Suicide Squad (8 page)

Doing his best to ignore Lawton glaring at him, Griggs unlocked the assassin’s shackles and chains.

* * *

“So, what is this?” Lawton drawled. “Cheerleading tryouts?”

Flag checked out the table crowded with weapons. “What gave it away, Lawton? The fifty grand in Gucci weapons?” The colonel picked one up, checked it out, then dropped it back on the table. “Have at it, Lawton. Not that I’m expecting much. I’ve seen legends crumble.”

“Have we met?” Lawton asked, not sounding particularly interested. “Do we know each other? Because you’re sure acting like it.”

Flag checked out the Sig Sauer P220.

“I hunt people like you for a living,” Flag said as Lawton studied the table. “Mind showing us if you can run that iron or not?”

Lawton finished a quick survey of the weapons. He looked up and smiled. Six catwalk guards were aiming their carbines at him. He knew he could easily take out five of them if he tried, but it was possible that last one might cause him some trouble. He turned and eyed the distant steel targets that had been set up.

Hell. My dog could hit them
, he thought.

His fingers drifted over the banquet of weapons. He still wasn’t sure what was going on, which made him wonder if these were even real. Flag and company sure as hell wouldn’t let an assassin called “Deadshot” anywhere within a thousand yards of these babies.

He didn’t have to look to know Griggs was jumping out of his skin.

Good. Let him suffer.

Flag’s hand rested on his sidearm, fingers drumming the holster. He watched Lawton pick up a combat-tuned .45 pistol, savoring its heft. He slid a full mag into the grip, then sealed it with a satisfying
SNAP
. He thumbed the slide release. It clicked shut on a fresh round.

The .45 felt real. Felt heavy enough. He still couldn’t believe they would trust him with a working weapon.

Or maybe they’re just nuts. That would explain it.
Casually he aimed the gun at Griggs. Instantly a half-dozen riflemen had their weapons ready for the kill. They didn’t even have to wait for orders. Flag waved for them to chill. As one they lowered their rifles.

What the damned hell is going on?

“Everyone calm down,” Flag shouted, loud enough for all to hear. “I’d like to end the day with the same number of holes I had when it started.”

Lawton hefted the .45 and shook his head. “So, the firing pin’s filed down, right? Or the mag’s fulla dummy rounds? Bet I pull the trigger and nothing happens. Can I be trusted? Is that the real question here?”

Griggs was turning gray with fear.

Waller walked over to Lawton and locked eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “You’re exactly right. Why would we put a loaded gun in the hands of an infamous hitman? We gotta be insane, right? Just pull the damned trigger.”

Lawton just stared back, then finally lowered the .45. He could hear Griggs exhale.

BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

There was a continuous roar as Deadshot opened fire on the distant targets with inhuman speed and accuracy. He reloaded with a blur. Again and again. Hitting the targets, dead center each time.

A pall of blue smoke filled the area. Empty shells piled up, mag after mag.

It was all damned real.

With practiced ease, Deadshot grabbed weapon after weapon, feeding mags, sending rounds down range. Hit after hit. A jackhammer roar of gunfire and steel impacts. Finally he stopped. He didn’t have to shoot again to prove whatever the hell point they needed him to prove.

Flag checked out one of the steel targets. Directly in its center was a single red-hot hole, counterpunched from continuous hits on the exact same point.

Deadshot turned to Waller as he put down the Colt M16, 5.56mm automatic.

“Now you know what you’re buying,” he said. “Lemme tell you the price. One, I want outta here. Two, I want custody of my little girl. Her mom can get, like, one supervised visit a month. She is with her mom, right?

“Three’s a rent-free condo for us in Gotham City, the rich part with, like, doormen. And four, you cover my daughter’s education. Full ride. The best private schools, and get her in a good college. Like Harvard, or Yale. And if she gets bad grades, you’re gonna down low that crap and make sure she graduates.

“That’s my price.” He looked at Waller and Flag, who were staring back at him.

“Y’all must got good memories. I don’t see no one writing this down.”

Flag grinned. “Hey, look around, pal. You’re in no position to make demands.”

Deadshot was staring at Waller. “I’m not talking to you, soldier boy. I’m talking to your boss.”

Flag looked again at the steel targets, each one sporting a single hole.

“You can shoot. I have to give you that.” He turned back to Lawton. “But the folks who think big thoughts for a living think you can do the job of a professional. Like me. And that, Lawton, you cannot do.”

Deadshot was still staring at Waller, trying to provoke her answer.

“I can show you professional. How about a professional beatdown?”

Flag smiled. “I would very much enjoy that,” he said, and Lawton smiled. After all this talk crap, a fight was exactly what he needed.

He tensed, ready to begin, and the colonel followed suit. They stood there, motionless, each waiting for the other to move.

“Colonel. That’s enough,” Waller said.

Hell.

Waller gestured, and her guards replaced the restraints and escorted him away. Still not quite certain what had just happened, Lawton was escorted back to his cage. The steel door opened and he stepped inside.

While he’d been out shooting tin cans, Waller’s boys had been busy. A new, professional-grade punching bag was hanging from the ceiling. Boxing gloves sat on a thick new mattress. Next to a steaming steak dinner.

He stared at it as if it was a mirage, then the aroma reached his nose. He impaled the ribeye on a fork—actual stainless steel, none of the plastic crap—and tasted it.

No. This was real.

That meant Waller had made her decision about him even before they let him pick his weapon of choice.

Damn.

Croc counted his pushups with machine-like efficiency…
941, 942, 943
… He was good for a few hundred more.

He stopped and sniffed. Croc detected a rat, a few hundred yards away. Just behind the steel bars.

“I know you’re there,” he said, pausing in his daily exercise routine. “I smelled you long before you got here.”

Rick Flag had been watching from the front tunnel, hiding in the shadows so as not to be seen. A wasted effort.

Croc was a lot taller than he, covered over with scaled skin so thick ordinary bullets wouldn’t even begin to pierce it. He looked as if he could easily bench press a pickup truck if he wanted. His appearance was different, though—changed from the photos in his file. That meant he was still mutating, becoming more reptilian with every passing year.

“You’re gettin’ awfully close,” Croc said, and he growled—a low, menacing sound that vibrated through the air. “Ain’t you scared?”

“Is there a reason I should be?”

“Beside the fact I like to bite off the heads of federal agents? And that you stink like every one of ’em I’ve ever known and chewed on? Nah.”

Croc walked over to the bars and stuck his head against them. Flag stepped up on the other side, coming within snapping-off distance.

“Why’d they put you down here?” Flag asked.

Croc’s mouth contorted into what might generously be construed as a smile.

“I asked,” he said. Before Flag could follow up, Croc snorted and lumbered back into the shadows.

* * *

The room was dark and cold and Joker lay on the floor, arms spread wide, drunk and miserable. A circle of knives and guns surrounded him. Beyond that was still another circle with more guns and knives and hatchets and blades just waiting for him to pick his favorite then take it to his neck and slice all the way through.

He didn’t think he’d ever miss her. After all, she offered him nothing beyond total subservience and unconditional love. Traits he was absolutely certain could easily be replaced by adopting some mangy, flea-bitten shelter dog.

But finding another sex-starved, mallet-wielding psychopath didn’t turn out to be quite that easy. Even though he had wanted to take a drill to her head every time she called him Puddin’ or Mr. J, he actually craved that now.

Where are you, you Looney Tune? Your Puddin’ wants you.

Joker was lying in the center of the room, hidden in shadow. He reached for a long knife but let it go as Frost walked in. His idiot major domo was breathing hard and couldn’t wait to tell his boss what he’d learned.

“Boss, I got some information,” Frost said, carefully stepping over the nearest corpse. “It cost. It cost big.”

“I don’t care,” Joker said as Frost pulled up a chair across from him.

“Wanted you to know that.”

“Just tell me. Where is she?”

Frost knew this was where everything could go south. If he presented the information the wrong way, Frost would be joining the rest of these prematurely retired Mafioso.

“It’s complex, boss. Because it’s not just her.
Everyone
is disappearing.”

“Everyone?” Joker repeated. He didn’t like where this was going. Frost was treading deep water now.

“But I got answers and even a possible suggestion. I mean if you want to take it.”

Frost waited. This could turn on a dime and still give change. But Joker just lay on the floor and stared up at the ceiling. Obviously, Frost thought, he wasn’t going to kill him. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and continued.

“So like I say, it’s not just her. There’s some new law. Federal, not city or state. It comes down to this: if you’re a bad enough bad guy, they stamp terrorist on your jacket and send you to this new secret court.”

“You are getting on my nerves, Frost. You said you had answers. I’m not hearing them.”

“I was coming right to it, boss. I couldn’t find anything about the court itself. You know, it’s all top secret, but by spreading some cash to the right people, I’m close to getting some real info.”

“How close, Frost?”

“Real close, boss. I swear on my life.”

Joker slowly looked up, eyes glistening with black hope. The fire in his madness was still burning.

“Oh, please,” he said. “If you’re going to swear, swear on something that matters.”

They finished an early dinner, then June left the compound and made her way into Midway City. Her life had changed so suddenly that she hadn’t had time to think about any of what happened, let alone make plans on how to deal with it all. She found herself overwhelmed, and desperately needed some alone time.

How do you deal with the devil, when she can control your every thought?

June drew in a breath of crisp air, and looked up at the thick blood-red clouds that blanketed the city. Gunfire erupted in the distance, and a barrage of explosions sounded even closer. It was deceptively calm where she stood, in the city center, but it sounded as if there was a war raging, and not too far away. No one had told her what it was about, though.

How do you deal with the devil, when she can control your every action?

June was fighting her own war, too. A monster lived inside her. One who wanted to control or destroy anyone who got in its way. June didn’t believe she could control it. Yet wasn’t control precisely why Waller and Flag brought her with them?

How do you deal with the devil, when she can control your every breath?

Waller was just plain scary, but Flag…

June wasn’t sure what to make of Flag. If she’d ever had a type, he wasn’t remotely it. He was crude and clumsily distant. She supposed it was understandable why he wouldn’t let any of the inmates get close. Showing those killers any sign of weakness could lead to disaster.

Flag didn’t allow himself to get close to any of the SEALs under his command, either. Was there anyone he cared about? Anyone around for whom he could act human?

Maybe he was just a soldier with a mission, and nothing more. Perhaps that was all there was to him.

And yet, she felt… something.

Was it transference? June fought that possibility. She refused to accept the idea that she might be weak enough to fall for someone, just because he was in a position of authority. Like the patient who falls in love with her doctor. “I love you for saving me.”

Flag wasn’t saving her.

He was using her.

And yet…

What might he feel? Did he see her as someone for whom he cared, or was she just his current assignment? Maybe even his latest weapon. A gun he’d aim at his enemies, then replace when needed with an even bigger one.

Enchantress was the biggest gun anyone could own.

She stopped in her wandering and looked around. The debris extended in all directions, as far as the eye could see. The soldiers guarding the hotel told her that this mountain of concrete and shattered glass had once been a world-class museum. She could just about see parts of crushed dinosaur bones and diorama displays, mixed in with the rest of the trashed landscape.

A tunnel had connected the planetarium to the museum, a late add-on built in the last decades of the twentieth century. Next to it were the remains of a shopping mall. Elite designer brands, once sought after and treasured, were now irretrievable under tons of steel and stone.

So much for “diamonds are forever.”

She continued on, not yet ready to return to her room, not nearly tired enough to put aside the day and go to sleep. June wasn’t certain she’d ever again have a good night’s sleep.

* * *

She paused by the chest-high fence that traced the path of the Midway City River. Still untouched, the waterway seemed to stand apart.

The river walk was a place people visited to get away from the rest of the world, even if only for a while. It was quiet and lined with trees and hedges that gave the illusion that the world didn’t exist beyond the foliage and the high stone walls.