Chapter 2
"I've gone through every database, Boss."
"Looking for V?"
Diana nods. "Any person of interest with a name starting with V, first or last, is either known to be in another country, incarcerated, or dead."
Peter growls in frustration and pounds a fist against the conference room table. Seven days, and they still have nothing. A week, and nothing to show for it. Nothing on Neal. Nothing from V. They traced back Neal's tracking info, which only led to confusion. Neal had been at the Bureau right before he went to the Warehouse. They pulled up cams around the Bureau to see if they could find who had taken him, but all they saw was Neal going to open the Bureau door, hesitating, then turning and walking the other way. He went there on his own. Something convinced him. Something enticed him. The constantly furrowed brow and frown on Peter's face speaks volumes to Jones and Diana. Their boss is starting to lose hope.
Diana keeps her head down, and Jones glares at the floor, clenching his jaw as he thinks.
Plink.
Plink.
Plink.
The three glance out the window at the source of the noise.
"What the hell…" Peter mutters, squinting to focus.
Diana raises her eyebrows. "I'll be damned."
A small toy helicopter is repeatedly ramming itself against the window. Jones blinks, then shakes out of it and approaches the window, looking down at the toy people milling about on the street below. He scans the crowd, but another plink causes him to jump, and his focus snaps up to the helicopter. A detail behind the helicopter catches his eye, and he focuses in on the building directly behind the small aircraft, into the window.
He scoffs. "Would you look at that. It's the little guy."
Peter blinks, then crosses to the window, shaking his head and waving an arm. What the hell are you doing, Mozzie?
Mozzie waves a hand, and up and above their heads, toward the sky above the FBI building. Diana glances up. "The roof. He wants us to go to the roof."
The agents immediately jump into action, briskly walking towards the elevator, slowing when they pass others so as not to create suspicion. Once on the top floor, they jog down the hall, throwing open the roof access doors and slowing to a stop. Jones cautiously steps forward and glances around, shrugging. "There's nothing here."
A slight buzzing sound hums in Peter's ear, and he holds up a hand to quiet them, as the buzzing gets louder. The helicopter suddenly peeks up from over the wall of the roof guard, and Diana relaxes her shoulders, rolling her eyes. Peter groans as he crosses towards it, and stops when it suddenly cuts out of the control and drops at his feet.
"Seriously?" Jones scoffs, and Peter shakes his head, picking it up. A cigarette is poking out of the window, and Peter pulls it out. Tiny handwriting adorns the side, in velvety black thin ink, just one line. Irvin Melendez. He repeats the name out loud.
"Find me everything you can on this guy," he calls over his shoulder, but when he doesn't hear a response, he turns around to see that they're halfway down the hall, already on it. He grins, looking down, before heading back down after them. When they're back in the office looking over files on Melendez, who is apparently a local muscle for hire with a rap sheet for drugs, they hear the plink one more time. Peter glances up, and he can barely make out Mozzie's features in the window in the faraway building, but he sees him smile. He puts his hands together, bowing once in silent thanks.
"Answer me."
Neal is barely able to blink, squinting into the blinding light, and he manages to bring up a shaking hand to shield his eyes. The cuffs are gone, it's a wicked trick. It's a small morsel, some semblance of hope for freedom. Inwardly, Neal knows he's not free. Even through the fog delivered by the needle in the form of his daily dose, he can acknowledge this much. The door at the top of the stairs is open, light is pouring in and bathing him in a burning sensation, and a silhouette in the doorway is asking him a question.
He parts his lips and tries to speak, but his dry throat just produces a rough crack. He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing, and when he does speak, his voice comes out quiet and rasped. "W- What?"
"I asked, how are you doing today?"
The pleasantry is not pleasant. The question is condescending and menacing. Neal's eyes are still squeezed shut as his head swims, and he slams his hand back down onto the concrete to steady himself. "You don't care how I'm doing," he manages, what he intended to be a growl barely coming out a rasping whisper.
The man chuckles. His voice maintains its melodic lilt. Smooth. A slight Spanish accent, but nearly undetectable after years in the United States. And almost deceptively charming.
"Of course I do. I wouldn't want you to be in pain."
Neal grimaces, letting his head drop back against the wall, chin tilted towards the ceiling when he gasps in the pain the chilling voice doesn't want him to be in. He's taken. The Girl with Golden Eyes has married him, and he's forever at Her mercy. He hates Her, but Her beauty is blinding, and when She asks him to dance, he can't say no. "Then make it stop," he groans.
"I can do that."
"Give it to me."
"No, no, no. That's not how this works. You know that." The figure steps into light. Serafin Valentino was a man without a face, but once he showed Neal some small hint of mercy and provided a light, just to remind Neal he was still alive, the man became real. His jet black hair is carefully sculpted into a pompadour, his olive skin wearing bold Spanish features, but his eyes are bright hazel, shining under thick lashes as he glares down at Neal. "You want your medicine, you do something for me, first."
Neal tries to look up, but his head is heavy, and his eyes quickly flutter shut as his head drops back against the wall again, wincing upon the impact and feeling it shake through his skull. "That's not the deal," he murmurs, almost slurring. "Other way around. I can't help you right now."
V quickly steps a bit closer. "Don't try to play me, Caffrey. I know my leverage, I give you this and you have no reason to help me. Get up."
Neal draws a sharp breath, and pushes himself up, staggering slightly when he does, eyeing the parcel in V's gripped fist.
Neal slowly wanders out, keeping his eyes on V. When he's standing right next to him, the man suddenly slaps him on the back, pushing him forward. The sudden blow causes Neal to sputter, and he clears his throat, stumbling up the stairs with V trailing close behind, monitoring him closely, a jungle cat studying his prey.
The door slams, and Neal winces where he sits, squeezing his eyes shut at the pounding in his skull caused by the sound.
A file folder smacks against the deep wood of the table, the second loud noise shaking him to the core.
"Why so jumpy?" V asks, raising his eyebrows. Neal keeps his eyes down, reaching into the box and pulling out the papers, scanning over the letters on the page. V studies Neal. "We need to know what it is."
"It's a code," Neal mutters, still glancing over the pages. V clicks his tongue in agreement. "What is it for?"
V crosses to the other side of the table, pressing his palms against the wood and glaring down at Neal. "These are messages exchanged by my competition. I am the biggest game on the East Coast, and I'm looking to expand. They want to hit the new market first. I need to know what they say."
Neal raises his eyebrows, still searching over the letters, his hands curled into shaking fists on the table. He squeezes his eyes shut when the letters start to slip in and out of focus, and he brings a palm to his forehead, rubbing vigorously. "It's… I don't know, I can't think; it's…" He clenches his jaw, trying to focus. "There's more to it. This has something else associated with it." V raises his eyebrows, and Neal starts rummaging through the remainder of the files in the folder, quickly scanning over the pages. He glances up at V. "I need a pencil."
V pulls a pen from his pocket and hands it to Neal, who begins circling lines of shipment numbers for a company called EAST MEDICAL SUPPLY and scratching things down in the margins. V stares over his shoulder. "What is it."
"It's a one-time pad. Used only once before it's burnt, but if you can't connect it the associated formula, it's uncrackable. You find the number set associated with the letter set, use the numbers to translate how many letters down each letter actually is. If the first letter is C, and the first number in the separate set is 4, the C becomes a G." He continues scrawling things, blinking furiously when he can't steady his hand, then he squeezes his eyes shut, dropping the pen and bringing two fingers to his temple, his blood turning to thick, burning lava struggling to move through his veins. His voice shakes as he keeps his chin tilted down, trying to swallow the bile quickly rising up his throat. "Please," he mutters. "I cracked it. You can decode it from here." He won't look up at V as he begs. V just studies him for a moment, then sighs, before glancing to the side of the large, empty hall and calling out. "Irvin. Take Mr. Caffrey back to his quarters. Give him what he wants."
A broad-shouldered bouncer type saunters in, roughly grabbing Neal by the back of his shirt and yanking him up. Neal just stumbles behind, keeping his eyes cast down.
When Irvin throws him into the cellar, he staggers into the wall, but manages to keep himself up, refusing to fall in front of V's thug. Irvin tosses a metal lockbox into the cell, and Neal winces when it clatters to the floor. When Irvin leaves and slams the steel door at the top of the stairs shut behind him, all light disappears, save the small bulb swinging from a cord in the middle of the ceiling of the cellar.
Neal takes a shaky inward breath, studying the box, and he slides a hand into his pocket, grasping for the key that now never leaves his side.
He can't keep his hand steady as he tries to guide the key into the keyhole, and as he gets more and more frustrated, the shaking gets worse. He sighs sharply in relief when he finally succeeds, hearing the box creak as he opens it. This is the worst part of all of it. He knows exactly what he's doing, he has a choice. He's buried his dignity, letting this man use his talents in exchange for his next hit. Anything to stop the pain.
And this man is not using Neal's talents for good.
The other part of this that scares him, the part he feels sick with shame for, is his rapid assembly of the materials he needs for his relief. His deft fingers scream experience. He's doing this to himself, he's doing it right, and he's doing it as quickly as he can. He has two reasons to hate this, but two reasons to love it more: it keeps the pain at bay, the heat that swims through him and assaults his muscles, singeing them. They writhe to escape the flick of the flame, and cramp and contract into knots to protect themselves, causing him to double over. But beyond the physical pain, he just needs to escape this. This is hell, this is torture, and when he finds himself conscious and sober, it's just a prodding, stabbing reminder of the nightmare he's living. He just wants to escape it. Once the cocktail is prepped, he struggles to manipulate shaking hands to tie the strip of rubber around his upper arm. As soon as it's set in place and the end is in sight, however, the shaking stops. With the cleanest of movements, he slides the needle into the vein, pulls the plunger back, then sinks it forward again. His eyes glaze over and he staggers back slightly, slamming into the wall. When his brain fails him and he loses control of his own movements, the syringe slips from his fingers and clatters against the cement. The wave crashes over him, and he lets himself sink to the floor, his eyes drifting shut and his arms thrown over his raised knees.
The buzzing stops, the pounding in his skull dulls. Peace, and freedom. Free of the thoughts of self-hate and disgust that gnaw at him every moment he's clear-headed enough to think. Think about what's happening to him, think about what he's become, think about the pain he's grown to know every time he wakes up in a heated sweat.
Now, in this moment, he doesn't know a damn thing, and knowing nothing is better than knowing at all.
Neal hugs himself close as he rocks back and forth, eyes gently shut, just swaying to the rhythm of his slowing heartbeat. It's music to his ears, and the music swims through him, darting across his veins and finally exiting through his dry lips in the form of a small moan.
THE NEXT DAY
The deep, shining wood of his desk distorts his reflection as he stares down into it, not focusing on anything specific. Just staring as his heart pounds. The sinking feeling in his chest taunts him with the idea that Neal may not even be alive anymore, and he grips his stomach in pain, trying to crush the feeling.
"You okay, Boss?" Diana's voice breaks through the pain and brings Peter back to attention, and he glances up, distracted.
"Huh? Yeah. What have you got?" The thinness of the file she slides to him delivers the bad news: they don't have much. The information he finds inside makes his heart stop. Irvin Melendez is dead.
"He was found in the street, dead of a heroin overdose. We've been able to pull from cams to trace his route back to where he got the drugs. The connect is a guy named Rudy Cordova. He's under Serafin Valentino's thumb."
Peter glances up at this, the realization slamming his gut. "V."
Diana nods. "Biggest drug power this side of the Mississippi. He WAS the biggest game in Europe. Spotless record, been able to avoid any snags with law enforcement until a deal involving some powerful people in Spain went wrong last year. He fled the country."
"He wants blood."
"He needs to get to the Spaniards without going after them in person; he's in hiding, he can't risk being found."
The slight gnawing feeling in Peter's stomach screams for Peter to listen to his gut. Valentino has Neal. He knows it, more certain that he's ever been of anything in his life. This man wants to get revenge, he'll use Neal to get there. Peter swallows, eyes searching the floor as the dread turns his blood to ice. "Find him."