White Collar - Manhunt
Title: Manhunt
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, Peter
Warnings: Language
Summary: Neal can't lie to Peter to save his life, but that's kind of the point. not beta'd but edited like crazy. Written for poorfenny at collarcorner for this prompt
Manhunt
“I'm not feeling too hot, Peter,” Neal said, his voice chipper, upbeat, devoid of the hoarseness and flat misery of the truly “too sick to work.” But as if realizing this, Neal tacked on a pathetic little cough.
Peter frowned, frowned some more, that same frown mirrored in the deepening creases on his forehead. His gut was screaming at him - don't buy it! - but his voice said against his gut's will. “Okay.”
“Yeah, sorry. I really wanted to come in but I don't want this to spread.” Another little cough, this time with more effort.
“Wouldn't have to live with one man taking down the entire White Collar unit with a cold,” Peter said, his voice amused, his gut shrieking at him.
“More like the flu, I think. Really nasty. In fact it's getting to be kind of a bastard.” Neal cleared his throat.
“Well... get some rest, then. Drink lots of liquids, take some vitamin C...”
“Yes, mom,” Neal said, too cheerful, too healthy. He hung up.
If Peter's gut instinct had hands, they would be around his throat, wringing his neck. Peter Burke was a man who listened to his gut, especially when it was this loud, this persistent, even when he didn't want to believe it. Because what it was telling him was that Neal had lied.
I never lied to you, Peter. Except Neal had, just now. A five year old could have seen through that act. Satchmo could have seen through it. It was like Neal hadn't even been trying, and that, right there, was why his instincts were having a coronary.
Because if Peter didn't know any better, he could have sworn Neal wanted Peter not to believe him.
Unless it's wishful thinking. Unless you're hoping so much against what's obvious that you're seeing what isn't there. And that was the problem with Neal - Peter could never be sure. He wasn't allowed to be sure, because the moment he was, the moment he thought he had Neal so pegged that he knew when Neal was telling the truth with absolute certainty, was the moment it would come back and bite a chunk out of his ass.
But this was Neal, who put on a show even when all he was doing was misdirecting. Neal, who lied for a living, like he didn't know how else to be, like his life depended on it every day. Which, Peter supposed, considering the things Neal had pulled, it did. And even though Peter could see through Neal's lies, his cover-ups, his misdirections, it was still one hell of a show.
Neal hadn't tried. There had been no show, only the magician's most pathetic tricks laid bare, and they were nothing to be impressed with.
Peter swiveled to his computer and brought up Neal's tracking data. His timing couldn't have been better; there was Neal, not at home, the signal halfway between home and the office.
Then it was gone.
-----------------------
Neal hadn't hesitated hanging up seeing as how he didn't have a choice, but he hesitated taking his thumb off the screen. It must have been only seconds he stood there, wondering if he'd be fast enough pressing Peter's number again, if it would go unnoticed. Seconds that became an eternity, as though time had stopped only for him.
Time started again when the phone was taken from his hand. He was clasped by the shoulder but managed not to flinch - he was good at not flinching, no matter how badly his body wanted to. The owner of the hand that was the source of the unwanted touch moved into Neal's line of sight and smiled.
Tall, rangy, dark hair wavy but slicked with what looked like grease; he didn't have a name, only a title - the Boss - and in fact he kind of did look like Bruce Springstein in a grizzled, oily, sharper way. Neal didn't know the guy but the guy knew him, which was never a good thing for someone who relied on anonymity like food, but it was made worse by Boss' five very strong, very indifferent friends waiting just within the unmarked and windowless blue van.
“You did good there, Caffrey,” Boss said. “You keep this up and I can guarantee you'll get out of this alive.”
Neal swallowed trying to moisten his sandy throat. All he could croak was a small, “Yeah.”
Boss steered Neal to the van with a gentle force of pressure on his shoulder. The “friends,” their hands hidden in their jackets, parted to make room. Once inside, the door was shut, the van started to move, and Caffrey's anklet was cracked from his ankle with industrial strength cutters. But strong as the cutters were, it was still messy work, and Neal now had the nicks and soon-to-be-bruises to prove it.
“Things are going good, Caffrey. You should be more relaxed about this. I would think it right up your alley.”
“Not really,” Neal rasped. He cleared his throat. “I prefer a little more... quiet finesse.”
“Which you'll get, I promise - your only guarantee. No ifs, ands, buts or any clerks pressing those stupid silent alarms.”
“I don't use guns,” Neal said firmly.
Boss bobbed his head. “Good, that's good. You won't need a gun.” He waved all that aside with a swipe of his hand. “But details later. First thing's first.” His smile became a smirk, a I-know-something-you-don't-know and you're-going-to-love-this simper. “Take off your jacket and shirt.”
----------------------
The office was in chaos, Jones on the phone with the marshalls, Diana on the phone with police to send out a bolo, Peter in Hughes' office, speculating out loud as to what the hell had to be going on. They'd already sent people out to where Neal's anklet had last shown him to be when he'd called, but there'd been nothing to see.
“I know what you're thinking, sir, but it doesn't add up. I know when Caffrey's up to something and he hasn't been, and I know when he isn't being completely honest with me and he wasn't even trying to hide anything.”
“And maybe that was the point,” Hughes said. “To throw you off the right scent. This is Caffrey we're talking about. He's probably figured that since pretending to be honest doesn't get him far with you then being completely dishonest can.”
But Peter shook his head. “I don't know. Something isn't right about this.”
“Of course something isn't right. Caffrey's cut and run. He could be anywhere right now.”
The one thing Peter didn't like about gut instinct was that, reliable as it had always been for him and the bureau, it wasn't hard evidence. You couldn't submit it to a court of law, and couldn't use it as a convincing enough argument as to why things weren't as they seemed.
“Find him, then sort it out,” Hughes said, not so much dismissing Peter as releasing him to do what he needed to.
Peter went back to his office, calling El along the way to see if she had gotten in touch with Mozzie.
“Took me a while but I managed it,” El said seriously. “In fact he's heading over here now. Peter, Mozzie doesn't know what's going on. He swears that Neal has been nothing but content. Honey, you know that if Neal had been up to something--”
“Mozzie would be a part of it, I know,” Peter said, his gut screaming in triumph, but his head ringing in growing alarm. At least a Neal up to something was a situation Peter could fathom, had more control over. A Neal in trouble not of his own making... those few times it happened always managed to come with a weapon pointed Neal's way and not a lot of time to do something about it.
Peter's mind switched gears, from contacts and friends to enemies and criminals in need of a disposable middleman. He started making new calls, bringing up new files on his computer the moment he was at his desk, digging for anyone in town or on bail who would be bad news for Neal. Mozzie called him, so frantic he didn't offer up a single quote.
Just the usual, “What the hell did you get Neal into this time?” followed immediately by, “How can I help?”
“Contacts, Mozzie. I need you to get in touch with as many as possible, find out if there's anyone around who might hold a grudge against Neal or needs someone to help pull a job.”
“Will do,” Mozzie said, and hung up to do as told, as if there were no suits or governments, just a team looking out to help one of their own.
Funny how quickly it had shifted from hunting Neal to saving him, and Peter hadn't told Hughes, yet.
“Peter, you need to look at this,” Jones said from the door. “Conference room.”
Diana was already there, already with a laptop open.
“Local PD sent us this footage as soon as they had a look at it. They thought it might be our boy,” Jones said.
Diana brought up the data - a video feed. The place was a jewelers, semi-expensive but with plenty of money for high-tech surveillance. Diana pointed to a man in a gray suit, his face hidden by the jaunty tilt of his hat, a hat too big to be Caffrey's style. The suit, height, and build, on the other hand, were all him. He had a briefcase in one hand that he set on the counter after talking with one of the clerks. It was filled messily with three handfuls of pricey jewelry, and the clerk looked terrified about it.
“Damn it!” Peter hissed. “When did this go down?”
“About twenty minutes ago,” Jones said.
“So not all that long after the anklet went off. That was fast,” Peter said bitterly, and in that moment - seconds he could count on one hand - he jumped to conclusions and hated himself for giving Neal the benefit of the doubt, hated Neal for putting them in this position, for making him take immediate side with the idea of Neal being in danger, and all for a handful of jewels.
But his gut said no, this isn't right. This wasn't Neal. Neal was a silk shadow, the thief who made people smile as he took from them. He talked and charmed and staked his targets out, and those around him lit up like the sun while he did so. But the clerk, a young, pretty woman, looked at Neal like he was going to eat her alive. She was terrified, and there Neal was, doing only what he only ever did in the cover of dark, when people were out of harms way and no one would know what happened until the next day when Neal was long gone.
This was not Neal's style. It was so far from Neal's style that Peter felt foolish for even considering it. He leaned in closer looking for any detail that would tell him plain as day that this wasn't Neal, simply a pathetic copy that didn't know what he was doing.
“What's that?” Peter said, pointing at the wrist of the hand holding the briefcase. “What is that?”
It looked like strings, colored strings running from the briefcase up into Neal's sleeve. It made Peter pay attention to Neal's actions, the careful way he set the briefcase on the counter, the white-knuckled grip on the handle that he wouldn't let go of, his painfully rigid posture, as though he were the one scared.
“What did he threaten the clerk with?” Peter asked.
“A weapon, that's all he said to her,” Jones said.
“Do we have a description of him?”
“Just that he was a young guy in a suit. He had the hat tipped so that it obscured most of his face. But she thought he might have been wearing glasses, black frames.”
“I want that clerk's statement ASAP,” Peter said.
“Way ahead of you. They should be sending it soon,” Jones, on his phone, said.
The man in the gray suit was leaving, strolling casually away with is head still bent. But he had grabbed a pamphlet in his free hand along the way and was tapping it fast against his thigh. Peter played the footage back, over and over. He knew that rhythm that wasn't really a rhythm.
“Morse code,” Peter said, rewinding again. “He's talking to us in Morse code.” The letters of the taps came together in Peter's head as easy as a child's crossword puzzle and sickeningly clear.
HLP ME PTR.
HVE A BMB
----------------------
“Cutting it pretty close there, kid,” Boss said with a smile on his face but a razor edge to his voice. “Next time, walk faster.”
“Kind of hard to when I have a pound of explosives strapped to my chest. I wouldn't want to trip, set it off and blow everything in that case to hell,” Neal said with an insouciant camaraderie he was a million miles away from feeling. It was hard to breathe with a wide, thick band made heavy by explosive putty, wire and a receiver cinched like an iron grip around his ribs, chafing his skin, making him feel every beat of his rapid heart. His hand was starting to lock up around the handle of the briefcase, but that was good, very good, because if he let go, if he so much as eased his grip even a fraction from that handle, half of him would be in Manhattan, the other Staten Island.
“I'm a man of my word, Caffrey. You pull this off, you won't have to worry about it any more,” Boss said, hands raised like a double Scout's honor. But not having to worry about anything anymore held the weight of too many meanings, because you worried just as less when you were dead as having a bomb removed from your chest.
But Neal had consolation. He had Peter, and the fact that Boss, though he knew Neal worked for the Feds, didn't seem to know a thing about the people Neal worked with. He had told Neal to call his handler - not Peter, not Burke, just a faceless title.
He also had the limitations of the camera set between the eyes of the black-framed glasses. One of Boss's “friends” used a laptop to watch the footage, to see what Neal saw, and Neal had caught a glimpse of that footage enough to know the range. All he had to do was keep looking up, and hoped Peter caught what Boss and his boys couldn't see.
The van hit a pothole, making everyone jolt and the wires of the bomb brush against Neal's skin. It was impossible to suppress a shiver.
“How did you find me, anyway?” Neal asked. “Why did you find me? There are more than enough people with my skills to help you out and none of them with my restrictions.”
“You've got quite a reputation, Caffrey. Caught only because of a girl?” Boss clucked his tongue. “Still, that's a damn good run you had. That kind of skill is hard to come by. A little inquiry here and there led me to your general vicinity. The rest was a matter of watching and waiting. Good thing I'm a patient guy when I need to be.” Boss looked up out the windshield. “Oh, looks like your next gig, Caffrey. Better slap on that winning smile of yours.”
Neal did, and doubted it would win anything.
---------------------
It was a pawn shop, this time. Low end, nothing to write home about and nothing that would have pinged the Caffrey-alert radar for the police if Peter hadn't demanded footage from any robbery taking place at any time within the Manhattan area. Two messy armed robberies at two gas stations and another at a different pawn shop later, then jackpot: a man in a suit, hat, head angled and a hint of black frames. There was no pamphlet this time - Neal probably had to discard it - but the pawn shop was small, the security camera close and Peter saw Neal's slender fingers tapping his thigh.
“WTCHING. I'm assuming he means watching,” Peter muttered.
“As in we're watching him?” Jones said. Now that they knew what was going on, the conference room had become the base of operations, with everyone involved not currently out on the streets working with police or at the crime scenes gathered around to keep up.
“No,” Peter said, thinking. “Anything addressed to us is going to be information we need to know. They must be watching him, keeping a tail on him or...” an image of Mozzi'es thick glasses popped into his head, and with Mozzie came the thought of Russian surplus. Peter snapped his fingers and pointed at the still frame of Neal strolling out of the pawn shop with a suitcase full of cash. “The glasses. They must have a camera in the glasses. And if they're going that high tech we can assume some kind of radio contact as well.”
“With a frequency we can trace?” Diana asked.
“It would take us a while to find it and we might have to be in close to catch it,” Jones said, not being the bearer of bad news, simply being practical.
Peter moved to the map of Manhattan laid out on the table. They had already marked off the location of the jewelry store and now had the pawn shop circled, but they still needed at least two more locations to know if there was some sort of pattern to the hits. But there had to be. To go from a jewelry store to a crappy pawn shop, there had to be a reason it looked like these people were picking off what they could rather than what they wanted.
Peter went back to the still, Neal two steps from the door, back so straight it looked ready to snap.
“Keep talking to us Neal. Tell us where they're going.”
------------------
Neal had no idea where they were going, why he'd gone from a jeweler to a pawn shop and, now, a savings and loan. It was busy today, the lines slow, the AC barely coughing up air and sweat soaked through Neal's shirt, making the skin under the belt around his chest burn. The clock ticked slowly as though taunting him and he wondered if this was what hell was going to be like - long lines and a bomb around his chest. When he finally reached the desk, it was all he could do not to drop in short-lived relief.
Neal smiled. “Hi, there.”
The clerk, a middle-aged woman who had worked here too long and was too hot to put up with even Caffrey's charm, said blandly, “Can I help you?”
“Yes you can.” He set the briefcase on the counter and, without taking his hand off the handle, opened it. “You can fill this up. And please keep your hand away from the alarm. Though you can't see it, I am armed, and believe me when I say I would really not be happy if I was made to use force.”
Keller would have been proud if he saw Neal now - pretty boy with a soft spot for his fellow human beings, politely threatening a middle-age woman who probably had kids. He would have been impressed, because there was something about a friendly attitude while you threatened someone's life that was a hell of a lot scarier than seeing a weapon in person. The woman took Neal's word for it and filled the briefcase fast.
Neal turned and walked casually out, tapping his next message on his thigh. He stopped mid-message when a patrol car pulled up alongside the building. Apparently being kindly scary hadn't been enough to stop the woman's finger from hitting that alarm. Taking a breath, Neal did what he always did when about to be confronted by police while still inside the place he'd knocked-off - walk out like nothing was wrong and he had nothing to hide.
It worked for a grand total of ten seconds. Neal was out, on the sidewalk, in the cool shade of the building's awning.
“Hey, you, hold up.”
Then he was running.
“Change of plans I'm being pursued,” Neal said to the tiny radio in his collar.
Boss said in his ear. “No problem, keep cool and keep running. Your next stop is four blocks up, then take a left for two more blocks and you're there.”
“Think I'll need a little more than that!”
“You'll know it when you see it,” was all Boss said.
Neal took a short cut through a high rise and a plush lobby of polished desks and brass. He'd always been good at shortcuts. Manhattan was full of them if you knew your way around, and Neal knew his way around. Mozzie had helped to make sure of it when they'd teamed up and Neal was still new to the area. There were secret places, here; secret entrances and exits and places you could hide. But it wasn't simply about using the buildings, it was also about using the people. When he was back out on the street through an emergency exit, he ran until he found an expensive hotel full of summer tourists willing to dole out too much cash for the full New York Experience. Neal ducked into the crowd, removing his jacket as much as he could and letting it hang over the briefcase. He hid the hat under it, mussed his already messy hair, and reestablished the walk of a man with nothing to worry about. Making a U turn, he headed back for the doors, the cops bursting in only five feet away. Neal walked by, and they didn't even look his way.
“Good job, kid,” Boss said when Neal announced himself in the clear, and Neal thought he heard Boss applaud. “See? This is why I chose you. But it looks like you're going to have to go on foot from here on in. No worries, we'll catch up soon. And remember what'll happen if you run. There's more than one trigger to that puppy around your chest.”
Neal licked dry lips with a dry tongue, but walked as though everything were right in the world.
------------------------
Peter slammed the flat of his hand on the table. “Damn it!” They had almost had him, the cops, but Neal in true Neal fashion gave them the slip. Not just gave them the slip but seemed to vanish into thin air.
Peter didn't know whether to be relieved or pissed, but chose pissed. The cops almost catching Neal wasn't a good thing, not if there was a second trigger to that bomb. Problem was, Neal remained in no position to be helped.
“We need to know where the hell he's going to hit next,” Peter said to no one in particular. He looked at the newest footage of Neal, standing in line, face away from the camera. Whoever was pulling the strings must have staked these places out for Neal to know where not to look up.
But they were too damn slick or too damn cowardly to do the dirty work themselves. It tripled Peter's anger. Neal might have made a lot of bad choices in his life but, at heart, he was a decent guy, a guy who cared about people, a guy who disliked violence, a guy who hated to see others get hurt. A guy who, deep down, did have it in him to do the right thing if he would just let himself. A good guy.
And this, what Neal was being made to do... this was sick. This wasn't merely a bunch of thugs forcing Neal into doing the crime, this was them forcing him to do what he hated - threatening people, scaring them, making them fear him.
Doing it with a bomb somewhere on his body.
A bomb, one trigger in the palm of his hand, the other in the palm of someone else's.
Fury swelled in Peter's chest provoking another, stronger desire to hit something. Neal was out there, alone, his life hanging by a thread hooked to a trigger and until he knew more there wasn't a damn thing Peter could do about it.
It didn't just make him angry, it made him want to throw up. One push of a button, or the release of a switch, and Neal would be gone.
Peter rewound the newest footage and the interrupted message.
I DNT...
I don't...
“I don't know where you are, either,” Peter said.
----------------------
Neal knew where he was, and nearly laughed out loud on realizing it. He'd always known where he was in terms of geography, but in terms of whatever pattern Boss had set, he'd been completely lost. He recognized his newest target, the cash into gold place next to the little boutique where he liked to buy his paints. It was as he waited in line, again, at the cash-into-gold place and Boss occupied him with another set of vague directions that Neal figured it out.
He knew this city, knew more of its nooks and crannies than even those who had lived their entire lives here, and he knew what Boss was doing.
Neal's next target was a place not far from the little bistro where he sometimes had lunch with Mozzie or Peter. Another pawn shop, nothing fancy, no rhyme or reason for stealing from it.
But it was fairly close, moving him closer, to an even bigger pay off - another jewelry store, one that made the one he'd just rob look like another pawn shop. And Neal would know since he had helped the place find their missing pink diamond. And between this place and that one, plenty of little pawn shops and savings and loans to harass and keep the cops looking in the wrong direction. Their sights were going to be on the small places, not the large, when Neal hit that store.
But there was still a ways to go and a lot of walking to do. But Neal knew this city, and he knew what to do.
----------------------
Peter stared at the screen as though it were lying to him. Except it wasn't. He saw it, plain as day even with the cameras of the cash-into-gold place something out of the early eighties. Neal had freed one finger from its death grip on the briefcase handle and was tapping away as he waited in line. It took several viewings, pen and a paper to write the dits and dots down, but Peter got the message. He turned to Diana, Jones and the rest of the team.
“I know where Neal's going to be and we need to be there when he arrives. Diana, call in someone from the bomb squad, the best guy they've got. The rest of you listen up, because we're probably going to have one shot at this.”
--------------------
“Damn it, cops!” Neal said, breaking into a run.
“Cops? What cops, I didn't see any cops,” said Boss, heavy on the skepticism.
“Just take my word for it. I'm going to lose them in the subway.” Neal hurried down the stairs away from the imaginary cops. He was a fit guy, always had been and would always stay that way since you never knew when you had to run. But with all the running, walking and the stress of having a bomb strapped to him, fatigue had started to set in hard and fast. He didn't have to fake his heavy breathing, and the slight stumble on the last step wasn't an act.
“Listen,” he panted. “Mind if I just take the subway? I know it'll put me a little out of the way but I could really use a break.”
“Better idea. You come out and we pick you up. We're not far.”
Neal shook his head. “Not if those cops are still out there.”
“Then we'll keep an eye out for them. Just stay where you are.”
“Fine. But if they come down those stairs when the train's here I'm getting on.”
“You do that. Otherwise stay put or you're not the only one blown to pieces.”
Neal shuddered. He looked to the stairs crowded with people coming and going, then at his surroundings, his heart sinking with every unfamiliar face he saw. Then someone stepped up next to him, bumping their hand against his thigh, twice, distinctly. Neal didn't turn his head to look at them, only his eyes, and once again nearly lost his legs to relief.
Peter, his face down looking at at a folded newspaper, a cap pulled low hiding most of his features, tapped against Neal's leg with his hand.
STY WHR U R. DNT LUK DWN
DONT MOVE.
Neal did look down, but only with his eyes, not his head, when he felt the displacement of air you only felt when someone was there. A man dressed in the black pads and helmet of a bomb squad member was crouched at Neal's feet, untucking Neal's shirt.
Neal rolled his eyes up and locked them on the wall on the other side of the tracks.
“We're not seeing any cops, Caffrey.”
“Yeah, well, keep looking. They were beat cops, two of them.”
Neal could feel the bomb guy unbutton his shirt and open it, cool air turned cold on Neal's sweat-soaked body. He could feel Peter still next to him, not going anywhere.
“Caffrey, you're giving me the bad feeling you're playing me.”
“I'm not,” Neal said, voice cracking. He swallowed, but there was no saliva in his mouth, his tongue a shriveled up leaf that didn't want to work.
“Screw it, Caffrey, there's no cops. Get your ass back out here.”
Soft tapping on the lower half of his left ribcage made Neal jump.
DNT MOVE, and, oh, how Neal wanted to snap how he'd gotten that message already, to tap back please, please hurry.
“Caffrey, what the hell are you up to, get your ass back up here, now!”
Neal could feel the wires brush his skin as the bomb guy moved them, felt the belt slip on his clammy flesh when something was tugged.
“Caffrey, I will detonate this damn thing, so help me--”
“Please,” Neal said. Licking his parched lips, he amended. “I mean, just let me take the subway, just in case they're still up there. It'll be safer...”
“No can do, kiddo. I'm giving you to the count of ten. If I don't see you. Boom. One...”
There was more tugging, followed by the click of wire cutters.
“Two... three... I don't see you kid...”
“Almost got it...” Bomb guy whispered.
“Four... five... six... where are you?”
Neal's blood thundered in his ears, his heart about to explode in his chest.
“Seven...”
“Got it. You can let go.”
“Eight...”
Neal's fingers twitched, but he couldn't move them. He couldn't move.
“Nine...”
He felt the belt peeled from his chest and the case yanked from his hand with such force that he stumbled, wanting to run, to duck, to hide, so many desires warring with each other that his body faltered, about to drop.
“Ten.”
Two jacket-clad arms wrapped around him, steadying him before he fell. Neal cringed inward bracing himself for the concussive force and tearing hit of an explosion.
All he felt was the cool air of the subway and the arms around his chest, lowering him gently to the ground.
“It's okay, Neal, I've got you” Peter said in his ear. “Everything's going to be okay.”
---------------------
It wasn't over as much as Peter wanted it to be.
“Where are they, Neal?” he said into Neal's ear.
“Blue van, No windows. Should be outside,” Neal said roughly, a dead but shaking weight in Peter's arms, heart fluttering painfully fast against Peter's wrist.
Peter nodded to Jones who took over looking after a spent Neal. He raced up the steps, shedding his jacket and hat, with Diana and two agents right next to him.
“Fan out, look for a blue van, no windows,” he said.
“Boss!” Diana called, pointing right. Sure enough, there was the van, parked illegally along the curb, either still waiting for Neal or a fireball erupting from the subway entrance. Peter signaled to the others and like wolves stalking an elk they crept toward the van, surrounding it, weapons out. With a nod to the agent with him, Peter grabbed the handle of the door and yanked it open screaming, “FBI! Nobody move!”
The men inside scrabbled for weapons until it finally caught up to them that it was too late. Peter could just see Diana through the driver's side window, her gun on the driver.
Peter smiled. “You're under arrest.” And thought those words had never sounded sweeter.
---------------------
Neal honestly didn't see the need to go with the paramedics. It wasn't like Boss and his boys had had a chance to rough him up. But the lack of bruises on Neal's body wasn't enough for Peter, and of course the paramedics had to go and confirm Peter's concerns. Dehydration, exhaustion...
“And that kind of stress can be hell on a body,” Peter added.
“Considering what you allegedly think I did for a living, I would think I have a pretty good handle on stress,” Neal said, enduring a cold stethoscope on his bare chest all the same.
“I doubt those 'alleged' stressful moments involved a bomb around your chest and a mad dash to keep from being blown up.”
As much as Neal hated to admit it, Peter was right, this had been different. It was never as easy when you weren't the one calling the shots, and ten times worse when all your choices were taken away by the threat of possible death - a possible violent death at that. Contrary to popular belief, Neal wasn't devoid of all fear, and he did have a sense of self preservation. He'd been scared before, terrified before, and he'd been terrified now - that painful, gut twisting, choking terror that made you a believer in dropping dead on the spot out of fright, and it left Neal caught in a cycle of amazement that he was still alive.
He was alive. Not in a thousand pieces. Not a puddle on the floor, heart stopped by terror.
Alive.
But he still didn't think it warranted a trip to the hospital. He went all the same, mostly to satiate Peter's worry. He owed him that and so much more.
As Neal sat upright on a bed, upper half covered by a scrub shirt, a needle in his arm filling him with fluids, Peter graced him once again with his presence, bearing good news.
“The guy who took you is named Joe Torelli.”
Neal pondered the name, then shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
Peter chuffed. “You wouldn't. Violent crimes would. He's an underling for the mob, real tech savvy. He thought now as good a time as ever to show off his skills as a guy who can get things done without leaving a trail.”
“Wow. Guess he's not a guy who can get things done.”
Peter grinned. “Yeah. And it looks like he didn't ask permission for this spree of his, either. His men turned on him in exchange for protection against Torelli's bosses. Kidnapping, theft, attempted murder - this guy's going away for a looooong time.”
“Good to hear,” Neal said in another wave of weakening relief.
Peter tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Do you realize that this makes it the first time you've ever lied to me?”
Neal rolled his eyes. “Are you seriously going to hold that against me?”
“No, no. I just... think it's interesting, that's all; lying badly to save your life.”
“Hey, it worked, didn't it?”
“True. Well, okay, to be honest there was a moment when I didn't know what to think. That I believed, you know... I believed the worst about the situation, before I knew you were being forcibly coerced.” Peter cleared his throat and added quickly, “But it didn't last. It wasn't you. Your style, I mean. Not how you operate.” But he continued looking contrite.
Neal only shrugged. “You didn't know what was going on, and I couldn't be honest with Torelli standing right there.” And Neal knew Peter, too, the way Peter knew him. As much as Neal would like Peter to trust him, he had never blinded himself to the fact that there would always be doubts, because trust was a fragile dish in a China shop and Neal the bull still learning how not to charge.
Besides, it didn't matter. Peter had figured it out, like he always did. He had been there just like Neal knew he would.
“Why have you never lied to me?” Peter asked, pulling Neal from his thoughts.
Neal looked at him, surprised, because he was sure Peter should have known this one. “You would only see right through it.”
Peter nodded as though this had been the answer he'd been expecting.
Except it wasn't the entire answer.
“And...” Neal said, reluctant, because some kinds of honesty were hard not for the sake of keeping secrets, but just because they were hard. “I respect you too much to lie to you,” Neal said fast, looking away at his hands, the one still curled from muscles easing out of a painful grip. “You don't lie to the people who have your back. The people you trust. And I would say that I wouldn't lie to you if my life depended on it but--”
Peter waved it off. “Extenuating circumstances. Besides, it doesn't count. Way too obvious.”
“On purpose.”
“Good, because for a second you really had me doubting that silver tongue of yours.”
“Fully intact, I promise.”
“You know that's not necessarily a good thing, right?”
Neal lifted his hands in a what-can-you-do shrug. Then said, “I guess it wasn't entirely a lie, either. Kind of hard to feel on top of the world when some guy's kidnapping you.”
Peter nodded. “True, very true.” He studied Neal for a moment. “And just so you know, it's mutual. The respect thing, I mean. No one forces one of my people to lie then straps a bomb to him and gets away with it.”
Neal raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Peter, is that your round-about way of saying you've got my back? I'm touched.”
Peter chuckled. “And you're obviously feeling better?”
Neal smiled. “Much.”
The End
Rating: PG
Characters: Neal, Peter
Warnings: Language
Summary: Neal can't lie to Peter to save his life, but that's kind of the point. not beta'd but edited like crazy. Written for poorfenny at collarcorner for this prompt
Manhunt
“I'm not feeling too hot, Peter,” Neal said, his voice chipper, upbeat, devoid of the hoarseness and flat misery of the truly “too sick to work.” But as if realizing this, Neal tacked on a pathetic little cough.
Peter frowned, frowned some more, that same frown mirrored in the deepening creases on his forehead. His gut was screaming at him - don't buy it! - but his voice said against his gut's will. “Okay.”
“Yeah, sorry. I really wanted to come in but I don't want this to spread.” Another little cough, this time with more effort.
“Wouldn't have to live with one man taking down the entire White Collar unit with a cold,” Peter said, his voice amused, his gut shrieking at him.
“More like the flu, I think. Really nasty. In fact it's getting to be kind of a bastard.” Neal cleared his throat.
“Well... get some rest, then. Drink lots of liquids, take some vitamin C...”
“Yes, mom,” Neal said, too cheerful, too healthy. He hung up.
If Peter's gut instinct had hands, they would be around his throat, wringing his neck. Peter Burke was a man who listened to his gut, especially when it was this loud, this persistent, even when he didn't want to believe it. Because what it was telling him was that Neal had lied.
I never lied to you, Peter. Except Neal had, just now. A five year old could have seen through that act. Satchmo could have seen through it. It was like Neal hadn't even been trying, and that, right there, was why his instincts were having a coronary.
Because if Peter didn't know any better, he could have sworn Neal wanted Peter not to believe him.
Unless it's wishful thinking. Unless you're hoping so much against what's obvious that you're seeing what isn't there. And that was the problem with Neal - Peter could never be sure. He wasn't allowed to be sure, because the moment he was, the moment he thought he had Neal so pegged that he knew when Neal was telling the truth with absolute certainty, was the moment it would come back and bite a chunk out of his ass.
But this was Neal, who put on a show even when all he was doing was misdirecting. Neal, who lied for a living, like he didn't know how else to be, like his life depended on it every day. Which, Peter supposed, considering the things Neal had pulled, it did. And even though Peter could see through Neal's lies, his cover-ups, his misdirections, it was still one hell of a show.
Neal hadn't tried. There had been no show, only the magician's most pathetic tricks laid bare, and they were nothing to be impressed with.
Peter swiveled to his computer and brought up Neal's tracking data. His timing couldn't have been better; there was Neal, not at home, the signal halfway between home and the office.
Then it was gone.
-----------------------
Neal hadn't hesitated hanging up seeing as how he didn't have a choice, but he hesitated taking his thumb off the screen. It must have been only seconds he stood there, wondering if he'd be fast enough pressing Peter's number again, if it would go unnoticed. Seconds that became an eternity, as though time had stopped only for him.
Time started again when the phone was taken from his hand. He was clasped by the shoulder but managed not to flinch - he was good at not flinching, no matter how badly his body wanted to. The owner of the hand that was the source of the unwanted touch moved into Neal's line of sight and smiled.
Tall, rangy, dark hair wavy but slicked with what looked like grease; he didn't have a name, only a title - the Boss - and in fact he kind of did look like Bruce Springstein in a grizzled, oily, sharper way. Neal didn't know the guy but the guy knew him, which was never a good thing for someone who relied on anonymity like food, but it was made worse by Boss' five very strong, very indifferent friends waiting just within the unmarked and windowless blue van.
“You did good there, Caffrey,” Boss said. “You keep this up and I can guarantee you'll get out of this alive.”
Neal swallowed trying to moisten his sandy throat. All he could croak was a small, “Yeah.”
Boss steered Neal to the van with a gentle force of pressure on his shoulder. The “friends,” their hands hidden in their jackets, parted to make room. Once inside, the door was shut, the van started to move, and Caffrey's anklet was cracked from his ankle with industrial strength cutters. But strong as the cutters were, it was still messy work, and Neal now had the nicks and soon-to-be-bruises to prove it.
“Things are going good, Caffrey. You should be more relaxed about this. I would think it right up your alley.”
“Not really,” Neal rasped. He cleared his throat. “I prefer a little more... quiet finesse.”
“Which you'll get, I promise - your only guarantee. No ifs, ands, buts or any clerks pressing those stupid silent alarms.”
“I don't use guns,” Neal said firmly.
Boss bobbed his head. “Good, that's good. You won't need a gun.” He waved all that aside with a swipe of his hand. “But details later. First thing's first.” His smile became a smirk, a I-know-something-you-don't-know and you're-going-to-love-this simper. “Take off your jacket and shirt.”
----------------------
The office was in chaos, Jones on the phone with the marshalls, Diana on the phone with police to send out a bolo, Peter in Hughes' office, speculating out loud as to what the hell had to be going on. They'd already sent people out to where Neal's anklet had last shown him to be when he'd called, but there'd been nothing to see.
“I know what you're thinking, sir, but it doesn't add up. I know when Caffrey's up to something and he hasn't been, and I know when he isn't being completely honest with me and he wasn't even trying to hide anything.”
“And maybe that was the point,” Hughes said. “To throw you off the right scent. This is Caffrey we're talking about. He's probably figured that since pretending to be honest doesn't get him far with you then being completely dishonest can.”
But Peter shook his head. “I don't know. Something isn't right about this.”
“Of course something isn't right. Caffrey's cut and run. He could be anywhere right now.”
The one thing Peter didn't like about gut instinct was that, reliable as it had always been for him and the bureau, it wasn't hard evidence. You couldn't submit it to a court of law, and couldn't use it as a convincing enough argument as to why things weren't as they seemed.
“Find him, then sort it out,” Hughes said, not so much dismissing Peter as releasing him to do what he needed to.
Peter went back to his office, calling El along the way to see if she had gotten in touch with Mozzie.
“Took me a while but I managed it,” El said seriously. “In fact he's heading over here now. Peter, Mozzie doesn't know what's going on. He swears that Neal has been nothing but content. Honey, you know that if Neal had been up to something--”
“Mozzie would be a part of it, I know,” Peter said, his gut screaming in triumph, but his head ringing in growing alarm. At least a Neal up to something was a situation Peter could fathom, had more control over. A Neal in trouble not of his own making... those few times it happened always managed to come with a weapon pointed Neal's way and not a lot of time to do something about it.
Peter's mind switched gears, from contacts and friends to enemies and criminals in need of a disposable middleman. He started making new calls, bringing up new files on his computer the moment he was at his desk, digging for anyone in town or on bail who would be bad news for Neal. Mozzie called him, so frantic he didn't offer up a single quote.
Just the usual, “What the hell did you get Neal into this time?” followed immediately by, “How can I help?”
“Contacts, Mozzie. I need you to get in touch with as many as possible, find out if there's anyone around who might hold a grudge against Neal or needs someone to help pull a job.”
“Will do,” Mozzie said, and hung up to do as told, as if there were no suits or governments, just a team looking out to help one of their own.
Funny how quickly it had shifted from hunting Neal to saving him, and Peter hadn't told Hughes, yet.
“Peter, you need to look at this,” Jones said from the door. “Conference room.”
Diana was already there, already with a laptop open.
“Local PD sent us this footage as soon as they had a look at it. They thought it might be our boy,” Jones said.
Diana brought up the data - a video feed. The place was a jewelers, semi-expensive but with plenty of money for high-tech surveillance. Diana pointed to a man in a gray suit, his face hidden by the jaunty tilt of his hat, a hat too big to be Caffrey's style. The suit, height, and build, on the other hand, were all him. He had a briefcase in one hand that he set on the counter after talking with one of the clerks. It was filled messily with three handfuls of pricey jewelry, and the clerk looked terrified about it.
“Damn it!” Peter hissed. “When did this go down?”
“About twenty minutes ago,” Jones said.
“So not all that long after the anklet went off. That was fast,” Peter said bitterly, and in that moment - seconds he could count on one hand - he jumped to conclusions and hated himself for giving Neal the benefit of the doubt, hated Neal for putting them in this position, for making him take immediate side with the idea of Neal being in danger, and all for a handful of jewels.
But his gut said no, this isn't right. This wasn't Neal. Neal was a silk shadow, the thief who made people smile as he took from them. He talked and charmed and staked his targets out, and those around him lit up like the sun while he did so. But the clerk, a young, pretty woman, looked at Neal like he was going to eat her alive. She was terrified, and there Neal was, doing only what he only ever did in the cover of dark, when people were out of harms way and no one would know what happened until the next day when Neal was long gone.
This was not Neal's style. It was so far from Neal's style that Peter felt foolish for even considering it. He leaned in closer looking for any detail that would tell him plain as day that this wasn't Neal, simply a pathetic copy that didn't know what he was doing.
“What's that?” Peter said, pointing at the wrist of the hand holding the briefcase. “What is that?”
It looked like strings, colored strings running from the briefcase up into Neal's sleeve. It made Peter pay attention to Neal's actions, the careful way he set the briefcase on the counter, the white-knuckled grip on the handle that he wouldn't let go of, his painfully rigid posture, as though he were the one scared.
“What did he threaten the clerk with?” Peter asked.
“A weapon, that's all he said to her,” Jones said.
“Do we have a description of him?”
“Just that he was a young guy in a suit. He had the hat tipped so that it obscured most of his face. But she thought he might have been wearing glasses, black frames.”
“I want that clerk's statement ASAP,” Peter said.
“Way ahead of you. They should be sending it soon,” Jones, on his phone, said.
The man in the gray suit was leaving, strolling casually away with is head still bent. But he had grabbed a pamphlet in his free hand along the way and was tapping it fast against his thigh. Peter played the footage back, over and over. He knew that rhythm that wasn't really a rhythm.
“Morse code,” Peter said, rewinding again. “He's talking to us in Morse code.” The letters of the taps came together in Peter's head as easy as a child's crossword puzzle and sickeningly clear.
HLP ME PTR.
HVE A BMB
----------------------
“Cutting it pretty close there, kid,” Boss said with a smile on his face but a razor edge to his voice. “Next time, walk faster.”
“Kind of hard to when I have a pound of explosives strapped to my chest. I wouldn't want to trip, set it off and blow everything in that case to hell,” Neal said with an insouciant camaraderie he was a million miles away from feeling. It was hard to breathe with a wide, thick band made heavy by explosive putty, wire and a receiver cinched like an iron grip around his ribs, chafing his skin, making him feel every beat of his rapid heart. His hand was starting to lock up around the handle of the briefcase, but that was good, very good, because if he let go, if he so much as eased his grip even a fraction from that handle, half of him would be in Manhattan, the other Staten Island.
“I'm a man of my word, Caffrey. You pull this off, you won't have to worry about it any more,” Boss said, hands raised like a double Scout's honor. But not having to worry about anything anymore held the weight of too many meanings, because you worried just as less when you were dead as having a bomb removed from your chest.
But Neal had consolation. He had Peter, and the fact that Boss, though he knew Neal worked for the Feds, didn't seem to know a thing about the people Neal worked with. He had told Neal to call his handler - not Peter, not Burke, just a faceless title.
He also had the limitations of the camera set between the eyes of the black-framed glasses. One of Boss's “friends” used a laptop to watch the footage, to see what Neal saw, and Neal had caught a glimpse of that footage enough to know the range. All he had to do was keep looking up, and hoped Peter caught what Boss and his boys couldn't see.
The van hit a pothole, making everyone jolt and the wires of the bomb brush against Neal's skin. It was impossible to suppress a shiver.
“How did you find me, anyway?” Neal asked. “Why did you find me? There are more than enough people with my skills to help you out and none of them with my restrictions.”
“You've got quite a reputation, Caffrey. Caught only because of a girl?” Boss clucked his tongue. “Still, that's a damn good run you had. That kind of skill is hard to come by. A little inquiry here and there led me to your general vicinity. The rest was a matter of watching and waiting. Good thing I'm a patient guy when I need to be.” Boss looked up out the windshield. “Oh, looks like your next gig, Caffrey. Better slap on that winning smile of yours.”
Neal did, and doubted it would win anything.
---------------------
It was a pawn shop, this time. Low end, nothing to write home about and nothing that would have pinged the Caffrey-alert radar for the police if Peter hadn't demanded footage from any robbery taking place at any time within the Manhattan area. Two messy armed robberies at two gas stations and another at a different pawn shop later, then jackpot: a man in a suit, hat, head angled and a hint of black frames. There was no pamphlet this time - Neal probably had to discard it - but the pawn shop was small, the security camera close and Peter saw Neal's slender fingers tapping his thigh.
“WTCHING. I'm assuming he means watching,” Peter muttered.
“As in we're watching him?” Jones said. Now that they knew what was going on, the conference room had become the base of operations, with everyone involved not currently out on the streets working with police or at the crime scenes gathered around to keep up.
“No,” Peter said, thinking. “Anything addressed to us is going to be information we need to know. They must be watching him, keeping a tail on him or...” an image of Mozzi'es thick glasses popped into his head, and with Mozzie came the thought of Russian surplus. Peter snapped his fingers and pointed at the still frame of Neal strolling out of the pawn shop with a suitcase full of cash. “The glasses. They must have a camera in the glasses. And if they're going that high tech we can assume some kind of radio contact as well.”
“With a frequency we can trace?” Diana asked.
“It would take us a while to find it and we might have to be in close to catch it,” Jones said, not being the bearer of bad news, simply being practical.
Peter moved to the map of Manhattan laid out on the table. They had already marked off the location of the jewelry store and now had the pawn shop circled, but they still needed at least two more locations to know if there was some sort of pattern to the hits. But there had to be. To go from a jewelry store to a crappy pawn shop, there had to be a reason it looked like these people were picking off what they could rather than what they wanted.
Peter went back to the still, Neal two steps from the door, back so straight it looked ready to snap.
“Keep talking to us Neal. Tell us where they're going.”
------------------
Neal had no idea where they were going, why he'd gone from a jeweler to a pawn shop and, now, a savings and loan. It was busy today, the lines slow, the AC barely coughing up air and sweat soaked through Neal's shirt, making the skin under the belt around his chest burn. The clock ticked slowly as though taunting him and he wondered if this was what hell was going to be like - long lines and a bomb around his chest. When he finally reached the desk, it was all he could do not to drop in short-lived relief.
Neal smiled. “Hi, there.”
The clerk, a middle-aged woman who had worked here too long and was too hot to put up with even Caffrey's charm, said blandly, “Can I help you?”
“Yes you can.” He set the briefcase on the counter and, without taking his hand off the handle, opened it. “You can fill this up. And please keep your hand away from the alarm. Though you can't see it, I am armed, and believe me when I say I would really not be happy if I was made to use force.”
Keller would have been proud if he saw Neal now - pretty boy with a soft spot for his fellow human beings, politely threatening a middle-age woman who probably had kids. He would have been impressed, because there was something about a friendly attitude while you threatened someone's life that was a hell of a lot scarier than seeing a weapon in person. The woman took Neal's word for it and filled the briefcase fast.
Neal turned and walked casually out, tapping his next message on his thigh. He stopped mid-message when a patrol car pulled up alongside the building. Apparently being kindly scary hadn't been enough to stop the woman's finger from hitting that alarm. Taking a breath, Neal did what he always did when about to be confronted by police while still inside the place he'd knocked-off - walk out like nothing was wrong and he had nothing to hide.
It worked for a grand total of ten seconds. Neal was out, on the sidewalk, in the cool shade of the building's awning.
“Hey, you, hold up.”
Then he was running.
“Change of plans I'm being pursued,” Neal said to the tiny radio in his collar.
Boss said in his ear. “No problem, keep cool and keep running. Your next stop is four blocks up, then take a left for two more blocks and you're there.”
“Think I'll need a little more than that!”
“You'll know it when you see it,” was all Boss said.
Neal took a short cut through a high rise and a plush lobby of polished desks and brass. He'd always been good at shortcuts. Manhattan was full of them if you knew your way around, and Neal knew his way around. Mozzie had helped to make sure of it when they'd teamed up and Neal was still new to the area. There were secret places, here; secret entrances and exits and places you could hide. But it wasn't simply about using the buildings, it was also about using the people. When he was back out on the street through an emergency exit, he ran until he found an expensive hotel full of summer tourists willing to dole out too much cash for the full New York Experience. Neal ducked into the crowd, removing his jacket as much as he could and letting it hang over the briefcase. He hid the hat under it, mussed his already messy hair, and reestablished the walk of a man with nothing to worry about. Making a U turn, he headed back for the doors, the cops bursting in only five feet away. Neal walked by, and they didn't even look his way.
“Good job, kid,” Boss said when Neal announced himself in the clear, and Neal thought he heard Boss applaud. “See? This is why I chose you. But it looks like you're going to have to go on foot from here on in. No worries, we'll catch up soon. And remember what'll happen if you run. There's more than one trigger to that puppy around your chest.”
Neal licked dry lips with a dry tongue, but walked as though everything were right in the world.
------------------------
Peter slammed the flat of his hand on the table. “Damn it!” They had almost had him, the cops, but Neal in true Neal fashion gave them the slip. Not just gave them the slip but seemed to vanish into thin air.
Peter didn't know whether to be relieved or pissed, but chose pissed. The cops almost catching Neal wasn't a good thing, not if there was a second trigger to that bomb. Problem was, Neal remained in no position to be helped.
“We need to know where the hell he's going to hit next,” Peter said to no one in particular. He looked at the newest footage of Neal, standing in line, face away from the camera. Whoever was pulling the strings must have staked these places out for Neal to know where not to look up.
But they were too damn slick or too damn cowardly to do the dirty work themselves. It tripled Peter's anger. Neal might have made a lot of bad choices in his life but, at heart, he was a decent guy, a guy who cared about people, a guy who disliked violence, a guy who hated to see others get hurt. A guy who, deep down, did have it in him to do the right thing if he would just let himself. A good guy.
And this, what Neal was being made to do... this was sick. This wasn't merely a bunch of thugs forcing Neal into doing the crime, this was them forcing him to do what he hated - threatening people, scaring them, making them fear him.
Doing it with a bomb somewhere on his body.
A bomb, one trigger in the palm of his hand, the other in the palm of someone else's.
Fury swelled in Peter's chest provoking another, stronger desire to hit something. Neal was out there, alone, his life hanging by a thread hooked to a trigger and until he knew more there wasn't a damn thing Peter could do about it.
It didn't just make him angry, it made him want to throw up. One push of a button, or the release of a switch, and Neal would be gone.
Peter rewound the newest footage and the interrupted message.
I DNT...
I don't...
“I don't know where you are, either,” Peter said.
----------------------
Neal knew where he was, and nearly laughed out loud on realizing it. He'd always known where he was in terms of geography, but in terms of whatever pattern Boss had set, he'd been completely lost. He recognized his newest target, the cash into gold place next to the little boutique where he liked to buy his paints. It was as he waited in line, again, at the cash-into-gold place and Boss occupied him with another set of vague directions that Neal figured it out.
He knew this city, knew more of its nooks and crannies than even those who had lived their entire lives here, and he knew what Boss was doing.
Neal's next target was a place not far from the little bistro where he sometimes had lunch with Mozzie or Peter. Another pawn shop, nothing fancy, no rhyme or reason for stealing from it.
But it was fairly close, moving him closer, to an even bigger pay off - another jewelry store, one that made the one he'd just rob look like another pawn shop. And Neal would know since he had helped the place find their missing pink diamond. And between this place and that one, plenty of little pawn shops and savings and loans to harass and keep the cops looking in the wrong direction. Their sights were going to be on the small places, not the large, when Neal hit that store.
But there was still a ways to go and a lot of walking to do. But Neal knew this city, and he knew what to do.
----------------------
Peter stared at the screen as though it were lying to him. Except it wasn't. He saw it, plain as day even with the cameras of the cash-into-gold place something out of the early eighties. Neal had freed one finger from its death grip on the briefcase handle and was tapping away as he waited in line. It took several viewings, pen and a paper to write the dits and dots down, but Peter got the message. He turned to Diana, Jones and the rest of the team.
“I know where Neal's going to be and we need to be there when he arrives. Diana, call in someone from the bomb squad, the best guy they've got. The rest of you listen up, because we're probably going to have one shot at this.”
--------------------
“Damn it, cops!” Neal said, breaking into a run.
“Cops? What cops, I didn't see any cops,” said Boss, heavy on the skepticism.
“Just take my word for it. I'm going to lose them in the subway.” Neal hurried down the stairs away from the imaginary cops. He was a fit guy, always had been and would always stay that way since you never knew when you had to run. But with all the running, walking and the stress of having a bomb strapped to him, fatigue had started to set in hard and fast. He didn't have to fake his heavy breathing, and the slight stumble on the last step wasn't an act.
“Listen,” he panted. “Mind if I just take the subway? I know it'll put me a little out of the way but I could really use a break.”
“Better idea. You come out and we pick you up. We're not far.”
Neal shook his head. “Not if those cops are still out there.”
“Then we'll keep an eye out for them. Just stay where you are.”
“Fine. But if they come down those stairs when the train's here I'm getting on.”
“You do that. Otherwise stay put or you're not the only one blown to pieces.”
Neal shuddered. He looked to the stairs crowded with people coming and going, then at his surroundings, his heart sinking with every unfamiliar face he saw. Then someone stepped up next to him, bumping their hand against his thigh, twice, distinctly. Neal didn't turn his head to look at them, only his eyes, and once again nearly lost his legs to relief.
Peter, his face down looking at at a folded newspaper, a cap pulled low hiding most of his features, tapped against Neal's leg with his hand.
STY WHR U R. DNT LUK DWN
DONT MOVE.
Neal did look down, but only with his eyes, not his head, when he felt the displacement of air you only felt when someone was there. A man dressed in the black pads and helmet of a bomb squad member was crouched at Neal's feet, untucking Neal's shirt.
Neal rolled his eyes up and locked them on the wall on the other side of the tracks.
“We're not seeing any cops, Caffrey.”
“Yeah, well, keep looking. They were beat cops, two of them.”
Neal could feel the bomb guy unbutton his shirt and open it, cool air turned cold on Neal's sweat-soaked body. He could feel Peter still next to him, not going anywhere.
“Caffrey, you're giving me the bad feeling you're playing me.”
“I'm not,” Neal said, voice cracking. He swallowed, but there was no saliva in his mouth, his tongue a shriveled up leaf that didn't want to work.
“Screw it, Caffrey, there's no cops. Get your ass back out here.”
Soft tapping on the lower half of his left ribcage made Neal jump.
DNT MOVE, and, oh, how Neal wanted to snap how he'd gotten that message already, to tap back please, please hurry.
“Caffrey, what the hell are you up to, get your ass back up here, now!”
Neal could feel the wires brush his skin as the bomb guy moved them, felt the belt slip on his clammy flesh when something was tugged.
“Caffrey, I will detonate this damn thing, so help me--”
“Please,” Neal said. Licking his parched lips, he amended. “I mean, just let me take the subway, just in case they're still up there. It'll be safer...”
“No can do, kiddo. I'm giving you to the count of ten. If I don't see you. Boom. One...”
There was more tugging, followed by the click of wire cutters.
“Two... three... I don't see you kid...”
“Almost got it...” Bomb guy whispered.
“Four... five... six... where are you?”
Neal's blood thundered in his ears, his heart about to explode in his chest.
“Seven...”
“Got it. You can let go.”
“Eight...”
Neal's fingers twitched, but he couldn't move them. He couldn't move.
“Nine...”
He felt the belt peeled from his chest and the case yanked from his hand with such force that he stumbled, wanting to run, to duck, to hide, so many desires warring with each other that his body faltered, about to drop.
“Ten.”
Two jacket-clad arms wrapped around him, steadying him before he fell. Neal cringed inward bracing himself for the concussive force and tearing hit of an explosion.
All he felt was the cool air of the subway and the arms around his chest, lowering him gently to the ground.
“It's okay, Neal, I've got you” Peter said in his ear. “Everything's going to be okay.”
---------------------
It wasn't over as much as Peter wanted it to be.
“Where are they, Neal?” he said into Neal's ear.
“Blue van, No windows. Should be outside,” Neal said roughly, a dead but shaking weight in Peter's arms, heart fluttering painfully fast against Peter's wrist.
Peter nodded to Jones who took over looking after a spent Neal. He raced up the steps, shedding his jacket and hat, with Diana and two agents right next to him.
“Fan out, look for a blue van, no windows,” he said.
“Boss!” Diana called, pointing right. Sure enough, there was the van, parked illegally along the curb, either still waiting for Neal or a fireball erupting from the subway entrance. Peter signaled to the others and like wolves stalking an elk they crept toward the van, surrounding it, weapons out. With a nod to the agent with him, Peter grabbed the handle of the door and yanked it open screaming, “FBI! Nobody move!”
The men inside scrabbled for weapons until it finally caught up to them that it was too late. Peter could just see Diana through the driver's side window, her gun on the driver.
Peter smiled. “You're under arrest.” And thought those words had never sounded sweeter.
---------------------
Neal honestly didn't see the need to go with the paramedics. It wasn't like Boss and his boys had had a chance to rough him up. But the lack of bruises on Neal's body wasn't enough for Peter, and of course the paramedics had to go and confirm Peter's concerns. Dehydration, exhaustion...
“And that kind of stress can be hell on a body,” Peter added.
“Considering what you allegedly think I did for a living, I would think I have a pretty good handle on stress,” Neal said, enduring a cold stethoscope on his bare chest all the same.
“I doubt those 'alleged' stressful moments involved a bomb around your chest and a mad dash to keep from being blown up.”
As much as Neal hated to admit it, Peter was right, this had been different. It was never as easy when you weren't the one calling the shots, and ten times worse when all your choices were taken away by the threat of possible death - a possible violent death at that. Contrary to popular belief, Neal wasn't devoid of all fear, and he did have a sense of self preservation. He'd been scared before, terrified before, and he'd been terrified now - that painful, gut twisting, choking terror that made you a believer in dropping dead on the spot out of fright, and it left Neal caught in a cycle of amazement that he was still alive.
He was alive. Not in a thousand pieces. Not a puddle on the floor, heart stopped by terror.
Alive.
But he still didn't think it warranted a trip to the hospital. He went all the same, mostly to satiate Peter's worry. He owed him that and so much more.
As Neal sat upright on a bed, upper half covered by a scrub shirt, a needle in his arm filling him with fluids, Peter graced him once again with his presence, bearing good news.
“The guy who took you is named Joe Torelli.”
Neal pondered the name, then shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
Peter chuffed. “You wouldn't. Violent crimes would. He's an underling for the mob, real tech savvy. He thought now as good a time as ever to show off his skills as a guy who can get things done without leaving a trail.”
“Wow. Guess he's not a guy who can get things done.”
Peter grinned. “Yeah. And it looks like he didn't ask permission for this spree of his, either. His men turned on him in exchange for protection against Torelli's bosses. Kidnapping, theft, attempted murder - this guy's going away for a looooong time.”
“Good to hear,” Neal said in another wave of weakening relief.
Peter tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Do you realize that this makes it the first time you've ever lied to me?”
Neal rolled his eyes. “Are you seriously going to hold that against me?”
“No, no. I just... think it's interesting, that's all; lying badly to save your life.”
“Hey, it worked, didn't it?”
“True. Well, okay, to be honest there was a moment when I didn't know what to think. That I believed, you know... I believed the worst about the situation, before I knew you were being forcibly coerced.” Peter cleared his throat and added quickly, “But it didn't last. It wasn't you. Your style, I mean. Not how you operate.” But he continued looking contrite.
Neal only shrugged. “You didn't know what was going on, and I couldn't be honest with Torelli standing right there.” And Neal knew Peter, too, the way Peter knew him. As much as Neal would like Peter to trust him, he had never blinded himself to the fact that there would always be doubts, because trust was a fragile dish in a China shop and Neal the bull still learning how not to charge.
Besides, it didn't matter. Peter had figured it out, like he always did. He had been there just like Neal knew he would.
“Why have you never lied to me?” Peter asked, pulling Neal from his thoughts.
Neal looked at him, surprised, because he was sure Peter should have known this one. “You would only see right through it.”
Peter nodded as though this had been the answer he'd been expecting.
Except it wasn't the entire answer.
“And...” Neal said, reluctant, because some kinds of honesty were hard not for the sake of keeping secrets, but just because they were hard. “I respect you too much to lie to you,” Neal said fast, looking away at his hands, the one still curled from muscles easing out of a painful grip. “You don't lie to the people who have your back. The people you trust. And I would say that I wouldn't lie to you if my life depended on it but--”
Peter waved it off. “Extenuating circumstances. Besides, it doesn't count. Way too obvious.”
“On purpose.”
“Good, because for a second you really had me doubting that silver tongue of yours.”
“Fully intact, I promise.”
“You know that's not necessarily a good thing, right?”
Neal lifted his hands in a what-can-you-do shrug. Then said, “I guess it wasn't entirely a lie, either. Kind of hard to feel on top of the world when some guy's kidnapping you.”
Peter nodded. “True, very true.” He studied Neal for a moment. “And just so you know, it's mutual. The respect thing, I mean. No one forces one of my people to lie then straps a bomb to him and gets away with it.”
Neal raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Peter, is that your round-about way of saying you've got my back? I'm touched.”
Peter chuckled. “And you're obviously feeling better?”
Neal smiled. “Much.”
The End