I know I said I would only post every third day (and I still plan to update that way), but I am leaving on a trip today and might not have access to a computer until Monday. So, I am posting a day early instead of two days late. I hope that is okay with everyone. Thanks for reading and as always, reviews make me smile. Have a wonderful weekend! Chapter Three on Monday :)
Chapter Two
It was adrenaline, and in truth probably fear, that kept Neal on his feet. He used the building diagram to find his way out a back entrance of the warehouse into the growing twilight of the afternoon. It was February; the winter days ended early and with the thick cloud cover, it had ended even earlier than usual. Neal didn't mind that; the impending darkness to him would be a help instead of a hindrance. McNeely could only rely on what he could see to find him; Peter could track him down with the GPS in his watch. He just had to give Peter time to do that. Hence, the darkness was welcome but the cold, not so much. It seemed to cut through his light jacket and into the very core of his body. He found himself shivering almost immediately.
He was sure he had made fast progress through the warehouse. Since McNeely, his partner and Garrison's men would be looking in every nook and cranny, Neal figured he had gained several minutes ahead of them. Once outside, as long as he left no trail, the options for his escape routes would increase. This would force his pursuers to split up in order to cover more ground. The longer he stayed ahead of them, out of their sight, the better his chances of survival became.
He moved as quickly as he could away from the warehouses. He wasn't sure of his location. He had purposefully randomized his course and now had moved into a dingy and sparsely populated area. How many blocks he had covered, and in what direction, he had no idea. Most buildings were boarded up and deserted. He passed a dumpster and, letting it block the view of him from the street, leaned against the building to catch his breath. It had started to drizzle; in addition to cold, Neal was beginning to feel weak and winded. He was afraid his trembling was not just from the chill and wetness in the air. In spite of the shirt he had stuffed inside of his jacket to stop the flow of blood, he was beginning to think the wetness on his back was more than sweat from exertion and rain. In his haste to escape his pursuers, he hadn't given his physical condition much thought. Had the bullet gone through him? Was he still bleeding? How bad was he hurt?
His adrenaline rush spent, his legs felt like rubber. He slid down the wall to a sitting position; he had to rest for a minute or two. Not having found him, it was only a matter of time until McNeely called in reinforcements. What had he said? He would have the entire NYPD looking for him? Not having been made aware of the undercover operation, the NYPD would only know what McNeely told them; they would have no reason to doubt his word. Considered armed and dangerous, officers might simply shoot him on sight.
An unexpected wave of panic swept over him as the seriousness of his situation hit him, but it only lasted a moment. He took a shaky breath; reminding himself that by now, Peter's knew things had gone wrong and was tracking him. Peter was on his way; it was only a matter of time until he found him. Once he explained what had happened, Peter would take care of him, and of the NYPD as well. He just had to wait, but he couldn't wait in the open. He had to find a place to hide. He was tired, and breathing was becoming increasingly more difficult. He needed a moment to regain some strength; then he would find somewhere out of sight to wait for Peter. He placed his good arm on his knees and put his head down.
Just for a minute, he thought as he closed his eyes, just a minute, and I will be on the move again.
"Hurry, man," a voice called from some distance away. Someone was jostling him roughly; he could feel clumsy hands digging around in his jacket pockets. He was no longer sitting against the wall of the building. He was lying on his side; he could feel the wet roughness of the pavement against his cheek. "Is he dead?"
"I don't think so," This voice was at his ear, hands stilling momentarily before resuming their rummaging, "but he's bleeding. He's been stabbed or shot or something. There is blood all over him."
"That's more trouble than its worth, leave him. Let's go!"
"He's got a wallet," the voice continued, the hands increasing their efforts in spite of the fact that they were wrenching his shoulder painfully. "I can feel it." A groan escaped Neal's mouth.
"No time, leave it," the other voice sounded insistent, "Cops are coming from everywhere; probably looking for him, and we don't want to be here when they find him." His words were illustrated by a wailing of a siren that passed the mouth of the alley. The sound affected both Neal and the clumsy thief; Neal's eyes flew open, and the thief, with a curse, abandoned his efforts to relieve Neal of his wallet. The thief quickly got to his feet and joined his friend. Without even a glance back, the two men disappeared around the next building, in the direction opposite of the one the patrol car had traveled.
Neal feared the thieves were correct in their assumptions of why the police were suddenly swarming the area; McNeely had called in the false incident. Now the NYPD was looking for him too. He had only meant to rest a moment. It had grown colder and darker, and he was dripping wet with rain. How long had he been here? Where was Peter? Shouldn't he have found him by now?
The thieves had been eager to put distance between themselves and the sudden police presence in the area, and Neal felt the same way. He struggled to get up: it took him longer than it should have to get to his feet. He was cold and stiff; his body didn't seem to want to cooperate with him. Once he was upright, the alleyway tilted, causing him to stagger against the building for support. There was an odd roaring in his ears; something was very wrong. He was confused but then remembered what had happened in the warehouse; McNeely had shot him. That he had momentarily forgotten the incident caused him concern of a different kind altogether. He wasn't thinking clearly, and he had to be able to think clearly if he wanted to live.
He felt in his jacket; the shirt he had stuffed there was still in place, but blood had seeped through it and his shirt and pants were sticky. He inspected the area he had been lying only moments before. There was blood there as well. Blood loss concerned him for more than one reason. First, it was most likely why he was weak and unsteady and, if not stopped, would finally kill him. Secondly, leaving a blood trail for McNeely and the NYPD to follow could possibly have the same end result; perhaps even more expediently. As he stood there, waiting for the alley to right itself, the rain began to fall harder; the downpour washing away the blood that he had left behind on the pavement. Reassured, he pushed away from the building and steadying himself, staggered down the alleyway.
Turning up the narrow street behind the backs of buildings with darkened windows, he saw no place for shelter. Metal doors were locked and with access to only one, shaking hand, he wasn't about to try to pick his way inside. The rain was cold; it had drenched him to the skin, and his shivering had returned in earnest. He felt it had been hours since he had escaped from the warehouse, but reason told him that wasn't the case. He had to find shelter and a place to rest. He had to hide from all the people who were looking for him-the NYPD, McNeely, Garrison's men-from everyone but Peter. He smiled to himself; hiding from Peter had never worked anyway, Peter always found him. And this time, he was very thankful for the fact.