Peter was afraid to turn around when he heard the sickening crack from behind him. He had no choice but to face it when the subsequent accompanying thud reached his ears. His stomach dropped when he made the connection between that unpleasant sound and the figure of the man crumpled on the ground five yards away from where he stood.

"Neal!" he gasped, breaking into a run before kneeling down next to his consultant. He heard a van screeching off in the distance as his attention focused on his unconscious partner. The agent's rational side finally kicked in and his training began to flow back into his memory. Gingerly he rolled the con man over onto his back, taking care to cradle his head and neck, ensuring the proper alignment of his spine in case it was injured. When he leaned his head over Neal's mouth and nose to feel for his breathing, Peter's eyes caught a glimpse of his agents rushing in, guns drawn.

"Boss!" Diana called to him breathlessly. Jones ran in behind her from the opposite angle.

Peter looked up. "Call a bus!" he ordered.

Diana's cell phone was at her ear before the senior agent could finish. He was too preoccupied to notice Jones kneeling beside him.

"He must've snuck past us while we were switching the security feed over," he informed his boss, whose attentions were devoted to the watch on his left hand and Neal's pulse beating beneath the fingers of his right. Peter gave no indication that he had heard, even as Jones swore in frustration under his breath.

"They'll be here in eight minutes, boss," Diana said, joining them on Neal's other side. "I can't believe they got away in that van!" she exclaimed disappointedly.

Jones gave her a sympathetic nod, but there was still no response from Peter. His hands were combing Neal's scalp, gently searching for any source of blood. He sighed when the sensation of warm, sticky liquid reached his fingertips.

Diana pulled a coffee shop napkin from her jacket pocket and passed it to Peter, who applied pressure to the site. Neal's likely displeasure at knowing his hair was being matted – with his own blood, no less – briefly floated through her mind. Her lips twitched into a half-smile before she could stop them and recompose herself.

"What happened, Peter?" Jones asked. His boss remained eerily silent, as if there was nothing in the world in that moment besides himself and his wounded CI.

Diana grasped Peter's wrist, at last breaking his concentration. He looked up at her as she repeated the question.

"I didn't see," he replied softly. "I heard him get hit, and when I turned around, he was already on the ground."

"The hired muscle must've knocked him out and ran," Jones filled in.

"Apparently he managed to rob the goon first," Diana added, her fingers emerging from Neal's pocket with a small, dark gray PDA.

"That's Caffrey, all right," Jones seconded. He examined the PDA in his hand as Diana passed it to him. "I bet this has all their contact information on it. Aliases, addresses, phone numbers…" he trailed off with a smile.

"Gold mine," Diana confirmed.

"Where's that bus?" Peter asked urgently. "He's been out at least five minutes."

"Any minute now, boss," Diana answered. "He's still breathing?"

"Yeah," replied Peter. Neal's chest rose and fell in a reply of his own. "God, he got hit hard!" The anxiety in his voice was tangible.

"No kidding," Jones piped in. He fell silent quickly under his boss' gaze. Finally the faint approach of sirens greeted their ears, and relief settled over them like a warm blanket on a winter's evening.

The paramedics arrived in a whirlwind of motion, springing out of the back of the ambulance and into action. In what felt like a blink of Peter's eyes, Neal's body seemed to sprout medical devices in front of him. A neck brace was clamped unceremoniously in place of the stylish skinny tie; the nasal cannula partially obscured his five o'clock shadow; and instead of a handkerchief in his breast pocket, his dress shirt was opened and electrodes placed on his chest. Forget the fedora – the only adornment on the con man's head was some sterile gauze padding to stop the head wound from bleeding.

Peter did not allow himself the time to stop and process his surroundings. Now was the time for action; for doing, not feeling. He could feel later. Neal needed him to do something now.

"I need to go with him," he shouted at the EMTs, catching the ambulance door in his hand and clamoring inside before they could pull away. Through the back window, he caught Diana's eye. He held his hand up to his ear in the universal gesture for a phone call, mouthing the words call Elizabeth. She nodded in understanding. Peter could see her reach for her phone as the ambulance pulled out of view, sirens wailing desperately.

The agent found himself hopelessly adrift in a sea of medical jargon as the paramedics examined the unconscious consultant. He was able to string together words like "vitals are stable" and "grade three concussion," but the dialogue was noticeably lacking in phrases like "he's going to be just fine."

Suddenly Peter felt a twinge in his gut. I forgot to call Mozzie, he realized. He swore under his breath. How am I going to break this to him? How am I even going to contact him?

"Does he have his phone on him?" the agent asked the medic on his right. The man nodded, and handed Peter the device and Neal's wallet and keys. Not like Neal would ever need keys to anything, the agent mused. There wasn't a lock in the state of New York that the young man couldn't open one way or another.

Peter scrolled through the contacts, expecting something cryptic that might lead him to Mozzie's cell phone number. He was surprised to see that Neal had spared him the trouble of figuring it out; there were several numbers listed as Burner Phones 1 through 9 (skipping the integers 2 and 5), which presumably corresponded to the emergency phones he knew were stashed at the eccentric man's safe houses. Not taking any chances, Peter mass texted all the phone numbers: Neal's unconscious. En route to the ER. Contact the Suit. The agent hoped his message would get through.

A/N: I have not abandoned Under Investigation. I just had to explore this idea before I can go back and finish my other story.