Suicide Squad Read Free Page A

managed to survive ran for cover. Entering the hospital, they ducked behind overturned beds. Inmates were still strapped into them, and they were screeching for help that wouldn’t be coming.
    “Shut up, you idiot,” one of the guards hissed to a patient hanging from the bed, his straps starting to fray. At the top of his voice he was singing songs from an old Broadway show. “I said shut up,” the guard grated. “Believe me, you don’t want to let those killers know where we are.”
    “I did, I do,” the inmate said in a voice that was barely coherent. “You think if they see me, maybe they’ll take me with them? I’d like them to take me to a restaurant. You know, one that serves hamburgers and French fries and has ketchup in bottles—not in those little paper thingies that don’t hold much. You think they’ll take me to a restaurant?”
    “They’ll put a bullet in your head, you idiot,” the guard muttered, still keeping his voice down. “And mine too, if you don’t shut up.”
    “Bullet in the head? That sounds good, too, but I’d reallyreallyreally prefer a restaurant.”
    Finally the guard smashed his elbow into the inmate’s head, knocking him unconscious. He then closed his eyes for a moment and prayed that the thugs—whoever the hell they were—hadn’t heard the exchange. After a few moments, he opened his eyes again.
    One of the soldiers was there, staring at him, a gun pressed to the guard’s heart.
    Mercifully, he never heard it fire.
    * * *
    The thugs moved quickly though cautiously through the halls, taking down anything that stepped in their way, not distinguishing between guards or asylum prisoners.
    One of them, the commander, unhooked a radio from his belt.
    “She’s here somewhere,” he said. “Fan out.” On the move again, he held his automatic in front of him. Straight up, not turned at a ninety-degree angle. Almost looks cool in the movies, he mused, but it’s a great way to break your wrist. Then he said, “And don’t forget, Frost and the boss want her breathing.”
    * * *
    The steel door to the medical wing was bolted shut from inside. Five pouches of C-4 plastic explosives removed the obstacle. Jonny Frost, easily six-foot-four, emerged from the chaos and effortlessly held up his find.
    “Got her, boss,” he said to a tall, muscular figure standing in the shadows. “Just where you said she’d be.”
    The Joker stepped out from the dark. He was tall and lean, with bright green hair, and ripped like a mixed-martial-arts fighter. Metal-capped teeth glinted in the light. He studied the beautiful young psychiatrist.
    “Doctor Quinzel,” he said, “how nice of you to join us. You’re looking… good enough to eat. Figuratively speaking, of course. I’m strictly vegan. At least today.”
    Quinzel squirmed in Frost’s grip, but he held firmly onto her. “Time for a little electroshock therapy,” Joker said, then added, “Frost, do me a favor, will you? Dump our pretty lady on the table.”
    The mercenary threw Quinzel onto the exam table then strapped her into place. Joker removed his prison shirt, carefully folded it, then placed it to the side.
    His extraordinarily pale skin was covered over with dozens—maybe hundreds—of insane tattoos, showing from head to foot. An eerie wide grin was inked on his right forearm while a parade of laughing “HA-HA-HA”s crept up his chest to his left arm and under his tangle of emerald hair. Dozens more were carefully placed along his side, back, and legs, filling nearly every open space.
    He saw Quinzel staring at him, confused. He gestured toward the shirt.
    “The government spent a helluva lot of money buying us thrift store rejects, so I’m not going to potentially dirty it with your blood. Come on. Do I look like a barbarian?”
    Harleen Quinzel’s eyes reflected her fear. “Please don’t. Please. I did what you said. I helped you.” She tried to struggle free, but the straps were designed to hold a 400-pound