Approaching the yellow tape, Hardy spied a man who appeared to be an agent with a good deal of authority. The agent was shouting into his cell phone, intermittently breaking away to give orders to the men around him. He was of average height and build with dark hair, buzzed to within a half-inch of his scalp. As soon as Hardy lifted the tape and ducked under it, the agent hollered at Hardy.
“This is an official police investigation.” He thrust his finger in the general direction behind Hardy. “You’re not allowed in here.”
Hardy flashed his credentials. “I’m Special Agent Aaron Hardy of the FBI.” He gestured toward his teammates, who had cleared the tape and were a step behind him. “This is my team. Who’s in charge?”
The agent glanced at Cruz and Charity, who was still wearing her red business suit, before spending more time studying Dahlia, starting with her knee boots. He went back to his phone call, making sure everyone could hear him. “I’ll have to call you back. Apparently, the circus is in town.”
Cruz clutched the arm of Dahlia, who was charging toward the man, and yanked, spinning her body around. “Take it easy, Dahlia.”
Hardy ignored the remark and glanced at the man’s badge. “Agent…O’Neill, who’s in charge of this operation?” He pointed at the building. “I need to get in there and have a look around.”
O’Neill poked his chest with his thumb. “I’m in charge and there’s no way in hell you or any member of your…team is going anywhere near,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “that building. Do I make myself perfectly clear? If necessary, I can speak slower for you.”
Hardy had worked with difficult people in the past; however, Agent O’Neill was taking the word ‘difficult’ to a new level. He was not even attempting to be cooperative. Trying to ease the tension between them, Hardy stuck out his hand. “Listen, maybe we got off on the wrong foot, Agent O’Neill. I’m Special Agent—”
“I heard you the first time,” snapped O’Neill. “I’m not deaf.”
Still fuming about the circus remark, Dahlia launched a verbal blow. “No, stupidity is your strong suit.”
Agent O’Neill was in the process of walking away. He whirled around and glared at Dahlia. “What did you say?” He got in her face and repeated his question. “I asked you a question, Agent…” he paused to find a badge or a nametag. “Who are you? What is your name?”
“I’m a talent agent for the circus.” Dahlia’s eyes moved up and down O’Neill’s body. “Our clown called in sick. Any chance you’re free to take his place for the show? You’d be perfect.”
Charity separated herself from the group, snickering and putting her cell phone to her ear.
Hardy had known men like O’Neill. They possessed inferiority complexes and compensated for their shortcomings by denigrating those around them. They built themselves up by tearing down others. Women were not spared from the attacks. If a woman was disrespectful, she could expect to receive the full force of the man’s temper. The woman standing before O’Neill, however, was no ordinary woman. Hardy knew Dahlia would not take any crap from the man. He had to intervene before the situation got out of hand.
His fists clenched, O’Neill raised his hand and pointed his finger at Dahlia, who already knew how she was going to break his finger if it touched one fiber of her clothing. “You can take your smug attitude and get the hell away from my investigation.” His finger was inches away from Dahlia’s face.
She stared at the finger. Come on, just a little bit closer. She had opened her hands and was waiting to pounce.
O’Neill leaned forward, nose-to-nose with Dahlia. “If I see you around here again, I’ll have you forcibly removed…no, I’ll have you arrested.”
Dahlia took a step back and waved her hand in front of her face. “On second thought, I’ll get someone else to play the clown. I wouldn’t want your bad breath scaring away the children.”
Standing to the left of Dahlia, Cruz’s body went rigid. She studied O’Neill. His face was turning red and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. She inserted herself between O’Neill and Dahlia. Holding up her hand, she saw Hardy appear to her right. He had stepped between the two combatants. “You put one hand on her—” Cruz stopped speaking, when she heard Hardy’s deeper-than-usual voice.
“And, I’ll make sure you never use that hand again.” He watched O’Neill’s eyes shift toward Cruz before coming back to him. Hardy saw the man’s nostrils flare and his jaw muscles tense. Whether it was on the playground at school or in some hellhole in another country, the dance of two men sizing up each other before a fight always started in the same manner. Hardy slid to his left, boxing out Cruz. He did not want her taking the first punch, or any punches.
Dahlia, preparing to go on offense, had been pushed out of the way by her teammates. Taken aback by their actions, she swung her head left and right, looking at Cruz and Hardy. Having operated on her own for so many years, she had forgotten what it was like to have people stand up for her. Her body would not respond to her mental commands. A lump formed in her throat and she felt butterflies dancing in her stomach. Get it together, Dahlia. Get your head in the game. She shook her head and blinked her eyes.
O’Neill’s long fingernails dug into the palms of his hands, while the muscles in his forearms burned. He could not see his agents around him, but he sensed their eyes upon him. He was not going to be disrespected in front of his people. He flexed his muscles and prepared his body for the fight. Before he could throw a punch or block one, he caught sight of something out of the corner of his eye.