by Marv Wolfman
The bag squirmed as it hit ground. Something was inside. Again the sharpshooters adjusted their gun sights.
“Stand down,” Flag said as he approached it. He removed his combat knife and sliced it open. A man had been folded into the bag. He was dressed in street clothes. “Been waiting for you to get here, Harkness.” He looked over toward GQ. “Meet George ‘Digger’ Harkness, known throughout Australia as Captain Boomerang. Or Boomer. You’d need at least two reams of paper to print out his full rap sheet.”
Edwards recognized the name. “Boomer”’s weapon of choice was, expectedly, tricked-out boomerangs. Give him one with a razor’s edge, and he could take down at least half of Flag’s SEALs without breathing hard.
Harkness saw Flag glaring at him.
“Flag. Rick Flag? That you? You are lookin’ ripper, mate.” He gave the colonel a huge hug, as if they had been best friends for years. “But I got to say, mate, what is this? One minute I’m having a nice dinner with me mum, and then this red streak hits me outta nowhere.”
“Harkness, you were robbing a diamond exchange. You don’t think I’ve been fully briefed on you?”
“Yes, of course, but we was dining on delicious Tim Tams at the time. Me mum specializes in buying them from the local bottle shop, you know. They’re like heaven’s throwing a party in your mouth.”
Flag pushed Harkness ahead. “Shut up and get in line with the others.”
Boomer turned back and grinned. “C’mon, mate. Show some respect.”
“Respect is earned, Harkness. Earned.”
“Well, start an account then.” As they approached the rest, he gestured toward the Belle Reve inmates. “I’m seeing what I expect are numbers one through four of the FBI’s most wanted.” He then gestured to the SEALs. “These soldier boys are carrying enough gunfire to take down most Middle East countries.” Finally he gave Flag a big insincere smile. “And there’s you. Mister Government Agent himself.”
“That isn’t the way to gain respect, Harkness.”
“I’m all twisted over with shame, mate,” Boomer replied. “Now, if you’ve recruited those Belle Reve rejects, you’re probably not here playing cops. So tell me, Flag, what’s all this?”
“I told you before. Shut up and behave.”
* * *
Before the Australian could reply, a black SUV pulled up. The door opened and a pair of FBI agents, dressed in identical black suits with identifying lapel pins, dragged a giant of a man out of the car and pushed him toward Flag’s new best friends. He was secured by reinforced handcuffs.
Flag had read his dossier. He was called Slipknot, and the big bastard came equipped with an elaborate array of ropes and tackle. According to the files, there was nothing he couldn’t do with them.
The lead FBI agent gave orders for the cuffs to be unlocked. As soon as they were, Slipknot thanked the agent by punching him in the gut. He went over like a sack of potatoes, and didn’t get up.
Every weapon in the area was suddenly turned toward him. He held his wrists together, daring them to cuff him again, but Flag broke through the tension and waved him to join the others.
Just what we need, he thought. Another deranged madman to keep track of. As if it wasn’t bad enough.
As the newcomer got in the line, Harley stared at his boots.
“Hey, big guy, your shoelace is untied.”
Slipknot looked down, checking, but then heard Harley’s giggle. He gave her a low growl, and slammed his right fist into his open left hand.
“Shut up,” Flag shouted, getting their attention. “That’s enough.” He stepped up to make sure they didn’t miss a word. “Your necks. The injection you all got. It’s a nanite explosive the size of a rice grain. It’s also as powerful as a hand grenade. Disobey me, you die. Try to escape, you die. Otherwise irritate or, yeah, vex me in any way. Guess what? You die.”
Their hands instinctively went to their bandages. Gently, he noticed. Then Harley gave Flag a smirk and raised her hand.
“Sir,” she said, sharply saluting him. “I’ve been known to be quite vexing. Sir. Just forewarning you. Sir.”
Flag was not amused. “Lady, you shut up, too. This is the deal. You’re going somewhere very bad to do something that’ll probably get you killed. Until that happens, you’re my problem, and just so you know, I got a real short fuse when it comes to dealing with problems. By the way, refuse to go on this mission? Well, you can guess what happens then.
“Boom!”
They waited for more, but Flag was done. Deadshot looked to the others, then back at the colonel.
“What the hell was that?”
“That, Mr. Lawton,” Flag replied, “was a pep talk. Do everything I say to the letter, or I’ll kill you.”
“Man, you have gotta work on this team motivation thing. You heard’a Vince Lombardi? He was the gold standard.”
Harley grinned. “I only got one question, oh great leader.”
“What?” He waited for another smart-ass response, but she surprised him.
“You say we’re probably going to our deaths,” she said cheerily, “and you say if we don’t do what you tell us to do you’ll kill us. So, if we die either way, what’s in it for us?”
“Hey. Good question, lady,” Croc said. “Yeah. What’s in it for us?”
Flag had been waiting for it. “The things out there that we’re going to fight, well, there’s always a chance you might survive. Do what I tell you, and you just might. So coming with me, you’re betting on yourself. But you screw with me, you’re one-hundred-percent-no-doubts-about-it dead.”
Harley thought it over. “Well, even without knowing anything, I gotta say, I’m kinda intrigued.” She turned to the others and grinned. “C’mon, you knuckleheads. It’s rah, rah, rah time. Let’s do this for the Gipper, or whoever this crazy dude is.”
No one replied, but a couple of them nodded or shrugged, so Flag gestured for the SEALs to open several large black Pelican cases sitting on the tarmac. They did so, revealing the tools of trade for each of the inmates—uniforms, weapons, and more. Everything that defined them as the bad guys they were.
“There’s your stuff,” Flag said. “Take what you need for a fight. We’re wheels up in ten.”
* * *
GQ watched them go through the cases like Black Friday shoppers—though they weren’t nearly as violent, he supposed.
“Flag, you never said they’d be armed.”
“Lieutenant, what I’m not telling you about this op could fill a football stadium,” Flag replied as he turned away and walked off. GQ ran to his side and reached for him.
“I’m asking again. What are my men walking into?”
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Flag answered. He gently removed GQ’s hand from his shoulder, and walked off.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Harley gave a whoop as, without hesitation, she stripped off her orange jumpsuit and rifled through the black bag with her name on it.
With only her underwear, it became obvious that she was muscular and fit. She sported a large tattoo on her back that let anyone staring at her—which included everyone assembled on the runway—know she was “Property Of The Joker.”
Finding what she was looking for, she hugged it close to her. As she wiggled into her uniform, she saw Floyd Lawton pull his killing suit from his bag.
He held it up, staring at it for a long time.
“Won’t fit anymore, huh?” Harley said. “Too much junk in the trunk?”
Lawton frowned at her, then turned back to the uniform.
“Every time I put this on someone dies.”
Harley was confused. “And?”
Lawton shot her a wide grin. “I like putting it on,” he said as he effortlessly became Deadshot.
“My Puddin’ would approve of this.” Harley put on her vest and took out the pistol from its holster. She held it up and gave a quick, sexy pose. “What do you perverts think? Something tells me a whole lot of people are going to
die.”
“It’s us,” a soft, almost whispered voice said. It came from Diablo. His head was down to avoid making eye contact. “We’re being led to the slaughter.”
Boomerang shook his head. “Speak for yourself, mate. I got too much to do.” He reached up as though to touch Diablo’s facial tattoos. They emphasized his hollowed eyes and gaunt cheekbones, as if to leave the impression of talking to a living skull. “And what’s with this crap on your face? It wash off?”
“Not a good idea, Boomer,” Harley said quickly. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” She broke the tension as she danced between them, then gave a ballet bow.
“So why’s our little tat man playing with us big boys?” he asked. “And I include you in that, Harley.”
“Mucho thanks, Boomer,” she said. “Let’s just say Diablo can put you down in less time than it would take you to surrender. Trust me.”
Boomerang held up his hands, fingers splayed.
“Okay. No prob then. I was just joking, anyway.” He turned his attention back to Diablo. “We’re on a first-nom-de-plume basis now, you and me. Aren’t we?” Diablo didn’t answer.
“Silent type, huh? I got no prob with that, mate. It’s a refreshing change from Her Craziness here,” he said. “Take it easy. Later then.”
Harley turned to Diablo and gave him a huge smile.
“FYI, I think ‘Her Craziness’ means me—and he is so right. So anyway, tell me, if you like a girl, do you light her cigarette with your pinky? Because that would be real classy.”
“Hey, can you guys not mess with him?” Deadshot checked out the assault rifles he took from his black bag. “This dude can smoke this whole damn place.”
“You have nothing to worry about from me,” Diablo said.
“Great. What I wanted to hear. Just gimme a heads-up if we’re not cool. I mean, before you ever go all pillar of fire on me.” He turned back to the bag and pushed aside the AR-15 that was sitting on top. It was a standard, but this particular one was ancient.
He reached for an M4A1. Almost a machine gun, it fired 950 rounds per minute. He also kept the Heckler & Koch G36, as well as an HK416, and a few others, too. By the time he straightened up, he had enough weaponry to put down a small army, and he looked as if he knew it.
* * *
“Here we are, my lovelies.”
Harkness shrugged on his overcoat, already heavy with steel boomerangs. He let out a little laugh, and his eyes darted over his surroundings, determined to blow this third-world popsicle stand the first chance he got. The others were thinking exactly the same—he was sure of it. Scheming how they could screw each other over. Only he intended to be first in line.
Something poked him in the side, and he tensed. Then he relaxed. Quinn was poking him with her favorite weapon—a heavy, wooden baseball bat. She glanced at the coat full of boomerangs.
“Going kangaroo hunting?”
He licked his index finger and ran it down Harley’s bat.
“Going to a rave?”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Even in the pre-dawn hours, the field operations center was a hubbub of activity with soldiers, technicians, and agents here and there running in every direction, setting up monitoring equipment that would relay to them images taken by more than seven hundred cameras set up years earlier to monitor city traffic.
It was about to get a real test.
As the day progressed, soldiers and others came and went. By midday the throng had reduced itself to four techs manning the comms. All those thousands of images would stream directly to them. Waller sat at a computer bench and stared into a camera.
“Okay. I’m calling the shots,” she said into her mic. “Colonel Flag is my right hand. You may be bad guys, but I’m betting you can do some good.”
* * *
At the airport, Flag held his tablet up in front of the gathered inmates, so they could see Waller as she spoke. It was none too soon.
The six of them were starting to crawl the walls, madmen with pent-up emotions sitting and twirling their thumbs. They needed something to do, something to hit, something to break, if only to stop them from turning their excess energy against the wrong people.
“You’ve been asking exactly what you’re going to be part of,” Waller began, “so let me explain.” That got their attention. “There’s an active terrorist event taking place in Midway City. Simply put, I want you to enter the city, rescue, and bring to safety HVT One.”
As she continued, Flag stared at his motley crew, and more than ever he wished he was anywhere but here. Put him in charge of real soldiers, trained in combat, and he’d march right up to hell and break down its door himself. But these… people… were thieves, murderers, and—literally in the case of Croc—monsters. When they got killed, nobody was going to suggest they be buried in Arlington.
Deadshot leaned over and whispered to Flag.
“What’s ‘HVT One’? I mean, for those of us who don’t speak ‘be all that you can be.’”
Flag didn’t bother turning. “High Value Target. Our mission.”
“Okay. Fine.” Deadshot shrugged. “Just wanted an idea what I’m going to die for.”
Waller continued.
“You are going to be rescuing the only person who matters in the city. The one person you can’t kill. Complete the mission, you get time off your prison sentences, and better conditions during. Fail the mission, you die. Anything happens to Colonel Flag, I’ll kill every single one of you myself.
“Remember, I’m watching. I see everything.”
The tablet screen went blank and Flag turned to Deadshot.
“There’s your pep talk.”
“Compared to your crap, Flag, she killed it.” Deadshot clamped his wrist magnums onto his forearms and turned his arm to gauge the movement. Flag was watching him like a hawk.
Let him try to shoot me, Lawton thought. Maybe he’ll learn something. He buckled on his holster, grabbed his carbine, loaded a mag, then racked the bolt.
“So that’s it, huh? We’re some kind of suicide squad?”
“I’ll notify your next of kin,” Flag said as he walked off.
Deadshot watched him leave, and silently wished he could put a round into the back of his head. He wanted Flag dead so bad he could taste it, but he also knew if he made any move against him the sharpshooters would take him down before he could take another breath, or someone would activate the damned explosive in his neck.
Even fragging Flag wouldn’t be worth that. Gratifying as hell, sure, but not worth never being able to see Zoe again.
He had to keep reminding himself that he was fighting for her. Everything was for her.
* * *
Across the runway, the Chinook-1 was being fueled even as the Chinook-2 was ready to take off. Its turbines howled and its rotors thumped as Flag’s squad were led out by GQ and his SEAL team.
“Anyone else thinking this is finally getting real?” Harley asked. She looked ecstatic.
“Grow up, lady,” Flag growled. “It’s always been real.” He turned to GQ. “Here’s where we split up. Chinook-1 will take you to your mission location. So… later?”
“Yeah. What you said. Later.”
GQ led his SEALs to Chinook-1. These were good men. Maybe the best he’d ever served with. And in the one similarity they shared with Flag’s squad, they couldn’t wait to for the action to begin.
* * *
In Chinook-2, Deadshot pulled at his chains. He could easily rip them out, but this wasn’t the time. Best to survey the land first.
“So, what’s your problem with us, Flag?” he said loudly enough to be heard. “We’re here. We’re gonna kill whatever you tell us to kill. You should be thanking us.”
“My problem?” Flag responded. “You’re my problem, Lawton. You and the rest of these arrogant murderers.”
“You kill, too,” Deadshot said. “Only difference between us is the government says in your case it’s okay. And by the way, the go
vernment’s telling us we can kill, too. Fact is, they want us because we kill. Kinda takes away the big dif.”
“And there you’re wrong, Lawton. We don’t kill for personal gain. We don’t kill because we want to rob a bank or blow up some building.”
Lawton was enjoying this. He was never able to engage the guards in Belle Reve, talk about anything deeper than what was on TV last night.
“Personal gain? You and your soldier boys here kill to preserve your so-called way of life, and if that’s at odds with how someone else sees their way of life, well, guess who gets government bullets to the head.”
“You give that a lot of thought, Lawton?”
“I give everything a lot of thought, pal. I’m the best at what I do because I think through every contingency. When the wind changes, I’m the one who knows by how much.” He smiled. “Anyway, about us blowing up banks where you don’t—yeah, you’re right. You don’t. But what you blow up are whole countries. So go ahead and tell yourself we’re different. Actually, I’m wrong. We are different. We don’t make excuses or hide behind orders when we kill what we kill.”
“Hey,” Harley shouted. “We got company calling.”
As the Chinook started to rise, a black-clad figure leapt inside. Asian, with straight black hair. She looked strong, and a daunting samurai sword hung at her side.
“You recruiting ninjas now?”
“Shut up, Harley. She’s one of us. You’re late, Katana.”
Harley turned to Deadshot. “She named herself after her weapon?”
Deadshot tapped his own chest, then nodded toward Boomerang.
“Wasn’t the first. Won’t be the last.”
Remaining silent, Katana took a seat and stared at Flag’s squad.
Harley snickered.
“You see that, Flag? She ignored you. Just like us. Way to go, girl. Hey. Name’s Harley Quinn. Love your perfume. Is it the stench of death?”
Katana stared at her with cold, black eyes. Harley covered with another laugh, but this one was nervous.