy filet while negotiating treaties and bills that would otherwise never see the light of day. Opened in the early 1940s, still months away from the U.S. entering the Second Great War, it was one of the very few reminders that, unlike the rest of this youth-obsessed world, some things still aged well.

Amanda Waller took another sip of her Pinot noir, then continued talking. With her in this soundproof chamber were Dexter Tolliver, the president’s national security advisor, and Vice Admiral Olsen, commander of SOCOM, the United States Special Operations Command.

“It’s taken some work, but I have them,” she announced. “Well, most of them. The worst of the worst.”

Olsen opened a bottle of the 2014 Malbec and poured a glass. Argentinian wines were his favorites.

“There are rumors, Amanda, that some of them have, ummm, abilities?”

Waller nodded. “Yes. Heard about the pyrokinetic homeboy? Some LA gangbanger gets jumped in a prison riot and incinerates half the yard.” She handed Olsen her smart phone, already set for playback. “The security videos are incredible. Thirty-three dead. Filled every burn unit in So Cal. He released enough thermal energy in three seconds to melt an engine block.”

She grinned as she bit into her salmon, cedar-plank barbecued with a rosemary and Dijon mustard rub.

“I have him now.”

Olsen looked impressed, and handed the phone for Tolliver to watch.

“Where?”

Waller smiled as she wiped her lips with a napkin. “Let’s just say I put him in a hole, and threw away the hole. We chased away our ancient fears with the light of science.”

“Which means?”

“It means that maybe Superman was some kind of beacon for the rest of them to feel safe enough they could creep back from the shadows.” She took the phone from Tolliver and slipped it back into its holster, then leaned in conspiratorially. “Heard about the witch?”

“The witch?” Olsen repeated. “Really?”

Waller raised her glass and took another sip, letting the silence add to her drama.

“I’m talking textbook witch. A flying, spell-casting, making-crap-disappear witch.” She lowered her voice even more, and added, “I’ve seen things.”

“And where is this witch?” Olsen asked, not expecting her to answer. He wasn’t disappointed.

“In my pocket,” Waller said.

Tolliver didn’t look convinced. “And what’s to stop her from turning you into a frog,” he said skeptically, as if going along with a joke.

Waller wasn’t laughing. “There’s intel in our legends, says witches have a secret buried heart. Whoever finds it can control the witch, or kill it.”

“You do realize what this all sounds like, Amanda?” Olsen said. “‘A heart that can be removed, yet its owner still lives?’ Dexter, you’re talking
Harry Potter
stuff, and it’s preposterous.”

Waller just smiled. She expected there’d be pushback and she had come prepared.

“It used to be that we believed we were the only intelligent life form in the entire universe. Remember? And nobody ever thought that aliens actually existed, or that they could have powers far beyond those of, well, us. And then Superman showed up. He sort of screwed the very concept of conventional wisdom.”

Before anyone could reply, she put a large black Pelican case on the table. The case was made of black injection-molded waterproof and crushproof plastic, and was sealed with a biometric fingerprint lock.

“So we searched the cave where she turned up, and found this,” Waller added.

“Her heart’s in there?” Tolliver said incredulously. “Really?” He frowned.

Waller nodded. “Here, Dexter, see for yourself.”

Waller swiped the fingerprint lock and the case opened. Enchantress’s mummified heart, decorated with bear claws and bits of gold, rested in a chamber to the right of the case. In the left-hand chamber was Waller’s fail-safe bomb. Given any excuse, she would press a button and it would explode, disintegrating the heart instantly.

Tolliver turned away, looking vaguely sick. He was, she knew, far more comfortable with the intricacies of state and the duplicity of politics than supernatural mumbo-jumbo.

“Don’t worry.” Waller closed the case lid and smiled again at him. “You’re safe, Dexter. As long as I have this, she’ll do anything I ask.”

“So what is it you’re asking for, Amanda?” Admiral Olsen asked.

Waller didn’t have to think about an answer. She knew exactly why she’d come here.

“I want to assemble a task force of the most dangerous people on the planet—something I call Task Force X.”

“They’re bad guys?” Olsen said, looking doubtful.

“Exactly. The worst of the worst, and if anything goes wrong, we blame them. We’ve got built-in deniability.”

Olsen shook his head. “Amanda, let’s say we’re with you on this—but these people, they’re villains. What makes you think you can control them?”

Waller leaned back in her plush leather chair and took another sip from her glass.

“This wine is excellent,” she responded. “I’ll have to order a case and have it shipped to my home.”

“Amanda, please. No games.”

“All right. Fine. Getting people to act against their own self-interest, for the national security of the United States, is what I do for a living, and you know how good I am at it.”

“I do,” Olsen replied. “But I just don’t know if I’m buying this. Witches. Fire-starters. It begs the imagination. I’m pretty much a meat and potatoes guy.”

Tolliver interrupted.

“And yet we might not have much of a choice. Again, Superman. Amanda, if we want to make this happen, what we’d have to do is sell it downtown. I’ll convene a stakeholder’s meeting with Defense and Intelligence. You get the nod from the Chairman, and you can do anything you want.” He turned to Olsen and continued. “Ever since the alien… Well, it’s a whole new world out there, my friend.”

“Okay, Dexter,” Olsen said.” If you can sell it to the boys downtown, I’ll sign off on it.”

Waller smiled, poured herself another glass, and silently toasted her own victory.

She knew her Puddin’ would come. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, or even the month after, but when he realized how much he missed her—and he would—he’d definitely haul ass and rescue her.

So until then she was just biding her time. She was back in her Belle Reve cage, chained to a black plastic restraint chair. A spit guard was strapped tightly to her mouth. Her forehead was belted back so she couldn’t move it.

It hurt like all kinds of hell, but that didn’t matter. Her Puddin’ was coming. She most certainly knew that.

Any time now.

Any time now.

The prison nurse hovered over her and snaked a feeding tube into her nostril. She was unable to turn her head, but then another figure stepped into view, and she saw Griggs holding up three cans of liquid nutrition. He was smiling at her.

“Looky-looky, lil’ mama. Tonight it’s your choice. Chocolate crap, strawberry crap, or vanilla crap.”

Whistle. Whistle.
Any time now, Mr. J. I’m waiting.
Harley stared daggers at Griggs. When she was free, her first order of business would be payback. Right now, though, clenched teeth and a dirty look would have to do.

Griggs leaned closer and caressed her thigh. “Why is it always a fight with you?” he asked. “I could make it nice in here. Really nice.”

Any time now, Mr. J.

Nurse Wretched, or whatever the hell her name was, connected a large syringe of the liquid nutrient to the feeding tube. She tightened its connection then squeezed the plunger. Harley shook with rage. Bubbles foamed out of her nose. She scowled at Griggs with a look so angry he involuntarily took a step back.

Any time now, Mr. J.

* * *

Floyd Lawton was trying to sleep. The nightly screams of hundreds of crazies blared through the air ducts and directly into his cell, it seemed.

Unable to sleep, he stood and paced the cell. Five steps. Turn. Five steps. Turn. Five steps… Back and forth. Back and forth. He thought about Zoe, and that he might never see her again, and he wanted to join in on the screaming. He knew better, however, than to surrender to madness. In here it was catching.

It was raining outside.

Floyd knew he wasn’t crazy. He was a stone-cold killer, but only for hire. He never thought his victims were sending messages to him through his teeth, or that the only way the voices would stop was if he wore an aluminum foil headpiece. Besides, he never even heard voices, unless they came from flesh-and-blood people.

Maybe others did, but not him.

His kills were for money. Lots of money. There was nothing personal in any of them. It was just a job—at least when he wasn’t spending his days and nights behind bars.

He watched the rain drip past his cell window. He thought of Zoe as much as he could. He worried, tossed in here, away from the world, that his memories would fade like a bad dream, but he didn’t want to forget his daughter.

* * *

Captain Griggs and his posse of guards sauntered along Belle Reve’s pipe-lined basement corridor. Dixon, his chief tough guy, kicked a food cart aside and exposed a manhole cover beneath it. Griggs gestured toward it and two of his flunkies unscrewed the bolts which held it in place, then pulled it loose.

Griggs carried a carbine with a well-worn night-vision scope. He used it to peer into the black hole.

Two evil, glowing eyes stared back.

Dixon leaned in. “Is it true he chewed a dude’s hand off?”