8 years earlier… before the fall

Early March

Peter dodged a harried looking woman pushing a rather large baby stroller quickly along the sidewalk. His maneuver sent him bumping into Neal who, in turn, had to do a nimble sidestep in order to avoid colliding with a group of school children being shepherded along by two equally harried looking chaperones.

There was a series of apologies – except from the woman with the baby stroller, who hadn't even looked back – and then the two men continued on their way.

"Ah, the joys of living, and walking, in New York," Neal commented. But it was far too nice a day to let trivial matters ruin things, so his tone was light.

"Mowed down by the daycare squad," was Peter's rather dry reply. "I can see the headlines now."

"More like a grade school field trip squad, I'd say."

"Oh, and is that an improvement?"

Neal flashed one of his trademark grins, the kind that said he wasn't entirely serious about anything he was about to say. "Well, if my end is going to come in such an ignominious fashion, I'd prefer it to not be from toddlers. The brilliant and great Neal Caffrey deserves better."

Peter laughed as he turned and stopped for the light to change at the intersection. Their destination – a Thai restaurant, with what Neal considered to be some of the best curry in town – was just ahead. "Leave it to you to worry about what form his demise takes."

"It's a serious matter, Peter," Neal insisted, though his tone still didn't quite bear that out. "When someone writes my life story…"

"Your life story?"

"Yes. The story of the most brilliant FBI consultant…"

"The story of a con man, forger, thief, escape artist..."

"Allegedly," Neal cut in, before the list of descriptive words for his – former – career could get too long. "All of which alleged skills have made me the most brilliant FBI consultant."

Peter's standard eye roll, accompanied by a grunt of disbelief, would have made Neal smile under normal circumstances – he loved getting the agent to that point. But now he kept his features carefully schooled in a neutral expression. "You wound me, Peter."

"You know what they say. Sometimes the truth hurts."

"Ah, a good reason to avoid the truth then."

"Something you have years of experience with."

"Allegedly, Peter. Allegedly."

"Right."

"Anyway, when someone writes the story of my life, the ending will be very important. It will seal my legacy."

"Right now, I'd settle for something that would seal your lips," Peter muttered.

They'd reached the restaurant, and any reply Neal might have made was cut off when Peter walked inside. Neal stayed on the sidewalk for a moment longer, holding the door politely for a couple of departing patrons. By the time he got inside, Peter was already being shown to a table.

They were in a good place again, he and Peter. All of the ups and downs they had been through made the last couple of years seem like a roller coaster – a particularly violent, twisty one. But the last big twist, involving high-level corruption in the Bureau, the Irish mob, and Sam Phelps – who turned out to be James Bennett – was, at last, behind them. The quislings within the various government agencies had been ferreted out, Ellen Parker's killers had been brought to justice, and Sam – James – was no longer a factor in Neal's life. He had found all the family he needed.

Despite the blows they had both taken – emotional and physical – he and Peter had made it through with their friendship back on firm ground. With their conviction rate as a team now edging up toward ninety five percent, their working relationship was definitely on track. The combination of personal and professional satisfaction had him at a point in his life that he hadn't often experienced before, at least not for any length of time.

He was happy. Content. Looking toward the future with eager anticipation, not with dread or worry. And not looking over his shoulder to see what was coming up from behind.

Peter was already seated by the time he got to the table, the menu open in front of him. Neal sat down across from the agent and picked up his own menu. "So, what looks good?"

"It all looks good," Peter replied, not taking his eyes off of the menu. "I hadn't realized how hungry I was until we walked in here and I smelled the food."

"They do say appearance and aroma are as important as taste when it comes to a truly fine dining experience," Neal pointed out.

"Well, right now they could blindfold me and pinch my nose as long as they put some food in front of me."

Neal just grinned as he studied the list. "Appetizers?"

Peter looked up. "Maybe the beef saté? I love the peanut sauce."

"That works. Maybe an order of the gyoza too."

"Good idea."

They debated menu choices for a few more minutes until their server arrived with glasses of ice water and an order pad. Moments later the young man left the table again to submit their order for appetizers, a basil and chili stir fry for Peter, a green chicken curry for Neal, and a couple of Thai iced teas.

When they were alone at the table again, Peter leaned back in his chair, sipping his water. "So, El wanted me to ask you something."

"Should I be nervous?"

"Do you have something to be nervous about?"

"I really hate it when you answer a question with a question, Peter."

"I'm just wondering if you have a guilty conscience about something."

"No, Peter, I have no recent transgressions to confess."

"Recent as in the last few minutes? Or are we talking days…"

Neal grinned and shook his head. "Nothing to confess, period. Now what is Elizabeth's question?"

Peter still looked a little skeptical, though also a bit amused. His eyes remained focused on Neal for another long moment before he finally answered. "She was wondering if you're free for dinner a week from Sunday."

Neal ran through his busy social calendar in his head. Well, actually, if you didn't count Mozzie's frequent visits, maybe it wasn't really all that busy… "I think I'm free. What's the occasion?"

"El pointed out that it'll be the third anniversary of our working together."

That caught Neal off guard for a moment, thinking back. "Wow, I hadn't even thought about that. Since the official end of my sentence got moved back…"

"What, you expected to get credit for your island vacation time?"

"Hey, I stayed out of trouble!"

"You call getting shot staying out of trouble?"

"Collins doesn't count. I was doing fine until he showed up."

"Until I led him to you," Peter said quietly.

"We've been through this, Peter. I'm in New York, where I want to be. And no lasting effects from the bullet. Sara says the scar is kind of sexy though."

"Oh, really. So, are you and Sara…"

"Back together?" Neal shook his head. "Not really. We go out from time to time. We're friends."

"Hmmmm, a friend who's seen a scar on your upper thigh…"

"Maybe she's seen me in running shorts."

"Or maybe you're friends with occasional benefits?"

"That's a rather crass saying, Peter."

"And that's not a denial. Don't forget, I'm well-versed in Caffrey-speak."

Neal just shrugged and offered up his soft, most innocent smile.

Peter shook his head and laughed. "Fine. But, seriously, the leg's not bothering you at all?"

"Sometimes it aches a little when bad weather is coming," Neal admitted. "But from a physical standpoint, no. I was lucky that Collins used a revolver, and the bullet lodged in the muscle. Once I had that scar tissue removed a month or so later, it has really been fine."

"You did outrun Crandall's goons by a sizeable margin last week," Peter conceded.

Neal grinned. "Part of my strategy for avoiding situations where I might get shot."

"Right. So, dinner?"

"Yeah, sounds good. When and where?"

"El's got this restaurant she wants to try. I guess the place is contending for a catering spot she has open. She says the food is right up your alley."

Neal lifted an eyebrow. "Not more pâté samples, I hope."

"I think she mentioned a Russian place in Brighton Beach. It's more likely to be borscht."

"I actually like borscht. And Brighton's a little out of my radius, so it sounds like fun."

"Great, I'll let El know."

The server arrived just then with their iced teas and the first appetizer, with a promise that the second would be out soon. All talk of Russian food and Brighton Beach was abandoned in favor of the meal in front of them.


If they didn't open the damn door soon, he might just have to rip it off the hinges…

Patience had never been Damon Loughler's strong suit. In the past, with his size and temperament, he'd usually remedied the situation with violence. Given his current location and situation, however, he was doing his best to find a different solution.

But, damn it, he'd served his sentence – plus extra, for a couple of altercations that had meant additional time. And now he wanted out.

He hadn't wasted the whole twelve years, of course. No, his little human smuggling operation turned out to be just a drop in the bucket compared to what he now knew was out there. And he'd met some very helpful people inside.

And here he'd heard that the Russian mob could be hard to work with…

It turned out that he'd had a few pretty good practices in play, plus he still had a few key contacts, and the Russians were interested in doing business. In fact, he had a pretty sweet set-up to get busy with.

If the stupid guards ever opened the door and let him OUT.

Of course, that didn't mean he'd forgiven the Feds for putting him in here. No amount of promised profit could erase the anger and pain he still felt about his arrest. His time in prison had not only cost him twelve years – he'd also lost his wife and son.

Stupid bitch. He'd always provided well for her and the kid, and then she just cut and ran when the water got a little hot. He figured they were probably hiding out with that damn tight-knit family of hers in Jersey, but no one there would even answer his letters, much less accept a collect call from him.

So yeah, the Feds owed him, big time. And forgiveness was not something he practiced.

No, for Damon Loughler, the name of the game was revenge. He'd take a little time, get his feet back on the ground in the free world, work a couple of deals with the Russians to put some money in his pockets. Then, watch out Feds, starting with the agent who had slapped the steel cuffs on his wrists. Someone he would never forget.

Peter Burke.


"Hey, Burke!"

Peter turned at the sound of his name, watching as George Ruiz made his way toward the counter of the crowded coffee shop. "Ruiz."

Neal had finally made it to the front of the line, and he turned around too. "Agent Ruiz. Can I get you something?" he offered.

Ruiz looked a little surprised, but then he shook his head. "No, thanks, Caffrey. I just need a quick word with Pete here."

Peter was sure he wasn't going to like the conversation, but he was also sure he couldn't avoid it. "You got this?" he asked Neal.

Neal nodded. "Yeah. I'll bring your mocha over when it's ready."

Ruiz led the way, threading a path back toward the door. Peter followed as the Organized Crime agent stepped out onto the sidewalk and moved toward one of the tables set up under the shop's awning.

It was a little chilly to be sitting outside, in Peter's opinion, but the cool weather did mean that no one else was out there, so the terrace area was relatively private. He buttoned up his coat again and sat down. "So, was this just a coincidence, running into me here? Or are you stalking me?"

"I stopped up on twenty one. Agent Jones told me where you were."

"Well, you found me. What's this about?"

Ruiz pulled some folded pages out of his coat pocket and slid them across the table. "Recognize anyone here?"

Peter scanned the information on the first page, a few details and names quickly jumping out at him. "This was a case I worked maybe twelve, thirteen years ago. Human smuggling, mostly from the Baltic area as I recall. Young girls, promised fame and fortune in New York."

"Yeah, and then turned into prostitutes to pay back their passage."

"It was a mess." Peter glanced at the other pages and then back to Ruiz. "This is an old case. Is there some new development?"

"Are you familiar with Vasily Lyovkin?"

"Yeah, I saw the memo come through a few weeks ago. Wasn't he tied to some people being smuggled in on a container ship?"

"That's the winner," Ruiz replied. "But he was only tied in through rumor, nothing we could make stick. And no one is talking about the big guys in the chain."

"I never worked a case involving Lyovkin," Peter pointed out. "What does this have to do with me?"

"We're hearing rumblings that some of the people from your old case are getting mixed up with Lyovkin. So, I thought I'd pick your brain, see if you remembered anything that might not have made it into the official report."

Just then Neal walked up to the table, three cups in his hands. "Since you're enjoying the balmy weather out here, I thought you might want something warm after all," he said, setting one of the cups in front of Ruiz. "I got you a cappuccino. And here's your mocha," he added, setting a second cup in front of Peter. Then he hesitated. "Should I leave?"

Peter looked to Ruiz for an answer, and the other agent shrugged. "You can stay, if you want. It's not super top secret agent talk."

Neal grinned and pulled out a chair. "But that's the best type of conversation to eavesdrop on."

"Ruiz thinks some players from an old case of mine might be involved in a new scheme by the Russian mob," Peter explained.

"Know anything about the Russians, Caffrey?" Ruiz asked.

"I know enough to stay far away from them." Neal gestured at the papers and Peter handed them over, watching as Neal skimmed the first page. "Child prostitution?"

Peter nodded, his look as the grim as the one that had come over Neal's face when he glanced at the case information. "Yeah. These guys find vulnerable young girls."

"Usually in areas of a country hard-hit economically," Ruiz added. "They show the kids – this group is doing boys now too – glitzy pictures of New York, promise them the good old American dream. All they have to do is work hard and, see, there's this great job lined up for them. The pretty kids get told they'll be models, the others get promised other kinds of jobs. All paying more than these kids can imagine earning in a lifetime."

"Except when they get here they're sold into prostitution," Neal said. He handed the pages back and looked up. "I've seen some of the investigative reports on television."

"The kids are forced to work long hours, sometimes for years, to pay back the men who brought them here. They get charged for their passage, plus their housing, and every scrap of food they get to eat," Peter said.

Ruiz nodded. "By the time they 'earn' their freedom, they're so used up there isn't always much left. A lot of them have never even learned English, and they have no skills."

Neal looked over at Peter. "And this ties in with one of your cases?"

"I didn't always work white collar, you know."

"Might have made my life simpler if you hadn't switched," Neal muttered.

Peter grinned. "Mine too. But this…" He gestured at the pages. "I wouldn't have lasted long investigating a lot of cases like this."

"Most people don't," Ruiz admitted. "Most of the Russian mob cases we get are the more straight forward type. Guns, smuggling goods, extortion. But a couple of our CIs brought us chatter about this operation with the kids, and they seem scared. You ever hear of Vasily Lyovkin?" he asked Neal.

Neal shook his head. "No. I generally made it a point to stay as far away from the Russian mob as possible. Any mob, actually."

Their recent run-in with the Irish mob notwithstanding, Peter knew that to be mostly true. And really, he couldn't much blame Neal for something that had started before he was born. "You do have some experience with smuggling though," he pointed out.

"True," Neal conceded. "But the only time I smuggled a person was a young girl out of Senegal. The religious elders in her home village in Mali wanted to stone her for being raped by a soldier, but some friends had gotten her as far as Dakar. I got her to some friends of mine in Venice." He paused, a gentle smile on his face. "I still hear from her once in a while. She's a teacher, married, two children."

"Do you think 'Gary Rydell' speaks the smugglers' language?"

"Not this kind of smuggling. Besides, I think the Lawrence case kind of burned the Rydell alias." Neal thought for a moment and then looked at Ruiz. "I might have a couple of aliases that would work as a potential buyer for the… ummmm… services, if that would help."

It was Peter who answered, and he was surprised. "Really? For something like this?"

Neal shrugged, obviously a little uncomfortable. "You never discovered all of my aliases, Peter. A couple of them were pretty rough – at least, on paper. And I never considered those aliases as 'friends.' I spent as little time with them as possible. But, with a little tweaking, and some updated rumors, they're names that might work for this. If we're being asked to help, that is."

"I don't think we're quite there yet," Ruiz replied. "Too much rumor, not enough substance to put a buyer operation in place. But I'll keep what you said in mind. It's damn hard to get anyone reliable all the way inside these groups, but the buyer angle could work."

"And I think whatever information I had on the old case was covered in the official file," Peter started.

"If it happens in the field, it goes in the report," Neal muttered.

Peter realized he was being tweaked with the quote, but he chose to ignore the comment and continue. "I can check my personal files, see if I have some notes. Anything particular you want me to look for?"

Ruiz nodded. "Yeah. You remember a guy named Damon Loughler? One of the ringleaders."

"Oh, I remember Damon," Peter replied, his voice dark. "I remember the knife he tried to gut me with. And the threats he made. The guilty verdict was especially sweet on that one."

Neal reached for the papers again. "Is Loughler out?"

"Yeah, five days ago," Ruiz replied. "According to the Bureau of Prisons, he was released from the federal pen in Allenwood. He was put on a bus to New York, and that's the last anyone knows. He never showed for his scheduled check-in with the parole office, and the people at the address he listed on his release papers say they haven't seen him. Seems pretty legit."

"No one checked the address?" Peter asked.

Ruiz sighed and shrugged. "Sure they did. It was registered to his mom, just like he said. He claimed he wanted to come back to New York to care for his ailing mother. Except it turns out, mom has been in a nursing home for over three years, advanced dementia. The cousins in the apartment haven't seen Damon Loughler since some family reunion a quarter century ago."

Peter let that sink in for a moment. "But Loughler's name is coming up again now, in connection with Lyovkin?"

"That's the chatter the last couple of days. But, like I said, we don't really have enough to go on yet. I just wanted to run it by you, see if anything jumped out." Ruiz got to his feet. "You'll check your notes?"

Peter nodded. "Of course. I'll let you know if anything seems helpful."

"Thanks, Pete." Ruiz drained his cup, and gave a quick nod in Neal's direction. "Thanks for the coffee."

Peter watched as Ruiz tossed his cup in a trash container and walked away. Then he turned to Neal. "Think Mozzie might have any information?"

"Moz isn't a big mob fan either."

"He does like Russian surplus though."

"True. I'll ask, see if he has any contacts."

Peter picked up the file papers Ruiz had left, folding them and putting them into his coat pocket. "This is messy business. A big reason I prefer white collar."

Neal grinned. "Sure, because you get to deal with classy criminals like me. Former criminals, I mean."

Peter sighed and shook his head slowly. "Yeah, the kind with the huge egos," he said, getting to his feet. "Come on, let's head back. I want to pull those old files."