Deadshot Gun Suicide Squad Novels & Stories

Solomon would never hold back against a capable opponent who refused to work with him. “What’s wrong? Want me to stay?” Andrius remained unfazed and frivolous when he saw the hitmen. Solomon did not answer his question and announced, “Andrius Moonshade, let me introduce you to my hitmen.” “This is Knife, and he’s good with anything sharp. He has killed 99 people with the dagger he wields. You will be the hundredth. “This is Gunner, a legend in the hitman world. He never misses within a hundred meters.

“I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Please!” I lowered the gun. “Good.” He gasped. “If I tell you… will you let me go?” I smiled. “Of course.” I glanced at Lucian. “Record this.” “Dexter Paredes!” he blurted. “It was Dexter Paredes!” Silence. Then— Two gunshots. Straight to his chest. “W-why…?” He choked on blood. “One of your bullets killed my people.” I stared down at him. Cold. Empty. “See you in hell… boy.”

If the squad returned with food, they would be welcomed with praise but if they died, then it would help reduce the mouths to feed. The leader of this suicide squad was sergeant Kenneth Valdez. Kenneth’s job was to increase the chances that the squad was to bring home some supplies, even if it was a small amount. Any amount would help. He was instructed that if the squad was failing or was going to be wiped out, he must retreat on his own without being tracked. If he is being tracked, he is to kill himself, something that he was already aware of. Goddamit! Kenneth was pissed off. What was the point of resisting if the rebels were going to be treated like garbage anyway?

His face and brown leather jacket had little tiny splashes of blood on them. “What the fuck did you do?” I asked in a low menacing voice. He drops the gun on the ground and answers in a tight voice. “You don’t have to go anywhere anymore brother. Patrick Walker is dead… I killed him” Just then, more than a dozen gunshot sounds were heard in the far distance. Signaling the start of freaking war.

Without breaking stride, Zayden unholstered his custom matte-black Desert Eagle. BANG! BANG! BANG! Three precise shots. Three shooters on the upper scaffolding dropped dead, crashing forty feet down onto the metal crates. Zayden ducked beneath a shotgun blast, drove his elbow into a mercenary’s jaw—shattering the bone to powder—snatched the fallen combat knife mid-air, and plunged the six-inch blade straight through another attacker’s jugular. Blood sprayed across the side of a shipping container, but not a single drop touched the pristine fabric of Zayden's lapels.

I’ll be coming for him tomorrow Jason can have another day off. As we are wiping down the mat I notice a group of men deep in discussion still hanging about, scars trail up their arms to their shirt sleeves. A handful even have them on their faces. They must be Blood Moon pack warriors. No one else has warriors that tall, large, and ruthless. Dad clears his throat and I get back to our task at hand and help him carry the mat inside. Once put away we head home. I wave goodbye to Hudson and Bailey and walk with dad.

The beautiful days when you never thought about betrayal, murder— or politics. I can’t let a group of selfish people take their lives. I couldn’t imagine all the women and men, old or young, whom I saw before my eyes during that moment on the ground, inert. I tried to chase the image of the tragedy of my thoughts, but it was stronger than me. What if we don’t succeed to save them? What if their agents are better than us? “Will to the Bullet Team.” William’s voice sounded in our earbuds, interrupting our fearful thoughts. I loved how he called us the Bullet Team, he said he believed nothing can ever destroy us, even death.

Because I couldn’t keep my distance. It has to be the team we played together, the one we beat last night. There’s no other explanation that makes sense. They were quiet during the game, too quiet, like they were saving it for something else. It wasn’t just a grudge. It was personal. “He’s fine,” Quinn says, crouched beside me, his voice low but steady. My eyes snap to him. “Does that look fucking fine to you?” “I mean he’s breathing,” Quinn says quickly, hands raised slightly in defense. “He’s out cold, yeah, but nothing looks fatal. He’s not seizing, he’s still breathing, so for now he’s stable.”

“Looks like you have to join your comrades in hell now, Lucas,” I said as I pointed the gun on his head. Blood was dripping on his face as he knelt down in front of me, “I-I’m begging you, Sylus. Forgive me, please… I still have a family… I have a wife…I— Before he could even finish what he was about to say, I already pulled the trigger and shot him dead. “Pleading won’t work on me, Lucas. Especially for a fucking traitor like you.” I said as I tossed the gun to the floor and removed the gloves I was wearing.

They're brothers, alright—both born from the same rotten flesh. I don’t have a brother. And if I die tonight—which I won’t—I’ll die knowing one thing: I want Melisa. I want a thousand babies with her. I want us. I chuckled at the thought, stepping out of the shadows with confidence, the cool grip of my Wilson Combat SIG P320 steady in my hand. James turned, and our eyes locked. He looked surprised, maybe even amused. Without hesitation, I raised my gun at him. Click. In an instant, all his men reacted—guns pointed at me from every direction. But poor James doesn’t know who he’s playing with. I've killed more men than I can count. I've survived twenty years inside an asylum. I know what real