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  Gasps rose as the chiefs stared in disbelief, and she transformed in front of them. Transformed into something that might not even be human.

  Within moments, June Moone was gone.

  Replaced by something very different. Something ancient.

  A crescent moon headpiece fit over her thick black hair, which hung dark and loose, almost like vines. Her clothing was animal skins decorated with leather, chains, jade, and even stone. She peered around the table, her dark eyes staring at each of the so-called leaders of America.

  “Fantastic,” she laughed. “A meeting. Let’s do something fun. Perhaps get a drink?”

  Waller stepped in front of her.

  “I’d like you to meet Enchantress,” she said firmly. “Everything we know about her is in your briefing packs. She walked this Earth a long time ago—maybe as far back as the beginning, and she’ll likely be here when we’re long gone.”

  “So,” the chairman interrupted. “This meeting is now a magic show?”

  Waller smiled, and didn’t even try to hide her contempt.

  “General, the issues we face strike at the core of our beliefs. Our science. Magic or not, this lady can do some pretty incredible things.”

  The chairman frowned, but she had his attention.

  “Like what?” he asked. Waller smiled again, but this time it was sincere. He’d asked the right question, and at exactly the right time.

  She had him.

  “Go get it, girl,” she said.

  Enchantress’s eyes followed Waller’s hand to the box containing her desiccated heart. She forced a tight little smile. Then—snap—she disappeared. The chiefs stared at one another, not certain what they had just seen.

  Five seconds passed. Ten. Twenty.

  “That’s all you’ve got?” the chairman said, breaking the silence. “I’ve seen David Copperfield do a helluva lot better.”

  “Wait for it, sir,” Amanda responded, a bit of annoyance creeping into her voice. “It’s coming.”

  SNAP!

  Enchantress reappeared, unleashing a mild shockwave that scattered papers across the room. She dropped a thick binder on the table. A binder secured with Iranian seals. Written in Farsi.

  Waller slid the binder to the chairman.

  “Sir, how about a little something from the Weapons Ministry vault in Tehran?”

  Cautiously, he opened the binder and leafed through the papers. His eyes widened in surprise.

  “We’ve been chasing these plans for years.” The chairman slid the binder to General Conway, who rifled through it one page at a time.

  “Thank you, Enchantress,” Waller said. “We’d like Dr. Moone back now.”

  But Enchantress wasn’t paying attention.

  Conway paused momentarily on a photograph.

  It was the remaining jar from the cave.

  Waller saw it, too. She quickly swiped the lock and opened the case. Without attracting attention, she shoved her pen inside.

  Instantly Enchantress snapped around and stared at her. Then her skin began to retract, squeezing her face, strangling her with her own flesh. She tried to resist, but the pain was too great.

  “Enchantress,” she whispered.

  In an instant June Moone had returned. She looked up to Waller, pleading with her eyes.

  “Please don’t make me bring her back.”

  Rick Flag pushed a glass of water to her.

  “It’ll be okay. I promise.”

  Waller shook her head dismissively. “There’s no reason to be worried. I control her, as I will all the others to come. You and the rest of the world will never have to fear metas ever again.”

  Tolliver stood up again, a broad, victorious smile coiled across his face.

  “Mr. Chairman, sir. I move that we authorize Amanda Waller to establish Task Force X under the A.R.G.U.S. program.” Immediately all eyes turned to the chairman.

  A moment later, he nodded his assent.

  Waller, too, was grinning. She had won.

  She always won.

  Under the table, Rick Flag took June’s hand in his.

  FIFTEEN

  With its landing gear extended, descending at a constant three degrees, the KC-135 Stratotanker began its approach to the Belle Reve runway, less than five miles away.

  The facility was pretty much in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a vast bayou of cypress trees and swampland. Only a long causeway connected it to the rest of the world, but the drawbridge was raised, isolating it further.

  The aircraft was coming in low at an approach speed of 100 knots. It buzzed over patrol boats bristling with machine guns, manned by alert guards.

  The prison looked like an Iraq firebase with its missile launchers, plastic barriers, camouflage netting, and patrolling Humvees. Nobody was getting in uninvited.

  Even more important, nobody was getting out.

  Captain Griggs watched as the Stratotanker hit the tarmac. Moments later it taxied to a halt. Waller, Flag, and Moone made their way down the ramp. He put on a big fake smile and closed the gap to shake hands with the colonel.

  “Welcome to Belle Reve Special Security Barracks,” he said. Flag ignored his hand and nodded toward Waller.

  “Kiss her ass,” he suggested. “She’s in charge.”

  Without hesitation, Griggs turned to Waller and extended his hand again.

  “Ma’am, welcome. We’re here to assist you in any way.”

  “Where are they?” she said.

  Griggs felt his face flush. Didn’t any of these people believe in damned pleasantries?

  “We’ll get you in there, ma’am.” He glanced at the .45 strapped to Flag’s legs, and the carbine strapped to his chest. This was his chance to even the score.

  “Sir, you have to surrender your hog leg and rifle. No weapons past that line.”

  Flag nodded toward the airmen unloading cases of firearms from the Stratotanker.

  “I’m bringing in a lot more than this.” He tapped his .45 and walked past Griggs as if he wasn’t even there.

  * * *

  The table hastily set up in the outdoor shooting range was covered over with sub-machine guns, rifles, pistols, plenty of scary black plastic, and stacks of loaded magazines. There was enough ammo to begin and end a revolution. Yet Waller and Flag were impatiently waiting for the real weapons to be unloaded from the KC-135.

  Moments later the first one arrived.

  Floyd Lawton—Deadshot—was escorted into the garage by an army of armed guards, accompanied by a very worried Captain Griggs. He was shackled from head to toe.

  “Unlock him,” Flag snapped. “C’mon. Lose the restraints.”

  * * *

  Griggs looked him, then at the gun show of weapons filling the room, then turned back to Flag.

  “You know what this man can do?”

  Flag scowled. “I’m here to find out.”

  Griggs wanted to protest, but he was smart enough to know it would only get him into trouble. With half of Washington breathing down his ass, whatever was going on, it was big—way above his pay grade. He was trolling in some very dangerous waters, and if he wanted to make it out again, he would have to be especially careful.

  Doing his best to ignore Lawton glaring at him, Griggs unlocked the assassin’s shackles and chains.

  * * *

  “So, what is this?” Lawton drawled. “Cheerleading tryouts?”

  Flag checked out the table crowded with weapons. “What gave it away, Lawton? The fifty grand in Gucci weapons?” The colonel picked one up, checked it out, then dropped it back on the table. “Have at it, Lawton. Not that I’m expecting much. I’ve seen legends crumble.”

  “Have we met?” Lawton asked, not sounding particularly interested. “Do we know each other? Because you’re sure acting like it.”

  Flag checked out the Sig Sauer P220.

  “I hunt people like you for a living,” Flag said as Lawton studied the table. “Mind showing us if you can run that iron or not?”


  Lawton finished a quick survey of the weapons. He looked up and smiled. Six catwalk guards were aiming their carbines at him. He knew he could easily take out five of them if he tried, but it was possible that last one might cause him some trouble. He turned and eyed the distant steel targets that had been set up.

  Hell. My dog could hit them, he thought.

  His fingers drifted over the banquet of weapons. He still wasn’t sure what was going on, which made him wonder if these were even real. Flag and company sure as hell wouldn’t let an assassin called “Deadshot” anywhere within a thousand yards of these babies.

  He didn’t have to look to know Griggs was jumping out of his skin.

  Good. Let him suffer.

  Flag’s hand rested on his sidearm, fingers drumming the holster. He watched Lawton pick up a combat-tuned .45 pistol, savoring its heft. He slid a full mag into the grip, then sealed it with a satisfying SNAP. He thumbed the slide release. It clicked shut on a fresh round.

  The .45 felt real. Felt heavy enough. He still couldn’t believe they would trust him with a working weapon.

  Or maybe they’re just nuts. That would explain it. Casually he aimed the gun at Griggs. Instantly a half-dozen riflemen had their weapons ready for the kill. They didn’t even have to wait for orders. Flag waved for them to chill. As one they lowered their rifles.

  What the damned hell is going on?

  “Everyone calm down,” Flag shouted, loud enough for all to hear. “I’d like to end the day with the same number of holes I had when it started.”

  Lawton hefted the .45 and shook his head. “So, the firing pin’s filed down, right? Or the mag’s fulla dummy rounds? Bet I pull the trigger and nothing happens. Can I be trusted? Is that the real question here?”

  Griggs was turning gray with fear.

  Waller walked over to Lawton and locked eyes.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’re exactly right. Why would we put a loaded gun in the hands of an infamous hitman? We gotta be insane, right? Just pull the damned trigger.”

  Lawton just stared back, then finally lowered the .45. He could hear Griggs exhale.

  BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM-BAM!

  There was a continuous roar as Deadshot opened fire on the distant targets with inhuman speed and accuracy. He reloaded with a blur. Again and again. Hitting the targets, dead center each time.

  A pall of blue smoke filled the area. Empty shells piled up, mag after mag.

  It was all damned real.

  With practiced ease, Deadshot grabbed weapon after weapon, feeding mags, sending rounds down range. Hit after hit. A jackhammer roar of gunfire and steel impacts. Finally he stopped. He didn’t have to shoot again to prove whatever the hell point they needed him to prove.

  Flag checked out one of the steel targets. Directly in its center was a single red-hot hole, counterpunched from continuous hits on the exact same point.

  Deadshot turned to Waller as he put down the Colt M16, 5.56mm automatic.

  “Now you know what you’re buying,” he said. “Lemme tell you the price. One, I want outta here. Two, I want custody of my little girl. Her mom can get, like, one supervised visit a month. She is with her mom, right?

  “Three’s a rent-free condo for us in Gotham City, the rich part with, like, doormen. And four, you cover my daughter’s education. Full ride. The best private schools, and get her in a good college. Like Harvard, or Yale. And if she gets bad grades, you’re gonna down low that crap and make sure she graduates.

  “That’s my price.” He looked at Waller and Flag, who were staring back at him.

  “Y’all must got good memories. I don’t see no one writing this down.”

  Flag grinned. “Hey, look around, pal. You’re in no position to make demands.”

  Deadshot was staring at Waller. “I’m not talking to you, soldier boy. I’m talking to your boss.”

  Flag looked again at the steel targets, each one sporting a single hole.

  “You can shoot. I have to give you that.” He turned back to Lawton. “But the folks who think big thoughts for a living think you can do the job of a professional. Like me. And that, Lawton, you cannot do.”

  Deadshot was still staring at Waller, trying to provoke her answer.

  “I can show you professional. How about a professional beatdown?”

  Flag smiled. “I would very much enjoy that,” he said, and Lawton smiled. After all this talk crap, a fight was exactly what he needed.

  He tensed, ready to begin, and the colonel followed suit. They stood there, motionless, each waiting for the other to move.

  “Colonel. That’s enough,” Waller said.

  Hell.

  Waller gestured, and her guards replaced the restraints and escorted him away. Still not quite certain what had just happened, Lawton was escorted back to his cage. The steel door opened and he stepped inside.

  While he’d been out shooting tin cans, Waller’s boys had been busy. A new, professional-grade punching bag was hanging from the ceiling. Boxing gloves sat on a thick new mattress. Next to a steaming steak dinner.

  He stared at it as if it was a mirage, then the aroma reached his nose. He impaled the ribeye on a fork—actual stainless steel, none of the plastic crap—and tasted it.

  No. This was real.

  That meant Waller had made her decision about him even before they let him pick his weapon of choice.

  Damn.

  SIXTEEN

  Croc counted his pushups with machine-like efficiency… 941, 942, 943… He was good for a few hundred more.

  He stopped and sniffed. Croc detected a rat, a few hundred yards away. Just behind the steel bars.

  “I know you’re there,” he said, pausing in his daily exercise routine. “I smelled you long before you got here.”

  Rick Flag had been watching from the front tunnel, hiding in the shadows so as not to be seen. A wasted effort.

  Croc was a lot taller than he, covered over with scaled skin so thick ordinary bullets wouldn’t even begin to pierce it. He looked as if he could easily bench press a pickup truck if he wanted. His appearance was different, though—changed from the photos in his file. That meant he was still mutating, becoming more reptilian with every passing year.

  “You’re gettin’ awfully close,” Croc said, and he growled—a low, menacing sound that vibrated through the air. “Ain’t you scared?”

  “Is there a reason I should be?”

  “Beside the fact I like to bite off the heads of federal agents? And that you stink like every one of ’em I’ve ever known and chewed on? Nah.”

  Croc walked over to the bars and stuck his head against them. Flag stepped up on the other side, coming within snapping-off distance.

  “Why’d they put you down here?” Flag asked.

  Croc’s mouth contorted into what might generously be construed as a smile.

  “I asked,” he said. Before Flag could follow up, Croc snorted and lumbered back into the shadows.

  * * *

  The room was dark and cold and Joker lay on the floor, arms spread wide, drunk and miserable. A circle of knives and guns surrounded him. Beyond that was still another circle with more guns and knives and hatchets and blades just waiting for him to pick his favorite then take it to his neck and slice all the way through.

  He didn’t think he’d ever miss her. After all, she offered him nothing beyond total subservience and unconditional love. Traits he was absolutely certain could easily be replaced by adopting some mangy, flea-bitten shelter dog.

  But finding another sex-starved, mallet-wielding psychopath didn’t turn out to be quite that easy. Even though he had wanted to take a drill to her head every time she called him Puddin’ or Mr. J, he actually craved that now.

  Where are you, you Looney Tune? Your Puddin’ wants you.

  Joker was lying in the center of the room, hidden in shadow. He reached for a long knife but let it go as Frost walked in. His idiot major domo was breathing hard and couldn’t wait to tell h
is boss what he’d learned.

  “Boss, I got some information,” Frost said, carefully stepping over the nearest corpse. “It cost. It cost big.”

  “I don’t care,” Joker said as Frost pulled up a chair across from him.

  “Wanted you to know that.”

  “Just tell me. Where is she?”

  Frost knew this was where everything could go south. If he presented the information the wrong way, Frost would be joining the rest of these prematurely retired Mafioso.

  “It’s complex, boss. Because it’s not just her. Everyone is disappearing.”

  “Everyone?” Joker repeated. He didn’t like where this was going. Frost was treading deep water now.

  “But I got answers and even a possible suggestion. I mean if you want to take it.”

  Frost waited. This could turn on a dime and still give change. But Joker just lay on the floor and stared up at the ceiling. Obviously, Frost thought, he wasn’t going to kill him. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and continued.

  “So like I say, it’s not just her. There’s some new law. Federal, not city or state. It comes down to this: if you’re a bad enough bad guy, they stamp terrorist on your jacket and send you to this new secret court.”

  “You are getting on my nerves, Frost. You said you had answers. I’m not hearing them.”

  “I was coming right to it, boss. I couldn’t find anything about the court itself. You know, it’s all top secret, but by spreading some cash to the right people, I’m close to getting some real info.”

  “How close, Frost?”

  “Real close, boss. I swear on my life.”

  Joker slowly looked up, eyes glistening with black hope. The fire in his madness was still burning.

  “Oh, please,” he said. “If you’re going to swear, swear on something that matters.”

  SEVENTEEN

  They finished an early dinner, then June left the compound and made her way into Midway City. Her life had changed so suddenly that she hadn’t had time to think about any of what happened, let alone make plans on how to deal with it all. She found herself overwhelmed, and desperately needed some alone time.