Suicide Squad

by Marv Wolfman

  Perfect.

  Taking a monocle lens from his pocket, he propped it over one eye and checked to see if the video feed was working.

  Almost perfect.

  Lawton shifted the plate with a fingertip, and kept nudging it until the video feed was lined up just right. A fraction of an inch off could cost him millions.

  He grinned, checked to see if anyone was watching, but as expected, the Courthouse Alley tenants were all at the fast-food place, gorging on their burritos.

  Once again, perfect.

  He pocketed the monocle, walked off, and resumed humming his beloved theme song playlist as he turned onto Broome Street and went into the Gardener building. As he entered, he saw a pair of U.S. marshals standing by the front desk. They gestured for him to approach. One patted him down while the other inspected his toolbox.

  “What’s up?” Lawton asked. “This is new.”

  One of the marshals checked his name against the approved list, found it, and marked it off. “Big Mafia trial. Half’a downtown’s sewn up. Okay. You’re good.” Lawton thanked the marshal and headed for the elevator.

  Fifty-two seconds later he got off at the top floor and took the stairs to the roof. He’d been worried they might have bolted shut the door, so he was prepared for that contingency, but it swung open with a push.

  That’s why they’re civil servants, and not rich, he mused, and he chuckled.

  Walking across the roof to the air-conditioning unit, he crouched next to it and removed the thin metal sheet covering its mechanism, revealing a scoped and silenced rifle wrapped in a clear plastic bag. He’d hidden it there earlier in the week, before the extra security.

  Be prepared. That might have been the only thing that stayed with him from his days in the Boy Scouts.

  Lawton took out his Deadshot headpiece, pulled it on, then snapped the monocle into place, giving him access to the video feed. He then removed his overalls, revealing his uniform. It wasn’t necessary, but he felt more professional being properly dressed for work.

  Deadshot reached into the back of the air-conditioning unit and took out a small case. A single homemade match-grade bullet rested inside. He rolled it between his fingers, loaded it into his rifle, then held the weapon as if he was born behind it.

  It felt that natural.

  He took his smart phone, and logged into his bank account. The balance was currently zero.

  “Bastard,” he growled. “Always playing games, aren’t you?” He then slipped the phone into a clip on the rifle barrel and hit dial.

  “Yeah?” The voice was thick and accented.

  “Angelo, it’s the guy you hired for your rat problem. My account’s kinda thin, know what I mean? Don’t wanna bounce no checks.” As he spoke, Deadshot watched the street far below him. U.S. marshals were in place, screening the area. Good luck with that, you idiots.

  Angelo’s voice was light-hearted.

  “No one gets paid until what needs to get done gets done.”

  If Deadshot felt at a disadvantage, it didn’t show in his voice.

  “You know the rules,” he replied. “No money, no honey. Should I pack up?” The marshals turned as an armored SUV pulled onto the street. “Ah. Here’s your boy now, with twenty of his new best friends. Dude is about to get a sore throat from all the singing he’s gonna do.”

  The SUV stopped. Deadshot turned to check his smart phone then shook his head, disappointed.

  “Hey. You there, Angelo? I’m still seeing only zeroes.”

  This time there was an edge to Angelo’s reply.

  “Stop being cute, man. Do your job.” Below, the marshals opened the door, revealing the target—this month’s mafia snitch.

  Deadshot’s monocle showed range, wind, ballistic curves. The camera he put in the alley was doing its job. Like always.

  He dialed the range into his rifle scope.

  “They’re opening the door for him, Angelo. Helping him out. Yeah. He’s heading for the door now which means in thirty seconds your window’s closed. Forever.” Deadshot let the silence grow. “Just imagine his hand on that bible.”

  “Okay. Okay,” Angelo shouted. “There was an accounting error. We sent it.”

  Deadshot checked his phone screen. The balance went from zero to a cool million.

  “Now double it, Angelo. You got nineteen seconds.”

  He looked down to the street and watched as the marshals escorted the snitch toward the courthouse door. They were surrounded by a crew of giant green-clad linebackers, all hired to protect their man. Each one of them looked like he was more than capable of taking on an army all by himself.

  Angelo’s voice was shrill. He stammered his response.

  “We’re not people you play with.”

  Deadshot’s answer came an instant later, low and emotionless.

  “Neither am I, Angelo. Ten seconds. Nine… eight…”

  The phone silently lit up. His bank balance was now two million.

  Deadshot fired his weapon.

  His match-grade bullet struck the steel plate he’d set up in the alley. It ricocheted cleanly toward the courthouse door.

  The bullet threaded through the SUV’s open door. Through the tiny, temporary gap between the hulking marshals.

  Into the target just as he entered the courthouse.

  The snitch crumpled. Dead. The door closed behind him.

  Then clueless marshals began pointing to where they thought the weapon had been fired. Everyone was frantic. Nobody agreed on the direction.

  They were all off by at least half a block.

  If they’d looked to the roof Deadshot had fired from, they wouldn’t have seen him there, either.

  He was already gone.

  Even before he could confirm the kill, he dropped his Bluetooth earpiece into a vent pipe, then rappelled down the side of the building, into the bed of a waiting pickup. He covered himself with a tarp, and the truck merged into traffic.

  Perfect.

  SIX

  Doctor Harleen Quinzel, one of Arkham’s most brilliant and dedicated psychiatrists, was no more.

  Electroshock. What a wonderful way of destroying a soul, the Joker thought as he watched Quinzel’s eyes roll up into their sockets and dribble pour from between her lips. He laughed uncontrollably as each hair on her arms and neck stood up on its own and began a freakish dance.

  The Joker watched Harleen Quinzel disappear as each cell in her body was assaulted with electricity, a process that was intended to induce seizures as a means of providing relief from crippling psychiatric disorders such as autism, catatonia, and schizophrenia.

  For those sufferers and others, properly administered electroshock treatments were accompanied by IV muscle relaxants, with each session lasting no longer than ten minutes. The Joker had received hundreds of his own such treatments.

  What if those sessions instead lasted for hours? he had wondered. Maybe even days? And what if, instead of receiving the relaxants, they received, oh… nothing? He could only imagine the joyfully painful results as the body thrashed on the med table, breaking arms and legs and so much more.

  During his own treatments he had worn a laryngeal mask over his mouth, with a tube stuck down his throat, to make certain his brain continued to receive needed oxygen. But did the brain really need oxygen, he asked himself. What would happen if he intentionally forgot the damned mask, and let the oxygen chips fall where they may, so to speak.

  So he went to work to answer his questions, and he soon had the answers.

  Harleen Quinzel ceased to exist, but she gave birth to a far greater insanity than even the Joker anticipated, or could hope for from the once venerable Dr. Quinzel.

  Harley Quinn was very much alive, and she was more than ready to give thanks to her “Puddin’.” With dyed-blonde hair tinged in pink, she was drop-dead gorgeous—in the prison vernacular, high-velocity sex on a stick. She was also as insatiable as she was insane.

  More than that, Harley Quinn was the k
ind of psychotic the Joker had always wanted as his pet. Sure, he loved to kill. There were few things he enjoyed more. Actually, there was nothing he enjoyed more, but for Harley, killing was only the first act, and she couldn’t wait to get to acts two and three, followed by an extended curtain call.

  Aaaand, scene!

  So when Joker plopped down into his plush VIP seat, and Harley went to join the club’s go-go dancers for a little one-on-one gyration, he wasn’t all that surprised that his fellow criminal conspirators wantonly stared at her. The question wasn’t, “Who wouldn’t stare?

  The question was, who dared to?

  Pretty much all the guys stared, really. Lots of the women, too, but only for a second or two. Their eyes not so innocently swept the room, only to rest on her for a moment longer than anything else. Then, if they were smart, they moved on. It was just a little peek.

  He wouldn’t fault them for that.

  But there was a new goon in town who called himself Monster T. He stared, then he kept staring, and Joker felt him heating up from all the way across the club.

  “Hey. Yes! There she is,” Joker said loudly enough to be heard. “The infamous Harley Quinn. You enjoying her, pal?”

  Monster T started to say yes, then realized his mistake.

  “No. No way. That’s your lady, Joker.” Yet he couldn’t help but take another look at Harley, before turning back. “I mean, you an’ me, we do a helluva lotta business. I ain’t messin’ that up.” Then he fell silent and looked at the floor, no doubt hoping that would satisfy the Joker.

  The Joker stood and stared at T.

  “Are you saying you don’t like her?” he said. “Maybe you’re saying you hate her?” Joker leaned in, and T tried to push back, but there was a wall behind him. “What do you have against her, T?”

  Monster T waved his hands in protest. “C’mon, Joker,” the goon stammered. “What am I gonna say, brother? There ain’t no right answer.”

  Joker turned to Harley, who was still dancing, and whistled to her. She cartwheeled off the stage and joined them.

  “Mister J?” she said, grinning.

  * * *

  Monster T knew what was coming next. She was gonna tear him into little pieces. Or worse.

  Joker patted T on the shoulder and smiled. T flinched.

  “Harley, it’s been a good run ’til now, but you’re my gift to this gentleman. You belong to him.”

  Monster T stared. What the hell game was the clown playing? Harley ground her way onto T’s lap and gave an approving nod. “This guy? Cool.” She brought her face close to his. “You know you’re cute,” she said. “So, you want me? I’m all yours, lover.”

  She rested her hand on his thigh. T couldn’t stop sweating as his gaze went back and forth between Harley and Joker. He knew he was caught between two psychopaths, but he didn’t know if they left him any sort of exit strategy.

  “Joker,” T said, pleading with psychopath number one. “I don’t want no beef.”

  Joker stretched his arms and yawned. “Then accept my gift. I’m sick of her,” he said as he pulled his purple .45 from his pocket and held it out. “Or better, shoot her. Push her hair right on back with a bullet. Either way, do me the favor. Please.”

  Harley caressed Monster T’s face and gave him a series of small pecks. It felt really good, he thought, but then he shook himself back to reality. The gun hovered there in Joker’s hand.

  “Right between my eyes, lover,” she said, poking her index finger just above her nose. “In the good ol’ glabella.”

  Monster T had to take the gun. If he didn’t, that white-skinned lunatic would surely shoot him, even with Quinn sitting in his lap for the whole club to see. So he accepted it.

  “Say thank you,” Joker said.

  “Thank you,” Monster T replied. This had to be a joke, but they’d already taken it too far. Harley edged herself off him and stood, watching intently. T kept praying Joker would suddenly burst out laughing.

  Just a joke, he’d say. Just a big, funny ha-ha joke.

  The Joker wasn’t even smiling.

  What were they going to do to him? If he told Joker Harley was gorgeous, Joker would kill him for trying to step in on his girl. If he told Joker she wasn’t gorgeous, Joker would kill him for intimating that he had lousy taste in women.

  T was sweating buckets. The tension was growing. There were dozens of eyes, staring only at him.

  “So,” Joker said, “do you know the answer now?”

  He did, and he silently nodded.

  Joker laughed and gestured for him to continue. “Time for you to save yourself.”

  Monster T looked at the purple gun, still in his hand, and placed its barrel directly under his chin. He didn’t believe in God, but he muttered a quick prayer, then squeezed the trigger and blew most of his head to hell and gone.

  * * *

  “Smart guy,” Joker said, and he laughed. “Lotta brains.”

  Harley squealed with delight as she fingered some of T’s smart-guyness off of her face. She leaned into Joker for a big kiss, but he pulled back.

  “Don’t touch me,” he growled. “This is on you. You know that guy made me a lot of money. We’re leaving.”

  “Puddin’, it’s not my fault I make myself look so good for you other guys can only wish an’ stare ’cause they’re so jealous. I mean, you should think of it as them honoring your great taste in babes—and I am your babe, aren’t I, honey?”

  Joker grabbed her by the arm, and Harley squealed as he dragged her from the club.

  “Yeah, you are, but you keep pushing me, and one’a these days you’re going to cross the line, Harley.”

  “Then what?” she asked.

  Joker laughed. “I dunno. We’ll draw ourselves a new line, and another, and probably cross them, too.”

  SEVEN

  She crossed the line, Lawton thought. Did she actually cross the line?

  “Say that again, honey?”

  “I said Mama doesn’t want me living with you because you kill people,” Zoe said, and he began to sweat.

  How dare she—? he thought furiously, but he said, “You shouldn’t believe everything you’re told, hon.”

  “Dad, please. I know you do bad things.”

  Lawton looked at his daughter, a young teenager but still a cooing baby in his eyes, and definitely the most important thing in his world.

  “That’s not true. Okay?”

  “You don’t have to worry, Dad. I still love you.”

  “And I love you, hon.”

  They continued walking as soft puffs of snow turned the gloomy Gotham City streets into a winter festival—or as close to one as Gotham City allowed. This was a beautiful night to be out, walking hand-in-hand with his daughter, the one person in the entire world he loved without reservation, but he still worried about her.

  “Are you sure you’re okay staying with her… in that place? I mean, I’ve got resources. I’m getting us a place that’s really nice.”

  Zoe didn’t answer. Instead, she took his hand and pulled him to the corner and pointed to the multi-colored Christmas tree lit up in the apartment complex’s open garden.

  “Yeah, it’s beautiful, hon,” he said reluctantly. “But I’m concerned. Hey, I’m your dad. That’s my job—but you can tell me. Is she still going out at night? Leaving you alone?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. Really, and I like taking care of her. I know how to make pancakes.”

  “She’s supposed to take care of you.”

  Lawton’s posture slumped as Zoe took his massive hand between both of hers. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go.

  “It’s okay, Dad. We’re all good.”

  He stared at her, growing up before his eyes, but her smile, so sweet and innocent, warned him to stop pushing. No matter her home life, she needed to take care of her mom. Trying to take Zoe away would only turn her against him.

  “Okay. Okay, but if you ever change your mind. Ever. Call me. I’ll be t
here before you can hang up. You understand?”

  She nodded and gave him a loving smile. They continued down the street to Zoe’s favorite ice-cream store. It was already a cold winter, but the girl always loved ice cream, and her favorite was peppermint, which was only available during the holiday season.

  She ordered a cup with two scoops for her, then smiled at her dad and ordered his favorite—a mint-chip sundae with whipped cream and nut sprinkles. They sat at a table facing the window.

  “You’re doing okay at school, aren’t you?”

  “I’m doing fine, Dad. You don’t have to search for something to talk about. We don’t always have to talk, you know. Sometimes it’s okay to be quiet.”

  “Yeah, I know, but I always want you to know if you ever have any problems there, if you ever need extra tutoring or something, you can call me. I’ll find a teacher. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

  “I know. I joined the band club.”

  “You’re kidding. Really? I didn’t know you played. What instrument?”

  “Well, I’m not really that good, but I’m trying to play the flute. The teacher says I show promise.”

  “My God, hon, that’s great. That’s really great. When you give your first big recital or whatever it’s called, let me know, because there’s no way I won’t be there. The flute? That’s so good, hon.”

  “Well, I was watching this movie about a school band and the girl playing the flute made it sound so good, and I figured it was easier to carry a flute around to practice than, say, a piano. So, well, I’m playing the flute.”

  “You have it with you now?”

  “I left it at home. Next time I’ll bring it.”

  “I like that, Zoe,” he said. “Next time. I like there being a next time.”

  They left the ice-cream store and headed down Barr Street toward Robbins. They continued to talk and laugh and Lawton felt happier and more content than he had in decades. It was a perfect day, but it wasn’t going to stay that way.

  “Floyd. You’re on time. For once.”

  Lawton’s ex-wife emerged from her car, the car he bought her in better times. She gestured for Zoe to come. The good times were over, he knew, but at least he’d had a chance to see her again.