by Marv Wolfman
“Yeah. I wouldn’t want to shake my hand, either. You may not come out of it with all five fingers intact. Be a whole lot harder to use that pig-sticker of yours, huh?”
“So, you get what I’m hearing?” Boomerang interrupted. “Sounds like while Flag and his mates are being lazy bludgers, we’re the ones putting our asses on the line.”
“Our sacrifices will help redeem our sinful pasts,” Diablo said.
Boomerang laughed. “Well, Skulls, you want to sacrifice yourself, don’t let me stop you. I’m not so into redemption. My thing’s cash. U.S. dollars high on the list.”
Harley was incensed. “Flag’s paying you for joining? Hell. I should be getting at least 79% of whatever you get. I mean, being a babe and such.”
“Relax, kitten. I told him while I was doing his job, I might also check out a couple of brick-and-mortars an’ see if there was anything in ’em I wanted, you know, since the city’s kind of abandoned. He didn’t say no, which pretty much means yes.”
“Okay. I feel better now,” she said, turning on a dime. “So, Alligator Guy. What about you? Why are you here?”
“I was bored,” Croc said. “Fighting sounds a helluva lot better than slogging through that godforsaken sewer for the rest of existence, you ask me.”
“Yeah. I get you. Killing’s good,” Harley agreed. “Fighting’s good. Getting out of jail free, very good. I wasn’t seeing a downside.”
Harley’s little game seemed to perk them up. They all turned to Deadshot as if it was his turn.
Why not? he thought. They were on a helicopter, flying to who knows where. He could use a distraction. “Mission doesn’t matter,” he said. “Never has. I say yes to a job, I complete it. This job, I don’t care who I kill or why. All I care about is getting time off my sentence. Extra days to be with my daughter again.”
“And what about the newbie?” Harley said to Slipknot. “Wanna share with us? Why did you say yes? I mean beyond the neck kaboom you’d be hearing if we turned it down.”
Slipknot thought for a long time before answering.
“Got my ropes back, and I don’t got shackles.”
They waited for him to continue but he had nothing else to add. Harley finally broke the silence.
“Thanks for sharing, Slippy. Good talk, guy.” She turned to Diablo and gave a quick grin. “Since you’ve been bitching about everything, including breathing, I gotta think you joined hoping to die or something. Anyway, in the old days, when ‘doctor’ preceded my name, I woulda said you had a guilty conscience because of all the killing you’ve done. But now… you’re just some off-the-charts whackadoodle who kills because, like, why not? But there’s no way I’m gonna let you take me down with you. Capisce?”
“I don’t want anyone else to be harmed,” Diablo said. “My struggle is mine alone. My crimes are mine alone. My fate should be mine alone.”
“Yeah. Whatever, Freud. Anyway, so we’re doing this, huh? We’re the what? Six musketeers? Or seven? I dunno. I always sucked at math.”
“Six,” Croc said. “Six.”
“You heard the alligator. We’re the Suicide Squad Six. I do like them alliterations.”
* * *
As the Chinook-2 climbed into the sky, Croc nervously stared at the ground below, silently wishing he was back in the sewers.
Sewers didn’t crash the way choppers did. Especially in wars.
TWENTY-NINE
The helicopters sped across the city, flanked by two escorting Apache gunships.
Flag had half expected Harley to attempt an escape just before she boarded the chopper. She was the type who’d try anything, even knowing that he’d remotely set off the explosives buried in her neck.
Nobody ever made the mistake of thinking Harley Quinn was the poster child for rational thought. Maybe this time she was, though.
* * *
The Robinson Building had been a sixty-four-story monument built to house the city’s financial center. At its height in the mid 1950s, more than thirty banks populated the sprawling complex, as well as trade groups from twenty-two countries. Its terracotta domed rooftop and thrusting art deco spires were a reminder that this award-winning colossus had been built in the early 1930s, when design—not cookie-cutter glass and steel construction—had ruled.
Now the iconic Robinson was little more than rubble, destroyed in the first attack on Midway City. Next to it Flag saw the twin thirty-two-story Andru and Esposito buildings, designed the same year and by the same team, built to complement their bigger brother. Like the Robinson, they also had fallen, two once-proud victims of war.
Before he joined the military, during a winter high school break, Flag had worked in the Robinson complex as a messenger for a legal firm. It was a crap job for crap pay, but it taught him discipline and dedication. It didn’t hurt that he also got laid for the first time there, in a storage room on the 29th floor. Emily Spiegel.
He hadn’t been back to Midway City in years, but when he thought of it he pictured the Robinson and the good times he had there. He stared out from the Chinook and saw dozens of smoky pillars scattered through the urban center, obscuring the destruction still hidden within. What the hell was Midway going to look like once the smoke cleared, and they could see the actual devastation?
* * *
Fires were raging everywhere, burning through large swaths of the city, reducing it all to smoke and ash. More death from fire, Diablo thought, shuddering. This was all so wrong.
He closed his eyes to shut out the horror, but was unable to turn away from the screams echoing in his memory. The pleas of the dying and the dead were tragically the same.
* * *
Croc, Slipknot, and even Boomerang were quiet, too, perhaps affected by the mass destruction they were seeing. Or maybe they were finally realizing they’d been brought here to battle whatever the hell had the power to level skyscrapers.
Or, Flag thought, maybe they were just smart enough not to give him a reason to set off their neck explosives. But it didn’t matter why. It was good enough not having to listen to them complain.
Even Harley was unexpectedly quiet. She hadn’t looked at the devastation. She wasn’t paying attention to the thousands of dead and dying below. Oblivious to the world, she was crouched over, hiding that she was texting on her phone.
* * *
Come for me, she typed, then hit “enter.”
A moment later she received his reply.
I will.
She smiled to herself, then noticed Deadshot staring at her. He knew. She looked at him, her eyes communicating more clearly than words.
Please keep my secret.
He smiled back at her.
Harley breathed a sigh of relief, but then she had another thought. Was his smile a yes, he’ll keep her secret, or was he saying, You are so going to burn, bitch?
THIRTY
Frost took in the scenery. His window was rolled down and the brisk night air invigorated him. He thought he’d suggest to the boss that maybe they should forget the plan, and instead pitch a tent out here, where nobody else lived. Enjoy the rest of their lives in peace.
But since he also wanted to continue breathing, Frost decided to keep his thoughts to himself. The boss rarely took outside advice in the spirit it was given.
He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Panda Man staring back at him.
He’s still wearing that idiot suit? Where does the boss find these lunatics?
The Joker was resting his head against the passenger seat window. Frost thought his eyes seemed… moist? Was he crying? The boss was staring at the phone in his hand. Quinn must have sent him a text, but God only knew what that junior league Looney Tune had written. God and the boss, of course.
Frost understood what the boss saw in her. Any red-blooded boy could figure that out. As far as Frost knew, though, aside from that and the joys of homicide, the she-bitch and the boss had nothing else in common.
Hell, at least the boss always had a p
lan. Harley, she never even had a clue.
“You okay, sir?” Frost asked.
The Joker didn’t bother turning to look at him. All he did was wave for Frost to shut up.
Frost was more than happy to comply.
* * *
The two Chinooks and their Apache escorts raced over the river. Harley looked out and saw Midway City off to the left, largely blanketed in darkness, the electricity obviously out.
“No power to the people,” she said, laughing. The others didn’t crack a smile. “Sour pusses. That joke would have killed, a few decades back.”
Two Navy destroyers patrolled the river. Just ahead of them she saw that the city’s bridges had been downed, their spans destroyed by smart bombs.
What the hell did this? she wondered. What the hell are we being sent here to fight? She looked to the others and tried to decide if she should panic now or later. “You all seeing what I’m seeing?” she asked. “I mean, is this the kinda place we wanna be?”
No one answered. They just kept staring at the infinite devastation below.
Her eyes widened and she put her hands on the window, looking very much like an overly excited kid on a road trip.
Panic later, she told herself. There’s nothing I can do about it now, anyway. Might as well enjoy myself.
* * *
Flag stared at the destruction. How many people were killed in that single, searing moment?
“Terror attack,” he said, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice. He almost succeeded. “Dirty bombs. Bad guys shooting everything that moved with AKs. The usual crap.” He was talking like a soldier, but he locked eyes with Deadshot, and was pretty sure the man could see fear creeping into his eyes.
“You’re a really bad liar, Flag,” Lawton confirmed. “Didn’t they tell you? I’m a hitman, not a fireman. I don’t save people.”
Flag scowled at him. This crap was why he didn’t want to work with these killers.
“Anything for a dollar, right, Lawton? Sorry we’re not smothering retired mobsters with pillows.”
Deadshot just stared at him. Killer to killer.
“You know the dark places too, Flag,” he replied. “Don’t tell me you don’t.”
“I’m a soldier, Lawton.” Flag turned to stare at the wreckage below. He could barely make out the dozens of bodies floating dead in the water. “You’re just a serial killer who takes credit cards.”
Deadshot stared daggers at him.
“Let me ask you this, Lawton,” Flag continued. “Would you die for a word? Like integrity? Or duty? I’ve buried too many friends who have. When the shooting starts here, and it will, you’ll cut and run. I know your kind too well.”
Deadshot’s hand slid to his holster. He rested his hand on his gun, then saw the sharpshooters sitting across from him as they suddenly went tense. Slowly he moved his hand away, but their eyes never left him.
Boomer glanced over to see Croc holding his stomach, looking sick.
“Hey. Is he supposed to be green like that?”
“Don’t like flying,” Croc started to say before his stomach screamed and regurgitated last night’s rancid goat meat dinner all over the chopper floor.
Harley stared at the chewed goat head rolling toward her feet. She quickly lifted them out of the way and tucked them under her, yoga style.
“Whoa. Party foul. Not cool.”
For once nobody disagreed with her.
* * *
The four choppers turned toward the city center, then weaved through the steel and glass canyons. Bathed in the glow of the setting sun, the city deceptively looked like it could still be saved.
Anyone still standing on the ground would know better.
Suddenly gunfire whipped up from the streets. Bullets shattered the left turbine on Chinook-2, and its engine ground like pebbles in a blender. The chopper lurched back and forth uncontrollably, the pilot unable to right its course.
“Hold on tight,” Flag bellowed. He saw the Squad, pressed against the shell by the G-forces of the spinning bird, trying to find anything to grab.
“The hell with you,” Slipknot shouted. “I’m saving myself.” He uncoiled his rope and moved to the open bulkhead. Before he could get there, however, Katana drew her sword and braced herself. She cocked it back, ready to slice off his head.
Flag tried to reason with him.
“She’ll kill you before you get anywhere near the exit,” he shouted. “And if she does, your soul’s going to be trapped in the sword forever.”
Slipknot turned to Flag and stared at him as if he was insane—yet Flag looked dead serious. The killer edged away from the open bulkhead and sat back down, resigned. Better safe than sorry.
“Okay, we’re all here,” Deadshot shouted. “Now what?”
Flag flashed a morbid grin and with his thumb made a slicing motion across his throat.
“We die.”
Deadshot laughed. “You see, Flag, it’s just like I said. You’re as crazy as me.” He turned to find Harley grinning at him like the maniac she was. She blew him a provocative kiss.
“Back at you, princess.”
The Chinook’s engine was nearly gone, but the pilot was able to force the chopper in at an angle, barely topping the shorter office buildings surrounding the city center. He spotted the ground-level parking lot on which the Chinooks were supposed to land, only two blocks south. He headed for it, a thick trail of black smoke stretching out behind them.
The landing struts broke off as they slammed into the row of satellite dishes dotting the rooftops. The lot was still a block away, and they were losing altitude fast.
The other chopper descended to land safely on the parking lot. The SEALs aboard sprinted off the tail ramp and took shelter behind cement columns. Chinook-1 roared back into the air, clearing the lot for Flag’s copter.
Its engine grinding, Chinook-2 howled toward its target. Two hundred feet to go. Any cars on the road below them scrambled to get out of the chopper’s way. It came in just feet above their rooftops.
One hundred sixty feet to go.
A large black van with a roof-mounted luggage attachment tried to pull out of the way, but the Chinook’s tail rotor slammed into the luggage, slicing it open, scattering its contents to the wind.
One hundred feet.
The Chinook was spinning now, but the pilot refused to surrender the controls. At the same time he raised the collective, he adjusted the throttle to increase speed. The copter nosed up slightly as it jerked ahead.
Fifty-seven feet to go.
He carefully manipulated the left tail rotor pedals, swinging the nose to the left while raising the collective as far as he could. The copter’s nose lifted again, but he knew it wasn’t nearly enough
He was over the parking lot and needed to decrease speed as he struggled to lower the collective. But the Chinook was coming in too fast. Its burning turbine belched fire and smoke. It careened sideways and rolled as it hit the ground hard.
Its twin rotors pounded themselves to pieces against the ground. Kicked-up dust and debris were everywhere, obscuring visibility while the passengers hugged the columns to avoid getting hit by the rotor shrapnel.
“Move. Move. Get out.” Flag had barely maintained consciousness. They followed him as he scrambled out of the ruined Chinook and headed for a freeway underpass where the SEALs waited for them.
* * *
A drone, flying three hundred feet above, followed their every move, faithfully recording everything it saw.
Sitting in her operations center office, Amanda Waller watched the video feed. When she saw they were all safe—even Flag’s damned Suicide Squad—she breathed a long sigh of relief. They made the first down, but the real game was just beginning.
THIRTY-ONE
Flag led the Chinook-2 SEALs and his Squad under the freeway to the ramp heading north, where they joined forces with the SEALs from Chinook-1.
“What now, Colonel?” GQ asked.
Flag checked his phone’s GPS. “We’re ten blocks from the objective. Gimme two columns. Longrifle elements will leapfrog and maintain overwatch. We come in any contact with the enemy, peel off. No John Wayne garbage. No taking them on by yourself, or even in pairs. Our real mission comes once we’re at base. I need everyone there. So let me repeat—you make contact, you fall back and we find another route. Capisce?”
Boomer shot him a dirty look. “Yeah, we got it the first five hundred times you told it to us.”
Flag turned back to GQ. “Your men ready?”
“Roger all, Colonel,” the soldier said as he turned to his SEALs. “First squad, left echelon. Second squad, take right. Senior Chief?”
“Sir?” Gomez, one of the SEALs, ran up to him.
“You grew up here, right?” GQ asked.
Gomez nodded. “Yessir.”
“Then you’ve got point, Senior.”
Flag addressed his Suicide Squad. “Watch how the pros do it,” he shouted as the twenty SEALs moved out, elegantly deploying into perfectly choreographed teams.
Deadshot nodded, somewhat impressed. In another life he’d been in the military. It was where he learned to become a sharpshooter. He respected their discipline. Unfortunately, they also had to follow orders often given by cowards who hid in control rooms while the snipers put their asses on the line. Best thing he could say about Flag was he was no chicken. He was here marching into hell alongside them.
“So what do we do?”
“Nothing,” Flag answered. “Unless I tell you. Follow me.” He started toward the city center, which lay less than half a mile away. A tall cloud of black smoke rose from it, a grim arrow pointing them to their target.
“Look at all this,” Boomer said. “We’re gonna die here, aren’t we?”
“Maybe.” Flag shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe not, but if things are as bad as I suspect, you’re gonna wish you did.”
Harley snorted. “So why are we marching into battle like good little soldiers?”
Deadshot pointed to the explosive in his neck. “This, and ’sides, you got anything better to do?”
“Give me a few seconds and I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”