WITH THE LIGHTS OUT
CHAPTER 36
Rick
"So…what exactly are we dealing with, here?" Rick asks, looking intently at the thick, military-standard laptop in front of him. Waller is sat on his left – a bunch of A.R.G.U.S suits dotted around with their own gadgets and devices. They're effectively running an intelligence agency from Waller's hotel room, and numerous security and satellite feeds are being filtered in from official A.R.G.U.S. headquarters in Midway City. Phone calls come; people walk in and out the room. There is an air of controlled, focused activity that never allows itself to become panicked or confused.
They're looking at CCTV footage of a non-descript warehouse on Gotham's grimy, notorious docks. About thirty mercenary's with machine-guns prowl the space as a large crate is unloaded off a docked boat. "You're looking at a Russian-built power converter," Waller informs him. "It's for any form of energy – electric, nuclear, radioactive. Our scientists estimate that you could feed in enough power to run a house, and get out enough juice to blow a football stadium. We think he wants to use it to create mass power surges on the grids. Wipe bank and prison records. That sort of thing."
"'He'?" Rick asks, watching as the crate is carefully loaded onto a truck.
"Bane," Waller says, calmly, pointing at a large, muscular man in a black mask made grainy and distorted by the CCTV feed. "Arrived in Gotham about four months ago. That muscle is his own team of men. Fanatics. They believe in the teachings of Ra's al Ghul." Her tongue lingers on the name slowly – almost sardonically – like one would talk about a fairy-tale or a hallucination.
"Which is?"
"The belief that our society is inherently corrupt," she replies, indifferently. "That it must be cleansed in order to survive."
"And you want us to take him down?" Rick asks, looking at the group of men, sceptically. Even from the poor-quality video, he can tell from the way they carry themselves that the group have been trained to at least military standard. The thirty that he can see here would have the punch and training of a ruthlessly efficient SWAT team. His rag-tag group of illogical, un-experienced criminals wouldn't stand a chance.
"No. Unless he becomes a national threat, Bane is the problem of the Gotham police department. What I want your Squad to do, Rick, is get me that –" Waller pauses the video and taps a fingernail painted blood red against the steel crate the thugs are transporting.
"The converter?" he grunts, in surprise. "If you wanted to seize the thing, why not just file a warrant and send in the police?"
"Because we'd like to acquire it with minimal fuss. It would be…problematic if people knew we were in possession of this type of technology."
"It's illegal?"
"In his hands. In our hands, it's legitimate." Was there a difference? Rick thinks, depending on who it belonged to? Did the fact that this machine was owned by the 'good-guys' somehow make it any less dangerous?
"Alrigh'" he replies, standing up and moving to a glass coffee table in the center of the room where a map of Gotham lies unfurled, hands on his hips. "So where are they keeping it?"
"Warehouse Number 67. It's still on the docks. You retrieve the Converter, we provide an extraction boat on Dock Two that will take you to a chopper and bring you back here. If you think you can't make it to the boat without drawing attention to yourselves, we have a safe house five blocks North – here –" Waller points to a block of flats on the map " – you hole up there and we'll figure out a different way of getting you out. Either way, you're not to be seen. You get caught and –"
" – I know, I know –" Rick cuts in, impatiently. You throw us under the bus.
" - You get the Enchantress to teleport you back to D.C. and we all pretend we have no idea what the hell happened," Waller continues, as if she hasn't heard him.
"What about the girl?" Rick asks, raising his eyebrows sharply. "Katana?"
"In the event of mission failure, Miss Yamashiro is to be left behind with all the others."
"But she works for you," he shoots back, feeling a disgusted kind of disbelief. This kind of thing from Waller shouldn't surprise him anymore. She was ruthless. But from what Rick had seen of his appointed bodyguard she was a straight shooter. Honourable. It didn't seem fair to leave her like a sitting duck with the rest of the Task Force. They'd probably kill her before the rest of them were either killed by Bane or arrested by the police.
"She knew what she was signing up for," Waller dismisses, standing across from him at the opposite side of the table. She picks up a folder and thrusts it across the table at Rick. "Feel free to select who you feel best fits the mission objective. We've acquired a couple more inmates for the program since you last visited Belle Reve."
"Such as?"
"Slipknot. The Weasel."
Rick flips open the binder, looking down the list of powers and abilities and running through in his head the potential dangers and challenges of the mission. After several moments hard concentration, he makes a snap decision. "Alrigh', well, I'll trade out El Diablo and put in Slipknot. Take Killer Croc in case we come into contact with Bane. Deadshot. This Weasel fella' could come in handy if he's as good at hand-to-hand combat as you say he is –"
" – his signature move is ripping out his enemy's throat – " Waller throws in, offhandedly.
" – an' then June and Katana," Rick finishes, shutting the folder with a shrug that says: done.
"Why not take Captain Boomerang? The man's a professional thief."
"Because he annoys me," Rick bites back, remembering the Australian slimeball from Belle Reve. He can't be bothered to deal with that level of a douche-bag on his first mission.
But Waller shakes her head. "Take Harley Quinn instead of Killer Croc, then" she instructs, bluntly. "Our sources say that Bane will be on the opposite side of the city tomorrow night – he'll be nowhere close to you. You won't need the crocodile."
"I ain't takin' her!" Rick snaps back – instantly vehement as he remembers the last time he saw Harley Quinn. There was no way in hell he wanted to see that chick again, and there was no way he was working with her on the team. "She's crazy!"
"She's Gotham born-and-raised, Flag. None of the other's that you've picked out can provide you with that kind of street knowledge. When was the last time you took a trip to Gotham?"
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, unwilling to admit the truth, which was: exactly never. His knowledge of Gotham's layout and streets would come from his memory of the map in front of him and information relayed through his ear-piece.
"Around that dock, it's a maze," Waller tells him, levelly. "The last thing I want is for your squad to get trapped like fish in barrel. She's your best hope of getting out alive."
Rick bites down on the inside of his cheek, unhappy, but not wanting to admit it. He didn't need any more ribbing from Amanda Waller about being scared of women who wore their hair in pigtails. "Fine," he grinds out, eventually. "If we're goin' in at night, I want night-vision technology. I'm gonna need charges to blow that warehouse door, an' I need somethin' to transport that thing with. I ain't carryin' a ten ton steel crate round Gotham."
"We'll make sure you're suitably equipped."
"'An I want you to pull Katana as well if somethin' goes wrong. She a kid, it's not fair to just leave her –"
Waller folds her arms. She couldn't look more dispassionate if she tried – her voice coming out almost bored. "I'm not going the whole fifteen rounds with you. I've already told you that Miss Yashamiro's life is not a priority. You and the witch are. There isn't room for negotiation on this."
He shakes his head slowly, unwilling to believe what he's hearing. "….That's fucked up."
"That…" Waller replies, calmly. "Is how we run the Suicide Squad. The clue's in the name. You can't hack it: quit. But like I said, your girlfriend is going to stay here, under our control."
Rick sneers at the now-predictable threat against June, but otherwise doesn't respond. He doesn't want to waste his breath on the same old argument.
Waller taps some loose papers into a square against the coffee table as one of her analysts quickly rush across the room to whisper something in another women's ear. Rick knows that none of these guys are focused on tracking the Russian source of Bane's weapon. They don't care. They aren't the police, and this isn't a crime ring bust. All their energy is focused on clarifying the op; figuring out what nearby shops are open and at what hours, the patrol times of the water police on Gotham River. They are here so that Rick and his squad can obtain that weapon with minimal fuss and without being caught themselves.
"You're not to tell the squad about the Converter, only the location," Waller tells him. "All they need to know is that they are delivering a package to us. They know what's inside that box, they could sabotage this entire mission."
Rick folds his arms. "Can I at least tell June what's going on?...She's been kinda jumpy about this whole thing lately. I don't want her to get any more freaked out than she already is an' it gets to her when I have to keep information secret."
"Do what you have to –" Waller replies, dismissively. "But Colonel? Don't forget. Out there, that isn't going to be your girlfriend. It's going to be a witch who has tried in the past to kill us all and mark my words she'll try again. She makes one wrong move, you don't hesitate to let us know and we'll kill her." She must catch the hesitation on Rick's face because she reminds him, matter-of-factly: "You know it's what Doctor Moone would want."
Rick stares at her for a moment before running a hand through his hair. It turned out June wasn't the only one who didn't feel 100% prepared for this op. He's only just beginning to confront the idea that he might have to be the one to make the call to kill her. Before, with heart under A.R.G.U.S's control, it had never felt like it had been down to him. But out there… "I can do it," he promises Waller – knowing that she's right: it's what June would want. "If I have to."
She nods to herself. "No hesitating. No second-guessing. You just kill the bitch."
"Yeah…" he replies, distractedly, already heading for the hotel room door. " - right."
He leaves with the intention of finding June, and it doesn't take long to track her down. She's rushing hurriedly down the corridors on his floor with Katana close on her heels – clearly looking for Waller's room. At the sight of her, he instantly feels his stomach sink. He'd promised June that morning it wouldn't come to this. That the hold up was all for nothing – that they'd be home by tomorrow. And now he's just left Waller who's made him swear that he'd kill June if it came down to it. It's not exactly the start to the holiday season they had both intended.
"You heard, huh?"
"Yeah – I heard! Tomorrow?" June throws at him, as if it's his fault. "Really?! What are they thinking?"
He rubs a hand down his face in a tired manner. "Actually, June, they're pulling it forwards so that we get night cover. 2 AM."
"Noooo. No – no. Babe -" she replies, covering her eyes. "We've just been drinking down at the bar! I'm…drunk."
"You're kidding, right?" Rick deadpans, disbelievingly. But she's looking at him with this kind of guilty embarrassment – her nose wrinkled – that tells him June's being absolutely serious. In any other situation, Rick might have found it endearing, but right now all he can register is a low-level incredulity. "Ah June - " he protests, running a hand through his hair. "How many did you have!?" he demands, wondering how she has chosen tonight of all nights to do this.
"Two."
Rick rolls his eyes – glancing at Katana, who is silent and who, at least, seems completely sober. "I think you'll be okay," he shoots at June, somewhat sarcastically, but mostly reassuringly. "C'mon, we'll get you a glass of water. You'll be fine."
"I don't know. I mean, they were doubles," June worries, as he places a hand on the small of her back and attempts to steer her back down the corridor towards their shared room.
Rick throws a look at Katana over his shoulder. "I thought I told you to watch her?"
The young woman merely shrugs. "I thought she could handle her alcohol."
Rick grunts. He thought so, too; June regularly drank a glass of wine or two in the evenings. It must be the combination of stress and all the travelling they'd been doing recently. He judges that she's not very bad, but it's enough to exacerbate anxieties that have clearly been bothering her all day. He doesn't want her to go into the mission with her head like this.
"Alrigh' – drink –" Rick instructs June, when they get back to their room. He sits her down on the edge of the bed and hands her a glass of water. "How're you feeling?"
"Better."
"Shaky?"
June holds out a steady hand. "No."
"Nervous?"
She takes a small, tentative sip of water. "A little."
He crouches down in front of her, his hands resting on her knees. "We're goin' to Gotham. Dock Number Three. They're dropping us by chopper to acquire a weapon currently in the possession of this guy called Bane. We get that, then they have a boat waiting for us. We reckon it's goin' to take an hour. Maybe a bit more, depending how things go."
"…okay."
"I've picked out a team of seven guys from the people Waller showed me - including me and you. Deadshot. Harley Quinn. Katana. The Weasel and Slipknot. They all get explosives injected into their necks, so if they try anything, they're history."
June takes a deep breath, nodding once more.
"…We're all going to be carrying guns. We're expecting a bit of resistance; Bane's men are patrolling the docks."
"What's the weapon?" June asks, clutching the glass of water tightly on her lap. "The one that we're supposed to be getting?"
"Power converter. Massively increases energy output somehow."
"Do you know why Waller wants it?"
"Nope. Apparently Bane was going to use it to short-circuit the city or something."
June frowns, and he can see her trying to figure out what Waller wanted with the Converter. She's probably thinking what he's thinking: what's the use in having something that can over-power the national grid, when she already had the Enchantress who could do that exact thing? Then again, June was a lot smarter than Rick was. She'd probably figure it out.
The information succeeds in distracting her. Instead of panicking about the unknown, she's now focused her mind on a new mystery – attacking it from every angle. June loved a good puzzle.
Rick watches her brow furrow as she thinks and gently takes the now-empty glass from her, settling it on the floor. "That doesn't make any sense," she says, finally – her voice holding a vague trace of frustration as if she's stuck on a particularly difficult math problem.
"Hey, I don' ask questions. I'm just tryin' to keep my head straight…get this done."
June opens her mouth - about to say something – but then shuts it again, apparently thinking better. Instead she simply grabs his hands in hers and leans forwards to kiss him.
"I love you," she says, as she withdraws a few inches.
"I love you too."
Rick looks at her, abruptly unable to look away – his hands still caught in her smaller ones. She gives him a reassuring half-smile. Rick knows subconsciously that he should be feeling crap right now. They are about to go on their first mission with the Suicide Squad and he and June are quite possibly at their lowest point since Melissa's death. It didn't get much worse for the two of them. Somehow, however, he feels okay. Not great, but okay. They had each other – they could rely on one another implicitly. Knowing that she loves him is enough to get through this – get the job done and get them both home.
It is the middle of the night - pitch black - and Rick is standing on a runway at the airport in D.C., flanked by the Enchantress and Katana. They're waiting for the prisoners to be flown over from Belle Reve; behind him is the chopper that will fly them to Gotham. The harsh glare coming from the floodlights overhead illuminate circular sections of tarmac – leaving everything else in indistinct shadow. The black tendrils of magic coming from the witch pulsate and move like living fog. Next to him, Katana stands stiff-backed and uneasy.
"Let me make one thing absolutely clear," Rick says to the Enchantress, not taking his eyes off of the jet that is coming in to land. "You try anything, Waller will nail you to the fuckin' wall. It ain't gonna be pretty."
"…but not you…?" the witch rasps, her large, lamp-like eyes surveying his face intently – apparently amused.
Rick's mouth twists into a sadistic kind of smirk and he turns to look at her so that she can see he is being 100% serious. "I can – and will – kill you. Just give me the opportunity, sweetheart. Try it."
"You would destroy us all? Your most…powerful weapons?"
"In a heartbeat."
"Such waste," the Enchantress notes, watching intently as the jet touches down on the runway – the high-pitched whir of the turbo-engines loud.
"I don' know if I'd call it a 'waste', exactly," Rick replies, dryly, rolling his eyes. There wouldn't be many people who would shed a tear if any of the prisoners on that plane died. "But somethin' tells me you're a survivor…so I don't think you're gonna be dumb enough to try anythin' that'll get you killed."
Even so, when the jet finally stops and the Enchantress moves forwards – clearly interested in seeing who is about to be unloaded off of the plane, Rick turns to Katana. "You know what your job is, yeah? She so much as moves, run her through. I got enough to worry about as it is, without adding her in."
Katana's hand moves to rest on the hilt of her sword. The entire time they've been here, she hasn't taken her eyes off of the Enchantress. Rick figures the Japanese samurai is a little superstitious – she's acting like the witch could possibly be contagious, unwilling to so much as share the same breathing space. "She will receive no mercy," she promises.
The ramp of the jet lowers and guards file out – shoving hand-cuffed and chained prisoners off in front of them. Rick does a mental head-count. Harley Quinn. Deadshot. Slipknot. The Weasel. All of them are dressed in the Belle Reve orange jumpsuits, but a prison guard pushes a large crate down after them carrying their clothes and weapons.
"What the…fuck…is that?" Deadshot asks, loudly, as he is forced past the Enchantress – twisting his head to get a better look at her.
"Alrigh' –" Rick says, approaching the nearest guard and jerking his thumb to the chopper behind them. "Load 'em up."
"Somebody best tell me what's going on –!" Deadshot continues to demand as he, Harley Quinn, Slipknot and the Weasel are taken onto the chopper. Goods in a transaction.
Rick double-checks that the nanite devices are functioning and linked, just for good measure, and then follows them on board.
"Here's the deal:" he says to the still-handcuffed inmates as they are lined up against one wall, grabbing one of the handles dangling from the ceiling. "You all have explosives injected into your neck. You do anything I don't tell you to do – you try anything – I'll blow you. You get the job done, you survive. You are part of Task Force X. Tonight, you will be helping me acquire a package in Gotham city. We are expecting some levels of resistance so you are allowed your weapons – " Rick kicks the crate next to him with a heavily booted foot " – which are in here. But like I said, you try to turn them on me, it will not end well for you…Do you understand?"
"Er – since when did it become legal to inject people with bombs? Because I must've missed that message," Lawton says, looking at Rick with a severely unimpressed look on his face.
"What about now?" Rick asks, holding up his phone where pictures of the Enchantress, Lawton, Quinn, Slipknot and the Weasel are all blinking – their links established and ready. "Do you get the message now?"
"Yep –" Sal Walsh – the guy they called the Weasel, nods. Once part of the Irish mob, he has the sallow, unhealthy look of an alcoholic forced to go tee-total. Though he can barely be older than Rick, his ginger hair is turning oddly colourless. There are bags under his eyes and his skinny body has the air of someone who has long since resigned themselves to their fate. Whatever his deal is, he's a washed-up criminal who's days of ripping people's throats out look as if they are long behind him.
"Are you sure?" Rick asks, not taking his eyes off of Lawton – but, again, it is Walsh who nods genially.
"No. Yeah. I get it –" he makes an 'OKAY' sign with his index finger and thumb. " - I get the message."
Rick lowers his phone and walks up to un-cuff them.
When he gets to Harley Quinn, he looks the girl in the eye. "Don't get any funny ideas about running back to your boyfriend, alright?" he tells her, as he twists the key in the lock none-too-gently.
"Are you kidding? I'm just happy to be out of that cage," Harley sighs, as she lifts her arms above her head in an exaggerated stretch. She's got her orange overalls stripped down and knotted about her waist, revealing a clinging, dirty white top that reads Return After Use! "I was gettin' so bored in there, and gals like me don't normally do bored and cooped-up."
"Well, don't get too comfortable, 'cause you're gunna be back in there by sunrise," Rick grunts.
Her answering grin is wide enough to tell Rick that Harley has other ideas about where she's going to finish this night. He glares at her, his jaw locked. He once again wishes that there were about four more of him – or that he at least had someone like Grant at his side to keep these guys in check.
The Squad get their things out of the crate, and Rick makes sure to note exactly what they take; stepping in only when he feels they haven't picked up enough ammo, or appropriate weapons.
Walsh dresses himself in a tasteless, paisley shirt – strapping two guns to his body holster. He lets out a low whistle of appreciation as Lawton straps a cuff around his wrist that looks suspiciously like it can fire bullets.
"What's that?" the Boston-Irish man asks.
Deadshot raises his arm to look at his weapon appraisingly. "Made it myself. Wrist gun, y'know? I can fire a bullet up a camel's ass with this thing from 'bout thousand meters."
Harley squeals as she pulls out a bright red t shirt and bejewelled shorts. Next to him, Rick thinks he catches Katana rolling her eyes to herself.
Slipknot stonily checks the ammo in his rifle.
"You – er – you ain't packin' anything, huh?" Deadshot asks the Enchantress, glancing up at the witch who is standing a little way off from the group. Rick almost gets the feeling that, instead of being aloof, she wants to move in closer to the rest of the Squad.
"…I do not need to resort to human toys to defend myself," the witch replies, coolly.
"Human what-now?" Lawton responds, raising one-eyebrow. He looks between the Enchantress and Rick questioningly. "Is she an alien?"
"What?"
"From out of space. Is she an alien?"
"Oh –" Rick smirks, looking at the Enchantress as he scratches his thumbnail against his nose. "No, er, she's actually a witch."
"A witch?" Deadshot echoes, flatly.
"Yeah."
"…Metaphorically?"
"Literally."
" - Ya know, my Nana always used ta believe in the Devil an' shit, an' we put the silly old cow in a home…I am tellin' you now: that thing is goin' ta be bad luck," the Weasel tells them, adamantly. "Don't get me wrong - I ain't superstitious or nothin' - but you don't go messin' around with no black magic. My Nana always said that that shit was real an' I ain't goin' on no mission with some…witch."
"Irish pussy," Slipknot throws out, calmly – not looking up from polishing his gun.
"Hey! Nobody calls me a pussy, asshole –" The Irishman yells, abruptly switching from a form of washed-up amicability to red-faced indignance. He lunges for Slipknot, and Rick steps between the two men before the Weasel can land a hit.
"Alrigh', break it up," he says – shoving the Irishman in the chest so hard he stumbles backwards into one of the aircraft's seats hard. Rick isn't holding a weapon, but he stands – coolly intimidating – his face expressionless. "Just stay down," he advises, steadily – words for everyone standing in the chopper. "An' don't get back up."
As they draw closer to Gotham and the designated drop site on top of an abandoned building, a voice comes through Rick's ear-piece.
"White van…" it reports, coolly. "Across the road. Plate number India, Bravo, Two, Five, Bravo, Two. Head south by south east."
"THIS IS OUR STOP!" Rick yells, over the roar of the wind as the door on the side of the chopper opens up and it begins to descend onto the roof. Below them, down-town Gotham is about as dark as if there had been a power cut, save for a few, weak lights. The river is a shimmering dark oil slick a few streets down on their right. It doesn't look like much to Rick, but Harley steps up to the open door, the wind pulling at her clothes and hair. She takes in a deep breath of the cold night air.
"You alright there?" Deadshot asks, from behind her.
She looks over her shoulder at him quickly, as if startled to find him there. "Yeah…it's just been a long time since I seen home…" she replies, her accent slightly thicker than normal with some, unpeaceable emotion.
Abruptly, the Enchantress flickers and de-materializes – leaving only empty space in her wake. She appears on the roof below them only moments later. Harley suddenly grins widely and jumps from what Rick judges to be an inappropriately high-risk distance – but she lands nimbly and unharmed next to the witch, the skin of her bare legs dotted with gravel.
"Glad to be back?" Rick asks Deadshot, lining himself up behind the man. He's half sarcastic, half-genuinely curious. Somewhere down there, Rick knows the man's daughter will be sleeping. He doesn't trust that any of these criminals aren't going to make a break for it the moment they get on the ground.
Lawton merely preoccupies himself with running a long piece of rope between his fingers – one end knotted tightly to the chopper. "Nah," he says, eventually. "…Not really. This place is like…toxic. It's poisonous. You stay in Gotham too long, and everything in your life just starts falling apart."
He throws the other end of the rope off the side of the chopper and somehow in the same movement expertly twists and glides down it – landing easily on the roof despite the wind being blown up by the chopper's rotors. Despite himself, Rick can't help but be a little impressed.
They all land safely on the roof and make their way down the cobwebby stairwells of the abandoned apart block.
"That van there –" Rick says, pointing to the truck across the street that is parked and waiting for them. "Everyone in." He thrusts the keys into Deadshot's hands. "You're drivin'."
The bald-headed man looks at him incredulously as he slides open the side door for Harley, the Enchantress and the others pile into the back of the van. "You haven't even told us where we're going –?" he protests, incredulously. "- and you want me to drive?"
"Head for the docks," Rick instructs, bluntly, slamming the door and climbing into the passenger seat up front. He holds his rifle into his chest with a light grip - ready to shoot and point with the barest of movements.
"That's it?" Deadshot asks, climbing into the driver's seat. "Just: head for the docks."
Rick rotates his index finger impatiently – a wordless signal. "Yeah. Let's get goin'."
As the van's engine starts, Rick keeps one eye on the deserted, quiet street and another on the rear-view mirror – looking through a hatch behind him to where the rest of the Squad are crammed onto benches running the length of the trunk. It's somewhat bizarre to see: the witch, Harley Quinn and Katana pressed up on one side – Slipknot and the Weasel on the other. Some of the worst criminals in America, crammed surreptitiously into the back of an old, white van.
Abruptly, Harley unbuckles herself and thrusts the top half of her body through the hatch so that her head pokes out between Rick and Deadshot. "So –" she says, blowing out a bubble of gum. "We're headin' to the docks, huh?"
"Yeah," Rick replies, curtly, keeping his eyes on the road.
"Ya know…last time I checked, that was Bane's territory."
"Bane's only been here four months; last I checked, you were in Arkham Aslyum then," Rick quips.
Harley shrugs. "I got contacts…So –" she looks at him. "What does that Waller-lady want with something someone like Bane got? 'Cause it ain't gonna be anythin' good."
Rick's jaw tightens, mainly because he, also, would like to know the answer to that question. "That's need-to-know," he grinds out, eventually.
"Yeah –" Deadshot cuts in, taking a swift right down another darkened street. "See, that – that right there – that's gonna get real old, real fast. Either you start talkin', or we're goin' to start bashing some heads in. 'Cause lookin' around, there are five of us, and only two of you."
In the back, Katana is glaring down Slipknot and the Weasel who are twice her size. The tension in the air is palpable. "Listen, team work makes the dream work, man," Rick replies, calmly. "I have your back – you have mine – we get this done and we all get to walk out of this alive, which is about the best-case-scenario all you can hope for at this point."
Still, Rick keeps a close eye on the team as they get closer to the docks. There is more light here, and more people walking around. Big men in heavy jackets. Jack-hammers working, despite the lateness of the night.
"Keepin goin'," Rick mutters to Deadshot under his breath, holding his gun slightly tighter – now unsure whether he should be focusing his attention on the people trying to kill him on the inside of the van, or the people who will try to kill him who are outside of it. "That checkpoint there. Guy manning it is called 'Big Nasty'. Dock's 1 through to 5 are past him."
Deadshot pulls them up to the barrier and stops.
"Er – hey there –" he says to the thick-set bearded man with face tattoos sat in the small booth. "We got a delivery for Dock 3."
"Dock 3?" the man replies, flatly. It's unclear from his tone whether he believes them or not. Surreptitiously, Rick once again checks the rear-view mirror. The rest of the Squad are – for now – huddled obediently in the back, watching intently. Harley chews on her bubble gum rapidly as her narrowed eyes dart from Rick to Deadshot.
"Yeah, we got a –" but suddenly, Deadshot breaks off. "Look, are you the man?" he asks, with the tired air of someone cutting through an immense amount of bullshit.
"What?" the guy grunts, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.
"Big Nasty. Am I talking to Big Nasty?"
"Yeah."
Lawton reaches his arm out the window – pointing his wrist gun directly at the man's forehead – and shoots him. The silencer means that the sound is barely louder than a compressed whoosh of air.
"What are you doing?!" Rick snarls, as Deadshot starts the car and reverses slightly, before shifting back into gear and driving down the side of the cement dock, around the barrier and dangerously close to the water.
"Your plan was stupid. I made a new plan."
"Fuck! Now they're gonna know we're here!" Walsh interjects – somewhat hysterically - trying to force himself up to the hatch next to Harley. He looks at Lawton accusingly. "You fuckin' idiot!"
"I could blow you right now," Rick tells Deadshot, evenly – ignoring the Weasel. "End this. The witch can teleport me out of here and I can leave all you like sittin' ducks. Is that what you want? Because when one of you goes down, you all go down. Trust me."
Deadshot is gripping the steering wheel too hard, his knuckles white. To Rick's surprise, he's actually gotten into the other man's head. Somewhere in there – underneath all the bravado – it actually bothers him that he might be responsible for the deaths of the Squad. As a hitman who has killed hundreds of people in cold-blood, it's sort of ironic. Maybe it's easier when you don't know them.
"Weapons locked and loaded back there?" Rick asks the others, checking over his shoulder. "We're 'bout to get a lot of heat." Sure enough, the moment Rick touches his ear-piece and begins relaying information back to the folks at mission control – "our cover has been blown. We are about to come under a high amount of enemy fire. Over." – the first bullet hits the side of the van.
Harley yelps as the metal next to her head visibly dents.
Pouring out of the stacks of crates opposite the waterfront are a swarm of Bane's men. Some are positioned on the boxes themselves, other's running on the ground – dropping to one knee and aiming their weapons at them.
"Everybody out of the van!" Rick decides, on a snap decision. There were too many to simply plough straight through.
"What?!" Deadshot yells at him, in disbelief.
"This is our only means of transporting the package. You get my van shot up, we're not gettin' out of here. The Warehouse we need is that green one there, on the left –" he says, pointing to a large container situated behind where Bane's men are positioning themselves. "Let's go. We're gonna use that crane as cover an' shoot our way through."
He's pointing to a crane parked a couple of foot across from them and Deadshot jerks the wheel hard. There's a spray of shattered glass as a bullet breaks his driver's side window, and a sound like heavy rain as a machine gun sprays the side of the van. They screech to a halt behind the crane and there's a sound of yelling as the men reposition themselves.
Rick kicks his door open forcefully and jumps out, running for the sliding door. When he opens it, however, Slipknot lunges out and punches him hard across the face.
Rick grunts, stumbling backwards. His vision momentarily blurs, but he's furiously reaching for his phone even as Slipknot jumps on him, knocking them both to the ground. The dark-haired man punches Rick across the face again – dizzying him - before grabbing the arm that is reaching for the nanite – pinning it down.
Rick reaches with his free arm and back-hands Slipknot across the jaw with all his strength. The man falls off of him and Rick is aware of the sound of gun-fire; his heart pounding too-loudly. Both of them are yelling – snarling with the effort of trying to kill each other. Scrabbling, Rick reaches for his phone and jams a finger against Slipknot's icon.
There's a dull explosion and the man's head is obliterated. Just blown clean off.
Rick lies on the ground, panting for several seconds before he watches the body slump, lifeless, to the ground.
"Goddammit," Rick swears again – rushing to his feet and trying to get his bearings. He realises that the rest of the Squad are all looking at him - everybody apart from Deadshot, who is busy using his rifle to scope round the side of the crane –utterly unconcerned whether Rick has lived or died.
"Are you alright!?" Katana demands. She rushes towards him, her sword drawn and flashing in the night – her expression fierce beneath her mask.
The Weasel's face registers vague surprise – maybe he didn't expect Slipknot to go for him, maybe he didn't expect Rick to actually kill him; Harley merely looks sour – clearly irritated that Rick has survived the attack.
"This don't look good, guys –" Deadshot reports, his voice tense with stress. "They're closing in." He looks over his shoulder at Rick, raising both eyebrows. "Yo, Captain Fantastic, you got a plan for this?"
"Would you listen to me if I did?" Rick shoots back, angrily, working one side of his jaw - trying to alleviate the pain there and force down a wave of irritation. Keep your head in the game, he repeats to himself, over and over. Just get this done. It wouldn't help anything to lose his cool now.
"Guys – we don't have time for this –!" Harley snaps, impatiently – ducking and looking around the crane, too. She pulls back quickly when a bullet ricochets off the metal inches from her face.
Rick looks at the Enchantress, trying to think quickly. Bane's men would have to come directly parallel to them to hit them, but they have superior numbers, and Rick judges that it won't be long until they decide to draw level and engage in open fire. "Get me behind them," he says to witch. "You get me up their backside, I can kill them." He looks at the rest of the Squad. "You all make fireworks on this end…Give 'em hell. Anyone tries anything funny - you'll end up like him –" he says, toeing what is left of Slipknot's body's dispassionately.
"Whoa. Whoa. You goin' to use us as bait? I don' think so, buddy –" the Weasel snaps – unable to stop himself from recurrently glancing at the blood splatter on the ground between them. He looks round at the rest of the Squad. "We're outnumbered five to one, here."
To Rick's surprise, Deadshot is silent. He's checking the ammo in his rifle; inserting a fresh magazine and pulling back the slide to lock it in with a sharp tug. When his gaze meets Rick's, it's clear that, unlike the Weasel, he's ready for the fight.
Harley fixes each pigtail patiently, brushing loose strands of hair out of her face until everything is meticulously perfect. "Eh," she shrugs at the Weasel, offhandedly, picking her gun up from the ground. "Those guys don't scare me."
The Irishman's eyes go wide in disbelief. "You're all crazy –"
Rick doesn't have time to hear the end of his sentence; the Enchantress has appeared behind him, her hand ghosting over his shoulder possessively. In a heartbeat, they disappear and reappear further down the docks. Rick feels, for a split second, as if gravity has intensified – crushing his body in on itself like a tin can – before abruptly snapping back like an elastic band.
His back is now up against one of the crates, and it takes him a moment to realise that they are wedged into the shadowy, narrow network of paths between the containers. The waterfront is right next to them. If Rick cranes his neck enough, he can see round the lip of the crate to where Bane's men are gathered on the docks.
The Enchantress is standing too-close to him, her body pressed close up against his – only the bulky steel plates in the front of his chest armour separating them.
"Get off of me –" Rick snaps, shoving her away from him. She chuckles at his discomfort, but slinks backwards all the same.
Rick lifts his rifle and uses the scope of his weapon to check on the others. He can see Harley, Deadshot, Katana and the Weasel; splashes of colour that are threatening to be engulfed by a much larger tide. They are running from point to point, using the general debris of boxes, trucks and pillars along the waterfront to provide cover. If Rick looks closely, Katana is using her sword with her left hand – her right (her usual sword arm) is clutched awkwardly against her chest. He watches as a bullet narrowly misses Deadshot's head. The marksman is moving with skilled precision – but then again, so are Bane's men. Rick's professional eye notes how they move: half-crouched and well balanced, their spacing careful and each man providing cover for the next. A deadly, ruthlessly unit moving as one. The Squad, by comparison, are messy. Less co-ordinated. Not caring to watch each other's backs, they are slowly being separated. Pretty soon, they'll be picked off one by one.
With a painful lurch in his stomach, Rick realises that they need a leader. Someone to organize them. They don't know how to fight like this.
The Enchantress's hand snakes over Rick's shoulder once more. "I can get you the weapon," she rasps, in his ear, as she, too, watches the carnage. This wasn't the plan, Rick thinks. This was supposed to be a secret, covert mission. They weren't supposed to be discovered. The noise is too loud. Pretty soon, the cops are going to come and check out what is going on. By then, they'll all be dead. "…I can get us out of here. Alive."
Katana is fighting just as fiercely left-handedly. Rick watches her slash at a man's throat who gets too close to Harley, protecting the blonde woman whilst she provides return-fire. There's a large, circular stain of blood on Katana's arm that is obviously leaking from a gun-shot wound, but it is clear the girl will fight to the death.
"No –" Rick replies, gritting his teeth. "We don't leave anyone behind."
"…I thought that was the whole point of this…operation, Colonel…" The Enchantress responds, dryly. "Or did you forget that we are all…expendable?"
But Rick is already fiddling with the charges strapped to his belt; untying them. "That ain't how I work," he snaps back, angrily. What kind of man would it make him…to simply abandon his team on the battlefield? Tactically, it made absolute sense. Make them create a diversion – die in the process. Less people to worry about. Maybe they even deserved it. But morally…he wasn't Amanda Waller. "Go help them –!" he demands the witch. "I'm gonna go get the Converter. We can still do this!"
She blinks at him once, absolutely still. He looks at her furiously. "What are you good for, huh?" he snarls at the witch, hitting a hand up against the wall of the metal crate with a bang; allowing, for a split-second, a bubble of anger to burst inside of him. "You got all these powers - so use them!"
Rick half expects her to say 'no'. He realises, with a jolt, that he has been so focused on the likes of Harley and Deadshot, that he's forgotten who his main threat is. He'd forgotten what happened the last time the Enchantress was free; he's provoking a being that could not only kill him, but kill everyone in Gotham. His movements still – he is all too conscious of his phone zipped into his sleeve pocket. All he has to do is reach it.
The Enchantress steps in close once more, and every fibre in Rick's body stiffens. He can feel her breath on his face. "Stay safe…it would be a shame…not to see this handsome face again –" she practically croons, running her fingers across his sharp jawline. He flinches – both at her touch, and the feel of her hand brushing the bruised swelling from Slipknot's punch. "…see you later, baby –" the witch taunts – her lips brushing his own - and then she disappears.
A few seconds later, the witch re-appears with a deliberate flash of blue light directly in the midst of Bane's men. The light is a bright, alien blue and the closest mercenary's fumble, momentarily blinded. Whilst they are still unable to see, the Enchantress punches both hands into the chests of the nearest pair – ripping out their hearts and dropping the organ's to the floor dispassionately. Before the other men can train their weapons on her and shoot, the Enchantress has already teleported again – re-appearing with another flash of light a few feet away…ripping out another heart. Soon, the docks are filled with yelling, stray gun-fire and the confusing, pulsating bursts of blue that punctuate the darkness. Bane's men are unable to keep rank – they fumble. Begin to make mistakes.
Rick forces himself to stop watching with difficulty, turning grimly back to the task at hand.
Just get this done, he says to himself – succeeding in detaching the charges from his belt; using the mantra to block out all other thoughts. He imagines himself back in the hotel room, looking at June – fixing the memory in his mind. Get this done.
Rick sets the charges and blows the door of the crate off its hinges. Ironically, it is the sound of the explosion and not the noise of rapid gunfire that sets off two nearby pit-bulls chained to a shed. They must be trained to detect thieves, and right now they are straining against their chains – baring their teeth at him and snarling.
Rick steps through the smoke. The only thing inside the crate is the Converter. It is smaller than he thought it would be – but still too big for one person to carry. A steel, cylindrical tube about the size of his torso with a coil of conductive tubing wrapped around it. It sits, inert, waiting to be activated through a keypad attached to its side. The whole thing looks slightly shoddy, as if it's been thrown together in someone's shed. Not like the kind of high-tech machinery he usually saw A.R.G.U.S use. He wonders what the Russians have dreamed up that Waller's people weren't able to.
Rick sets to work unplugging the various wires, but whips round – his gun held at the ready – when there's a sound of a car approaching – rubble being shifted.
To his surprise, their white van – dented and pock-marked with bullets – pulls up with a screech and Harley jumps out, looking at the truck appraisingly. "It's kind of dinged up," she reports to him, "and the engine was shot through so I had to patch up the oil tank, but whatever. You can thank me later."
Rick lowers his weapon automatically. "You guys all made it?" he asks, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. Somewhere inside of him, unbelievably, there is also a small twinge of relief. He had been sure that they were all gonners.
"Well – Walsh ain't lookin' too hot –" Harley grimaces, as Deadshot limps into view supporting the Weasel's body against his own. The Irish man's shirt is torn and ruined with maybe two or three gun-shot wounds and there's a worryingly dark mess of blood on the right side of his head. Lawton drops him unceremoniously to the floor, where he slumps – coughing and swearing, clutching his chest.
"How you wanna do this?" Deadshot asks Rick – his tone acerbic as he walks over until they are toe-to-toe. "You wanna shoot him or shall I?"
"What?"
"That's how this works, right? We're dispensable. No dead weight. Well, you can just shoot him in the head right now, 'cause he's just goin' to slow us down."
Rick grits his jaw, rising to the other man's unspoken challenge. He wants to prove that he's not the sadistic asshole that they clearly think he is. "Nobody's gettin' shot in the head, okay? Just - help me get this in the car."
Deadshot's eyes flick from Rick, to the Converter behind him. He strolls round him to get a better look at the machine, his rifle dangling from one hand at his side. Though neither he nor Harley are physically hurt, both of them look distinctly ruffled; smears of dirt on the clothes and light scratches and grazes on their skin. "Oh, so this is what all this has been about? This piece of junk right here?"
Rick shrugs, pulling out another handful of wires. "Somebody wants it, it's our job to get it for them."
Somewhere behind the pair of them, the Weasel groans and spits a glob of blood out onto the ground. Rick looks over his shoulder in time to see Katana kneeling over the injured man. "He's not going to last much longer," the young woman says, looking up at him worriedly.
Rick and Deadshot heave the Converter between them.
"What about you?" Rick mutters as they pass the young girl, looking at the awkward way she is clutching her right arm. "Are you okay to keep goin'?"
Katana's expression shutters behind her mask. She straightens upright from her crouch, her back stiff. "I'll be fine," she bites back, so angrily it's as if he's just insulted her mother. But Rick's not so sure he believes her.
He and Deadshot load the Converter up into the back of the van. Quietly – so the others won't hear – the other man leans in seriously. "That witch bitch you got…we were screwed until she showed up…" he says to Rick, seriously. "She had this…machete…blade…thing," he says, miming holding it – swinging his arms like he's holding a baseball bat – " – killed about thirteen guys in a minute. I watched her rip their hearts out…an' the bullets? Didn't touch her. You gotta tell me, man…where'd you guys find her?"
"In a cave in Mexico."
"You're kidding."
Rick takes a deep breath, knowing that he is walking perilously close to classified information. And not just classified information, but information that could get him or June killed. "It's complicated," he replies.
Deadshot watches him closely through narrowed eyes as he trots back around the back of the van to the others. "Alrigh' – load him in –" Rick says, to Harley and the Enchantress, looking at the Weasel. His pale skin – which had looked pretty bloodless to start with – is now utterly devoid of colour.
"Ya know-" the Irishman reminisces, from where he is sitting with his back propped up against the van – his legs stretched out in front of him. "I've been doin' this about twenty years. Not once have I bin shot. I mean, my cousin Benny shot me in the foot once, but that don't count 'cause we were only eight at the time an' it was pretty funny. Now I just been shot about fifty-thousand fuckin' times."
"- You might wanna save your breath, friend," Rick tells him, rolling his eyes.
"Eh – fuck you –" the Irishman coughs back, petulantly. "I'm tellin' you I've been cursed. My lucks all run out. Yer fuckin' witch cursed me, ya prick" – he grumbles.
"Are you kidding me? We wouldn't be alive right now if she hadn't saved us!" Harley shoots back, impatiently, as Walsh pushes himself to his feet.
"I'm tellin' you that thing is unlucky –" the Irishman snaps – before a bullet skips the dock and hits him square between the eyes.
Harley cries out, jumping back away from the Weasel's dead body as Rick and Deadshot whirl round. One of Bane's injured men have stumbled to their feet – their left leg broken and dragging awkwardly behind them. Somehow, however, they still manage to hold their weapon with deadly precision. They twitch it in Rick's direction, but abruptly Katana rushes forward with a wild yell. The man tries to pivot to fire at her – but with his broken leg he fumbles and misses – and with one clean stroke Katana opens him up, belly to throat, with a scream.
"…Oh my God!" Harley murmurs, looking vaguely disturbed as she stares at the large splatter of blood and gore the back of Sal's head has left on the side of the van, rather than the dead mercenary. Perhaps she hadn't expected him to die so quickly, or unexpectedly. Rather than going down in a blaze of glory, the man has merely been hit by a rogue bullet. There was no significance in a death like that. No lasting meaning. He'd been a criminal - been someone, in his own way - for twenty years, and now he was gone. And it meant nothing.
In the night Katana is now moving from body to body – her dark hair falling into her eyes as she runs each one through with her sword, regardless of whether they are dead or not. There is a determined, methodical rhythm to her movements – as if she is determined they should not be caught out again. Rick watches her kneel next to her fifth body (that is obviously already in the next life) and – with only minimal visible hesitation – plunge her sword into their chest.
Did death mean anything, really?
A/N Happy new year everybody!
I decided to switch up the team slightly for this chapter because I wanted to highlight how expendable the members of the Suicide Squad are. I also wanted to emphasise the dangers and also I thought it would be cool if Harley, Deadshot and Rick already had some kind of relationship before the events of Midway. Rest-assured the same Squad will be used for Midway as in the film (apart from Slipknot, obviously.)
The mission's not over yet, so there's another chapter from Rick's POV still to come!
Let me know what you thought. Personally, I love humanising the Enchantress, so a lot of the scenes with her in were a blast to write.
Last Of The Lilac Wine