Later, when I awoke in the dark, it was with shock. The dream had been so very real… so vivid, so sensory.…

I gasped aloud, now, disoriented by the dark room.

The mood was sombre, low distant voices rambled in the barracks. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand.

Then it came back to me like a tsunami. The attack in Midway City, the fight outside with Hayes… oh shit. Now I had to face it all.

Surprisingly, my head didn't hurt that much. Until I stood up. I braced myself against the bed until I felt confident enough to walk out of my quarters, and looked half-way human. It was impossible to shuffle into the kitchen, without frowning the entire time. The sun shining through the window was blinding.

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey," Spencer yelled sharply.

I grunted and avoided all eye contact until I had a mug of coffee firmly in my hand. Satisfied with the first sip, I sat at the table and looked at the curious faces. But there was one I didn't recognise. "What?" I asked coolly.

"How's your head?" Perry grinned.

I shrugged and sipped my coffee, staring away from the faces.

Taylor chuckled beside me. "Uh, Trig, there's someone you need to meet. This is Adam Carter, our new comms tech."

My eyes flicked up over my cup, where the blonde bearded man was standing. He was already in his fatigues, his blue eyes looking down at me with a friendly smile.

"Nice to meet you, Trig. I've heard a lot about you."

"Yeah, well she's off limits." Hayes mumbled into his cereal.

I pretended not to hear. "Welcome to Hell." I replied to Carter, taking the last of my coffee. There wasn't enough caffeine in the world to get me to take this on today. I spun around and refilled my mug, and Carter came closer and extended his hand.

I looked at his hand and arched one eyebrow. "That's this for?"

Carter lowered his arm slowly. "Sorry, just trying to show some respect, ma'am."

"I'm not a ma'am."

He grinned tightly. "But you are my superior?"

"So?"

Carter looked confused. "What do I call you then?"

"Trig's fine." Flag interrupted, pushing the others outside. "I'll let you two get acquainted."

The others followed Flag outside, protesting about leaving their breakfast behind.

"Look, I'm trying to make this easier for you. I'm sorry if I said the wrong thing." He reached for a coffee behind me. I looked into my mug, secretly hoping Kowalski was in there.

Disappointed, I sighed. I had to get along with this guy, despite being nowhere near close to filling Kowalski's place. "The team member you replaced… his name was Mike Kowalski. He helped me pull off more crazy shit than you could ever dream up. And then one day we walked into the wrong field. And then… that's it."

Carter sat in Taylor's chair, sipping away and listening intently.

I didn't mean to put him on a guilt trip, but it was best he knew what a huge shoes he had to fill. "The thing is, I was right beside him. I caught him when we fell." I was staring into the floor wide-eyed, and spoke with the same cold lack of emotion.

"I'm sorry." Carter said in a small voice.

I sniffed. "Yeah, so uh, you taking his place probably pushed some buttons I didn't know I had. I didn't mean to be rude."

Carter nodded slowly. "So what's the story here? The team is really tense."

I grinned. "You don't wanna know."

"But I need to know if I'm going to keep putting my foot in it."

I laughed. He reminded me of Kowalski already. "Flag and Hayes hate each other. That's all you need to know."

"You mean The Terminator outside?" he joked.

I smiled to myself. "Yeah."
"He told me if i screw up, even once, I'm off the team. He's kinda scary."

I scoffed. This Carter guy didn't know the half of it.

Colonel Flag had been living by the sword now for about two decades. He was one of the least known important army officers in America. He had run covert operations all over the world - Asia, the Middle East, Africa, Central America, South America, the Caribbean.

The Flag was a bemused cynic. He had seen just about everything, and didn't expect much - except from his men. His gruff informality suited an officer who had begun his career not as a military academy graduate.

He was a blunt realist who avoided the pomp and pretence of upper echelon military life. Soldiering was about fighting. It was about killing people before they killed you. It was about having your way by force and guile in a dangerous world, taking a shit in the woods, living in dirty, difficult conditions, enduring hardships and risks that could - and sometimes did - kill you.

It was ugly work.

Which is not to say that certain men didn't enjoy it, didn't live for it.

Flag was one of those men. He embraced its cruelty. He would say, this man needs to die. Just like that. Some people needed to die. It was how the real world worked. Nothing pleased Flag more than a well-executed hit, and if things went to hell and he had to slug it out, then it was time to summon a dark relish for mayhem. Why be a soldier if you couldn't exult in a heart-pounding, balls-out gunfight? Which is what made him so good.

He disdained the Alpha Dogs in part because he believed hard, realistic, stair-stepped training made good soldiers, not the bullshit macho attitude epitomized by the whole Hoo-ah esprit. He had the muscular frame of a bodybuilder, and a fine, if impatient, analytical mind. Many of the Seals found him scary.

"So how long have you been in Alpha Dogs?"

"A few months," I answered crisply.

Carter raised one eyebrow. "Really? I got the impression you've been here for years."

"Why's that?"

He shrugged. "Well, Flag and Taylor seem kind of protective of you actually."

"Ugh. Don't fall for that bullshit. I look out for number one." I guzzled the remaining contents of my mug. "Word from the wise... they won't trust you until you trust them."

"Uh, guys? We're pinged." Ellis poked her head in the door.

"Finally." I mumbled, getting up from the table.

Flag bolted in. "We're going to ground zero. But there's something I have to do first."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I'm being sent to get our back ups." Flag replied.

The others began to walk back in, and get their gear together.

"This is the story. We're being assigned to ARGUS. Amanda Waller has some kind of Task Force for us to collect so this is what we're going to do. I will meet Amanda at Belle Reve and get these guys bought to the TOB (Temporary Operating Base) in Midway City."

Belle Reve? Isn't that the maximum security barracks? I thought. How would any Task Force be there?

"Isn't Midway City being evacuated?" Spenser asked, shoving his Night Vision googles into his pack.

Flag nodded. "As we speak. So, I will be meeting Bravo at the FOB. But I warn you, these aren't soldiers that I'm bringing back."

"Aren't soldiers?" I repeated. "How long until we're sent out?"

"I'll meet you in two days. Until then, I need you to get to the base." Flag grabbed his Hockler & Koch rifle, cap and jacket. "I'll see you there."

THE WAR

I stood on the helicopter skid as we approached the Midway City Airport.

In the distance I could see large columns of smoke staining the clouds gray.

How much of Midway has already been destroyed? I wondered. I glanced at the news channel streaming over my 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…

I 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 I looked, armed choppers lifted off and disappeared into the cloud-shrouded city. For them the war was just beginning.

I was pretty certain I would never see any of those men and women again.

I 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.

The chopper landed and Hayes, Carter, Taylor and I stepped off the skid and crossed the strip toward the building where the rest of Alpha Dogs and Bravo Team waited for me.

I passed a blacked-out window and noticed my haggard reflection.

I looked as if I'd been through hell, and hadn't yet made it back.

I was, standing there at the edge of the FOB, beginning to gasp.

What was the point of going any farther? Nothing lingered here. Nothing more than the

memories that I could have called back whenever I wanted to, if I was ever willing to endure

the corresponding pain–the pain that had me now, had me cold.

There was nothing special about this place without Kowalski. I wasn't exactly sure what I'd hoped to feel here, but the city was empty of atmosphere, empty of everything, just like everywhere else. Just like my nightmares. My head swirled dizzily.

There was no way I could have disguised the abyss I was plunging into now. How could I have explained the way I was fracturing into pieces, the way I had to curl into a ball to keep the empty hole from tearing me apart?

It was so much better if I didn't have an audience. My nerves were uncharacteristically taking over, despite me being eager to get back on the field. Perhaps it was because it was my first time in a long time I was going in without my right-hand man. This might be something I might never get used to.

I entered the complex to see the team. They looked just as drained as I was. Four soldiers, however—Ramer, 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. I'd worked with them before, the best of the best, and 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. He was the best friend of Colonel Flag.

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 as he approached us. "First fight I've been able to drive to," he said.

Flag nodded. "Let's hope it's not a regular thing."

I stared at him in blank astonishment.

Colonel Flag had changed radically in the last days since I'd seen him. The first thing I noticed was his hair–his beautiful hair was all gone, cropped quite short, covering his head with an inky gloss like chestnut satin. The planes of his face seemed to have hardened subtly, tightened…aged. Or maybe it was the moustache and beard he now had.

But the physical changes were insignificant.

It was his expression that made him almost completely unrecognizable. The open, friendly smile was gone like the hair, the warmth in his eyes altered to a brooding resentment that was instantly disturbing. There was a darkness in Flag now. Like my sun had imploded. This was the man I tried to hard to avoid not so many months ago.

"Rick?" I whispered.

He just stared at me, his eyes tense and angry.

"Can we talk?" I asked while I could still speak.

He put on his cap, and leaned his ear down to my face.

His face was a little calmer, but also more hopeless. His mouth seemed permanently pulled down at the corners.

I took a deep breath. "You know what I want to know."

He didn't answer. He just stared at me bitterly.

I stared back and the silence stretched on. The pain in his face unnerved me. I felt a lump beginning to build in my throat.

He didn't respond in any way; his face didn't change.

"Task Force X is something Waller dreamed up, in case the next superman became a terrorist. They're all we have to fight this… this thing," he said in a hard, husky voice.

I waited. He knew what I wanted.

"It's not what you think." His voice was abruptly weary. "It's not what I thought–I was way off."

"So what is it, then?"

He studied my face for a long moment, speculating. The anger never completely left his eyes. "I can't tell you," he finally said.

My jaw tightened, and I spoke through my teeth. "Rick, please. Won't you tell me what happened?"

"All I can tell you right now, is this is our one shot to save the entire planet. I tell you, but not now. Just go along with me, please." The words were a low moan; his voice broke. His face looked as though he had enough bullshit already, and we hadn't even started. I wondered if he looked like this to intimidate the inmates that were being brought in.

We had a quick brief, and we were anticipating six felons from Belle Reve Special Security Barracks, a little known penitentiary for supervillains. I didn't believe it actually existed.

Supervillains we only heard of in the movies. If Belle Reve was real... so was the madness inside.

Rumours were that criminals can have their prison sentences reduced if they take part in the deadly missions of the Suicide Squad. Some of the more untrustworthy ones are required to carry devices that will cause maiming or death if they try to escape.

If they were too dangerous for maximum security Arkham Asylum… they were locked up there. Rumours also spoke of Lex Luther being locked inside Belle Reve.

I slid my rifle around my shoulder and crossed my arms. This was real.

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, not answering him. The C-17 had landed, with Waller's recruits from the inner circle of hell. It was rolling to a stop.

Damn, I thought. This is so wrong.

Then aloud, Taylor said 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, Flag looked back to see his men and I still lodged in the doorway, waiting for orders.

No question we were the best. If anything went south it wouldn't be because of us. "Alright, kids," he said. "Show of force time. Any of these walking targets makes a move, put a Chuck Taylor in his ass."

We gave him a thumbs up and followed. We got to the C-17 just as Harley Quinn, 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 that 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, I thought to myself.

"Alpha, Bravo Team on me," 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 full of 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 I 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, I 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.

Croc was close to six-and-a-half feet tall, and he probably weighed at least three hundred and fifty pounds. His skin was cracked and mottled, covered over with scales that made him look as if evolution had worked its way backward, creating the perfect hybrid of man and dinosaur. Though he looked as if he should be raging,

"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 and 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."

I shot Flag a look.

Is this really happening? Then Harley laughed.

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 kind 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. "You guys are gonna make this so fun."

Diablo looked at her strangely. Despite looking like a walking skeleton with tattoos all over his face, he looked like a regular gangster. Harmless.

Deadshot looked disturbed by what came out of Harley Quinn's mouth, but he too, looked normal. He had dark African-American skin, black curly beard and a near balding head. It seemed funny to me, that most of these characters had interesting nicknames.

Killer Croc was self explanitory, but Diablo evaded me. He didn't looked like a devil- just a skull tattooed into his own face.

Deadshot was infamous. He was the man who never misses. I read about his capture in the papers, but I never believed Batman was real.

Harley Quinn was the joker's girlfriend- mainly because of her affiliated tattoos.

GQ nodded toward Flag and pointed up and to the south.

A Blackhawk chopper was coming in. It prepared to land, and U.S. Marshals with SWAT gear jumped from its hold even before it touched ground.

A moment later a large canvas bag thudded to the asphalt. The bag squirmed as it hit ground. Something was inside. Again the sharpshooters adjusted their gun sights.

"Stand down," Flag said as he approached it. He removed his combat knife and sliced it open. A man had been folded into the bag. He was dressed in street clothes. "Been waiting for you to get here, Harkness." He looked over toward GQ. "Meet George 'Digger' Harkness, known throughout Australia as Captain Boomerang. Or Boomer. You'd need at least two reams of paper to print out his full rap sheet."

I recognized the name. "Boomer's weapon of choice was, expectedly, tricked-out boomerangs. Give him one with a razor's edge, and he could take down at least half of our Seals without breathing hard.

Harkness saw Flag glaring at him. "Flag. Rick Flag? That you? You are lookin' ripper, mate." He gave the colonel a huge hug, as if they had been best friends for years. "But I got to say, mate, what is this? One minute I'm having a nice dinner with me mum, and then this red streak hits me outta nowhere."

"Harkness, you were robbing a diamond exchange. You don't think I've been fully briefed on you?"

"Yes, of course, but we was dining on delicious Tim Tams at the time. Me mum specializes in buying them from the local bottle shop, you know. They're like heaven's throwing a party in your mouth."

Flag pushed Harkness ahead. "Shut up and get in line with the others."

Boomer turned back and grinned. "C'mon, mate. Show some respect."

"Respect is earned, Harkness. Earned."

"Well, start an account then." As they approached the rest, he gestured toward the Belle Reve inmates. "I'm seeing what I expect are numbers one through four of the FBI's most wanted." He then gestured to the Seals. "These soldier boys are carrying enough gunfire to take down most Middle East countries." Finally he gave Flag a big insincere smile. "And there's you. Mister Government Agent himself."

"That isn't the way to gain respect, Harkness."

"I'm all twisted over with shame, mate," Boomer replied. "Now, if you've recruited those Belle Reve rejects, you're probably not here playing cops. So tell me, Flag, what's all this?"

"I told you before. Shut up and behave."

Before the Australian could reply, a black SUV pulled up. The door opened and a pair of FBI agents, dressed in identical black suits with identifying lapel pins, dragged a giant of a man out of the car and pushed him toward Flag's new best friends.

He was secured by reinforced handcuffs.

I had read his dossier. He was called Slipknot, and the big bastard came equipped with an elaborate array of ropes and tackle. According to the files, there was nothing he couldn't do with them.

The lead FBI agent gave orders for the cuffs to be unlocked. As soon as they were, Slipknot thanked the agent by punching him in the gut.

He went over like a sack of potatoes, and didn't get up.

Every weapon in the area was suddenly turned toward him.

He held his wrists together, daring them to cuff him again, but Flag broke through the tension and waved him to join the others.

Just what we need, I thought. Another deranged madman to keep track of.

As if it wasn't bad enough.

As the newcomer got in the line, Harley stared at his boots. "Hey, big guy, your shoelace is untied."

Slipknot looked down, checking, but then heard Harley's giggle. He gave her a low growl, and slammed his right fist into his open left hand.

"Shut up," Flag shouted, getting their attention. "That's enough." He stepped up to make sure they didn't miss a word. "Your necks. The injection you all got. It's a nanite explosive the size of a rice grain. It's also as powerful as a hand grenade. Disobey me, you die. Try to escape, you die. Otherwise irritate or, yeah, vex me in any way. Guess what? You die."

Their hands instinctively went to their bandages. Gently, I noticed.

Then Harley gave Flag a smirk and raised her hand. "Sir," she said, sharply saluting him. "I've been known to be quite vexing. Sir. Just forewarning you."

Flag was not amused. "Lady, shut up. This is the deal. You're going somewhere very bad to do something that'll probably get you killed. Until that happens, you're my problem, and just so you know, I got a real short fuse when it comes to dealing with problems. By the way, refuse to go on this mission? Well, you can guess what happens then. Boom!"

They waited for more, but Flag was done.

Deadshot looked to the others, then back at the Colonel. "What the hell was that?"

"That, Mr. Lawton," Flag replied, "was a pep talk. Do everything I say to the letter, or I'll kill you."

"Man, you have gotta work on this team motivation thing. You heard'a Vince Lombardi? He was the gold standard."

Hayes chuckled, and I flashed him a scowl.

Harley grinned. "I only got one question, oh great leader."

"What?" Flag waited for another smart-ass response, but she surprised him.

"You say we're probably going to our deaths," she said cheerily, "and you say if we don't do what you tell us to do you'll kill us. So, if we die either way, what's in it for us?"

"Hey. Good question, lady," Croc said. "Yeah. What's in it for us?"

Flag had been waiting for it. "The things out there that we're going to fight, well, there's always a chance you might survive. Do what I tell you, and you just might. So coming with me, you're betting on yourself. But you screw with me, you're one-hundred-percent-no-doubts-about-it dead."

Harley thought it over. "Well, even without knowing anything, I gotta say, I'm kinda intrigued." She turned to the others and grinned. "C'mon, you knuckleheads. It's rah, rah, rah time. Let's do this for the Gipper, or whoever this crazy dude is."

No one replied, but a couple of them nodded or shrugged, so Flag gestured for the Seals to open several large black Pelican cases sitting on the tarmac.

They did so, revealing the tools of trade for each of the inmates—uniforms, weapons, and more.

Everything that defined them as the bad guys they were.

"There's your shit," Flag said. "Take what you need for a fight. We're wheels up in ten."

I watched them go through the cases like Black Friday shoppers—though they weren't nearly as violent, I supposed.

"Flag, you never said they'd be armed." GQ hissed.

"Lieutenant, what I'm not telling you about this op could fill a football stadium," Flag replied as he turned away and walked off.

GQ ran to his side and reached for him. "I'm asking again. What are my men walking into?"

"You wouldn't believe me," Flag answered. He gently removed GQ's hand from his shoulder, and continued to walk away.

Harley gave a whoop as, without hesitation, she stripped off her orange jumpsuit and rifled through the black bag with her name on it. With only her underwear, it became obvious that she was muscular and fit. She sported a large tattoo on her back that let anyone staring at her—which included everyone assembled on the runway—know she was Property Of The Joker.

Finding what she was looking for, she hugged it close to her. As she wiggled into her uniform, she saw Floyd Lawton pull his killing suit from his bag.

He held it up, staring at it for a long time.

"Won't fit anymore, huh?" Harley said. "Too much junk in the trunk?"

Lawton frowned at her, then turned back to the uniform. "Every time I put this on someone dies."

Harley was confused. "And?"

Lawton shot her a wide grin. "I like putting it on," he said as he effortlessly became Deadshot.

"My Puddin' would approve of this." Harley put on her vest and took out the pistol from its holster. She held it up and gave a quick, sexy pose. "What do you perverts think? Something tells me a whole lot of people are going to die."

"It's us," a soft, almost whispered voice said. It came from Diablo. His head was down to avoid making eye contact. "We're being led to the slaughter."

Boomerang shook his head. "Speak for yourself, mate. I got too much to do." He reached up as though to touch Diablo's facial tattoos.

They emphasized his hollowed eyes and gaunt cheekbones, as if to leave the impression of talking to a living skull.

"And what's with this crap on your face? It wash off?"

"Not a good idea, Boomer," Harley said quickly. "I wouldn't do that if I were you." She broke the tension as she danced between them, then gave a ballet bow.

"So why's our little tat man playing with us big boys?" he asked. "And I include you in that, Harley."

"Mucho thanks, Boomer," she said. "Let's just say Diablo can put you down in less time than it would take you to surrender. Trust me."

Boomerang held up his hands, fingers splayed. "Okay. No prob then. I was just joking, anyway." He turned his attention back to Diablo. "We're on a first-nom-de-plume basis now, you and me. Aren't we?"

Diablo didn't answer.

"Silent type, huh? I got no prob with that, mate. It's a refreshing change from Her Craziness here," he said.

"Take it easy. Later then." Harley turned to Diablo and gave him a huge smile. "FYI, I think 'Her Craziness' means me—and he is so right. So anyway, tell me, if you like a girl, do you light her cigarette with your pinky? Because that would be real classy."

"Hey, can you guys not mess with him?" Deadshot checked out the assault rifles he took from his black bag. "This dude can smoke this whole damn place."

"You have nothing to worry about from me," Diablo said.

"Great. What I wanted to hear. Just gimme a heads-up if we're not cool. I mean, before you ever go all pillar of fire on me." He turned back to the bag and pushed aside the AR-15 that was sitting on top. It was a standard, but this particular one was ancient. He reached for an M4A1. Almost a machine gun, it fired 950 rounds per minute. He also kept the Heckler & Koch G36, as well as an HK416, and a few others, too. By the time he straightened up, he had enough weaponry to put down a small army, and he looked as if he knew it.

"Here we are, my lovelies." Harkness shrugged on his overcoat, already heavy with steel boomerangs. He let out a little laugh, and his eyes darted over his surroundings, determined to blow this third-world popsicle stand the first chance he got. The others were thinking exactly the same—he was sure of it.

Scheming how they could screw each other over.

Only he intended to be first in line.

Something poked him in the side, and he tensed. Then he relaxed.

Quinn was poking him with her favorite weapon—a heavy, wooden baseball bat. She glanced at the coat full of boomerangs. "Going kangaroo hunting?"

He licked his index finger and ran it down Harley's bat. "Going to a rave?"

Even in the pre-dawn hours, the field operations center was a hubbub of activity with soldiers, technicians, and agents here and there running in every direction, setting up monitoring equipment that would relay to them images taken by more than seven hundred cameras set up years earlier to monitor city traffic.

It was about to get a real test. As the day progressed, soldiers and others came and went.

Flag held his tablet up in front of the gathered inmates, so they could see Waller as she spoke. It was none too soon.

The six of them were starting to crawl the walls, madmen with pent-up emotions sitting and twirling their thumbs.

They needed something to do, something to hit, something to break, if only to stop them from turning their excess energy against the wrong people.

"You've been asking exactly what you're going to be part of," Waller began, "So let me explain." That got their attention. "There's an active terrorist event taking place in Midway City. Simply put, I want you to enter the city, rescue, and bring to safety HVT One." As she continued, Flag stared at his motley crew, and more than ever, I bet he wished he was anywhere but here.

Put him in charge of real soldiers, trained in combat, and he'd march right up to hell and break down its door himself.

But these… people… were thieves, murderers, and—literally in the case of Croc—monsters. When they got killed, nobody was going to suggest they be buried in Arlington.

Deadshot leaned over and whispered to Flag. "What's 'HVT One'? I mean, for those of us who don't speak 'be all that you can be.'"

Flag didn't bother turning. "High Value Target. Our mission."

"Okay. Fine." Deadshot shrugged. "Just wanted an idea what I'm going to die for."

Waller continued. "You are going to be rescuing the only person who matters in the city. The one person you can't kill. Complete the mission, you get time off your prison sentences, and better conditions during. Fail the mission, you die. Anything happens to Colonel Flag, I'll kill every single one of you myself. Remember, I'm watching. I see everything."

The tablet screen went blank and Flag turned to Deadshot. "There's your pep talk."

"Compared to your crap, Flag, she killed it." Deadshot clamped his wrist magnums onto his forearms and turned his arm to gauge the movement.

Flag was watching him like a hawk.

He buckled on his holster, grabbed his carbine, loaded a mag, then racked the bolt. "So that's it, huh? We're some kind of suicide squad?"

"I'll notify your next of kin," Flag said as he walked off. "Alpha, Bravo Team, load up!"

Deadshot watched him leave and by his expression, he wished he could put a round into the back of his head. He wanted Flag dead so bad he could taste it, but he also knew if he made any move against him the sharpshooters would take him down before he could take another breath, or someone would activate the explosive in his neck.

Across the runway, the Chinook-1 was being fueled even as the Chinook-2 was ready to take off.

Its turbines howled and its rotors thumped as Flag's squad were led out by GQ and Bravo team.

"Anyone else thinking this is finally getting real?" Harley asked. She looked ecstatic.

"Grow up, lady," I growled. "It's always been real."

Flag turned to GQ. "Here's where we split up. Chinook-1 will take you to your mission location. So… later?"

"Yeah. What you said. Later." GQ led his Seals to Chinook-1. These were good men. Maybe the best he'd ever served with. And in the one similarity they shared with our squad, they couldn't wait to for the action to begin.

In Chinook-2, Deadshot pulled at his chains. "So, what's your problem with us, Flag?" he said loudly enough to be heard. "We're here. We're gonna kill whatever you tell us to kill. You should be thanking us."

"My problem?" Flag responded. "You're my problem, Lawton. You and the rest of these arrogant murderers."

"You kill, too," Deadshot said. "Only difference between us is the government says in your case it's okay. And by the way, the government's telling us we can kill, too. Fact is, they want us because we kill. Kinda takes away the big dif."

"And there you're wrong, Lawton. We don't kill for personal gain. We don't kill because we want to rob a bank or blow up some building."

Lawton was enjoying this. "Personal gain? You and your soldier boys here kill to preserve your so-called way of life, and if that's at odds with how someone else sees their way of life, well, guess who gets government bullets to the head."

"You give that a lot of thought, Lawton?"

"I give everything a lot of thought, pal. I'm the best at what I do because I think through every contingency. When the wind changes, I'm the one who knows by how much." He smiled. "Anyway, about us blowing up banks where you don't—yeah, you're right. You don't. But what you blow up are whole countries. So go ahead and tell yourself we're different. Actually, I'm wrong. We are different. We don't make excuses or hide behind orders when we kill what we kill."

"Hey," Harley shouted. "We got company calling."

As the Chinook started to rise, a black-clad figure leapt inside. Asian, with straight black hair. She looked strong, and a daunting samurai sword hung at her side.

"You recruiting ninjas now?"

"Shut up, Harley. She's one of us. You're late, Katana."

Harley turned to Deadshot. "She named herself after her weapon?" Deadshot tapped his own chest, then nodded toward Boomerang.

"Wasn't the first. Won't be the last."

"This is Katana. She can cut all of you in half with one sword stroke, just like mowin' the lawn. I suggest not getting killed by her, her sword traps the souls of its victims." Flag shouted

Remaining silent, Katana took a seat and stared at Flag's squad.

Harley snickered. "You see that, Flag? She ignored you. Just like us. Way to go, girl. Hey. Name's Harley Quinn. Love your perfume. Is it the stench of death?"

Katana stared at her with cold, black eyes.

Harley covered with another laugh, but this one was nervous. "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?

They were on a helicopter, flying to who knows where.

"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.

Flag strapped in beside me, and mumbled into his ear piece so the psychopaths couldn't hear. "You all right?"

I nodded. "What the hell, Flag?" I replied. "You notice these are criminals?"

"Yeah, this is what we got to work with." He groaned unhappily.

"This is some fucked up shit." I replied.

Flag nodded slowly. "So we have to unfuck it."

I chuckled. "I hope you werent lying about those nanites. Gonna need them if it all turns into a gaggle fuck."

"Don't worry, just make sure they don't step out of line. I need you to lead Alpha while I'm babysitting these freaks."

I nodded. "Copy that,"

Taylor leaned forward to look down the Chinook at us. "These shits better not get any of our men killed, Flag. I mean it."

"Yeah, yeah," Flag answered.

The helicopters sped across the city, flanked by two escorting Apache gunships.

I 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 Flag'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.