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"Stop it, please! I told you, I don't know anything!"
That didn't stop the painful descent of the boot that collided with his stomach. Neal cried out in pain, cries that were muffled behind the black cloth fitted around his head.
"You still can't remember, Caffrey, huh? You managed to run from the FBI for years, stealing and forging at your own will, and that just happens to slip your mind?"
Another heavy kick.
"I'm just asking one little favor, Caffrey, just something small," he couldn't see his attacker, but he could smell that rancid breath, "help us with the Monet, and we're done."
"Help with what? I don't do that anymore."
"You can make an exception!"
A rough hand grabbed him by the front of his shirt and a clenched fist connected with his right eye. Neal hit the ground hard, his vision seeing stars, that resulted in another pained shout.
"Please…" he coughed, "stop…."
"Last chance, Caffrey."
Someone kicked him in his ribs, and his teeth clenched as the bone slid out of place.
"You've got anything to tell me?" his attacker asked once more.
Neal shook his head weakly.
"Your funeral."
The shadow of a boot wavered above his head. He closed his eyes, trying to brace himself, as the shadow came barreling towards his face and-
Neal snapped out of his daydream. He was sitting in his kitchen, sitting idly, waiting for Mozzie to come back. He let his thoughts wander and this is what he was rewarded with. Painful memories. Neal pressed a hand against his black eye, recalling the nasty sting as the sole of a shoe connected with his face. Now he looked like he spent a night at Fight Club. It had been almost two hours and Mozzie wasn't back yet, but he wasn't surprised. This happened with him a lot. As for Peter, he hadn't heard anything since last night when he dropped by. He promised Neal he'd keep checking in with updates, but so far there was absolute radio silence. He debated calling him, but he thought he'd let the FBI agent do his thing and not have him to worry about on top of everything else. If Peter got sidetracked just for a second, Keller would descend like a vulture and that meant danger. Neal puffed out a frustrated breath. He wished he could go out and do something, be productive, help with the investigation, but here he was sitting like an invalid. Caffrey heaved himself up out of his chair heavily and walked to his living room where he opened his laptop screen and tried to do some research.
The minute the laptop turned on, the blue light made his eyes sting painfully. Neal shielded his sensitive pupils and recalled something about a concussion. Great. Now he couldn't even watch TV if he wanted. Exhaustion sucked at his limbs all at once, the effects of his tired body and concussed mind catching up to him. He slept for eight hours, but now it seemed like he hadn't gotten shut eye in three days. Neal placed the laptop down on the coffee table and stretched his legs out on the couch. His eyes closed automatically, a relaxed breath releasing from his chest.
Finally, some peace and quiet….
Ring! Ring!
Neal's eyes shot open and he lifted himself up too quickly. A dizzy spell overtook him and he clutched his forehead, trying to steady himself. His cellphone was on the kitchen table. Every bone in his body was telling him to leave it, but his mind, albeit a little slow, was telling him it could be Peter with some news. Neal lifted himself up and trudged over, swaying slightly. He looked down at the phone screen, but was puzzled to see the words "No Caller ID."
Caffrey narrowed his eyes suspiciously, picked up the cell phone, and answered.
"Hello?"
"Ah, Caffrey."
He froze.
"Keller."
"Good to hear from you, long time no see."
"Let's keep it that way," Neal gritted his teeth.
"What? No kind words for an old friend?"
"How did you get this number?" the ex-con growled into the device.
"You know, here and there," Keller dodged the question, "wanted to check in and see how you're doing? The boys didn't beat ya too hard, did they?"
"What's it to you, Keller?" Neal sneered, "It's not like you actually care."
"Oh, you'd be surprised, Caffrey," Keller replied darkly, "I hate you with every bone in my body, but I don't want you to die just yet."
"So thoughtful of you."
"Let's get down to business, huh?" Neal's nemesis spoke, "the Monet."
"Don't even think about it."
"What?" he could practically see that evil smile, "you got dibs?"
"I don't do that anymore," Neal clenched his fist, "you know that."
"That's besides the point," Keller continued, "but don't sit there and act like you haven't even given a little thought to it."
Neal didn't answer.
"Come on, Caffrey," Keller laughed on the other end, "the thrill of the steal, you remember those days, huh?"
"Very well," Neal's jaw tightened, "but that's not who I am anymore."
"So you're telling me you're not going to steal it?"
"Of course not! I'm on the straight and narrow, Keller, unlike you. I would never steal the Monet, but I will see to it that you are arrested and put away for a very long time."
"Oh, yeah, cause that worked out so well last time," Keller scoffed, "keep your eyes open, Caffrey, I've got all I need."
"What?" Neal furrowed his brows, "What do you mean? What do you have?"
"Goodbye, Neal."
The line went dead.
"What?" Neal pulled the phone away from his ear and looked down at it, "No, no, no! Keller!"
"What do you mean Neal stole the Monet?" Peter's voice was tight and angry.
"That's what I heard from Hughes, Peter," Jones spoke on the other end, "don't shoot the messenger."
Burke was fuming. Here he was on some wild hunt talking to cheap storage unit managers for some information given to him by a con artist so he can go behind the FBI's back to cover for an ex-con who was just accused with stealing the very object he was intended to protect. Yeah, not a very good day.
"Okay, okay," Peter ran a hand over his face, "tell Hughes I'm on my way."
"Got it."
Peter hung up. He looked at the steering wheel of his car for a few seconds, then his phone, then the parking lot of the abandoned storage unit and he cracked. Burke slammed the wheel with both fists, his anger finally showing through. He was usually good at keeping his emotions in check, but this sent him over the line. Neal flat out lied to his face, made him think Keller was back in some well devised plan just so he could throw off his scent. No, not today. He was going to sort things out with Hughes then make a direct trip to Caffrey's apartment with handcuffs in his back pocket. Neal would not get away with this one, he'd gotten away with a lot, but not this.
Burke got back into the office and stomped over to Hughes' office. Other employees were looking at him with curious expressions, wondering what was about to go down between the two. Peter took a deep breath as he stood outside his boss's closed door. He knocked once, no answer, but he knew Reese was waiting for him.
"Hughes," Peter closed the door behind him as he entered, "you wanted to see me."
His boss and close friend didn't look up from his papers. He had a pen in his hand and was writing away, not even acknowledging him, but that's how he knew he was really upset. Peter just waited it out, and finally Hughes set down his pen and leaned back in his chair. He spent a few moments looking Peter up and down uncomfortably. All Burke could do was stand there and wait.
"Sit," Hughes pointed to a chair.
Peter obliged.
"Where is he?"
"Caffrey?" Peter rubbed his hands together, "At home, resting."
"Resting my ass," Hughes scoffed, "word is he stole the Monet."
"You can't prove that."
"Actually," Reese threw a file in front of Peter, "I can."
Burke looked at the file with wide eyes and gulped. There was evidence Neal stole the Monet? He was having a difficult time believing it, but with hard proof evidence there was no way he could deny that. Peter opened the file with slightly trembling fingers and observed the photographs.
There was a cordoned off area in the museum, where the Monet painting should be. Instead, in minute print, were the letters, "NC" in the middle of an empty picture frame.
"Just like the forged bonds that put him away," Peter said in disbelief. He looked at them closer, and shuffled through the other photographs and came across the image of "NC" from years before, when Peter caught him, "No, no, no, this can't be. He-he doesn't do this anymore, he's not like that!"
"The facts are there, Peter," Hughes slammed his palm against the table, "I can't argue with it."
"This-this doesn't prove anything, someone could've put those letters there," Burke stammered, "or-or-"
"Forensics found fingerprints too, Peter," Hughes shook his head, "on a door handle."
"Where's the security footage?"
"Cameras were disabled."
"Well, isn't that convenient," Burke spat.
"Cool it, Peter," his boss stood up, "this is your job, okay? We don't defend the criminals, we catch them. Now, where is Caffrey? I've got to bring him in for questioning."
"Sir, please-"
"No opposition, Peter, this is how it's got to be. I know you two were close, but this is justification. Neal has to learn his actions come with consequences."
Peter slumped back against his chair, eyes staring off in disbelief. How could Neal do this to him?
"Peter."
He looked up, in a daze."
"Where's Caffrey?"
Burke was in the back of an FBI team topping 15 men. All of them had their company jackets on, ready to arrest and detain Neal Caffrey. Hughes was heading the track, knocking on June's front door with a heavy fist.
"FBI! Open up!"
Burke cringed. He had been here countless times, almost excited to come and see Caffrey every morning, but now he wanted to be far, far away.
He heard the lock unlatch, and Peter tried hiding behind the last man, not wanting to be seen.
"Burke!" he heard his boss's voice at the front of the crowd, "Front and center! Come on!"
He flinched. No, Hughes couldn't do this to him, no.
"Hurry, Peter!"
The 15 men parted like it was the Dead Sea. Peter was staring at Hughes with hurt eyes, ones that kept saying "don't do this to me."
Hughes gave him an iron glare, "Now, Agent Burke."
Agent Burke. Reese wasn't talking to him like he was his friend, but his employer. It was as if this was punishment for giving Neal too much leg room.
Peter obliged and stood next to his boss as the door opened and June's terrified, shocked expression. It became pained once she laid eyes on Peter.
"Peter?" her voice was full of hurt and disbelief, "What-what is this?"
"I'm Agent Peter Burke, Mrs. Ellington," Peter said with an aching heart, "we're going to need you to step aside."
"I don't understand! What for?"
"For the arrest of Mr. Neal Caffrey," Hughes said darkly as he pushed past June and the 15 men followed behind. Peter waited at the door, looking at June with a sorry expression as the shoulders of the passing me hit his own.
"Peter…" June echoed with a soft voice.
Burke took a deep breath, steeled himself, and followed the men up the stairs. He wanted to protect Neal in case things got ugly with Hughes. This was a personal hit to White Collar, a betrayal. Of course his boss was going to be upset.
By the time Neal raced up the stairs, Hughes had already broke down the door. 15 men were in the luxurious apartment, searching for Neal.
"Where is he!?" Hughes stamped his foot and yelled.
Peter looked around in confusion. The bed was made, the wine was put away, the clothes were folded, and no Caffrey. June came rushing through the door.
"Neal!" she cried, but she too looked around. There was no sign of the ex-con.
"What's going on?" Peter finally spoke.
"Damn Caffrey is gone!"
"What?" June gasped.
"Where could he go?" Burke asked.
"You tell me!" Hughes threw his hands in the air, "This is absurd! I want an APB out on one Neal Caffrey, now! Keep looking come on!'
Hughes stormed out the door, waving his hand to motion that Peter accompany him.
He walked past June who had a smile on her face, thankful her charge had escaped.
Peter, on the other hand, was worried. Neal, injured, managed to pull off a daring escape with a concussed brain and the entire FBI on his tail. He ran out the front door, trying to keep up with his boss. He'd need to stay ahead of the FBI's investigation, perform his own little incognito research.
Hughes was already in his car, his cell phone pressed against his ear making urgent calls.
"Back to the office!" Reese growled and sped off angrily.
Peter exhaled heavily, shoulders weighing down with stress and worry. What was he going to do? Where could he find Neal?
"Psst!"
Peter furrowed his brows and looked from side to side.
"Suit, over here!"
A glimmer of hope. He turned around and dressed in a painter's uniform was Mozzie, wearing a fake wig and sunglasses. He had on coveralls with splotches of paint on them, a paintbrush in one hand, and a bucket of paint in the other.
"Mozzie!" Peter whisper yelled, jogging over to him and pulling him to the side, "For once, I'm glad to see you!"
"Oh, God, end me now."
"Mozzie, where is Neal?"
"Not here," Mozzies started to pull away, "514 MacDougal Alley."
He was running down the street in seconds, paint bucket jostling in his hand. Peter ran a hand over his face. He didn't want to trust Mozzie with anything ever, but this might be the only option to find and help Neal.
"Okay," Burke nodded his head, accepting his position, "looks like I'm going rogue on this one."
Until next time!