Authors Note: - Just to advise readers this story is finished and will be posted in its entirety.

White Collar

Just a Feeling

Later, when it was all over, she would say it was just a feeling. Just a feeling which made her cancel her flight and turn around and come home…

Part Three

Worse. He was feeling a damned sight worse. He couldn't fool himself any longer, but his team were on the verge of a major bust and now really wasn't the time. The pain had gone from dull ache to misery. This wasn't just any old stomach-bug. There was a fire burning under his ribcage and every step was like a knife in his gut. He had expected to feel better as the day went by, but things had gone from bad to ugly pretty quickly. Peter knew something was radically wrong and he'd never felt so awful in his life.

Taking a breath, he looked up at the sky. The falling rain was like a kind of benediction. The cold sting brought him out of his stupor and cooled the raging heat beneath his skin. He had a job to do – the end of weeks of planning. A deadly sting which was potentially hazardous. With luck a wrap to the counterfeit laundering scam which had cost him precious time with his wife.

The Irish Mob was notoriously mistrustful and arranging this meet had been difficult. There would be no second chances if they blew it. It was literally the only strike they'd get.

When it was over, he'd go see his doctor and get a course of antibiotics or something. With any luck, he'd be better in no time, there was really no point worrying El. When she got home this would all be finished with and he could treat her to her favourite Italian, then they could talk about that trip to the Hampton's. The FBI owed him plenty of leave.

With any luck…

"Comm. check, please confirm ear-buds working," Diana's voice was low in his head.

"Copy," Peter looked at his companion and nodded, but the other man was watching him sharply. Neal glanced towards the back door of the nightclub and uneasy lines furrowed his brow.

"Something's wrong with you."

It wasn't a question, and Peter knew it needed deflecting.

"Nothing's wrong," he set his teeth and answered evenly. "Not unless you forgot the plates?"

Neal rolled his eyes and patted his breast pocket. The look on his face spoke volumes. He continued to observe Peter carefully as they walked across the alleyway to the entrance. The club was closed up for business and the premises shrouded in darkness. The light was bad because of the weather even though it was barely noon.

An omen…

The sudden shadows were creepy and unseasonable, and shivering, he felt strangely uneasy. Something hovered on the fringes of Peter's consciousness, an eerie sense of out of time, out of place. The same thing had happened this morning when he'd stood in the empty hallway, an odd, almost visionary awareness when El's perfume had hung in the air.

It was nothing, the result of a poor night's sleep and a rock-bottom blood-glucose ratio. Premonitions had no place in his universe and he wasn't the fanciful type. Neal was still watching him, damn it, and Peter felt a stab of compunction. Perhaps he should have mentioned feeling unwell, but it was too late to jeopardise the case.

Each step hurt, and he was tempted to favour his side – to hunch over and protect his tender abdomen – but he could not afford to show any weakness right now. He still had a role to play. Straightening up, he leant on the door jamb and took a deep breath before knocking. The door opened and he gave Neal a steadying look before stepping firmly inside.

It took a second or two for his eyes to readjust to the cavern-like gloom of the interior. The club was dirty and stank of stale alcohol and the left-over haze of cigarettes. His stomach lurched, and for a horrible moment, Peter actually had to fight to control it; a clenching ripple and burn of acidity which left a rancid taste in his mouth. Swallowing hard, he struggled with the nausea and a sudden and more ominous threat of faintness. Cold fear brought forth a quick surge of adrenalin. He had to push his way through this somehow.

"If you please, gentlemen?"

They both raised their arms and were thoroughly frisked as O'Hara and his men moved towards them. The searching hands weren't exactly gentle and Peter bit down hard on his lip.

"You brought them," O'Hara didn't waste any time as Neal gave him the plates.

"A sample of my work, as requested," Neal watched as the Irishman studied them closely. "Unlike scanned copies, close to undetectable. Pretty flawless, I think you'll agree?"

"They look good," O'Hara agreed slowly," but it's not just about the printing."

He could sense the Irishman's interest as the trap was well and truly baited. Peter steadied himself and moved forward. "I think this is where I step in. It doesn't matter if the artwork is flawless if the paper or ink is substandard. I can provide the quality you're after, but high quality comes at a price."

"Halden?"

Neal nodded affirmatively. "This guy's the best chemist in the business. No track history and no previous convictions. The work he does is pretty much faultless. He's unknown to the FBI."

"How've you managed to stay under the radar so far?" O'Hara stared at him aggressively.

Peter met his eyes boldly. "By being very choosy whom I work for. My past clientèle have been impeccable, both rich and extremely discreet. Like Halden says, I'm the best at what I do, and my services come at a price."

There was silence for the briefest of moments, and then O'Hara smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Words, my friend, can sometimes come easy, but I'd like to see some real proof of that."

"Take a look," Peter reached for his wallet and handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill. "As you know, this is the acid test. The toughest note in the treasury to replicate. You must have verified the sample we sent you or I assume we wouldn't be here today?"

"You assume right, it was verified. My experts agreed it was good."

"And we can reproduce more of this standard. So tell me, can we do business or are you just wasting our time? Other parties have expressed an interest, and quite frankly, we need more than promises. If we're going to be working together then some proof of commitment would be nice."

Another silence, and Peter held his breath as he sensed rather than felt Neal tense beside him. O'Hara was a cold-blooded killer and maybe he'd pushed things too far.

"Know what, you've got balls and I like you," O'Hara sounded mildly amused as he folded up the bill into his pocket. "I think we can agree on an arrangement. You provide me with this kind of quality, and I'll handle the business side. We've finished with our former suppliers; let's just say they let us down badly. I'll be clear, there are no second chances. You came along at the right time."

Finished with our former suppliers…

Peter compressed his lips slightly at the Irishman's throwaway comment. The words were a gross euphemism and that was understating the case. The former suppliers had been finished with, all right, their contracts severed by anyone's standards. Their bodies had been found in the Gowanus canal, weighted down in the filthy water. They had been badly beaten and tortured and finished off execution style.

A severe stab of pain jolted through him and drove the air from his lungs for a second. The room reeled and Peter barely caught himself in time, inhaling sharply in a reflex that shocked. The breath jammed somewhere under his ribcage as a shudder of hurt rippled through him. In the background, O'Hara was talking, laughing loudly at something Neal said.

The room receded and then grew larger, expanding into nightmare proportions. He was spinning in a lurid vortex as their voices became loud and distorted. He tried blinking and gasping in air through his mouth, but the sickness and vertigo persisted. His pulse raced with a sullen difficult beat as the blood drained away from his head.

Not now… dear God, he couldn't pass out now. Not when they were seconds from closing this. He was dimly aware he had staggered and of Neal's anxious eyes on his face.

There it was… he barely heard Neal give the signal word – the one used to alert Diana, but everything was roaring around him as he broke out in an icy cold sweat.

Neal was moving but O'Hara was quicker as things went to hell all around them. The Irishman was no longer smiling and he held a gun in his hand. There was shouting and a piercing confusion of noise. He heard Diana's clear tones issuing orders. Had to do something… he was an arm's length closer to O'Hara and Neal's only chance of escape.

"Run, Neal!"

Peter made a desperate grab for the gun but his unsteady dive was sadly off-balance. Momentum carried him forwards as a bullet burned past his skull. He barrelled into O'Hara and their combined weight forced them both over, and then everything around him faded as his midriff exploded in agony. The Irishman thrashed wildly beneath him as he struggled to regain some sort of leverage. Peter lay limp and unresisting. His limbs lifeless and heavy as lead.

He couldn't move if he wanted to.

Where was Neal?

The bullet must have missed him.

Dear God, let the bullet have missed him…

They were trapped in a deadly gunfight with no immediate means of escape.

Eventually, O'Hara rolled him aside and Peter floundered helpless as a baby. He had no weapon and no advantage and the world was a kaleidoscope of misery. The darkness was descending in a thick black cloud no matter how he tried to fight against it. He looked up as O'Hara smiled down at him and pointed the gun at his head.

TBC

Lisa Paris – 2012