Deadshot Suicide Squad Gun Novels & Stories

She points the weapon at Callum Hart, her finger tightening on the trigger in a blur of motion. The sound of the suppressed shot is a dull thwip, sickeningly quiet in the large service area. Callum’s head snaps back as the bullet finds its mark, and he collapses onto the tile without a sound. The silence that follows is deafening. Zli flinches, his eyes wide as he looks at his partner’s body. I stand frozen, the smell of gunpowder stinging my nose.

In the pitch-black morgue of St. Jude, the heavy doors groaned and gave way under Lucas’s frantic assault. The impact echoed through the cavernous basement like a funeral bell. The scent of formalin was suffocating, thick enough to coat the back of the throat with a bitter, metallic film. Sophia gripped the cold steel of the handgun, her knuckles white from the intensity of her hold. The weapon felt unnaturally heavy, a leaden anchor in a world that had suddenly lost its gravity.

The neon lights hummed softly, casting a stark glow on the targets. He handed her a small, light pistol and put on his own headphones. He stood right behind her, his chest against her back, his arms wrapped around her. “Show me,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. “Show me that rage.” She raised the gun, and her hands were steady now. She thought of everything. The mission, the lies, the secrets. She thought of Gregory, and the fear in Hades’s eyes. And she pulled the trigger. The gunshot was a thunderclap, and she felt the recoil in her hands.

Like he’s already seen the ending, and it’s written in our blood. Dez, our youngest recruit, whirls toward him. The gun comes up too slowly. The shot cracks like thunder. Dez’s head jerks back. He drops. Just—drops, his eyes blown wide, mouth still forming the command he never gets to finish. Smoke curls from the wound—red. Thick. Twisting like some kind of unholy signature in the freezing air. No one breathes. My eyes narrows onto the red smoke and my chest tightens. Only one person is notoriously known for using rounds like that.

Xylo’s squad ripped through the gunnery station’s defenses as though it barely existed - their shardthrowers made short, efficient, violent work of it all. And when they completely dismantled it and actually got to the inside, found that the rest of the team had already shot more than half the actual gunners inside. Their bodies were slumped over their seats, or were thrown to the ground, or simply didn’t have a head. Regardless, their blood and their brain matter and bits of their skulls coated absolutely everything else. The gunners who valued their lives most had long since raised their hands up in defeat, or were on their knees begging not to be killed.

Omar reminded his mom of more tragically funny things that happened that Halloween night. “Yeah, I remember now. That toy machine gun kept poking him in his booty and he kept saying how he couldn’t breathe through his Deadshot mask. He also kept talking about how his underwear felt too tight beneath his pants.” Amy’s laughter choked her up. She remembered watching her husband walk down the sidewalk, trying to adjust his Deadshot costume by tugging on his butt, and his crotch. She remembered thinking about how Will Smith gracefully sported the costume in Suicide Squad, making it look easy.

It barely takes ten minutes for my entourage to tear through the house, taking out each member easily. Only one culprit remains alive, still seated in the place he was earlier, not daring to move a muscle to aide those he called comrade. Seeing Derek coming to stand next to me, a sneer crosses his face. “You won’t kill me, Derek. We both know you don’t have it in you.” Those were the last words Hakeem uttered before the Gamma of Northern Lakes raises his weapon, firing at point blank range. The silver bullet piercing through the flesh, bone, and membrane with ease. His head slumping against the headrest and the beating in his heart slowly fading away.

A stream of multiple gunshots pierced through the air. The hundreds of armed fighters from the Shadow Elite's Squad concurrently. With all of them firing multiple shots each, the effect was like a prolonged gunshot. If not listen to carefully, one could have easily mistaken it for the multiple consecutively sound of thunder. Each shots fired by each of the hundreds of armed fighters of the Shadow Elite's Squad were more than enough to extinguish all of Rocky's men. The eighty odd mens from Rocky's Group fell dead almost at once when the shots fired. Every one of them had more than five gunshot wounds on their bodies.

And then I had been sent to the sanitarium. That night, after I had been violated, the bleeding wouldn't stop. I thought it was from tearing, but it turned out that I once had a child with Noah. I broke into wild, hysterical laughter. "Noah, you murderer! It was you! You killed our child!" His eyes went red, his face blank with shock. "Sadie, what are you talking about?" I yanked out the IV needle, staggered barefoot off the bed, and hurled anything I could grab at him. The doctor shouted for help, "Orderlies! Restrain her!"

My voice is deathly quiet, far more dangerous than if I had shouted. The bastard dares to hold my gaze, a smug smirk tugging at his lips. “You heard me—” I don’t let him finish. My gun is out in a flash, and before anyone can react, I fire three bullets straight through his skull. His body crumples to the floor, blood pooling beneath him, the metallic scent filling the room. A beat of silence follows before I turn, scanning the room with a lethal glare.