Deadshot Weapons Suicide Squad Novels & Stories

The smoke clears and I drop to the ground beside Quade’s lifeless body that lies on the floor, his mouth still open in shock, blood pouring from his chest. I can see the bullet lodged in his chest, a bullet that killed him instantly. What the hell is this? He laughs manically. “These bullets are an impressive thing, don’t you agree? You know there’s only a few left out there… a certain man who goes by Schurke Wolf made them… Ah, it’s just a shame that he discontinued them… one shot and you're dead. Shifter or not.” “You’re fucking sick! How could you kill someone who trained you as a child!” I snarl, standing up.

You think you’re the only ones who brought weapons? Up on the catwalk, Hugo didn't wait for orders. "Open lanes! Fire at will!" Muzzle flashes strobed through the dark hall as the Moretti shooters unleashed a vertical crossfire. Bullets ripped through tactical armor, dropping three operators in the first three seconds. The warehouse echoed with screams, the concrete yard turning into a pure slaughterhouse. Shinjiro fired wildly into the dark, backing toward the SUVs. The rest of the Vanguard operators were down, their bodies either crushed under iron wrenches or lying unconscious on the blood-stained concrete.

He aimed the pistol at one of his pack members standing obediently beside him. The man looked up but didn’t flinch, trusting his leader. "Don’t accidentally touch the bullets, though," Ashley warned, her voice cutting through the silence. "You do that, and you’re as good as dead too." Jeremy smirked, not taking his eyes off his pack member. Without hesitation, he pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot echoed through the room, and the man dropped to the floor with a thud. Blood pooled beneath him, and the sharp smell of wolfbane filled the air. The man’s body convulsed once, then lay still.

And more importantly— His eyes locked onto the far corner of the room. The crates. Six fucking crates of RH-57 ammunitions. Tucked discreetly behind a velvet privacy screen. He let out a breath, low and incredulous. Did she carry those herself? Did she hire someone? And if she did—did she kill them afterward to tie up loose ends? He wouldn’t put it past her. Not after what he saw back at the warehouse. She had slaughtered them all. A goddamn one-woman demolition squad. Quick, merciless, graceful like a blade and twice as deadly. There was blood splattered across his last memory of her—eyes ice-cold, jaw clenched, hands steady as she emptied round after round into Stefano's enemies.

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.

Chapter Six I was worried. That day was the biggest day in the whole country and the world at large, yet there we were, lying on the soft beds while our parents were worried sick about us. Sam was already awake and with Koyala in his office discussing whatever it was they were discussing. I had gone to the room Maya was in to check on her. It is not everyday that you get to see who has been stabbed survive, far worse that was a sword. They said it was an alloy of some metals and steel. Steel was bad for their health as it poisoned their blood making it clot. The team doctors had worked tirelessly on her not to lose her. She was Koyala's favorite and everything had to be done to keep her aliv

Death was close, and he’d dance with it if it came. Jeremiah breached late, trailing Jeremy’s squad—too slow, too loud. He rocked a plate carrier, SCAR-H with a suppressor, 7.62 rounds ready to punch holes. The docks were slick, air cold, his breath fogging faint. Then—a crack. Sniper round, .338 Lapua, high vantage—Hammer's man's work. It tore through Jeremiah’s hip, bone shattering, flesh splitting wide. He dropped hard, concrete biting his knees, a scream choking in his throat as blood gushed hot.

Daren whispered to himself, realizing the men might be goon with intent to rob. These were no ordinary thieves but Marco's goons, and Daren's anxiety heightened. His heart raced as he quickened his pace, yet the men closed in, subjected him to a beating, and forcibly loaded him into their truck. The group comprised five individuals: Daren was confined to the back seat, guarded by an armed man, ensuring compliance. Another drove the truck, while a third occupied the front passenger seat. The remaining two escorted the vehicle on sports bikes, resembling a sinister convoy.

Then Callum’s presence brushes the edge of my mind. Every ounce of strength he can spare flows into me. I gather all of it. The bond. The voices of the pack. The energy is threatening to tear me apart from the inside. I am about to release it when agony spears through my side. A suppressant dart. One of Savannah’s elites slips through the chaos and lands the shot. The energy beneath my skin sputters. Before I can even identify the shooter, Kieran is already on them. A second later, the threat is gone.

The voice accompanies my vision as clear as the midday sun: where I can witness Cassian's death at the hands of a black-haired Alpha. "Impossible! Cassian dead? By that Alpha? But who is he? Who could make an Alpha as powerful as Cassian die so easily!?" This is the first time I desperately want to disbelieve my own foresight. In my future vision, Cassian's fate if I don't leave this room is vividly carved out. He will die. At the hands of a black-haired Alpha with such immense power. The Alpha's eyes are as red as blood. His face smiles in front of Cassian's bloodied body. His laughter is as fierce as a storm, his demeanor repulsive in my eyes.