9

KILL CAFFREY

by

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13 for violence.

Disclaimer: None of this belongs to me, but to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. But ooh, it's fun to pretend.

Summary: An undercover assignment goes horribly wrong, and the only way out for Peter could mean tragedy for Neal. An idea while I was in Melbourne last year…wrote a page or two then and decided see if I could finish it day or two ago. Note: I know Peter would never do what he does in this story; it was just an idea to play with. Indulge.

Neal knew he wasn't supposed to be here. Peter had ordered him, made it more than clear to him to remain at headquarters and out of harm's way, but Neal was never one for following orders.

Peter moved frantically through the warehouse, searching the semi-dark, dank space, checking behind crates and peering into shadowed corners that exuded dust and radiated cold, but revealed no sign of immediate danger to his partner and friend.

"Neal!" cried Peter, "you can come out now."

Neal came swift-footed and silent from behind a wooded pallet stacked high with flattened refrigerator boxes. His eyes were wide and hyper alert. Even in the darkness, Peter could see that his partner was nervous about the operation. That made two of them.

"What did I tell you?" Peter whispered harshly. "I told you to stay put. I told you…!"

"You sent me a text…!"

"What? No, I never sent a text..."

"…you…or someone said to meet you here."

"It wasn't me. You have to get out, right now."

"Why? What's happening?"

"Your girlfriend set you up."

"I told you," Neal said, genuinely miffed, "she's not my girlfriend. Francesca Delacroix is a liar and a violent psychotic in a white leather dress. Did I mention she's a liar? But she is not my girlfriend…"

Peter exhaled harshly a rubbed a hand through his hair.

"Your psychotic in white leather just put a contract out on you! Guess who's got the job?"

Neal was uncharacteristically speechless, which would have been amusing to Peter if their circumstances had not been so dire. Not only was Neal in danger, but it had also come to light that anyone who considered themselves friends of Neal were in jeopardy as well. The hit list unfortunately include Mozzie and Alex Hunter. Even June suspected she was being followed on two separate occasions.

"She's testing you, Peter, auditioning you for the job. She wants to see if you're worth the hype."

"Yeah," the agent said, perturbed, "I got that. They confiscated my phone when I first made contact with her. Someone must have sent the text then."

"When are you supposed to deliver the goods?"

"You mean kill you? Now. Why do you think you're here?"

This was the part of going undercover that Peter hated most; the part when things went south, the plan became unglued and a quick fix seemed as far from possible as anyone could get.

Peter continued, "She's on her way."

"She wants to watch, doesn't she?" Neal said, feeling a cold shiver work its way down his spine.

Peter nodded. "Said she wanted a front row seat when it went down."

"Good old Francesca. She always liked to micro-manage her hits."

Neal gestured to Peter to follow him to a small office just behind a door marked "private," with a smoked glass and chicken wire window. Neal pulled what looked to be a twisted paper clip from his shirt cuff and deftly picked the lock in seconds flat. He opened the door, allowing Peter to enter first.

The agent swept the room with his gun. "Clear," he whispered, and Neal quickly joined him, closing the door behind him.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't see you do that," said Peter.

"Nice outfit," Neal said quickly, momentarily distracted and amused that Peter's typical conservative gray FBI-sanctioned suit had been substituted for black jeans, black tee shirt and a black leather jacket.

"It's what all the hit men are wearing. Neal…we're running out of time. You need to get out of here before she arrives."

"If I know Francesca, she's already got the place under surveillance. If either of us tries to leave, we'll be picked off like fish in a barrel."

"You suppose it's acceptable if you're dead when she arrives?" Peter asked, his irritation pushing through to the surface of his composure.

"How are we going to pull that off?" Neal asked.

"I'm open for suggestions!" Peter checked the door. No signed of Delacroix or her men, at least not yet.

"Peter, I know Delacroix. If she wants someone dead, she won't be satisfied unless there's a body. If there's no body…"

"We're both dead. I got the picture, Neal. I wasn't expecting Delacroix to give me you as my first contract. We need a way out. How about this: Just as she's coming through the door, I fire a shot, and you play possum. We convince Delacroix the hit's been carried out, you're terminated, and as soon as she leaves..."

"There's a slight hiccup in your game plan," Neal said, and swallowed hard. "I know her, remember? Believe me, she won't take your word for it. She's going to want to see blood. My blood."

"How is it you inspire such wrath in women, Neal?"

"Wrath is not that far from love, Peter. Not for her."

Neal winced as he recalled his last meeting with the fatally beautiful Francesca Delacroix, notorious counterfeiter, bond forger, convicted arsonist and alleged domestic terrorist. She rarely relied on the talents of others for a scam or a job, but whenever she did 'outsource,' her front men often ended up too dead to testify against her.

Neal Caffrey was the one that got away.

They'd met long before Kate came into the picture, when Neal was still young and green and foolish enough to believe he could trust another con artist. Especially one as dangerously alluring and exciting as Francesca. The forgeries he had done for her were flawless, netting her one huge payday after another. She seemed sincerely grateful and appropriately generous, not to mention taken by Neal's extreme charm and good looks. The two of them end up taking their relationship to a level Neal had not anticipated. It lasted just short of two weeks – thirteen whirlwind days of first class trips to remote tropical islands, expensive wines, and sultry evenings dancing until glorious dawn.

On the fourteenth day, Neal left her without a ticket home, no passport, and with an empty hotel safe that had once been stuffed with cash – dollars and Euros – and a velvet pouch filled with a half dozen perfect diamonds. He left her with a terse note explaining why things could never truly work between them – neither of them could ever be trusted.

She sent her men searching throughout their entire forger network to find Neal. The word went out on the street – Neal Caffrey was persona non grata. Give him no shelter, no protection, or risk the same fate that awaited him.

When her men did finally find Neal, they beat him brutally, mercilessly, and dragged him to her favorite Italian restaurant, which she conveniently arranged to have closed to the public for the night. While she sipped excellent wine and savored linguine with clams prepared especially for her, Neal stood silently bleeding in the middle of the floor. She gave her men orders to shoot Neal if he passed out before she finished her meal. He fought to stay conscious and remain standing despite the dizziness that threatened to send him to the floor. When finally Francesca had dabbed her perfect lips clean and tossed her fine linen napkin onto her plate, she looked up at Neal and smiled. From her lap, she held up a gun, checked the clip, then laid it on the table by her plate.

"You have 30 seconds to convince me not to shoot you," she spoke for the first time. No matter what Neal could manage to say, he knew he couldn't talk himself out of this. It seemed his luck had finally run out. He offered to return everything he had stolen from her, and throw in a stolen Raphael as a gesture of good faith.

She stood, picked up the gun and took a few emphatically seductive steps toward Neal. No one could walk like Francesca. She placed the gun just under his chin. "Why should I believe you?"

"Because," Neal said, both frightened and excited by the woman who stood before him, "I have nothing left but the truth. You won, Francesca. I've got no place to run."

She smiled, and let the cold metal of the gun linger against Neal's sweating, bleeding face to communicate her divided mind. Kiss him or kill him? Both would bring her great pleasure.

She signaled for her men to follow her out. "You've got twelve hours, Caffrey," she said. "Twelve hours to return what is mine, or I will have my men de-bone you like a fish."

He never returned her stolen goods (he had long ago fenced the diamonds and spent the cash), but instead gave her something far more valuable – bearer bonds, to the tune of thirteen million dollars. A million, Neal said in another terse hand written note to Francesca, for each idyllic day they spent in paradise.

Francesca was for the moment appeased and left Neal alone for a couple years. Until she tried to move the bonds to pay off an old debt, and found out at the very last minute they had been beautiful, flawlessly forged.

By Neal.

It was mere coincidence, pure serendipity that the Bureau had Neal in their pocket and chose to use him to lure Francesca Delacroix into the Feds' hands and drag her to justice. It was proving, however, to be a most difficult case to crack.

Peter shook his head. "We're wasting time. We need a plan."

The entire operation depended up on his convincing Delacroix that he was a formidable hit man. The intention was that Peter would be allowed into her tightly woven family of crooks and thieves and killers, and be given a front row seat to her theatre of operations.

"If it weren't for your girlfriend's rabid paranoia…"

"I wish you'd stop calling her my girlfriend…"

"…we could have arranged some kind of special effects fakery to fool her into believing you were dead."

"That stuff never works," Neal lamented. "The blood's never the right shade or consistency…"

"Okay, then, Mr. Spielberg, you got any suggestions?"

"At the moment, no."

"Then we're gonna have to fake it, Neal. Fake it till we make it. Get on the floor."

"No!" Neal said firmly, if nervously. He began to pace, working out the plan, structuring the con that would hopefully save their lives.

"If Francesca's not satisfied…if she so much as suspects…your cover is blown and she'll put a bullet between your eyes and mine without a thought. And if we did manage to walk out of here alive, we'll both have bull's eyes on our backs the rest of our lives. We need think of something radical or she'll be back on the street making mayhem, and we'll be wearing matching toe tags and lying on parallel slabs in the morgue. I pissed her off once. No one does it to her twice, Peter. You've got to get on the inside and bust her operation. My death is your only way in. We have to convince her. It has to be the real deal."

"What are you saying, Neal?" Peter felt the blood rushing from his brain, making him a bit dizzy.

Neal looked around the room, hoping for some other inspiration, some other idea that would spark his devious and clever imagination and get them out of their fix. But he saw nothing he could exploit. He knew it was his craziest idea ever – but it had to work.

He also knew he had to be all in for this mission. Some of his greatest cons were built on taking great risks and making sacrifices that could easily result in death if the plan fell apart. Every great artist knows that sometimes, blood may be required. Delacroix needed to be stopped. Not only was Neal in danger, but his friends were dying, all at Delacroix's command. He thought of Mozzie, Alex and June. Even Elizabeth, and how she stood to lose Peter if the operation should tank. So much was at stake. The situation called for a sacrifice. He wanted to say this, but the words stuck in his throat.

"Neal, what are you saying?" the agent repeated.

"I know you're not going to like this, Peter. For the record, I don't like it much myself, but…you're gonna have to shoot me."

"What? No! No way, Neal! Forget it!"

"Peter, listen! It's the only way." Neal took a jagged breath, and stepped back. He removed jacket, folded it inside out before tossing it to the floor. He loosened his tie with trembling fingers.

"What are you doing? Stop!" Peter insisted.

Peter noticed that he was holding his breath. His C.I. had come up with some crazy ideas before, but this one made no sense to him at all.

"You have to shoot me, Peter…"

"I am NOT going to SHOOT YOU!"

"Just wing me!"

"Wing you? What does that mean?"

"Like in the movies."

"This isn't the movies, Neal!"

"I'm acutely aware of that, Peter. But we're running out of options. Just…hit me right about…here," he said, punching his left shoulder with a finger, "below the bone. It's all flesh. No vital organs, no arteries. It'll bleed a lot but I won't die. Probably. If you get me to a hospital in a reasonable amount of time…"

"How do you know this?"

"I've studied Grey's Anatomy. The medical book, not the t.v. show. Now, quit stalling and shoot me!"

"I'm not going to shoot you, Neal!"

"And I don't want to be shot! But we're..."

They heard voices, not far away, just outside.

"…we're running out of time," he finished quickly.

Peter ran a hand through his hair again, his exasperation building to the tipping point. "Of all the stupid, hare-brained schemes…"

"Do you have a better idea? Because if you do, believe me, I'd really like to hear it!"

Peter thought. And thought. He let out a harsh, uneven breath. "This goes beyond insane."

"Look, you need them to believe you are who you say you are," Neal said. "You need them to let you in. This is the only way. We gotta pay to play."

"I won't pay or play with your life."

Delacroix's men were closer – searching the warehouse for them. Peter chewed his lower lip, thinking, thinking. Anything but this…anything.

Neal was breathing as if he was having some difficulty. Adrenaline fueled by excitement and abject fear was coursing through is veins. His hands were beginning to tremble, his finger tips tingling. His eyes were turning red as involuntary tears were threatening to pour, the salty stuff burning at the back of his head. The moment was as exhilarating as it was debilitating.

"One shot, Peter," Neal said shakily, "one shot and you've got blood and a body and a ticket inside. Just promise me, you won't blow this case, won't let her walk on some legal technicality. You bring down the full wrath of the Bureau on her, Peter. Because if we fail and she walks, we die, my friends die, and Elizabeth will have way too many funerals to attend. And it won't stop there."

Peter knew he was right…but he also knew his partner was quite probably insane. Time was running out. He could hear Francesca now, her melodious voice and the clack of her exorbitantly priced, ultra high heels on concrete, getting closer.

Neal held his arm out parallel to the floor to provide Peter an easy target. He sucked in a lungful of air to hopefully steady himself but still felt his body shake in anticipation of the pain he knew would come. He shook his head, encouraging Peter to follow through.

Peter had a memory – something Neal had said not quite two years ago came rushing back to haunt the agent:

"Life comes down to a few moments. This is one of them."

Indeed it was. Peter lifted his gun, aimed, steadying his hand. But his finger only lingered near the trigger.

"Neal…I can't…"

"Yeah, you can. You can do it, Butch."

Peter wanted to laugh, not just at the Butch and Sundance reference, but at the absurdity of the moment.

He tried to fire again. Again, he hesitated, unable to commit to pulling the trigger, hurting or possibly killing his friend.

"What if I'm off?" he asked, nearly out of breath. "What if you bleed out before I can get help to you?"

"I won't," Neal said, almost calmly, though not quite convincingly.

"How do you know?"

"Because… because I trust you."

That was convincing. Neal's voice was so steady that Peter believed for a moment that this perilous scheme could actually work, that they could truly pull this off.

"I won't let you die," Peter said, as much for himself as for his C.I.

"I know," said Neal, and shook his head. "Do it."

Peter held the gun stead and aimed again. Training took over now. He knew, just as Neal did, where to shoot to do the least amount of damage but create the maximum effect. He knew Neal would bleed profusely and would be in great agony. But he also knew he would heal…

He heard Delacroix's voice and the sound of her small army drawing near to the office. He knew they'd be armed to the teeth, and that if they found Neal alive and breathing, neither one of them would leave the warehouse outside of a body bag.

Peter pulled the trigger.

End Chapter One!

Hey! Thanks for your very kind attention, everyone. Just a quick story to end the year on a White Collar note, and to say HAPPY NEW YEAR! Review, please, if you're moved to, and thanks for all your wonderful and positive comments about my other stories, "Save Me If You Can" and "Find Me If You Can." Look for chapter 12 of "Save Me" On December 30th and a new chapter of "Find Me" shortly after the New Year. Have a wonderful 2012.