Summary: While trying to retrieve stolen paintings from a ruthless art theif, Neal is taken hostage. Peter races to find his partner, but this time, it might be up to Neal to save himself.
Rating: T to be safe. Mild whumping, some language.
Disclaimer: I (unfortunately) do not own White Collar or any of the characters, except for the ones I created. This is just for fun, no copyright infringement intended.
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Neal Caffrey winced as another blow struck him in the torso. He ached all over, and was pretty sure that he had fractured at least one rib. He winced in anticipation of another punch, but it never came. Instead, his captor put his face close to Neal's and whispered, "If you just tell me what I want to know, this will all be over." The man's breath was hot and foul, and Neal twisted his face away. The movement caused a sharp pain in his neck and he winced.
"If I tell you, then you'll kill me, so what purpose does that serve?" Neal asked. He struggled once more against the cuffs that bound his wrists, but they were too tight. He mentally cursed himself for not bringing a lock picking kit, or at least a hairpin. He would have been out of those cuffs and on the next flight back to New York already if he had just remembered to stick a hairpin in his pocket.
"Maybe," the man breathed, "But it'll be a quick death, I promise. And unless you want to end up like her," he gestured to the prone figure of a woman on the other side of the room. She hadn't moved since the men keeping them captive had brought her back thirty minutes ago, and Neal was beginning to wonder if they'd brought back a corpse. "You'll tell me what I want to know."
Neal tried to think of a con, a distraction, anything to get him out of this situation, but he came up empty. What I wouldn't give for a gun right now, he thought. "Go to hell," he spat at the man.
The blow knocked Neal to the ground and he saw stars. He could almost hear Peter saying, C'mon Neal, is it really worth your life?
"Mr. Caffrey." It was a new voice now, one that made Neal shudder. "This isn't worth dying for. We know you kept a stash from your old life; artwork, bonds, money, all the fruits of your crimes. Just tell us where it is and we'll let you go."
"And her, Gadson? Does she get a free pass?" Neal nodded towards the woman.
"She dies either way." The new man said blithely, "I'm offering you a chance to save yourself, Mr. Caffrey. What's your answer?"
24 hours earlier
Neal's head shot up as his partner, Agent Peter Burke, slammed a mug of coffee onto his desk. "Good morning sunshine, sleep well?" Peter asked, obviously happy at having annoyed Neal so early in the morning.
"How can you even drink that stuff?" Neal asked with disgust, pointing to the coffee. It was from the communal coffee pot in the office, which Neal made a habit of avoiding at all costs. "It tastes, and looks, like mud."
"Well we can't all drink cappuccino on our balconies in the mornings, now can we?" Peter asked, pulling a chair up to his desk and sitting down. "This is was hard-working people drink."
"Why do you keep saying that like it's a good thing?" Neal asked, "Working hard just so you can drink crappy coffee." He smirked and put his feet up on the desk.
Before Peter could respond, the phone in his office rang. He raised a finger up to silence Neal as he answered, "Burke."
"Stay here," he said after he hung up the phone. "And don't touch anything!" He yelled over his shoulder as he walked out of the office.
"Don't touch anything," Neal mimicked as he pulled out a bouncy-ball he had found on Peter's desk and started flinging it against the wall. "What am I, five?"
Meanwhile, Peter walked into the conference room where Lauren Cruz and Clinton Jones were already seated with files open on the table in front of them. Reese Hughes, Peter's boss, nodded by way of greeting as Peter pulled himself into a chair and opened the file in front of his seat. There were pictures of several pieces of artwork that Peter would bet three month's salary wouldn't pay for, and a shot of three men loading a truck with boxes of various sizes.
"Mitchell Gadson, British national." Hughes said, cutting right to the chase. He pointed to the man off to the edge of the photo. "Suspected of stealing at least thirteen paintings from various locations and forgery on who knows how many counts.
"This photo was taken last week in Florida, and that truck," he tapped the picture, "was seen in New York yesterday."
"You think Gadson's trying to fence the artwork?" Jones asked.
"We know he's trying to fence it." Hughes said.
"We just don't have the evidence to grab him." Peter finished, that was why white collar criminals were so hard to grab. They got smarter, hid the evidence, and made it almost impossible to grab them.
"Exactly. Which is why we need to catch him in the act." Hughes knocked on the glass to catch Neal's attention. "Time to put your boy to work," he said as Neal walked towards the conference room.
Present
Neal had been alone for an hour, the man with the bad breath and Gadson had left him and the woman alone after he'd refused to give up after the third beating. For all he knew, they were going to leave him to rot down there.
"Why didn't you give it up?" A voice rasped from the corner. Neal turned his head in surprise. He had thought the woman was dead. "Your life is worth a hell of a lot more than some paintings."
"I thought you were dead." Neal said in a deadpan voice.
"Obviously I'm not." She pulled herself into a sitting position, and Neal could see bruises forming on her legs. He was almost glad her face was covered by the shadows from the poor lighting; it was probably a gruesome sight. "And you didn't answer my question."
"I'm saving it for something…someone else. She's more important." Neal answered after a while.
"I hope your girl knows that you care about her more than your own life," she said, "Because if you don't give them what they want, they're going to kill you."
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A/N- So that's it, please review, and tell me if you want me to finish!