tinstar | Malcolm x Raylan: Cowboy Surprise

Malcolm x Raylan: Cowboy Surprise

Art was suspicious right off the bat when Raylan took a week off with the express note that his phone would be Out Of Order til the next Monday, but the Chief Marshal wasn't going to look gift horses in the mouth. Not when it suggested he'd have a few days of peace, until Raylan caved to turning his phone back on again. Still, he watched the younger Marshal walk out of the office and promised himself to check into the state of Harlan within 3 days to make sure that the place wasn't on fire. The smoke would reach him before he called, he was sure.

But Art didn't have much to worry about - Raylan had no plans on staying in the state for his vacation, beyond one day spent closing up Arlo's and securing it the best way he could before getting on a plane to New York City. He wanted to surprise Malcolm - it'd been near two months since they'd last seen each other and frankly, Raylan was tired of missing him. They'd called and texted, stayed in a fairly consistent, if odd houred, touch but it wasn't the same.

Once he landed, Raylan rented a car and navigated his way towards Malcolm's apartment, stopping to grab a bouquet of flowers. It was.. Extra, but Raylan didn't want to show up empty handed, just in case. Thirty minutes later, Malcolm's door buzzer was being hit, like Raylan was here to deliver something. Well, he was, but that was half the fun.

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"In a video they showed us at Glynco when I was with the FBI and attended an interagency course there on fugitive tradecraft," Malcolm said distractedly. "Who was the woman he killed last night?" he asked with much more laser focus. "And who lives in the house he made the call from?" A beat. "And who's his New York lawyer?"

'Glynco' got a lift of Art's eyebrows as he looked over at Raylan. What were the chances then, that Malcolm mighta been there when both Art and Raylan were teaching?

Rachal continued, answering Malcolm's questions. "A young woman, about 22. Did a number on her too. The house is owned by a windower, a Yvonne Gene, age 50."

"And the lawyer?" Raylan followed up as Rachel opened her notebook.

"Andrew Walker, Herfings Law offices."

Raylan looked over at Malcolm. "That name ring a bell?" Since he knew that the Whitly's saw a LOT of lawyers.

It was about eight years earlier, that he'd taken the course at Glynco.

"I think we can assume the hapless widow has been dead for hours now," Malcolm told them. "And he'll be itching for a fix. So why did he call his lawyer, is the question. Does he want to be caught?"

Malcolm pulled out his phone and dialed, turning away from the group for a moment. Putting on a figurative hat.

"Andrew Walker, please." There was a pause. "Oh, he'll want to take this call. Tell him it's Malcolm Bright from the NYPD." He paused. "Thank you." A moment later, "I thought you might remember me. Can we talk about your 6am phone call? ...Yes, you did. Don't lie to me. I thought you'd know better after the last time." There was a pause. "Now, Andrew. I'm sure you know as well as I do that client privilege doesn't protect you from accessory to murder charges. I'm in Kentucky right now. What did he tell you?" A pause. "Mmhm. Well, if he lives that long. Does he have a gun?" A beat. "A knife." He half turned to glance at the team. "Did he? Interesting. Thanks." He hung up.

He turned back to the team. "He informed Andrew Walker in the course of their phone call that he would no longer be requiring his services. After he asked for money. So it seems flight is a more likely reason for discharging his attorney than any intentional suicide by cop. To Walker's knowledge, he doesn't have a gun, but he does have a knife. That being said, based on what I've learned about Kentucky so far, chances are good there was a gun in the house that the owner won't be needing anymore."

"We're leavin' open the idea that he might use her as leverage, if he knew we were coming," Art replied, face furrowing in a more pointed confusion as Malcolm pulled out his phone. In true Southern Fashion, he let Malcolm go about whatever he was doing and just watched, to try and figure it out.

Raylan knew exactly what he was doing and simply waited, head down but cocked to the side, to hear Malcolm's side of the conversation. And it everything about Malcolm's commanding, plying tone made Raylan smile, something he tried very hard to hide under the brim of his hat.

Tim narrowed his eyes a little as Malcolm turned back around and unloaded a new set of information on them. "We been trying to get through to his office since this morning."

"Yeah," Art echoed. "Why'd he talk to you?"

"Why's it matter?" asked Raylan with a turn of his hand. "Isn't that what we wanted to know? C'mon, let's go apply it to our situation - insteada standing around here with our thumbs up our asses."

Art hummed but held a moment, in case Malcolm might answer his question anyway.

"Oh," Malcolm waved it off as no big deal, "he was implicated in a pyramid scheme where the architect of the scheme ended up dead. He tried to deny involvement but... psychology."

Malcolm looked towards the house and then looked at Raylan.

"Let me talk to him. He won't be using the widow as leverage. He's a junkie. He needed the hit. He'll need another by now. You've seen the swathe of dead women he's cut."

"Uh-huh," came Art's still suspicious, but slightly less so than before, reply before he glanced off at the rest of the forces around 'em.

"Eh, I'll give you a bullhorn while Tim, me and some of the others circle the back if you want."

"Aren't I running this thing?" Art protested as they started to break apart towards different cars. Raylan smirked at him as he walked away.

"Don't worry Art, we'll let you take all the credit for it."

"A bullhorn?" Malcolm protested, ignoring Art's indignance. "I was going to go up there," he said, pointing towards the house. "I need to see his face when I'm talking to him. Besides, he'll probably open the door to one unarmed man. He won't be picky about where he gets his power now."

"What?" Raylan asked over his shoulder. "No. We got no idea what this guy's set up is, nor do we know how many people are in that house or who's got what.I'd say he mighta slipped out the back but we've already got a man up on the ridge-" That Raylan was kind enough to point out, roughly speaking, as he continued.

"Now you can negotiate from here, or from the midyard, but you don't wanna be up on that porch. Do me a favor, stay behind a car or somethin'. You're right about the gun, even if he doesn't know it's there yet."

There were guns everywhere.

"I actually do want to be on the porch," Malcolm insisted. "I can get him to surrender."

"You can also get a bullet or worse in the neck," Raylan argued with a look over at him as they got to the backend of the SUV Tim had opened the hatch on. "Let us get a handle on the situation first, before you start goin' all Mental Superhero on us, huh? Believe it or not we have done this before."

Tim and Rachel glanced at each other and pulled off towards Art with Tim quipping, "We'll let you ladies have a minute."

Raylan shifted his feet to lean a little closer to Malcolm with one hand stretched out. "Look, we don't know who all is in there. Just.. give us a little time to peek in some windows, get a feel for it."

Malcolm leaned in conspiratorially. "What if I go with you guys, but I stay behind you?" he countered.

Raylan shifted again to lean a little closer. "There's a reason that these units aren't just a couple of people. I figured you and all your negotiator skill would be better up here with Rachel. You know, talkin' him into comin' out, or keepin' him calm enough to let us into the back door. I thought that was your thing."

"It is my thing, but I need to see him. Listen. This guy? He kills because the first time he took a human life in anger, he felt powerful for the first time in his life and he doesn't want to give that power back. If you go in there in force, you'll make him feel small. Powerless. A place he doesn't want to go back to. He will try desperately to kill someone to regain his power high. If I go up on the porch, unarmed and inoffensive, I can get inside his head and maybe get him to surrender. And if I can't, you guys can still take him out the hard way. Doesn't that make sense?" Malcolm insisted.

Raylan sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose for a second. "It is not the US Marshal's Service job to care about his feelin's." But he understood the backlash of it.

"Fine. You wanna go on the porch, go on the porch. Rachel can introduce you with said bullhorn and Tim and I can still do our jobs, how's that."

Malcolm smiled. "I can live with that. Everyone goes home breathing, everyone wins, right?"

He headed for the house with his hands held just out from his sides, where they could be seen.

The Marshal was decidedly not smiling as he he broke away to grab the back of Malcolm's jacket. "Give us five minutes to get our asses to a safe place first," he admonished sharply before going over to the other three with an adjustment of his hat. Tim looked as nonplussed as always, and it was only Rachel and Art that lifted an eyebrow up over at Malcolm before Raylan and Tim walked away.

The landscape was their cover to get close and a few minutes later, Rachel had her bullhorn out.

"We're sending someone up to to talk to you. He's unarmed."

No answer. Rachel gestured Malcolm forward with a look.

Malcolm resumed his trip up to the house, his hands held out.

"Jeremy?" he called to the convict as he drew close to the porch. "How's it going in there?"

"DON'T TRY ANYTHING OR I WILL KILL THIS BITCH!" he shouted.

Malcolm paused on the stairs. "I don't believe she's still alive, but I'd love you to prove me wrong," he said confidently.

The man's face appeared behind the screen door, his eyes darting around, most of his body still obscured by the wall.

"What do you want?" Jeremy spat.

"I want you to get out of this alive," Malcolm told him simply. "Now, I understand why going back to prison doesn't sound like a great play for you, but - if you're alive - you have options."

"If I'm alive," he said suspiciously.

"You've killed two women in the last twelve hours, including the home owner. Do you think there's any outcome where you walk through this door to freedom?" Malcolm asked. "You're an educated man. Think about it. But, if you surrender, go back to prison... you can ask Mr Walker to look into getting you reclassified into psych, for example. You've done some pretty screwed up stuff. I would be willing to testify that you're almost certainly a psychopath."

"Are you trying to say I'm crazy?" Jeremy sneered.

"I'm saying if an expert, such as myself, was willing to suggest you were crazy, you could get out of gen pop. But only if you live that long. Your other option is trying to run away and then all these guys here..." he said, gesturing with his finger all around the yard, "they shoot you dead where you stand and just. Go to lunch. They don't care which one you choose. I'm here to help you, but only as long as this conversation remains courteous."

Raylan and Tim found themselves on either side of the back porch, covered from afar by a sniper that had already been set up. The dogs and extra men that had been used to chase the guy into the position that he was in were still there, hanging out behind the rest of the Marshals, watching them work like they were at a tailgating party.

Raylan glanced at Tim and got a nod back as they started in, peeking into the back windows before Raylan gently tried the doorknob. Locked. His face bore his 'well shit' expression as he listened to the conversation going on out front. They could make the homeowner out in the scant lighting, laid out on the floor in blood.

Time to start trying windows. Thankfully, it wasn't a straight shot from the front to the back, so Raylan figured they had a little cover as he hoped this lady kept her windows in functioning order.

Jeremy, held up a knife, resting it against his own cheek.

"What if it gets uncourteous?" he asked. "What if I have a little cop shield?"

"You won't get that close to me."

"You have that much confidence in their shooters, huh?"

"I know where they are. And you don't," Malcolm pointed out. "Maybe they're in the trees. Or on top of the barn. Maybe they're right behind you," he noted in an almost musical tone that suggested he wasn't completely serious but wanted Jeremy to understand the possibilities.

Jeremy gave him a withering look. "So you just want me to walk out there with my hands up and give myself up."

"After dropping your weapons," Malcolm clarified. "It'd be the smart move. But it's your choice."

Jeremy seemed to be considering him.

"How much money did you find in the house?" Malcolm asked. Jeremy looked almost startled by the change of subject and didn't answer. "Did you find the gun yet?" Malcolm asked.

Jeremy's eyes narrowed.

"You haven't," Malcolm deduced. "You didn't even look for one. The woman you killed, she never had time to go for it. How did you get in? Force the front door? Break a window?"

"The windows weren't even locked," he spat, looking over his shoulder like he was considering something.

"If you leave here to go look for the gun, the Marshals will force entry. You have no leverage in there. As soon as you stop talking to me, it's over."

The windows weren't locked and Raylan gave Tim a half surprised lift of his eyebrows when it started moving. Tim shrugged and gestured for him to go on inside.

For a man Raylan's size, it was always a little funny to see him fold himself up and slink him and his long legs into a house, and a half second later, he was opening the back door for Tim to come in. Thankfully, the doors were as well kept as the windows and it opened with no real noise to speak of.

They crept through the house, splitting it between them and coming across someone else in the living room. A grandkid or young nephew, 14 or 15 if Raylan had to guess, but it came with a creek of the floorboards and a whimper from the boy. Raylan lifted a finger to his lips and turned his hip to show his badge. They were there to help.

"And you think they can get in here before I find the gun," Jeremy was saying.

"I think there's a good chance. You haven't spent your time here learning the house." He cocked his head slightly, assessing. "How have you spent your time?" Malcolm asked.

"None of your fucking business!" Jeremy said, suddenly irritated. "Who the fuck are you?"

"My name is Malcolm Bright. I help the police with... difficult situations."

Jeremy squinted at him. "Wait. Are you Malcolm Bright the FBI profiler that caught the Kingdom Lake Killer?" he exclaimed.

"Um, I composed a profile for that case; I wasn't an arresting..."

"Shut up! Are they calling me a serial killer?" he asked with some degree of excitement.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "You're actually considered a spree killer. Your murders are too close together and your methodology too..."

"You are the FBI serial killer catcher."

"I was."

"Come in here. I want to show you something," he said, backing up from the door.

"You know, I don't think...."

"I have another hostage," he said dangerously. "Some kid that was sleeping upstairs."

Malcolm watched his face for a moment. It looked like truth.

"What do you want to show me?"

"I tried something new. I want to show you. I bet I'm a serial killer now."

"You're suggesting that you're evolving," Malcolm said reasonably, taking a step up onto the next step of the porch.

"Those guys, people talk about them all the time. Did you see the interview with Martin Whitly a couple of months ago? They let us watch it in the common room. His crimes were twenty years ago and people are still talking about him. You know who he is, right?"

"The Surgeon," Malcolm said carefully, stepping up onto the porch. "I'm familiar with his work."

"Of course you are. You're the leading expert. Everyone says so."

"Everyone who, exactly?"

"On the true crime boards. Real crime buffs. Come in here. Come look at what I did to this bitch."

"You know, there's a little problem here, though."

"What's that?"

"She doesn't fit your victim profile. You were carrying out justice against perceived sinners. She was a victim of opportunity."

"EVERY WOMAN IS A SINNER!" he screamed. "GET YOUR ASS IN HERE BEFORE I KILL THIS KID!"

Good, Malcolm was keeping him talking. It was enough time for Raylan to squat down and untie the kid, helping him to his feet with a wary eye towards the conversion happening. "Stay here," he mouthed, not wanting the kid to see the body in the kitchen without support.

Rising again, he moved forward, stilling as Jeremy started inviting Malcolm in. He held, catching Tim coming out of the other room across from him who shook his head. Nothing of interest.

Raylan stayed where he was. He knew what kind of negotiator Malcolm was, and honestly, he didn't like shooting people if he could avoid it. But the swearing and screaming indicated a tilt towards seriousness that none of them needed. He stepped out into the 'hallway' that connected all the rooms and the stairs upstairs, gun only half raised.

"'Fraid that's going to be a little hard for ya," Raylan spoke up, drawing the attention away from Malcolm, if even for a moment. "Considerin'." Considering them.

"You oughta do what Mr Bright suggests. Expert, and all." If they weren't in the situation they were in, Raylan might have sounded casual with the way he laid it out.

Malcolm, lingering just outside the door, lifted his eyes from Jeremy to Raylan when he heard his voice. He couldn't be blamed for the faint smile he couldn't completely suppress at the sound. He looked at Jeremy, who was looking over his shoulder at Raylan, then looked at Malcolm.

Then suddenly lunged forward to make a grab for him, pushing the screen door messily aside.

Malcolm shifted to the side, grabbing his offhand to pull him off balance and encourage his face into the door frame.

"SHIT!" he shouted as Malcolm took steps backwards away from the door. Jeremy was still holding the knife. He looked murder over his shoulder at Raylan, not noticing Tim as he then pushed himself up to advance on the Marshal.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Malcolm called after him, but he wasn't sure how much good it would do. "Choose life, Jeremy!" he called. "Surrender now. I'll ride with you back to the station. We can talk about your methodology. Compare it to some of the greats."

Jeremy hesitated, looking at Raylan, but not raising the knife, his head tilting slightly towards the door where Malcolm's voice was coming from.

The lunge had Raylan stepping forward, gun raised.. But Malcolm clearly didn't need that much help. He could only furrow his brow as his head pulled back a fraction, all in slightly aroused surprise, eyes narrowing a little.

Well then.

In the field behind them all, the violence triggered a flood in of the team; Art, Rachel, and three other guys, all guns drawn.

As Jeremy started towards him, Raylan's gun was suddenly trained up, eyes sharp and hard, even without his hat to add extra intimidation. Jeremy didn't see Tim judging the set of Raylan's shoulder, waiting for him to step back and indicate he needed the backup.

"You drop it, we can make that happen," Raylan promised. "This doesn't have to end here. Hell, I'll even play the radio, if you want."

There was no way Malcolm was riding in a car with this asshole without Raylan there.

Malcolm advanced on the doorway again, still cautious, as Jeremy looked at Raylan, then over his shoulder at Malcolm.

"You written a profile of me?" he asked.

Malcolm nodded. "And I've been adding to it this whole time," he said, tapping his temple.

"I want you to post it online."

"I don't think you do want that, but put the weapon down and we can discuss it in the car," he said, stepping into the doorway.

Jeremy's eyes lingered on him, then he let the knife drop, putting his hands on his head. He knew the drill.

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