[HARPER]
If this day had a title, Harper thought, it would be Harper and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
One minute she had shared her profile of a spree killer — who had struck twice in the span of a week, and thus was top priority — with Agent Conor Deckard, her field partner and one of her best friends.
The next she had been left with Agent Dennis Morrison, the man who was in charge of handling all of the FBI's mafia related issues. In spite of her request, Deckard was asked to leave her and return to his regular duties, and she was left alone with Morrison and his special ops team. The reason she was even allowed to be there, Morrison had been curt in his explanation, was because she had provided the profile that allowed them to pursue 'their man.'
She had had to wheedle it out of one of their special ops agents that 'their man' was a member of the mafia who was known on the streets as Ironclad. His real name, she was told, was Raymond Hoskins, and it appeared he had recently lost his mind. She spent the duration of their travel time listening to whoever would talk to her explain different pieces of what they knew about Raymond "Ironclad" Hoskins. One agent was particularly generous, and had told her that he was one of the mafia's favorite hitmen, in part because he was notoriously 'impossible to catch.' When Harper had asked what that meant, the man had simply shrugged and said that it was assumed he either had connections with important people, or that he was blackmailing important people.
When it came to Hoskins 'going off his rocker,' a different agent had been only temporarily forthcoming. He had told her that one of their undercover agents reported Ironclad had been exhibiting sporadic, neurotic behavior. A few days later, that undercover agent had gone missing — and was now presumed dead. The man had that, and Harper couldn't decide if it was because Morrison had come through, or if it was because he had known the presumed deceased agent.
After that, Harper confronted Morrison. She could still remember the unforgiving and irritated stare that he had fixed on her. "Why am I going one this field mission?" She had straightened her spine and made use of all five-feet-ten-inches of her height, with her hands rested on her hips.
"Because," Morrison had said, "you're a head doctor. The higher-ups want you to try and talk Hoskins down first. They would prefer a clean arrest."
Harper hadn't believed a word he had said, but she had been in no position to argue.
Now that she was on her knees with her hands on her head, four dead special agents on the floor around her, she wished she had at least tried to argue with Morrison. Her hands trembled, even locked behind her head, and though she faced Raymond Hoskins with much more calm than she felt, part of her wondered if he could hear her heart beat. "You don't have to do this, Raymond," Harper said with her most soothing voice. "You've killed enough people."
Including some of his fellow mafia members. The four special ops agents weren't the only ones dead; one of the three mafia members who had been in the room with him now lay motionless on the floor.
"He does what needs to be done," one of the other mafia members said. But he stared wide-eyed his fallen comrade even as he spoke, and looked less confident than he sounded.
"You heard him." Raymond's grin was somewhere between manic and sadistic. "I'm necessary."
Harper shook her head slowly and managed to hold eye contact with him. All she could see was the crazed glint in his otherwise sharp brown eyes. "They're only reacting to you killing their friend."
Raymond shrugged. "He was a moron. It's his own fault he's dead."
Neither of the other two moved to contradict him. Harper didn't really blame them. Both of their guns were on the table, just out of arm's reach, and Ironclad would probably turn and kill them if he heard them move.
They were just as trapped as she was.
"So what are you going to do?" Harper asked, her brows arched. She was doing her best to keep her voice and expression soft. "Kill us? Then what?"
"Wait, us?" One of the other guys asked.
He went ignored. Raymond shrugged, his gaze trained on Harper. "Go back to the boss, get another job."
"Your boss tells you to kill all these people?" Harper asked. It was becoming increasingly obvious to her that Raymond Hoskins was suffering from psychosis. She wished she had demanded access to his medical records, because she suspected he had been prescribed antipsychotics, and had likely decided to take himself off of them. It was the best explanation for why his behavior seemed to shift in this direction this quickly.
Raymond scoffed. This time it was his turn to shake his head. His grin grew and became more sadistic. "He gives me jobs, and pays me for 'em. But this ... let's just say, what the boss don't know won't hurt him."
"You don't think he's going to notice that not only civilians and cops are dying off, but his people are, too?" It was a dangerous challenge to make, but he'd kept on talking thus far. She may as well push a little farther. Surely backup would get here soon ... "You don't think that he'll put those pieces together eventually? Figure out you were at each of those crime scenes?"
Raymond shrugged, entirely apathetic. "If he does, I'll kill him, too. Then maybe I'll be the boss." His grin turned into a smirk as he moved the gun closer to her head. "You talk too much."
It felt like all the breath was sucked out of her lungs. This was it. Of all the life-or-death situations she'd escaped, this was when she was going to die.
But before Hoskins could pull the trigger for the sixth time that hour, the door swung open.
"Drop the gun and step away from the pretty doctor." It was a masculine voice, one that sounded like it belonged to a guy close to her age, and one that Harper didn't recognize. That was all she needed to put together that it wasn't FBI backup, but she found that she felt relieved nonetheless.
Hoskins looked surprised at the interruption. Surprised and annoyed. The space between his brows furrowed as he took in Harper's wanna-be savior. He didn't move. Since he didn't shoot her on the spot, Harper made the assumption that the other guy probably had a gun. "Who are you?"
"Name's Danny," the same voice said, "and this is Dylan—"
"Shut up, Daniel," a feminine voice Harper also didn't recognize interrupted.
Okay, Harper thought, so there are at least three of them. But what in the world are they doing here?
"What do you want?" Hoskins demanded, visibly irritated by them. "You're not cops. Not FBI. I'd recognize if you were mafia."
"No," a different, rougher male voice said. Harper decided this was probably Dylan. "We're worse."
It was then that Alexei Zima crept in through the back door. He moved with surprising stealth for a man of his size, and without much effort he coerced the other two mafia members into standing against the wall. He gestured with a handgun as he did so, which no doubt helped his case. Alexei patted them down with one hand.
"Still don't see why I ought'a care," Hoskins drawled as he moved ever closer to Harper and kept his aim steady at her head. He was none the wiser to the Russian man who'd come in and accosted his other would-be victims. "Seems you're all too invested in her for me to worry about y' shooting me." His sadistic smile returned. "You think you can shoot me before I shoot her?"
Harper was so distracted by both Alexei's appearance and the increased threat on her life that she didn't see who else slipped in through the back door.
Not until that someone else stood next to Hoskins, the muzzle of her gun pressed into his temple.
"Max," Harper breathed in relief, right as Hoskins went tense.
Max Destin was a whole head shorter than Raymond Hoskins, but her presence carried a weight that his never would. "Of course I can." Her lips twisted up in a grim and crooked smirk. "But feel free to test that theory."
