Suicide Squad (7 page)

Gerry Moench, standing behind Dixon, waved his prosthetic hand. Dixon pulled back and looked to Griggs for help, but Griggs wasn’t the helping kind.

“Time for his dinner,” the captain said. “You know what to do.”

Dixon sucked in air, held his breath, and grabbed a goat carcass from the cart. As he tossed it down into the hole, he let the air whoosh out.

“This garbage smells like crap,” he said.

* * *

Below, in the sewer, the huge figure was locked behind bars and barbed wire. He watched the goat drop just outside the cage, into the dirty water that was flowing through the tunnel.

A large shrine made of animal bones sat to one side. A ratty couch, with rat bones scattered over it, was directly behind him. The fluorescent lights, old and flickering, barely lit this hellhole, but he didn’t care.

What was there to look at, anyway?

He reached through the bars to grab the carcass and pull it toward him. He looked at the dead head, knowing he could either eat it or starve to death. So he took a bite.

Croc was close to six-and-a-half feet tall, and he probably weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds. His skin was cracked and mottled, covered over with scales that made him look as if evolution had worked its way backward, creating the perfect hybrid of man and dinosaur. Though he looked as if he should be raging, roaring like a beast, he was calm, and quiet, and even reflective.

He had his dinner. It tasted raw and bloody, the way he liked it, so as far as he was concerned, life was good.

He took another bite, gnawed through the goat’s skull, and whistled a happy tune.

June had never been to Washington, D.C. before, let alone brought into the White House Situation Room.

Yet that was where she found herself, and she was duly impressed. The room—all 5,525 square feet of it—sat in the basement of the West Wing. It had been created by President Kennedy back in 1961, to deal with then-growing Soviet threat. Overseen by the National Security Council, it was where the president and his advisors met to discuss all crises, domestic or international.

The room was narrow, but long. Its walls were embedded with large flat-screen monitors that provided secure video communications with contacts across the globe. A massive conference table filled the center of the room, from front to back. Plush leather chairs surrounded the table. The group that occupied them had come to discuss what was fast becoming a crisis that would make the Cold War seem like a kindergarten time-out.

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs sat at the head of the table, focused on his smart phone, trying to figure out how to send a text. His aide explained it to him at least a dozen times. Rick Flag sat next to Amanda Waller, uncomfortable and fidgeting because he had been forced to dress up for this meeting. Waller’s case lay closed on the table.

June Moone sat next to him as well, wearing glasses, looking shy and just a bit mousey, yet he found her distracting. Under any other circumstances…

Dexter Tolliver stood, and his eyes swept across the assembled group. Finally his gaze locked on the chairman, and he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Chairman,” he began. “Do you remember al-Qaeda? A few of you might not. We certainly threw enough sigint, linguists, analysts, and drones at them. It took time, but… problem solved.”

June leaned close to Flag. “Sigint?”

“Signal intelligence,” he whispered back. “It’s data gathering by interception of electronic signals.” Tolliver continued, and he fell silent again.

“Now we have a new problem,” the national security advisor stated, and he waved a hand upward, toward the ceiling. “Suppose Superman decided to rip the president out of the Oval office. Who could stop him? We have contingency plans for North Korean nukes, anthrax in our mail, fluoride in our water—but what do we do about a Kryptonian?

“Now, thus far Superman has showed himself to be a rescue-cats-from-trees kind of hero,” he added. “It might be an act, but just for grins let’s say he’s what he says he is. What do we do if the next one turns out to be a jihadist? Then what?”

He paused for effect, then turned. “Fortunately for us, Ms. Waller has a plan. Amanda?” He gestured for her to take over.

The chairman acknowledged her with a nod. “Alright, Amanda,” he said. “Who do you want us to kill?” He laughed at his own joke, and a few others joined in, if half-heartedly.

* * *

Waller gave a quick smile and stood.

“We’ve all heard the stories, of Samson leveling a temple with a single push—and we know of the Philistine weapon of mass destruction they called Goliath—but were they scripture, or fact?”

She paused, and scanned the room. No one spoke. None of them wanted to give voice to views that might come back and haunt them. Especially not theories that were biblical in nature. No, they didn’t have the answer, but she did.

She continued.

“The question is, how did ancient societies deal with these exceptional individuals? In general, by appeasement, by coercion, and often cooperation. But this isn’t the ancient world. In this day and age, what should we do?”

Their expressions remained blank. Amanda preferred it that way. First, explain the problem. Let them stew in it, then provide them with the answer. She was leading them by the nose.

“I want to build a team,” she explained, “of very bad people who I think can do some good—like fight our next war, or defeat the next Superman.”

The chairman crossed his arms. His body language said he wasn’t buying it.

Before Waller was done, he would. She was certain of it.

“Not on my watch, Amanda,” he replied. “I read your list. You’re not putting these monsters back on the streets. Certainly not in our name.” If he had planned to discourage her, though, he was going to be disappointed.

“General, under my plan we run them covertly,” she said. “Non-attributed, strictly need to know, and if they get caught, we throw them under the bus.” She looked from face to face. “Whether we want to accept it or not, the next war will be fought with these… meta-humans.”

That made them pay attention. Wars were something they all understood. They wanted the best soldiers on their side, and that meant meta-humans. It was bound to happen someday. Better to get ahead of it.

“Those meta-soldiers will be ours—” she said firmly, “—or the advantage will be theirs. We’re not the only ones kicking over rocks, looking for these extraordinary people. You must know that. And ours isn’t the only belief system they’d fight for.”

“But you can’t control them,” the chairman protested. “Nobody can.” He sounded adamant, but his voice was low. He was teetering. She had him. Yet she didn’t answer directly. Instead, she turned to the only one in the room who could prove her case.

“Doctor Moone.” The young woman looked anxious. Waller nodded to her. “Now, Doctor.”

June stood and took off her glasses. She placed her hands on the table, gulped anxiously, then whispered one word. Softly, and to herself.

“Enchantress.”

It took three long seconds.

New fingers sprouted from her wrist as her old ones were sucked back into the skin. The top of her hand became her palm, then spun back into a normal hand again, only now tattooed. Her torso twisted around itself as parts of her face bulged out, while other parts sunk inward.

Gasps rose as the chiefs stared in disbelief, and she transformed in front of them. Transformed into something that might not even be human.

Within moments, June Moone was gone.

Replaced by something very different. Something ancient.

A crescent moon headpiece fit over her thick black hair, which hung dark and loose, almost like vines. Her clothing was animal skins decorated with leather, chains, jade, and even stone. She peered around the table, her dark eyes staring at each of the so-called leaders of America.

“Fantastic,” she laughed. “A meeting. Let’s do something fun. Perhaps get a drink?”

Waller stepped in front of her.

“I’d like you to meet Enchantress,” she said firmly. “Everything we know about her is in your briefing packs. She walked this Earth a long time ago—maybe as far back as the beginning, and she’ll likely be here when we’re long gone.”

“So,” the chairman interrupted. “This meeting is now a magic show?”

Waller smiled, and didn’t even try to hide her contempt.

“General, the issues we face strike at the core of our beliefs. Our science. Magic or not, this lady can do some pretty incredible things.”

The chairman frowned, but she had his attention.

“Like what?” he asked. Waller smiled again, but this time it was sincere. He’d asked the right question, and at exactly the right time.

She had him.

“Go get it, girl,” she said.

Enchantress’s eyes followed Waller’s hand to the box containing her desiccated heart. She forced a tight little smile. Then—snap—she disappeared. The chiefs stared at one another, not certain what they had just seen.

Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty.

“That’s all you’ve got?” the chairman said, breaking the silence. “I’ve seen David Copperfield do a helluva lot better.”

“Wait for it, sir,” Amanda responded, a bit of annoyance creeping into her voice. “It’s coming.”

SNAP!

Enchantress reappeared, unleashing a mild shockwave that scattered papers across the room. She dropped a thick binder on the table. A binder secured with Iranian seals. Written in Farsi.

Waller slid the binder to the chairman.

“Sir, how about a little something from the Weapons Ministry vault in Tehran?”

Cautiously, he opened the binder and leafed through the papers. His eyes widened in surprise.

“We’ve been chasing these plans for years.” The chairman slid the binder to General Conway, who rifled through it one page at a time.

“Thank you, Enchantress,” Waller said. “We’d like Dr. Moone back now.”

But Enchantress wasn’t paying attention.

Conway paused momentarily on a photograph.

It was the remaining jar from the cave.

Waller saw it, too. She quickly swiped the lock and opened the case. Without attracting attention, she shoved her pen inside.

Instantly Enchantress snapped around and stared at her. Then her skin began to retract, squeezing her face, strangling her with her own flesh. She tried to resist, but the pain was too great.

“Enchantress,” she whispered.

In an instant June Moone had returned. She looked up to Waller, pleading with her eyes.

“Please don’t make me bring her back.”

Rick Flag pushed a glass of water to her.

“It’ll be okay. I promise.”

Waller shook her head dismissively. “There’s no reason to be worried. I control her, as I will all the others to come. You and the rest of the world will never have to fear metas ever again.”

Tolliver stood up again, a broad, victorious smile coiled across his face.

“Mr. Chairman, sir. I move that we authorize Amanda Waller to establish Task Force X under the A.R.G.U.S. program.” Immediately all eyes turned to the chairman.

A moment later, he nodded his assent.

Waller, too, was grinning. She had won.

She always won.

Under the table, Rick Flag took June’s hand in his.

With its landing gear extended, descending at a constant three degrees, the KC-135 Stratotanker began its approach to the Belle Reve runway, less than five miles away.

The facility was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a vast bayou of cypress trees and swampland. Only a long causeway connected it to the rest of the world, but the drawbridge was raised, isolating it further.

The aircraft was coming in low at an approach speed of 100 knots. It buzzed over patrol boats bristling with machine guns, manned by alert guards.

The prison looked like an Iraq firebase with its missile launchers, plastic barriers, camouflage netting, and patrolling Humvees. Nobody was getting in uninvited.

Even more important, nobody was getting out.

Captain Griggs watched as the Stratotanker hit the tarmac. Moments later it taxied to a halt. Waller, Flag, and Moone made their way down the ramp. He put on a big fake smile and closed the gap to shake hands with the colonel.

“Welcome to Belle Reve Special Security Barracks,” he said. Flag ignored his hand and nodded toward Waller.

“Kiss her ass,” he suggested. “She’s in charge.”

Without hesitation, Griggs turned to Waller and extended his hand again.

“Ma’am, welcome. We’re here to assist you in any way.”

“Where are they?” she said.

Griggs felt his face flush. Didn’t any of these people believe in damned pleasantries?

“We’ll get you in there, ma’am.” He glanced at the .45 strapped to Flag’s legs, and the carbine strapped to his chest. This was his chance to even the score.

“Sir, you have to surrender your hog leg and rifle. No weapons past that line.”

Flag nodded toward the airmen unloading cases of firearms from the Stratotanker.

“I’m bringing in a lot more than this.” He tapped his .45 and walked past Griggs as if he wasn’t even there.

* * *

The table hastily set up in the outdoor shooting range was covered over with sub-machine guns, rifles, pistols, plenty of scary black plastic, and stacks of loaded magazines. There was enough ammo to begin and end a revolution. Yet Waller and Flag were impatiently waiting for the real weapons to be unloaded from the KC-135.

Moments later the first one arrived.

Floyd Lawton—Deadshot—was escorted into the garage by an army of armed guards, accompanied by a very worried Captain Griggs. He was shackled from head to toe.

“Unlock him,” Flag snapped. “C’mon. Lose the restraints.”

* * *

Griggs looked him, then at the gun show of weapons filling the room, then turned back to Flag.

“You know what this man can do?”

Flag scowled. “I’m here to find out.”

Griggs wanted to protest, but he was smart enough to know it would only get him into trouble. With half of Washington breathing down his ass, whatever was going on, it was big—way above his pay grade. He was trolling in some very dangerous waters, and if he wanted to make it out again, he would have to be especially careful.