Running a con was always a delicate thing. Push too hard or lay it on too soft and it would all fall apart like a house of cards. It was part of the rush that Neal loved. Walking that tightrope, the abyss of failure on either side. The rush of success was always worth the risk. At least he'd always thought it was.
Shouts carried down the alleyway. Neal pushed off the crumbling brick wall and stumbled further into the darkness, cursing the fact that he lost his tux coat, leaving him wearing a bright white shirt. He should just lay low and wait for the bozos to stop looking, but he couldn't do that.
The set up had been perfect. The marks were following the script exactly. They had set the final meet up in the backroom of a black tie gala. Neal was the fixer, carefully setting up the money exchange. Peter was playing the money launderer. The rest of the team was going to bust in for the arrest right after the money was exchanged.
Neal had been in the limo, heading to the exchange. He'd shared a bottle of champagne to toast the business deal. He's woken up cuffed to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. Peter was hanging from his wrists from a ceiling beam, looking as bad as Neal felt. No one else was around, but he could hear voices shouting in a side room, arguing over how they should be killed.
Neal didn't wait to hear how the argument ended. He picked the lock with the pick he carried in the sleeve of his tux, and cut Peter down. They worked their way over to the side door but just as Neal picked it open there was a shout from behind them. Shots stitched across the door and busted the windows next to them.
Peter pushed him out the door and tumbled after him. "Go left," he ordered. "Get free. Call in as soon as you can." Then he shoved him away. "I'll draw them off." Neal dodged around the corner, then stopped and looked back.
Two men chased Peter down the alley, guns drawn. There were shots and Peter stumbled. Almost fell. Gathered himself and turned the corner. Neal almost went after him, but more men came out and a shot echoed off the wall.
He'd been running for the past 15 minutes trying to shake the goons behind him. Trying not to think of what was happening to Peter.
Horns off the to left caught his attention and he veered that way. Traffic meant help and help meant he could get to Peter. A taxi screeched to a stop in front of him. He jerked open the front passenger door and climbed in.
"I need to use your radio," he said. He ignored the protests the driver and dialed the shortwave to the emergency channel.
NYPD wasn't thrilled about helping, but Neal pulled out his FBI credentials and bluffed his way though. Two minutes later Jones was on the other end.
"Neal, damnit, where are you?"
"In a cab. What about Peter?"
"He's at County General. At least, he's supposed to be at County General. Last I heard he was hell bent on looking for you despite the hole in his shoulder. He's going to be fine."
"County General," He told the cabby. "Tell him I'm on my way there." Neal smiled.
Peter was going to be fine. The rush of relief was as good as he got from any con.