OOC and Signups It's a long way back, when you're halfway to Hell. Plot: A sleepy small town in Nevada about 68 miles east of Vegas doesn't get too many tourist visits. Eli, Nevada is home to handful of things: a thrift shop, a grocery store, a small library, a motel, a clinic, and a hitman. Follow the small town of Eli as it deals with the backlash of murders in the surrounding area and the police investigation that makes its way to the formally peaceful burb as the officers try to catch the man responsible for the professional killings and the mastermind behind him who loans out his services. Harvey grunted to himself in relief as 'Welcome to Eli!' came into view on the town's faded welcome sign. It was early in the morning and he glanced at the sun breaking over the horizon in the distance with annoyance. His side throbbed while he kept his motorcycle steady and his eyes narrowed as a headache slowly but surely began to drum it's way forward towards his temples. He would need to call James later that day and let him know that he had gotten shot, well grazed really. It was less concerning that Harvey had been shot in his opinion and more concerning that the target had knew that he was coming and that he was ready when Harvey had sneaked into the man's office. He figured maybe the client had called to gloat, which would be stupid, or that James had gotten sloppy, which was unlikely. James was paranoid to a fault at times underneath his calm exterior but either way Harvey had no need to think too hard about it. It was James that handled all the details of the jobs this was for him to worry about, Harvey had done his part. The man was dead. There had been a struggle which Harvey had disliked but the target had been a poor shot and it didn't take Harvey long to close the distance between them and snap his neck, large gloved hands twisting his head in an impossible direction. He didn't like it, he hated using his hands, but it was done with a bullet placed in the man's head like the others for good measure. He hated driving out to Vegas too but the city was good for one thing, the noise. No one had came to check on the man even as Harvey retrieved the bullet with his blood on it and made sure none of it was left at the scene and no one had seen him leave through the back, no one sober anyway. He would be on the camera's, he always was, but it mattered little thanks to the heavy duster he used to hide his body shape and the bandanna that covered his, rather defining, facial features, he wore contacts to turn his eyes blue when pursuing a target and he kept his long hair tucked away and out of site under the rather plain black cowboy hat he wore on jobs. Everyone wore cowboy hats in Nevada. The pain that shot across his side drew his attention back to the wound as he stopped his bike in front of his room at the motel and got off of it, cursing as he fumbled with his keys. He opened the door long enough to fling his duffel bag, full of his "work" clothes and tools, onto the unmade bed and locked the door back, climbing back on his bike. He wasn't too worried about housekeeping, after staying there for a year the housekeepers assumed at this point, after he declined the offer so many times before, that he didn't need anyone to clean his room. They were right. Harvey turned his bike down the road that led to the town clinic. Roxie wasn't open yet and she'd probably be pissed that he was showing up while she was still setting up, he knew he would be, but he paid in cash the few times he did need to see her and didn't make a fuss about anything she recommend so maybe she'd be tolerant of him. He climbed back off his bike as he arrived at the clinic and knocked on the glass door, either way he needed to think up an excuse as to what happened and a good one.