One.
Neal was dead.
Well, not yet; but when Peter got his hands on that self centered, audacious, smart-mouthed ex con—
"He's on his way, Boss." Diana announced from her work station.
Peters' fists clenched involuntarily. He was going to kill him. He was going to knock him over the head, drag him by his entrails across the bullpen, set him on fire, beat him with a rusty iron pipe, and stuff the corpse in an evidence locker, to rot.
Clinton Jones grimaced as he suppressed a shudder. He knew that look on his mentors' eyes; he was out for blood. Jones understood why, though—even he was upset. The whole white collar crimes team had been working none stop for the past three weeks on a case perpetrating jewel thieves who'd struck thrice so far; twice in the museum of natural arts, and once in the mansion of a wealthy entrepreneur. The suspects were narrowed down to the Erickson brothers—James and George. Neal had managed to gain their trust and the two had let him in on their next escapade. Despite the bugs they'd planted on Neal, the team hadn't gotten anything concrete to use against the pair of brothers, and were hoping to catch them in the act today at eight pm, when the whole thing was supposed to go down, according to Intel.
It was now 10:28 pm. And Neal had been a no-show. Clinton had overheard a couple of the agents who still hadn't warmed up to the ex-con say he'd chickened out, but Jones knew better. Neal had gone undercover plenty of times in the past, in cases involving more dangerous elements than two kleptomaniac brothers on a shopping spree, without a minutes' hesitance. Clinton frowned. The more likely option was that something had kept the charming ex-con artist busy.
Peter had a similar idea. "The second he walks in through those glass doors I'm gonna' throttle him." He growled.
Diana and Jones both winced. "Boss," Diana intervened. "What makes you think he tried to escape?"
"His ankle monitor was off from 7:36pm to just a half hour ago." Peter put his head in his hands. "He must have been planning an escape, knowing everyone was too busy with our current case to notice anything—it was perfect. He was going undercover today so no one monitoring the anklet bothered reporting when he went off the monitor."
"But he's coming back. The anklet turned back on and started tracking his movements again; he should be here in a few minutes according the monitor." Diana said, attempting to vouch for her comrade.
"Of course he came back—his plan probably backfired and he wasn't able to disable the anklet for long; when he realized it was blinking again, he knew he couldn't out run the FBI forever and decided to turn himself in. He'll probably try to BS his way out of this one." Peter was furious. But more than anything, hurt. And disappointed, too. He'd trusted Neal.
"Hey, there he is." Someone on the floor of the bullpen whispered.
Someone else scoffed. "Can you believe he'd show his face here after screwing up the Erickson Case?"
"Right? I don't know why Burke ever bothered with him."
Neal was dressed in a large, black, hooded jacket, and dark sweat pants. Peter saw red. He'd been right, after all. Neal was carrying a sports bag over his shoulder—probably containing his valuables—a navy blue cap, and ink black sun glasses—it was dark and cloudy out, so it wasn't hard for the FBI agent to presume they were to hide his identity from any prying eyes.
The office floor was buzzing alight with gossip.
Reese Hughes, agent in charge of the FBI's White Collar Crime Unit, stepped out of his office, with what seemed to be a permanent frown etched on his face. "Everyone get back to work! Special Agent Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, in my office. Now!"
Peter didn't wait for the ex con to reach the stairs before storming up them and into Hughes' office—he was absolutely livid! He couldn't even look the kid in the eye.
Neal for his part was completely silent, head down, hands in his pockets, back hunched a little, as he made his way up the stairs a few steps behind Peter, ignoring all the curious whispering.
Hughes demanded they both take a seat, as he paced back and forth behind his grandiose desk for a moment, a vein popping up on his forehead. "Caffrey, I hope you're aware of the fact that because you decided to play hooky today, our main suspects in a high profile case the mayor has been hounding the federal bureau of investigations about for the last three weeks just got away—we'll be damn lucky if they talk to you again, much less include you in one of their heists."
Peter clenched his jaw; he'd trusted Neal and he'd gone and pulled this shit and who knew what Hughes would think of him now—would he still think his judgment was sound enough to stay head of his team? He couldn't believe this. Couldn't believe Neal would do something like this to him.
Neal squirmed in his seat, looking uncomfortable. "I know, and I'm sorry about that, but you have to listen to me—"
"I have to listen to you? To hear some half-assed con artist excuse? To think my top agent even vouched for you when you didn't show up earlier." Hughes scoffed in disgust. He too, like Peter, had wanted to believe the young man was changing for the better. Caffrey was an overall good kid; charming, likable, smart—they'd gone to an art exhibit together, for Gods' sake! Reese was fond of the guy, even if he'd never admit it, but all the evidence pointed to Neal having attempted an escape, something he could not turn a blind eye to.
Neal spared Peter a glance. He'd vouched for him? Neal would've been glad for it, if the agent didn't look so pissed.
"In fact, I can't believe you had the audacity to come back here and show your face—even if it was to turn yourself in."
Neal started, flinching involuntarily. "Turn myself in? Look, I understand me not showing up for the op decreased our chances on the case, but I don't think that's just cause to arrest me—"
Hughes glowered at the youth. "I don't think you're aware of what the penalties for attempted escape are, Mister Caffrey. You are a felon and our responsibility—"
Neal started a second time and interrupted hastily. "Escape? I didn't try to escape—you can check my anklet status on the monitor, it would have alerted you if I'd gone beyond my radius!"
"Don't play dumb, Caffrey, we know you deactivated the anklet. The only reason you're here is because the anklet wouldn't cooperate with—"
Interrupting him a second time, Caffrey stood up abruptly and slammed his hands down on Hughes' desk. "I'm telling you, I didn't try to escape, I have no idea what you're talking about!" he insisted.
"That is enough, Neal." Peter stood up as well, and took out his cuffs, "You have the right to remain silent—"
Even Hughes was startled by the almost animalistic whine that arose from the ex cons' throat when Peter yanked his arm, in an effort to hand cuff his wrists together. "Ow, ow, ow, Peter." Neal whimpered.
Peter paused, let go of his arm, and let the younger man regain some composure. "Neal, what are you trying to pull?" he couldn't help but be suspicious.
Neal frowned darkly. "I'm not pulling anything Peter, what the hell? I didn't try to escape either!"
"Explain the shades, the cap, the sweats, that "gym" bag, and the malfunctioning tracker, then." Peter questioned, all in one breath, anxious to hear the excuse this time.
"Don't waste our time with bogus lies, either, Caffrey." Hughes huffed out, arms crossed over his chest.
Neal fidgeted, put the gym bag down on Hughes desk, and started unzipping it. "There, no get away clothes, no dirty cash—just my suit." He muttered.
Peter went to inspect it himself and rummaged through the bag. He took out Neal's suit and was shocked to see the thing torn and bloody. "Neal, what is this? What happened?" Hughes had similar sentiments.
Neal sighed, "I couldn't get a ride, so I walked here, and it was 7:30 when I left, but I was scared I might not make it in time," he scoffed at the irony, "so I took a shortcut through the alley way near 5th. Should've known it was a bad idea—I was dressed in Ralph Lauren, for shits' sake." Neal took off his cap and glasses, to reveal the nasty gash on the side of his head and a colorful shiner—the kind you'd see on a wrestler on T.V.
"Jesus Neal!" Peters' eyes couldn't have widened anymore if they tried.
Hughes was about ready to call an ambulance, his hand on the receiver. His hair was a disheveled mess, looking closely, the kid was quite pale, Hughes could almost feel the throbbing in Neal's black eye, and he was damn sure that gash on his forehead was caused by a blade.
"Should see the other guys…" Neal shrugged half heartedly.
"Guys? As in more than one? Damnit Neal, what happened?" Peter asked, alert now.
"I got mugged Peter, what the hell do you think happened? Oh, wait, that's right, you think I tried to make a getaway." It was Neal's turn to glare at the men, but he couldn't find it in himself to be mad. He was just tired. The energy drained out of him and he sat once again, limp and exhausted. "I'll try to fix a deal with the Erickson brothers tomorrow—I'm sorry for ruining the OP and apparently attempting an escape. I'm going home now." Without waiting for either guilt-stricken man to reply, Neal walked out of the office and down the stairs, only to be met by Diana and Jones, who both stared wide-eyed at the bruises that now stood out starkly on his sheet white face.
"Neal," Diana uttered, shocked, "Did you two…?" the question was left hanging in the air, she couldn't believe that her boss would lift a hand against the C.I.
Neal realized then that in his rush, he'd left his hat and sunglasses upstairs, and nothing concealed the awful bruising forming on his eye, cheek, and lips. He sighed audibly and shook his head, but rethought it halfway when it made him dizzy. "No, I need to get out of here, can one of you drive me home?"
"My car's in the garage, let's go." Jones immediately volunteered. Neal looked a mess, and as if on the verge of collapsing, even.
Once they were in Jones' vehicle, and a block away from the building, Jones opened his mouth, "Neal, what happened to you? We can stop by the hospital if you—"
"No, no hospital," Neal interrupted almost immediately. "Just—just take me to Junes', please."
Jones grimaced, "Neal…"
"You can ask Agent Burke what happened when you get back to the office, I'm sure by tomorrow morning it'll be top news in the rumor mill." The C.I. parted ways with the young agent as soon as the car reached the front curb.
Upstairs, Neal gingerly took off his jacket and slipped off the sweats. Everything hurt and if he hadn't felt like complete shit an hour ago in the ER, he definitely felt like it now.
I love reviews…HINT HINT. Seriously though, my first White Collar fic, what do ya' think?