Summary: The very belated thrid instalment of the Federal Custody series. Chris is being blackmailed, her family threatened. Until she can get leverage on this guy, she has to play by his rules. And every second counts in this race against the clock.

A/N: Inspired by Leave Out All the Rest by Linkin Park, named after the album that song is on, Minutes to Midnight.

Disclaimer: I own nothing of White Collar

Chapter 1: Paranoia is a Skill

Have you ever felt like you were being followed? Well, when you've grown up around cons and feds, you probably shouldn't ignore it. Without changing body language, I warned my boyfriend, Drew.

"Don't panic, pretend I said something funny. But I think we've grown a tail." He laughed.

"What are you going to do?" he whispered back. I pulled out my phone, squishing our faces together. As quickly as I could, I took pictures over our shoulders. I scrolled throught them. Only one person was caught, but they were just a blur. Probably male, dark hair, caucasion. Not a lot to go on. Sighing, I stuffed it back in my pocket.

"No luck?" he asked.

"None." He looked at me carefully, trying to read my emotions. Fortunately, I had a perfect poker face, thanks to my dad.

"You gonna tell them?" I raised an eyebrow.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because, being you, it might not be a coincidence." I rolled my eyes. Oh, law abiding citizens. So naive.

"And worry them out of their minds about something that might be nothing." He gave me a hard stare.

"I'm serious, Chris. I don't want you to get hurt-" I held up a hand to cut him off.

"I've been in plenty of dangerous situatations," I reminded him. "Most of them have been in the last two years alone! I think I can handle a tail."

"Question," he said, holding up his hand like a student in class would. "Why do criminals insist on calling stalkers 'tails?'" Laughing, I smacked him on the arm.

~OoO~

"Where have you been?" Dad asked casually as soon as I walked in. Like every day, I tossed my bag on the couch and started making a sandwich. I shrugged off his question.

"Out," I told him elusively. "Why?"

"The school called... again. Where were you?" I sighed. Dad usually wasn't the typical parent, prefering to let me do as I pleased (within reason). Basically, the rules were 'don't do what I wouldn't.' So fighting, violence, and murder were out.

Okay, I'll admit, working as the FBI's paid CI has changed his prospecive a bit. Now, crime was frowned upon. But, there's always loopholes and gray areas. But skipping school now and then? Who cared?

"You know, you've been acting weird lately," I said. "All... parent-y. Should I be concerned?"

"Chris, don't change the subject. Were. Were. You?" This surprised me. There were certain things he never did for the small stuff. Raise his voice, get upset, get disapointed. Peter? Always. Dad? Never. It just wasn't adding up.

"Drew and I just walked around. Went to the park. No biggie." For a moment, I concidered telling him about my possible tail, but decided against it. Maybe I'd just been imagining things. Why worry everyone over something that could be nothing. And, I'm pretty sure I would have been put on a tight leash.

I noticed his face. He was biting his lip. It was clear something was bothering him, but what? He couldn't be this upset about me ditching school. He didn't even graduate, for crying out loud!

"Dad, what's up?" He sighed, running a hand through his hair. I sat down, sandwich forgotten.

"Remember the case Peter and I had been working for the past couple of weeks?" he asked. I nodded. A series of break-ins to upper-class, ritz-y homes where lots of old and valuble things were stolen. Paintings, jewlery, pottery. You name it, if it's got a heafty price tag, the thief probably swiped it. Quite sloppily, I might add.

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Well, we caught the crook," he told me. Why would that have him so upset.

"Was it someone we know?" I asked. He shook his head. I was instantly relieved.

"It was a kid," he explained. "She was a runaway, but needed some cash. She told us about a man who had her steal things for him, so she got a cut."

"He used her so he wouldn't get busted pulling the jobs," I realized. "Genius..."

"Chris, you're not getting the point," he snapped. "She was you!" My eyes went wide.

"I'm confused." He sighed.

"Seventeen, smart, witty. She wasn't afraid of anything we threw at her. When we were interogating her, I kept thinking, 'that's exactly what Chris would have said.' I know Peter was thinking the same thing. She was like you in every single way." I was silent. He took this as his invitation to keep going.

"Let's say, for argument's sake, you become a con," he said. "You pull of some jobs under the radar, get some cash, plan your next heist. It goes like this for a while, but then you start attracting some unwanted attention. The feds are on you. From there, you're stuck living like the criminal you are; hiding, sending coded messages, always looking over your shoulder. But, it's too late to change anything. Crime is an addiction, as I'm sure you already realize. It's only a matter of time before you make one slip, one small miscalculation and find yourself in handcuffs.

"Now, they might give that girl we caught a little bit of a break; don't get me wrong, she's still going to prison, but they might have a bit of leniancy because she's a teenage girl living on the streets who was tricked by a low-life man. You," he said, pointing straight at my forehead, "would not get that luxuary. First, because of me. I'm a convicted felon who commited similar crimes. Second, you would have never been mislead by a strange man on the streets. And last, I'm pretty sure your crimes would be a bit more like mine." He took another pause, taking a deep breath. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?" It was a moment before I responded.

"Yeah, I do," I told him honestly. "But you don't have to worry about that too much." He raised an eyebrown.

"And why's that?"

"I don't find prison orange very flattering."