I am a hurt/comfort fan. Its what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is kinder. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you. I plan to update this story about every three days instead of every other which is my usual schedule. I haven't quite finished it yet so I need the extra time :)

I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter One

There was a moment, just a second or two when Neal thought perhaps Detective Second Grade Scott McNeely was working undercover and had stumbled into the FBI's case. The man's eyes had widened in recognition when Neal had stepped through the door; Neal hoped it was because he was afraid his cover might be blown. However, that hope was a fleeting one; soon it was altogether too clear that was not the case.

"Nick," Garrison began with the introductions, "Scott handles some aspects of security for me. He is uniquely positioned to ensure that our business dealings go off without any interference from the authorities."

McNeely was uniquely positioned in that he was the authority. As a member of the NYPD Organized Crime Control Bureau, his unit was charged with the investigation and prevention of organized crime in New York City. In his position with the OCCB, he was in the perfect position to make sure law enforcement attention was directed away from the activities of Garrison. He would also have knowledge of any outside agency that began to take special notice of his organization.

Neal had met the detective a couple years prior when a case McNeely was working had crossed over into a White Collar case. Although the meeting had been a brief one, it had apparently made an impression. For such a large city, New York was suddenly feeling rather cramped.

McNeely's eyes narrowed and suddenly Neal was staring down the barrel of his weapon. "I think you have a loyalty problem here, Mr. Garrison," McNeely said softly.

Neal's mouth had gone dry, but he managed a smile anyway. "That sounds a little hypocritical coming from you, Detective McNeely."

"Shut your mouth," McNeely snapped at Neal, then spoke quietly to Garrison, "Did you check him for wires, for transmitters?"

"Oh course," Garrison, confused by McNeely's behavior, looked from one to the other. "We have jammers in the car, and we scanned him again after we arrived. He's clean. Why? What's wrong?"

"His name isn't Halden, it's Caffrey," McNeely said quietly. "He works with the feds; White Collar Division, or he did a couple years ago."

Garrison's teeth clenched in anger at the news but unleashed it not on Neal but McNeely instead. "The Feds? How the hell did you let this happen?" he yelled, "You said you'd know if anyone was snooping around in my business; I pay you to know these things!"

"This didn't come down the normal channels," McNeely explained, his eyes narrowing on Neal. "My office wasn't aware of any FBI involvement, and none of the local authorities were informed."

The Bureau had suspicions that someone was providing protection for Garrison's illegal activities and for that reason, the operation had been need-to-know and played very close to the vest. Even the OCCB had not been given notification of the investigation or the operation.

"Look, there is no FBI involvement," Neal lied, "I am not working for anyone but myself here."

"You really expect me to believe that?" McNeely snorted.

"Look," Neal continued, trying to build some level of commaradie, "sometimes I pick up a little freelance work to help make ends meet, you know? And if it were an FBI investigation, you'd know about it, right?"

"Yes, I would." He seemed to relax somewhat at that realization. "What freelance work do you have with Mr. Garrison here?"

"I am interested in acquiring a Degas he has in his possession." Neal held up the case, "I have $150,000 here, all ready to exchange once I verify the painting's authenticity."

Neal's watch, equipped with a GPS locator, could be deactivated and reactivated to avoid Garrison's scans. The device in the case was the same, but couldn't be activated until the case was opened. Neal would have shown the money to Garrison, activating the signal for Peter and the team to move in. It would still have taken several minutes for them to arrive; time Neal would have spent verifying the painting. But things had gone slightly off course; well, things had gone drastically off course. McNeely had recognized him, the case was unopened and Peter and the team were patiently waiting four blocks out.

"I'm afraid that you will not be able to complete that transaction, Mr. Caffrey," McNeely informed him coolly. "At least, not your end of it."

"I see no reason why not," Neal said easily, still hoping for a reprieve. He nodded towards Garrison. "He brings me the Degas, I give him clean money, and we both go on our merry way. No need for things to get complicated."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Caffrey, they already are." McNeely sighed, "Believe me, I understand the idea of doing a little freelance work, but the fact that you know who I am creates a problem that I can't afford to have."

"It doesn't have to," Neal countered, "You know I'm buying a stolen painting; that makes you a threat to me as well. You realize that I only work for the FBI because I have to, don't you? It keeps me out of prison. They get wind I've done anything illegal and my deal is off. I will go straight back without passing go or collecting two hundred dollars. So you see, your secret is safe with me."

McNeely seemed to consider the concept of mutual risk but rejected it with a shake of his head. "Sorry, Caffrey, I really am, but you're obviously not very trustworthy." He looked at Garrison "I suggest you make yourself scarce. You will be completing no business with Mr. Caffrey today."

Garrison eyed the case in Neal's hand, reluctant to leave without it. Neal could understand; it wouldn't be as if he could file a complaint about a breach of contract. He would be dead. "What are you going to do?" Garrison asked McNeely.

"Take him out behind the next building shoot him," McNeely answered. Apparently Neal's efforts at creating a sense of camaraderie had failed miserably. "That is what happens when someone engaging in criminal activities shoots at officers responding to a call. We return fire."

It was a technically but Neal mentioned it anyway. "I'm not armed."

"Don't worry, you will be when they process the scene." McNeely turned to one of Garrison's men and extended his free hand. Without a word, the man handed over his own firearm. McNeely deposited it in his own jacket pocket. "I will write up the incidence report myself," His smile was humorless "and my partner here will corroborate it."

"I have never even been suspected of a violent crime," Neal stated, beginning to feel a bit of panic as the situation deteriorated. How long before Peter's patience ran out? "People might believe I could dabble in questionable activities, but they will never think I'd carry a weapon or fire on officers."

"They will believe whatever I tell them," McNeely's tone was matter-of-fact. "I am a decorated member of the NYPD, and I have a perfect service record," He nodded at the man with him, "Reece here has one too. Your record?" He shrugged, "Well, let's just say less than perfect. People might be disappointed, Caffrey, but I doubt they'll be all that surprised. A zebra can't change its stripes; once a criminal always a criminal."

Those words resonated painfully within Neal; it was an underlying attitude he dealt with every day. Not just in those he came in contact with, his coworkers and friends, but even within himself. Neal was aware that many at the FBI didn't trust him; even Peter's motto was trust but verify. McNeely was right; given compelling evidence, a gun with his prints at the scene, and testimony from stellar members of the OCCB, any doubts of his guilt would eventually be overcome. Peter would argue that Neal was unarmed and working undercover, but with no audio, there would be no proof as to what had actually transpired during the meeting. It would come down to the word of McNeely and Reece, and just as he had said, in the end, they would be believed. Peter would never buy their story, but with no way to refute their claims, he would be forced to accept it.

"You know I'm right, don't you, Caffrey?" McNeely's smile was cruel. "If given the option, they will think the worst of you."

"Not all of them," Neal replied quietly, making his decision. He was not going anywhere with this man. His best chance was to make a move now. There was probably ten to twelve feet between him and McNeely; the door he had entered through was only a couple feet behind him. It was heavy and only partially open.

Garrison obviously wanted the case and giving it to him might provide a momentary diversion. In a quick motion, Neal both tossed the case at Garrison and moved back through the opening. His sudden movement surprised McNeely; there were a curse and a shot. Neal felt a hard blow to his shoulder as he stumbled back through the doorway.

He ducked behind the metal door which blocked McNeely's second shot. Neal pushed it closed and slid the heavy bolt in place before McNeely and his associates could close the distance between them. There was an immediate, angry bang on the other side of the metal door.

"You have nowhere to go, Caffrey; I will have the entire NYPD hunt you down!" McNeely shouted. The shout was followed by silence and Neal knew the men were now dashing across the warehouse to the opposite door, planning to come around the long way to head him off. There was a roaring in his ears; he guessed it was the sound of the shots echoing about the large space. His heart was pounding and he felt out of breath even though he hadn't done much to warrant it.

He took stock of where he was. He knew the door McNeely and his men would enter. To his right, it would be the closest entrance after they sprinted around the perimeter of the building. To the far side was the larger opening, the open space awaiting him there having no cover. A doorway to his right lead back into the warehouse offices, storage areas and workspaces. There would be exits in that direction as well.

Deciding that a maze of hallways and assorted rooms offered better chances of avoiding McNeely than the large open areas, Neal opened that door and headed down the hallway towards the back of the warehouse. The first room was a break room; he grabbed a shirt left by a day worker from the back of a chair. He could feel the burning of the wound tearing through his shoulder and blood was beginning to drip, leaving marks on the floor. Trying to lose his pursuers wouldn't be easy if he left a blood trail like breadcrumbs straight to his location. He wadded up the shirt, opened his jacket, and pressed it to the wound. He gasped at the pressure and felt nausea sweep across him. He pulled his jacket back around, using it to keep the makeshift bandage in place. He had to think fast and move faster.

Looking around the room, he spotted the OSHA required Emergency Exit Plan Diagram in a black frame near the time clock. All he had to do was stay ahead of McNeely until Peter realized something was wrong and used the watch to track his location. And Peter wasn't a patient man; if he didn't get the move signal soon, he'd suspect something was wrong. He snatched the diagram off the wall, gave it a quick look to choose the proper exit from the room. Decision made; he pulled open the door and ran for his life.