Suicide Squad

by Marv Wolfman

  Milo, she thought. Perfect. I didn’t like the way he leered at me. Only Mr. J gets to do that. He gurgled, clutched his throat, and dropped to the ground while she giggled.

  Another group stepped up and tasered her.

  This time she couldn’t dodge.

  * * *

  They strapped her to the restraint chair and immobilized her arms, legs, chest, and neck. A gag was tied around her mouth. She liked that. It was something Mr. J might do.

  They wheeled her down a long corridor that took her to the Belle Reve airstrip. Outside she recognized many of the faces lining the path—guards with whom Harleen Quinzel had worked, and others she got to know better as Harley. Mixed in with the guards were soldiers. Armed. Grim. That was new. She’d never seen any of them before.

  There was a big plane waiting out there, and a military helicopter hovering overhead. As they moved toward it, some distance away Griggs came running from the prison. She wished he’d been the one to get the shiv, and not poor, dead Milo.

  Before he could reach the group, though, they stopped in front of a group of medics. They grabbed her head and held it in place, while one of them held a medical wand to her spine. Another opened the Pelican case he was carrying, a “Van Criss Labs” label on its side, while yet another removed an injector gun from it and held it up to her neck.

  She tried to resist, but whatever it was, he injected it into her with pinpoint precision. Harley screamed through her gag. She’d never felt anything quite that painful before, and it was no fun at all.

  She swore she’d die rather than go through that again.

  The medic operating the portable wand checked some readings and gave a thumbs up. A bandage was placed over the wound on her neck, signaling the guards to wheel her toward the plane again.

  * * *

  Griggs ran toward the C-17 Globemaster, but found his way blocked when a different crew of soldiers wheeled yet another restraint chair toward the special forces medics. Deadshot was strapped into this one.

  The prison captain cursed his luck. He had to get past the guards, but his way was still blocked. He had to get past the guards, so he’d have to bide his time, and wait for an opening. It had better come fast, though. He had to do what Joker had ordered him to do.

  Otherwise… well, he didn’t even want to consider the alternative.

  Deadshot struggled, but couldn’t move an inch in any direction. These guys were pros. One of them held up an injection gun. Disappointingly, Lawton didn’t scream, but his whole body shuddered. Griggs just stared at him.

  One day I’m going to put a bullet right between that bastard’s eyes. But today wasn’t that day. The guards wheeled him away.

  Diablo was next. He was already unconscious when he was wheeled into place, fire-retardant blankets wrapped around him. That was a good idea, Griggs mused. If the man was conscious, and decided to play games, he could pretty much incinerate everything within a five-mile radius. He’d done it before.

  There was an IV strapped to his arm. A heart monitor was in place. If he began to stir they’d know it immediately, and additional sedatives would be pumped into his system. He was brought to the medic holding the injector.

  The man was recognizably nervous as he placed it to Diablo’s neck. He activated the injector. Diablo shook for a moment, then settled back into blissful unconsciousness. The medic let out a sigh of relief as he was wheeled away.

  * * *

  Not two minutes later Croc was brought into position. Unlike the others he was chained upright into a small forklift. No restraint chair could possibly hold him. He roared as the medic approached, but the chains holding him were made of unforgiving and unbreakable promethium-infused steel. The medic placed the injector to Croc’s neck, near his spine, and fired it.

  Croc bellowed in pain, but the chains held. Then the medic scanned him, checked the results, gave a thumbs up, and the monster was taken away. The medic collapsed into a folding chair and reached for a cold bottle of water.

  Griggs knew how he felt, but he had bigger fish to fry.

  Better the fish than him.

  He watched from behind the barriers, pissed off that his best prisoners were being taken away from him, and no one knew the hell why. Truth to tell, he didn’t care about most of them, but he desperately needed to get to Harley.

  The guards pushed her restraint chair toward the jet’s ramp and waited there. If Griggs delayed any longer he’d never have another chance. He rushed over just as they started up the ramp. Leaning in close, he whispered in her ear.

  “You’re being transferred,” he hissed. “I don’t know where.” He pressed something in her hand. “It’s from Mr. J. Take it. He wanted you to have it.”

  It was a tiny cell phone with a jeweled letter J on it. Tears welled up in her eyes. Walking alongside her chair, Griggs gave her his best warm, hopeful, bullshit smile.

  “Please tell him I was good to you.”

  Harley grinned at him. “You are so screwed,” she hissed back, and she laughed.

  Griggs stopped in his tracks and his face turned white with fear. He wanted to apologize for all the crap he’d pulled, and beg her for a break, but the guards wheeled Harley up the ramp into the Globemaster’s cargo hold. A dozen armed military personnel stood ready to receive her. They all looked dour, so she grinned at them with her sunniest, happiest smile.

  “I love field trips. Hope you boys do, too.”

  * * *

  Harley’s chair was chained to a wall alongside the others who were already inside. The guards took their seats and strapped themselves in. The ramp was pulled into the plane and the hatch was sealed behind it. A moment later they lifted off the runway and roared into the sky.

  Harley looked at the others and laughed.

  “So this is the freak flight, huh?” she said brightly. “Well, I dunno ’bout you, but I’m happy to have the company.”

  She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. A moment later she opened them again.

  “Hey. You know if we get snacks on this flight? I am starving.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  The van that pulled up to the guard shack gate was driven by a large panda. He lowered the van window and looked at the guard.

  “This is Van Criss Labs, right?”

  The guard answered slowly. “Ummm, yes,” he said. “And you’re…?”

  “From Grant’s Gifts. I gotta deliver a gift basket to a Doctor Van Criss,” the panda said, checking his notepad. “They said they wanted it delivered by a panda. We get asked that a lot. In-joke, I guess. Go figure.”

  The guard smiled and nodded. They’d had stranger deliveries. He checked the computer list for today’s guests.

  “Sorry. You’re not on the access list. I can’t let you in.”

  “Yeah,” the panda said. “I sorta figured that could happen. I mean, this is a surprise gift, so your Criss guy wouldn’t’ve known to put our name in. No prob. Hey, you mind if I leave it with you? I mean, I’m way behind.”

  “Sure,” the guard said, shrugging. The panda handed him an overflowing basket then made him sign for it. When he got back the guard’s autograph, he rolled his window shut.

  The basket exploded in the guard’s face.

  * * *

  The Joker opened the van’s back door and leapt out. He was carrying a good-sized ball-peen hammer. He pushed his way into the shack and used it to finish off the semi-conscious guard.

  Tie off all loose ends when you can, and they won’t unravel later. He read that somewhere. He thought it might have been in a bubble-gum comic. Joker tapped the button on the shack’s computer, and the gate slowly swung open. He looked down at the dead guard and smiled his rictus grin.

  “Never trust a gift panda driving a van,” he said. “Words to live—or in your case—die by.”

  * * *

  The alarms started blaring the moment he shot his way into the building. He could have ripped a security badge off the dead guard, then walked the halls
without triggering the company klaxons, but then he’d have had to search for guards to kill. This way they came to him.

  Besides, Joker realized, his personal thugs would have set off the alarms anyway, once they stepped inside and shot at everything they saw. These guys didn’t believe in subtlety. It’s why he hired them in the first place.

  Joker took a gun from a dead guard, thanked him for it, then used it to kill several more security goons. He was living evidence that they weren’t very good at their jobs. Panda Man used a silenced assault rifle to take out several other guards, scientists, and technicians, while the thugs cleared the rest of the way toward their ultimate target.

  The assembly vault stood at the rear of the lab. Dr. Van Criss watched the chaos through the vault’s bulletproof glass and over the monitors positioned throughout the large room.

  “What the hell is going on?” he shouted. Frost suddenly stepped into view, but he wasn’t offering answers. He was, however, carrying an oversized carbine which he fired at the glass. One shot.

  Two.

  Three.

  He looked at the window and ran his finger over a tiny divot, the sad result of some pretty extensive firepower. Inside the vault, Van Criss looked confident.

  “Why are you in my way?” Joker said, pushing Frost aside. “This is what I get for allowing my underlings to do my job for me. Move. Vamoose.”

  Frost stepped back as Joker held up a tablet for the doctor to see. On its screen was a live video feed of a woman. Her mouth was duct-taped shut and a very nasty-looking gun was pressed to her head.

  “You like movies, Doctor?”

  Van Criss rushed to the switch that opened the vault door. “Please don’t hurt her,” he begged. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  Joker nodded enthusiastically. “I know.”

  He entered the vault. Van Criss stared at his feet. The Joker was barefoot.

  He padded around the room, searching various shelves and cabinets before finding the object of his desire lying on a steel table in the back of the vault. He held up the nanite injector gun.

  “This is it, isn’t it?” he asked menacingly. “What you used on them.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dr. Van Criss responded. “Who was it used on? What do you mean?”

  “Look at me, Doctor. Do I look like the kind of guy who likes sitting around and explaining crap?” He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Good help is so hard to find these days.” He placed the injector to the doctor’s neck and before Van Criss could respond, Joker squeezed its trigger. “I’ll just have to do this all by myself.”

  Dr. Van Criss fell to the ground, screaming in agony.

  Joker looked at the injector and grinned.

  “Yep. This is it.”

  PART TWO

  THE WAR

  TWENTY-SIX

  Colonel Rick Flag, exhausted from battle, wished the damn war was already over.

  He stood on the helicopter skid as they approached the Midway City Airport. In the distance he could see large columns of smoke staining the clouds gray.

  How much of Midway has already been destroyed? he wondered. He glanced at the news channel streaming over his cell phone. Getting up-to-the-minute intel from reporters on the ground was always faster than waiting for it through “official” channels.

  Government bureaucracy. Still immobilizing America after more than two centuries.

  “War has come to our country,” the on-air reporter said. “A good part of our city has already been overrun, and we have yet to see the face of our enemy.” She paused for dramatic effect before continuing. “Too many have died, and experts fear this is just the beginning. Let’s go to Walter Goodwin, standing outside of city hall, for further details. Walter…”

  Flag shoved the phone back into its holster and marveled at the makeshift base the military had hastily set up. It looked as if it had been there for years, not hours. The tarmac was littered with inflatable tents. Air Force gunships sat on the ground. Weapons were being loaded onto them while the ground crews pumped fuel. Everywhere Flag looked, armed choppers lifted off and disappeared into the cloud-shrouded city.

  For them the war was just beginning. Flag was pretty certain he would never see any of those men and women again.

  He watched as soldiers were carried on stretchers to portable hospital units that hadn’t been there four hours earlier. Medics were rushed in from nearby medical facilities to patch up the wounded so they could be sent right back into the fray. Their injuries had barely been stitched together, let alone healed.

  His chopper landed and Flag stepped off the skid and crossed the strip toward the building where his twenty-three-man SEAL platoon waited for him. He passed a blacked-out window and noticed his haggard reflection. He looked as if he’d been through hell, and hadn’t yet made it back.

  He entered the complex to see his men. They looked just as drained as he was. Four soldiers, however—Kowalski, Gomez, Grey, and Nate—were different from the rest. They were muscular, oozing with confidence, covered with armor and ass-kicking weapons.

  Fresh meat for the fight.

  He’d never worked with any of them, but he knew they were SEALs, the best of the best, and unlike Flag’s so-called team, they’d follow orders. Without question.

  Their leader, Lieutenant Edwards, went by the nickname GQ, and his combat record read as impressive. Besides being an Academy grad, and having a PhD from Stanford, GQ had been awarded a trunkload of medals. It spoke volumes that he wasn’t showing off by wearing any of them now.

  But Flag had been in the military for most of his adult life. On paper the man sounded perfect. Over the years Flag had run across a lot of corpses who did, as well. He would reserve final judgment until after their first skirmish.

  GQ gave a big smile and saluted Flag with crisp precision.

  “First fight I’ve been able to drive to,” he said

  Flag nodded. “Let’s hope it’s not a regular thing.”

  GQ leaned over and dropped his voice to a whisper. “So what’s in there, Rick? People are scared. I heard a squad of Rangers fast-roped off their helo, then shot themselves.”

  There was the sound of an aircraft, and Flag turned away answering him. The C-17 had landed, with Waller’s recruits from the inner circle of hell. It was rolling to a stop.

  Damn, he thought. This is so wrong. Then aloud, and to no one in particular, “They’re here.”

  GQ knew just enough to return with dangerous snark.

  “I’m calling it now,” he said. “This is gonna be a total goat rope. How’d you get sucked into this?”

  “I don’t like this any more than you do, Lieutenant.” Flag couldn’t turn back to answer Edwards to his face—not without betraying the depth of his own doubts. “But once we’re on the objective, these assholes are mildly interesting. ’Sides, if they get their domes canoed with accidental headshots, I’ll shed no tears.”

  GQ understood perfectly.

  The tail ramp of the C-17 lowered. Flag drew his pistol from its holster and checked the mag.

  “C’mon,” he said. “Let’s welcome our little choir boys to ground zero.” Though they both wished they were anyplace else but here, the two of them made their way to the aircraft.

  * * *

  As the two walked toward the newly arrived aircraft, GQ looked back to see his men still lodged in the doorway, waiting for orders. No question they were the best. If anything went south it wouldn’t be because of them.

  “Alright, kids,” he said. “Show of force time. Any of these walking targets makes a move, put a Chuck Taylor in his ass.”

  His SEALs gave him a thumbs up and followed. They got to the C-17 just as Harley, Deadshot, Diablo, and Croc emerged—all wearing orange jumpsuits, all shackled to their restraint chairs. Croc, still chained to the forklift, was wearing a mask designed to prevent him from using his powerful jaws. They were wheeled down the ramp, only to stop in front of several closed black bags th
at were sitting on the ground.

  Croc and Diablo were conscious, but weren’t resisting. There were dozens of military sharpshooters positioned on rooftops and along the pathway who would trade a night with a porn star to put as much lead in their heads as their weapons could fire.

  You just don’t fight that kind of stupid over-the-top determination, GQ thought to himself.

  Flag walked up to Diablo. If looks could’ve killed…

  “So here’s how it’s going down,” he said, “and you better listen. We’re going to remove your restraints. Anyone testing me gets a face fulla brown tips.” As one, the sharpshooters disengaged their side locks.

  Keys unlocked the handcuffs, the padlocks, and the shackles. They all clanked to the ground. Harley, Diablo, and Deadshot were free.

  Flag put his pistol against Croc’s temple. “Okay. Unlock him.”

  GQ and Gomez both reacted with a queasy gulp. Croc was more reptile than man, and neither had ever seen anything like him—like it?—before. His chains crashed to the asphalt and the two SEALs quickly stepped back. Croc massaged his wrists and turned to Flag.

  “Thank you,” he said, almost apologetically.

  That startled GQ—he hadn’t expected it. Hell, he hadn’t expected Croc to be able to talk at all, let alone in fluent English. Of course, even a monster like him could tell he was outnumbered.

  “What’s that?” Harley said loudly. “I should kill everybody and escape? Is that what you want me to do? Is it?”

  More than a dozen weapons were aimed directly at her head. She looked… sheepish. Tapped a finger to her temple.

  “Sorry,” she said sweetly. “Ignore me. It was just the voices telling me what I should do.” They stared, and she grinned back. “Hey, I’m kidding! Geez. Chill out.

  “That’s not what they really said.”

  GQ shot Flag a look. Is this really happening?

  Then Harley laughed.

  “You guys are gonna make this so fun.”

  GQ nodded toward Flag and pointed up and to the south. A Blackhawk chopper was coming in. It prepared to land, and U.S. Marshalls with SWAT gear jumped from its hold even before it touched ground. A moment later a large canvas bag thudded to the asphalt.