Obviously set right after the season 5 finale of White Collar, what if it had been Neal's secret past that had come back to haunt him? I want to say it right away, there won't be any whump in this story, or no terrible torture, but Neal will get hurt. Only, in a super-awesome-spy-of-the-year way.

Will be 10 chapters long. All planned out already.

Chapter 1: Missing ( or not quite )

Chuck coughed. There was no apparent reason for his coughing, but it seemed like the right time to cough, and he had been aching to for some time already. And if coughing while on a video conference with General Diane Beckman of the NSA wasn't quite correct, even now that he wasn't part of the CIA anymore, and not properly under her orders, coughing after the video conference ended had to be alright. Right?

So, Chuck coughed.

Sarah's eyes immediately fell on him, as if he had been spluttering his guts out or something equally gruesome. Seriously, he had simply coughed, there wasn't a point in making a fuss out of it.

Or perhaps she was looking at him because of the mission the general had handed over to Carmichael Industries. Like, making sure he was alright with it. Possibly to see if he hadn't accepted the mission only out of a misplaced sense of duty, when he really owed nothing to anyone on that point, when said mission struck a bit too close. And, obviously, Chuck had agreed to do it for that very reason.

As it was, Beckman had just contacted them to say one of the very last Ring operatives, a former NSA agent, on the run since... well, since a long time, like five years or something like that, had finally been found and tracked down to New York City. The general had offered them the task to handle that survivor of the clandestine organization, since so much of what had happened to them was tied with it.

Chuck had accepted.

Perhaps he was experiencing a bit of a misplaced feeling about the rare runaways from the Ring and its kid sister organization, Fulcrum, who were still on the run, he had to admit that. Not to Sarah, though. If he let her see he was having second thoughts, she'd call Beckman back immediately and request that the mission be given to someone else, an actual team of Agents for example.

And Chuck wanted to bring down that fugitive.

After what the Ring had taken from him, there was no way he'd let anyone else handle it. It was personal, even if he hadn't ever met the NSA runaway, former captain Daryl Riggs, who was basically a lesser version of Casey, plus the evilness and minus the awesome friends to have his back, if the quick look at the man's file Chuck had been allowed to take was anything to go by.

Daryl Riggs hadn't done anything to Chuck personally – that Chuck knew of, anyway – but he had been part of the organization which had caused his father's death, amongst other things. It was personal.

It would the first time he'd go to New York, too. Weird. You'd think he'd have gone there at some point in his spy career, be it the official one or the private one. But no. Not even once.

Apparently Daryl Riggs had lived in New York for the last fifteen months, working as a nightclub bouncer under the name Dave Reeves. Only, he had recently been caught on the videotape of a small shop which had been robbed only fifteen minutes after he had left. One thing leading to another, a red flag had been raised, and soon enough it had been confirmed that Dave Reeves was a wanted fugitive, though he had nothing to do with the robbery.

Unfortunately the man had caught onto the threat, one way or another, and had gone off the grid since then. The NSA was fairly certain he hadn't left the city, but he would, soon, if they didn't find him first. Beckman had thought news eyes could perhaps find the clue the first team had missed.

Chuck turned to look at Sarah, right in the eyes, and gave her a winning smile.

"I've always wanted to go and see NYC, you know?"

Or perhaps it was a weak smile, because Sarah didn't look impressed. Like, at all. Oh well. Chuck had never been much of a liar, anyway. Though that wasn't a complete lie. It was even very true.

It just wasn't the main reason he had accepted the mission, and Sarah knew it.

Chuck's wife was kind enough not to pick up on his awkwardness.

"I'll call Casey."

Chuck's smile grew just a tiny bit more comfortable, which earned him a glare. Chuck tucked the smile away, wondering if his decision to go after the Ring operative was really upsetting Sarah that much. She usually was much more comprehensive, and much less moody – or not; let's not forget about that one time Chuck had been certain the Bartowski Curse had fallen upon him, and he had gone into danger completely alone. Or, better, let's forget about it. Yeah, let's do that.

He breathed deeply, and tried to ignore the gut feeling that told him he was making a choice which would have some rather important consequences. Alright. New York. A fugitive. A mission with Sarah and Casey – Morgan was on a holiday with Alex and their son, which had not been named Obi-Wan but Nathan, only thanks to the Coburns' death glare at the proposition. Obi-Wan Grimes did not sound very good, anyway – or so Morgan kept saying, when he was trying to hide his disappointment. Personally, Chuck was simply thankful Chewbacca Grimes hadn't been taken into account at all. Right, focus back on the mission.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Casey's girlfriend, the fearsome Gertrude Verbanski, was off stealing some highly secret weapon from a smuggler, apparently, so it meant Casey would be overjoyed to have some action. Everything would go well, and Chuck'd tell Sarah, "you see, there was nothing to worry about".

Yeah, right.

Because things always went well when it came to the Ring and Chuck. Even after its end, the organization had kept some influence over him, what with Decker, and with Shaw – again – and everything else...

oOo

When Neal came back to himself, he could immediately tell something was very, very off. The simple fact that he had to come back to himself, instead of, you know, waking up normally, in his bed, told him enough. His hands tied behind his back with colf cuffs, sitting on an uncomfortable chair, and the dim light surrounding him only added to the impression rather efficiently.

Now, he had to figure out why exactly someone would abduct him. There was a list of people who might want revenge on him, which was a bit too long to be quoted, unfortunately. People he had robbed during his criminal life, people he had helped the FBI to bring down... And, last but not least, a good deal of spies and other highly dangerous, very powerful people with whom his alias Bryce Larkin had met at some point, usually thwarting their evil deeds by the end of the encounter – or, generally, leaving them very frustrated for one reason of another.

Neal wasn't particularly worried about that last third – roughly? – of the list. Absolutely no one knew that Bryce Larkin wasn't as dead as the rumors said. In fact, no one except Neal himself knew he was Bryce Larkin. Or that Bryce Larkin was him, however you liked it best. Neal had been very careful to keep the two identities separated, mostly because he considered "Neal Caffrey" his true self, while "Bryce Larkin" was a troublesome persona he'd rather not have linked back to "Neal", because it would endanger asolutely everything.

Had anyone known about Neal's little stint as a CIA agent, about the way he had passed himself off as someone else while becoming part of an intelligence agency, they'd surely tell him he was utterly insane. If the CIA ever heard of his little trick, they'd be quick to suppose he'd had some suspicious motives in joining under a false identity, and then Neal would probably end up in Guantanamo if he was lucky, or some black site from where it'd be very difficult to escape from if he wasn't. He was, after all, a criminal who had, kind of, infiltrated the CIA.

Because it was fun, sure, but it wasn't like they'd believe it. They had proof he was damn good at faking about everything, from a life to a personality. His word would not suffice to clear him.

The only way to link Neal and Bryce back together was by visual contact, actually. It wasn't as if he had changed his face to hide, but there were so many people in the world, he had been fairly sure such a connection would never be made. He might even have downloaded a virus on the CIA servers which basically told the databases to overlook Neal Caffrey when looking for Bryce Larkin, and vice versa. Oh, look, yet another federal crime he should be made accountable for.

So, unless someone from his past as Bryce Larkin had stumbled upon Neal in the street by pure lack of luck, there was no reason to think that this particular situation was because of his spy life.

Neal blinked heavily as the room came into focus.

It looked like an abandoned building, not exactly in ruins yet, but certainly deserted.

One thing, though: it seemed someone had had the interior renovated, condemning the windows as if to make it entirely airtight, filling the cracks in the walls, and adding an actual door with a digital lock. There were a few other modifications Neal could see, and he didn't like any of them. They spoke of trouble, and they did so loudly. For example, he didn't like the pipe which came into the room, through a carefully closed-back hole in the farthest wall.

It all looked a bit... unprofessional, yeah, but perhaps his abductor was working alone, with whatever funds they had. The work had been well done anyway, Neal could see it from where he was forced to sit. Rough, but effective.

He didn't want to know what the pipe was meant for. Really.

But he had a feeling he'd have to witness its use any time soon anyway.

Neal couldn't hear a sound anywhere close, so he doubted there was anyone else around. For now. Someone had brought him here and tied him to a chair, after all. He guessed he was somewhere in the Bronx, because reasons – he really, really didn't want to think about how it probably was a place he had looked up in case he needed to isolate someone for interrogation. If he remembered well, a whole deserted neighborhood, where only thugs and homeless people hanged out.

Footsteps. Neal tensed.

The door opened, and a man in his mid-forties stepped in. A blond, tall man, with a lot of visible mucle and a nasty scar under the right eye. It took no more than twelve seconds for Neal to find him in his memories, though the scar was new.

Neal hid a gulp as he realized that it indeed had something to do with Bryce Larkin, deceased CIA agent, and probably nothing to do with Neal Caffrey, FBI CI. Or at least, he hoped. That'd leave him at least one chance to work it out.

"Agent Larkin, so pleased to see you again... Or should I call you Neal Caffrey? It sounds oddly real a name, considering who you're supposed to be, you know. I wonder, your superiors didn't know either, did they? About the conman Neal Caffrey, who came to be before Bryce Larkin?"

So much for hope, then. Neal gave Daryl Riggs a wry, sardonic smile.

"What do you want exactly, Captain Riggs?"

The NSA agent's smile got even more unpleasant.

"I'm on the run, you see, Larkin. The Ring fell, and I ran until last month, but they spotted me a few days ago, and now I'm done for. If you give me a hand in disappearing, as you're so good at it..."

"Go to Hell."

Riggs nodded, and walked out. Just as he was passing the door, he turned one last time.

"I guessed as much. A shame, really, but in compensation I planned us one last game, to pass time, for entertainment until they finally come to get me. I promise you won't get bored."

oOo

The White Collar division of the Manhattan FBI office was bustling with activity, and it was not a good thing, like, at all.

Some agents were working on their own cases, true, but what was really sending the office into a frenzy was probably the disappearance of their CI on contract, and theoretically on a tracking anklet, the day before. The Marshals had come by, and were now out searching for Neal Caffrey, Peter Burke was grumbling as he reviewed the possibilities where Neal could have escaped to after having learned he had, yet again, lost his chance at freedom, Diana Berrigan and Clinton Jones were ordering the others agents around when they had nothing better to do.

The office wanted their favorite convict back, regardless of the fact he had just broken his deal anyway. They were, for a lack of a better word, fond of Neal Caffrey, and more than a bit apprehensive of what might have happened to him, on the off chance he hadn't just run for the hills. Sure, it seemed like it, but what could they say? They were his friends, or at least friendly acquaintances, and Peter didn't seem to buy the obvious theory that his best friend had just run.

The ASAC just couldn't buy it. He wouldn't say he hadn't expected Neal to take the news of his continued enslavement – or what passed as such to a Mozzie-level drama queen – badly, or that at some point the convict would have run, faced with the unfairness of his situation. But Peter felt it wasn't quite right, especially not after their last conversation. Neal wouldn't have gone so quickly, because until the very same morning, he had been trying to keep his faith in a possible release. He hadn't been planning, at the time, to run away.

And sure, Neal Caffrey was incredibly good at disappearing without a trace, but even he had limits. Such as, he couldn't possibly have come up with a plan in the short amount of time between their conversation and the time the tracker had been cut.

So no, Peter didn't believe in the disappearing act.

He was missing something, he knew it. Something important about Neal. Neal wasn't...

A knock on his office's door drew Peter out of his worried musing. Diana was standing by the doorframe, her face uncharacteristically frowny.

"Boss, I think you should come down and take a look at the package that was just delivered to us."

Peter almost jumped out of his chair, and followed Diana in the stairs. His eyes searched the open space workroom as they did so, and he immediately noticed a small group of agents, all standing around a cardboard parcel of unknown origine and purpose. It looked non-descript enough, about the size of a big, fat book – now that he thought about it, almost the size of the Mosconi Codex.

Peter doubted he'd find a book in it, though.

But there was the name Neal Caffrey written in large, bold marker pen.

He joined Jones, who was perusing the package with obvious curiosity.

"Any idea what it is?"

"Not a bomb, I can assure you of that. But apart from that, Peter, I have absolutely no idea. No clue as to who sent it, and if Neal had done it himself, I'm almost sure he'd have done something less dull and inconspicuous. This doesn't bear his trademark style, you know."

Peter twiched on that last sentence, already missing his partner's terrible ideas, which usually managed to turn out alright anyway, by some strange turn of fate.

"Let's see what's inside, then."

Peter took a deep breath, and cut the package open.

He was surprised to find it mostly empty, only containing what looked like an excessive amount of bubble wrap, under which they found Neal's anklet, barely scratched – probably taken off by someone with the actual means to do it properly... and, after a more detailed search of the cardboard box, a rectangle of paper, with only one thing written on it: the IP adress to some site, which was worryingly named "Fantastic Show", and was already displaying the necessary layout for shared videos, and an article about Neal cafffrey, conman extraordinaire. It did not bode well, not at all.

At least, Peter mused, it was related to Neal's disappearance.

And it could have been worse, after all. They could not have received anything, and as a consequence the incertitude as to Neal's fate would have remained. Another way it could have gone was a bloody finger in the package, for example. Perhaps, perhaps this wasn't so terrible. For now.

Diana pushed Jones to the side to get a look at the screen too, and sucked in a breath.

The site had begun to display a live feed of Neal, cuffed on a chair, hands behind his back, the left side of his head sticky with half-dried blood, though the convict didn't seem particularly bothered by that. Perhaps he hadn't realized yet. He didn't seem fully awake, if anything. Knowing Neal, whoever had taken him had had to knock him out in order to get him wherever that was. If they hadn't, Neal'd have wriggled out of their grasp within minutes. The crumpled state of his thousand dollars suits and his hair in disarray seemed to confirm the guess, if the blood hadn't been enough.

Peter couldn't help but notice that while Neal seemed beyond pissed at his situation, and perhaps slightly tense too, he was also far from panicking or looking even remotely alarmed. Not as if he didn't get the danger he was in, but more like he didn't have the time to panick, and he knew it.

A man's voice spoke up, yet no one else appeared in the frame.

Peter, Diana and Jones cringed at the obvious pleasure they heard in its words.

"This, dear Neal Caffrey, is a choice you have to make while being watched by your precious FBI friends: lose your life here by doing nothing, or lose this life by trying to get away. Your choice!"