Neal
Neal Caffrey had been on both sides of a chase too many times to not recognize a tail, especially one as amateurish as this.
He smirked a little to himself as he wove through the busy streets of New York, the cauldron of city-scents and city-sounds boiling around him, mixed by the tireless movements of passerby. This was his element—the poor sap attempting to shadow him was fighting a lost battle. Neal had spotted the man twelve blocks ago, a too-consistent form in his peripheral vision. Now it was time to lose the tail.
A quick left onto an even-busier street gave Neal the head-start he needed. Doffing his fedora, he tucked it under his arm. That would give his pursuer a moment's pause as he tried to locate Neal's changed silhouette. Then all that was left was to duck into a corner shop—in one side, a quick cut through the store, and out onto the next street on the other side. Neal paused at the intersection, his bright eyes sifting the crowds in search of his shadow.
He grinned. Found you. The man was still slouching down the street Neal had just left, completely unaware that his quarry had eluded him.
Making a mental note to think about whether or not to mention the incident to Peter later, Neal flipped his hat back onto his head and strolled back the way he'd come, contemplating gyros for lunch.
He never saw the kid who ran by—just a little too carelessly—or the middle-aged man who grabbed his arm—as if to help, but the quicksilver flash of a hypodermic needle in his hand said otherwise—or the cab that just happened to pull up to the curb in time for the middle-aged man to help him inside. Because by the time the cab had stopped, and before the door had even opened, all Neal saw was blackness.
The middle-aged man—stronger than he looked—pushed Neal's limp form into the backseat of the cab, climbed in after him, and slammed the door. Then, as if nothing in the world was wrong, the yellow vehicle slowly pulled away from the sidewalk and merged with traffic.
In seconds, the only clue that Neal had even been there was a now-dented black fedora, abandoned in the gutter.
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Peter
Special Agent Peter Burke stretched, leaning back in his desk chair until his back popped. The files strewn across his desk glared at him, blank spaces and missing information muttering inaudible recriminations. What he wouldn't give to be somewhere—anywhere—else right now. He'd rather be on a twelve-hour stakeout. Or waiting to testify at a trial. He'd been staring at these files for the better part of five hours, and he simply had to take a break.
"Hey, boss," Jones said, poking his head into Peter's office. "I'm going out for coffee. You want anything?"
Peter leaned forward again and withdrew his wallet from his coat pocket. "I could use the caffeine," he admitted, drawing out a five and holding it out to Jones. "Just the usual."
"Not a problem." Jones took the bill and started back out the door—and was nearly bulldozed by Diana.
"Peter, you need to get down to the conference room," she said, her voice sharp with urgency.
Peter stood, his chair rolling backwards with a rattle. "What is it?"
Diana jutted out her chin. "It's Caffrey."
"This just came in," Diana said, pointing a slim remote at the television in the conference room. "Unmarked parcel, dropped off at the front door by a homeless kid. He says a man paid him a hundred bucks to deliver the package, but he can't tell us who the man was or what he looked like."
She pressed play and the screen flickered to life. Peter felt his stomach clench.
Caffrey sat—ramrod straight—on a metal folding chair, in a bare concrete room. He wasn't restrained, but there was a bruise around his left eye and a split in his lip.
"Hey, Peter," he said, his voice as calm as if he was sitting in the Burke's living room. "As you can see, I won't be making it to the bar tonight. Tell Portia I'm sorry."
The video froze for a moment, and when it began again, there was a streak of fresh blood down Neal's face, streaming from his nose. Peter gripped the arm of his chair reflexively.
"I'm not supposed to get chatty," Caffrey said, though his voice was now more subdued and just a little clogged. "My…host has an offer for you. Six years ago Femme, a painting by Alexei Charlamoff, was stolen from a private collector in Kiev. It's worth upwards of nine hundred thousand dollars at auction—more than that on the black market." Neal reached a hand to gingerly touch his eye, and winced.
"Pause that." Peter looked at Diana. "Isn't that one of the paintings Neal stole?"
"Allegedly," she agreed—or corrected. "But it's never been found."
With a grimace, Peter nodded, and Diana resumed the video.
Caffrey held up a sheet of paper. "These are my host's demands," he said, looking away from the camera and down at the page. "We will keep Neal Caffrey until the painting is delivered," he read. "Or until such time as it becomes apparent that the painting will never be delivered, in which case Caffrey will be terminated. You have six days to track, retrieve, and deliver Alexei Charlamoff's Femme. If you choose to meet our demands, we will make the exchange at three o'clock under the Third Avenue Bridge. If not, you may find Neal Caffrey's body there anytime after 3:05."
Peter clenched a fist, but Neal's voice didn't even hesitate. He let the sheet of paper fall back into his lap and looked directly into the camera.
"My host is an old friend. He says he will be satisfied with either outcome."
The video froze, and Diana dropped the remote onto the table. "That's the end of it," she said.
Peter took a breath. "What about Neal's anklet?"
She shook her head.. "They're jamming it somehow—or they've destroyed it. Our last readings are from around three this afternoon."
"The alarm didn't go off?"
"No." Diana sighed. "Whoever's behind this—they're good. And they've got enough tech to hid from us. They could be anywhere."
Peter swore. "Alright—start with Neal's last known location. Try to find witnesses who saw him, or saw him with someone. I'll start looking into the painting. Jones, you get a team and start going through Neal's known associates who might be interested in the painting, or have a particular beef against him."
Everyone moved to obey, leaving Peter standing in the conference room alone, staring at the frozen image on the television.
Neal… He thought in exasperation and concern. What have you gotten yourself into?
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A/N: Hey, ya'll. Yes. I know I haven't updated my Sherlock fics in a while - er, in a really long time... I'm SORRY. PROMISE. I graduate in May, and after that my fanfictioning life ought to pick up quite nicely. Until then, I make no promises. This, however, is something new. My first foray into the White Collar fanfiction realm, because I LOVE THIS SHOW and I so dearly wanted to write about it. No promises on updates, but I will finish it, now that I've begun. Please, fellow White Collar fans, chime in with your opinions - help me stay in character, and do tell me if I contradict anything from the show. I'm only up through the middle of season 3, so no spoilers, but if I say something contradictory to canon, please let me know.
Anyway. Sorry to my other waiting readers. I promise I will get back to regularly scheduled writing soon. :)
~Essie