Author's note: Most of you seem inclined to trust me, but there are doubters out there! As if I'd ever do anything to damage the relationship between Peter and Neal. However, explanations will have to wait. Trust me!
Subterfuge Ch 7
Everything hurt. Well, that might be an exaggeration. It was possible there was a small patch on his right pinkie toe that had avoided injury, but apart from that, there wasn't a single inch of his anatomy that didn't throb or ache or sting. His ribs hurt as if they'd been hit with a baseball bat. No, he was confused - that wasn't a metaphor but the literal truth. They didn't feel like ribs any longer, but more like sharp confetti.
His taste buds had become accustomed to the harsh, metallic taste in his mouth, but his tongue still sought out the chipped loose tooth. One eye had swollen shut, the bruises on cheekbone and eyebrow attempting to merge. He wondered if that is what had happened to Neal's... no, he'd decided not to think about Neal.
Every breath burned despite his attempt to keep them small and regulated. He inhaled as if his lungs were made of handspun glass, fragile and lacy, as if an untoward movement would shatter them, multiplying the stabbing sensation that currently accompanied every flex and pull. His current position exacerbated the situation, but there wasn't a lot he could do about that since he was tied hand and foot to a remarkably inflexible chair (and wasn't it a sad commentary on his life that he could write an essay on "Comparative qualities of chairs to which I have been tied").
He attempted to relieve the pressure on his ribs and, incidentally, expedite an escape, by yanking hard on the ties restraining his right hand - not the first time he'd tried, judging by the slippery feeling of blood and the accompanying pain around his wrist - but it caused tendrils of agony to wrap around his side and spine, tugging him down, his vision blacking out for an indeterminate amount of time.
It wasn't the first time he'd lost consciousness, but he'd discovered that wasn't a bad thing during an interrogation, especially when you didn't have any answers to the questions that hammered you along with fists from all sides. Any responses he gave might compromise Abramov, whose allegiances were still murky. It seemed likely that a Mafia boss who knowingly cooperated with the FBI and allowed an agent to infiltrate his family, thus jeopardizing all its members, would be deposed, probably violently, with prejudice and sharp objects. He also didn't know if his answers would jeopardize Neal if… nope, still not going there.
Luckily, at least by some definition of luck, the interrogation hadn't been that sophisticated - no electricity or fine tools, just fists and blunt objects. Not a particularly intelligent technique for somebody already suffering from a concussion. After maybe the fourth time he passed out, and the second time he'd vomited on someone's shoes, they'd left him alone. He didn't miss them, but there were few distractions or pastimes when one was trussed up, unable to as much as scratch one's nose or, in this case, wipe the blood off it. In their absence, there was nothing to muffle the noisy, restless spool of thoughts that was uncoiling like ticker tape inside his addled brain.
Peter wasn't as concerned with his own plight as he was with the fact that he'd been unable to get the information to his handler about the possible terrorist plot. He had been so close to making that telephone call when Neal…
He really had to escape from this chair. It would be so much easier if he'd been restrained with handcuffs because Neal had taught him...
His interrogators had been gone for a while. He hoped it wasn't because they were questioning Neal.
Neal.
All mental roads led to Neal. Peter knew his concussion was bad when his mind supplied an image of Neal wearing a toga and a crown of laurels. Spitefully, he added a fiddle and encouraged the image to burn. It didn't help and afforded him no satisfaction. The bottom line was he loved Neal like a son, a little brother, best friend, complicated ankle-tagged enigma. Despite the temptation to add the adjectives treacherous and back stabbing, he couldn't bring himself to do it, because it just wasn't true and he couldn't force himself to believe it.
He didn't fool himself that he had plumbed the entirety of Neal's depths, but although the young man sometimes seemed to have more secrets than the Marianas Trench, it wasn't as much that Neal was a deep dark well, as he was a torrent, an unstoppable tidal force. He was never still, never quiescent, but always moving forward, his quicksilver mind vaulting all obstacles. But he was loyal to those he called friend, and Peter knew he was included in that small circle.
Neal had risked his life for Peter more than once and had casually offered up a two-million-dollar ransom for his safe return. This sort of betrayal just wasn't in his nature. It had to be part of a larger plan, an insane, mixed up and possibly backfiring plan, but some kind of rationale was behind it. Maybe this was his own fault for failing to pick up on it. Neal's initial words had been, 'He's a spy,' an interesting choice of words that almost certainly had been chosen to parrot Peter's words in their boiler room scam case. They had been Neal's cue to extemporize, claiming a valuable position as an industrial spy, but this time he'd followed up with the words, 'He's an FBI agent,' so Peter couldn't exactly have claimed to be working for a competing mafia family.
The one thing he was sure about was that Neal's presence wasn't a coincidence. The main question left was if Neal was here as an independent operator engaged in a crazy, one-man (or one-and-a-half because Mozzie was sure to be involved) rescue that was no doubt well intentioned - but everyone knew about good intentions. That road to hell might be short, but it almost certainly would not be boring.
The alternative was that this was a sanctioned mission with the full resources of the FBI behind it. Peter allowed that thought to infuse his sore body with hope even while practicality insisted that the troops would already have moved in if backup existed. He stilled all movements, straining to hear anything that might indicate that assistance was on its way. There might have been some shouting in the distance, but the only distinct sounds were rumblings in the plumbing above him and the occasional drip from a leaking pipe.
He had no idea of his present location, having been carried, or more likely unceremoniously dragged, to this sparse room when he was unconscious. He was underground, judging by the lack of natural light; the only source of illumination was one bare light bulb, hanging down centrally from some threadbare wires. He eyed the assembly idly, sure that Neal would have jury-rigged something from it, to dig his way down, explode his way up or dispose of the door lock. Peter merely wanted to get closer to it as the sole source of heat in the room.
He was bitterly cold, having been stripped at some point of all upper clothing except a thin, formerly white, undershirt. The chill had numbed some of the pain in his extremities, but periodic shivers rippled through him like individual seismic events, causing destruction and suffering in their wake. Tensing to mitigate the effects of the shudders failed as a palliative, only serving to emphasize the ache in every muscle.
Gritting his teeth, he bit back a groan as a particularly bad spasm shook him. An incautious breath caught in his throat, strangling there until forced out by a cough which caused a paroxysm of ensuing coughs, driving icicles of agony into every intercostal space, like a hug from the iron maiden. It left him limp and exhausted, damp with sweat which increased his vulnerability to the temperature.
He turned his head to the side, weakly spitting out copper-tasting expectorate, unsure if the blood originated from the damage inside his mouth or was a sign of deeper internal injuries. He had noticed it was getting harder to breathe, each inhalation a struggle, his body demanding faster and deeper breaths to satisfy the need for oxygen. The room was too large for the air supply to be depleting, therefore the cause was either damage to his respiratory system or, possibly, the way he was tied up factored into it. Hazily, he recalled reading that the victims of crucifixion actually died of suffocation.
With a greater sense of urgency, but little confidence, he resumed work on the ties fastening his right wrist, rubbing them against the edge of the chair, stretching them out, trying to make more play for his hand to slip through. Concentrating on the task, he gradually became aware of a change in the sounds outside: more shouting, then sporadic shots increasing in frequency. Hope hammered in his chest at the possibility of long-awaited rescue. Expectation was quickly replaced by doubt. He had participated in many FBI assaults and had internalised the rhythm of the attack and the echo of the guns that were the hallmark of the agency. He had a feeling that the best he could hope for now was an internecine squabble in the mafia.
There was no sound of footsteps approaching, but a slight metallic scratching from the door caught his attention. He was all too familiar with that scrape and snick, and there was only one person who would be picking the lock of his prison. The relief at Neal's imminent presence felt like a vice unclenching from his lungs, like a breath of fresh air that filled him all the way to his toes. That reaction answered any lingering doubts about his instinctive trust in his partner.
The chair was facing away from the door, and his ribs wouldn't allow a twisting motion to check out the entrance, so he sagged back against the chair, not trying to visually verify his assumption that it was Neal, but following his progress by ear.
The door opened with a final defiant creak and light footsteps approached, then paused.
"Oh God...Peter!" It was little more than a whisper, a pained exhalation, yet that slight sound writhed under a staggering weight of emotion.
Peter felt like death warmed over, refrozen, thawed then discarded in the trash, yet he imagined he looked somewhat worse, bruises decorating all visible flesh, at least all that could be seen beneath the dried blood that trickled down from various cuts and abrasions.
He tried to say something reassuring, but he couldn't seem to form the words, coughing weakly as his mouth moved sluggishly around a few syllables.
The footsteps advanced once more, this time unsteadily. Their path veered around his blind side leaving him still incapable of observing his friend.
"Peter. I'm so sorry. It wasn't...I couldn't…" Gentle hands undid the ties on his right hand, carefully lifting the injured and benumbed limb and placing it on Peter's lap. It was a thoughtful act from someone who knew the dangers of being restrained in one position for too long. HIs arms felt leaden, unwieldy, just two stumps loosely attached, at least theoretically, to the rest of his body.
For the first time, he caught a brief glimpse of Neal as he scooted round in front before disappearing again to repeat the process on Peter's other wrist. Finally freed of restraints, the undercover agent shifted position, and that small voluntary contraction of muscle started an unexpected cascade of spasms and cramps that convulsed through his frame.
Peter swallowed the agonised cry that rose in his throat. He struggled to breathe, cracked ribs clamping down on already heavy lungs. He couldn't seem to inhale through the thick coating of blood in his throat and mouth. Gasping like a drowning man breaking the surface, he started slipping sideways off the chair, to be caught by strong arms that eased him to the floor. Neal supported him, cradling his head with a warm hand. Peter knew the younger man was talking, but only through the continuous rumble of the chest he was propped against. He could hear nothing over the roaring in his own ears.
He leaned gratefully against that steady, warm strength until the cramping relaxed to a grinding stiffness, his nerve endings twitched less insistently and the spots in his vision swirled a little less enthusiastically. He would have liked to indulge in that comfort a few minutes longer, but there was no safety in their location. His arms still wouldn't cooperate to push himself upright, but Neal anticipated his wishes and helped, hands gripping Peter's shoulders firmly. He found himself still sprawled on the floor, staring into the ashen, anguished face of his best friend.
Neal was a palimpsest written in code and invisible ink, hiding behind beautiful calligraphy and dazzling colors, but Peter had learned how to make the original appear, teasing it out millimeter by millimeter by the application of blood, sweat and even tears. Yet right now, Neal was an open book, or perhaps a gaping wound, and Peter could see right down into the center of his soul. No masks, no disguises, no misdirections, just raw emotion.
If Peter had ever doubted his value in Neal's life, those uncertainties were forever banished.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It was the only thing I could think of. I didn't know…" The words welled up, spilling frantically out of that exposed core, Neal's voice as ragged and tumultuous as his expression. His distress was so visceral that Peter reached out in automatic comfort, resting a still shaking hand on his friend's knee. Neal didn't seem immediately reassured, following the movement with stricken eyes and as Peter looked down he could understand those reservations. Mottled bruising of lurid colors hopscotched down his arm in a trail leading to the still oozing lacerations encircling his wrist.
Deciding that verbal reinforcement was needed, Peter attempted to coordinate his abraded throat, swollen jaw and split lips to produce intelligible speech. "S'okay," he managed thickly.
Blue eyes flashed up to meet his and a complicated algorithm of guilt, relief and gratitude was quickly replaced by determination. "I'll explain it all to you later. But I've got to get you out of here. Can you walk yet?"
Peter had a feeling the truthful answer to that was 'no', but the correct answer was 'yes', so he compromised with a nonverbal thumbs up, backed up by as large a smile as his sore lip would allow. The wisdom of that decision was emphasized by the staccato burst of gunfire.
Ungluing his mouth, Peter waved a finger in an upward direction. "I take it that's not the cavalry." The words came out as a stifled croak, but Neal interpreted it correctly.
"I'm afraid not. At best, it's a rival raiding party. I needed a distraction to get to you, so I told Milo that your presence here meant he was being set up by Abramov, that he was trying to take over his territory. What you're hearing is the resulting battle between the Serbs and the Chechens. Since the Serbs are severely outnumbered, our time to escape is limited."
Neal was the most brilliant improviser Peter have ever met. He could extemporize a plan with the same speed and ingenuity that MacGyver could jerry-rig a bomb from duct tape and toothpicks, saving the day with seconds to spare. However, his explanations of these schemes tended to leave more questions than answers and this was no exception. The urge to pursue a more complete exposition was almost irresistible, but now wasn't the time.
"Help me up."
Peter's legs buckled as he tried to lever himself up, and only Neal's sturdy grip prevented him from ending up nose down on the floor. The simple movement of standing sent a blast of pain through his head and a roil of nausea through his stomach. He closed his eyes to try to prevent the pitch and yaw and all-round circulation of the room.
"Sure we're not on a ship?" he gasped. His right arm was looped round Neal's shoulder, but now he brought up his left to fist in his friend's shirt to give himself greater stability, deciding he wouldn't be too remorseful if he threw up on that unfamiliar fabric.
Proving that they were once more on a similar wavelength, Neal immediately responded. "If you throw up on me, I'm dropping you. We really don't have time for you to find your sealegs." He hitched Peter higher to get a firmer grip. "Come along, Ahab."
At first, their progress was halting, a three-legged race with a pair of stilts and a crutch. However, by the time they had, literally, hit the door, they had got a rhythm going, a staggering lurch that successfully covered the ground.
Neal cast a look up and down the corridor. "Any suggestions which direction?"
"Away from the shooting," Peter offered helpfully. "Towards the docks," he added as an afterthought. The fighting meant that his former escape plan was in tatters since people's movements were now unpredictable.
They were both unarmed, and, if challenged, the best they could hope for is that they would be taken as wounded combatants and allowed to pass, but Neal's very public denouncement made that unlikely. Luckily for them, the lower levels were currently abandoned, and Peter started moving with greater ease as his sore muscles warmed up. If there had been an exit from the basement, it would have been smooth sailing, but since no such convenience existed, their ship was bound to hit some rocky shoals.
There were no elevators out of the basement and it wouldn't have been a sensible choice of transportation if one had been available, but as he gazed up the stairwell that stretched endlessly upward, Peter couldn't help but yearn for some mechanical assistance, although if he could have his choice of technology, he might choose an extremely long and flexible periscope that would reveal not only the presence of any mobsters in the hallway above but also in their entire path of travel.
Neal shared that desire, but had a more practical method of acquiring that information. "I need to reconnoitre." He propped Peter against a wall. "Are you going to be okay if I leave you here?"
Peter waved off his concern. "Be careful." He wanted to say more, to remind his friend that as a self-proclaimed 'Serbian', he would be an immediate target, but he was having problems catching his breath and, rather than start a renewed coughing fit or gasp out his warning in a terrifyingly asthmatic way, he opted for silence. By the time he deemed it safe to open his mouth for anything louder than a wheeze, Neal had scampered up the stairs with an ease Peter envied and was utterly unable to emulate.
He contemplated crawling up the stairs unaided at what would no doubt be the speed of a paraplegic octogenarian, but decided his time was better spent recuperating his strength. Neal had disappeared down the corridor, and Peter waited anxiously, fearing the sound of a shot. No one knew better than he how capable Neal was at taking care of himself, but the odds against them weren't just unfavorable, they were incalculable. The feeding frenzy Neal himself had initiated was still ongoing.
As the seconds ticked over into minutes, Peter's anxiety ratcheted up to worry, and he changed his mind about not climbing the stairs. With a steadying hand on the damp wall and his head twisted awkwardly to afford his one good eye the best view of his path, he started a shaky ascent. His knees wobbled and wavered, threatening to violently reverse the little progress he'd made, and he considered making an undignified but safer climb on his rear end, but he was still doggedly edging upward when Neal returned. He almost knocked Peter down the stairs in his haste to grab him.
"Haven't you got enough injuries without adding a broken neck to the tally?"
Peter sagged gratefully into his friend's strong grip. "I've been climbing steps alone since I was two. I'm not going to Humpty Dumpty on you now."
"You were probably steadier on your feet when you were a toddler than you are now."
"No argument from the elderly and infirm side of this partnership."
"Okay, Hopalong, let's get moving." Suiting action to the word, Neal slung Peter's arm over his shoulder and they started upward. "Milo and his crew are falling back to the main gate," he explained. "That's where we left the vehicles. It leaves the way to the docks clear for us."
Three steps later, he added a little breathlessly, "Soon the Serbs will all be dead or out of here, and we'll replace them on top of the most-wanted poster board."
Peter grunted an acknowledgement, but he had no energy left to comment. He couldn't manage without Neal's assistance, but the pressure it put on his ribs reignited a white flare of pain that stole his breath and energy. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other, blind to external danger and trusting Neal to perform that duty.
The stairs had brought them up into the office area of the warehouse. Broken glass and spent shells littered the corridors, a genuine hazard to their stumbling progress. They soon discovered more visceral signs of the fight that had been raging in the area - two dead or dying bodies, blood pooling around them in a lurid halo. A gun lay abandoned inches from an outflung hand, and Neal once more planted Peter against a wall so he could bend down and retrieve the weapon, knowing they needed some form of protection even if it was only used to encourage their enemies to keep their distance.
A quick check showed Neal there were only three bullets left in the magazine, but it was better than nothing. He tucked it into his belt at the back of his pants.
Peter closed his one functioning eye. It was supposed to be a quick blink, but either because it was gummed shut or because of the invisible weights attached to it, it refused to reopen. Even worse, the over-enthusiastic gravity was causing him to slide inexorably down the wall. He nearly surrendered to it - oblivion a welcome release, but his downward descent was mysteriously halted, a voice buzzing an insistent refrain which eventually resolved into the repetition of his name.
"Peter! Come on Peter. Stay with me. I'd carry you, but I don't think your ribs would take it."
With the effort usually reserved for a one-armed pushup, he successfully peeled open an eye. He noted first the two hands fisted into the remains of his shirt, then dragged his gaze up to intense blue eyes limned with fear and brimming with agonized concern.
Peter reached up a weak hand with the intention of resting it reassuringly on Neal's chest, but he had a feeling he missed and patted his friend's face instead. He couldn't be sure, because his vision had blurred into a blue haze, but he was fairly confident that Neal's chest had no nose-like protrusions. The mental image was humorous, but apparently the small chortling snort it surprised from him wasn't comforting, being more reminiscent of a choking walrus - or so the deepening lines of Neal's frown would indicate.
"Nose," he said in explanation, but again it seemed to exacerbate rather than help the situation.
Neal gently wiped something, probably a smear of blood off Peter's face. "I really wish I could give you the opportunity to rest, but if we don't keep moving, we're dead."
The reminder that his CI's life was now also endangered provided the jolt of adrenaline Peter needed to resume his movement. The emptiness of the corridors gave way to the organized chaos of the warehouse, a cavernous space packed with crates and box-laden pallets with the occasional sprinkling of forklift trucks and pallet trucks. The lighting was dim in places, many of the fluorescent light panels flickering or not functioning.
Peter was able to point out the optimal exit and start them in the right direction before his focus once more narrowed down to the effort of forcing the next step from sluggish limbs and sore muscles. The push and flex of Neal's side against his ribs was both comforting and agonizing, but above all necessary. Any energy that hadn't been beaten out of him had long since burned away, and even the fumes were just a memory. Now he was operating on sheer stubborn refusal to recognize his limits, a grim and bloody doggedness. He was deaf to his own grunts and pained wheezing breaths, so it wasn't surprising he was oblivious to the ambient sounds. When Neal manhandled him hastily behind a tower of crates, there was a long interval before he figured out the cause.
"Someone's coming. Quiet!" Neal's hiss in his ear took a moment to register, and then he was conscious of just how loud his gasps for air resonated around them. He turned into Neal's shoulder, resting his forehead lightly on his friend's collarbone as he attempted to muffle his breathing, regulating his intake of oxygen with iron control.
Neal snaked an arm around his back, supporting a significant portion of Peter's weight as they pressed themselves against the sides of the crate, waiting as silently as possible for the thudding feet to pass on the other side. Peter was too disoriented to figure out if they were heading to the docks or returning, so he kept his head down, kept as regular a breathing pattern as possible, and listened to the half-familiar yet totally incomprehensible words that accompanied the passing footsteps.
Silence resumed, yet Neal didn't relax. "That's not a good sign," he muttered, more to himself than his companion, then in explanation he continued, "It looks like they've finished with the Serbs. I don't know if they realize you're gone, or if they have other business on the docks, but I need to check if it's still safe for us."
"Let me...guess." Peter interspersed nearly every word with a gulp of air. "This is...where you… park me in a corner...while you...explore."
"It's the safest way." There was an unstated apology in Neal's tone which Peter waved off.
"We find a...really good hiding place. You go...for help."
"Not going to happen for so many reasons. So save your breath for oxygenating your brain. Let me do the scut work."
He had a point, because Peter couldn't muster the energy to argue, figuring he'd wear his friend down later. He made no complaint when Neal settled him on a low, but not particularly comfortable pallet, shielded on two sides by tall towers of crates, but rallied enough to object to the CI's slightly facetious reminder to, "keep quiet and not wander off."
"Here I was intending to…practice my yodeling...and cross-country skiing skills." His weak attempt at humor earned him a genuine smile, a gentle pat on the back and a promise to return shortly, then once more he watched Neal disappear.
He tried to find a comfortable position for his ribs, but that seemed as likely as him sprouting wings and flying to Pluto, so he settled for resting his back against a supportive piece of plywood and assessed his other injuries. He reached up gingerly to examine the damage to his face. The blood had now congealed, leaving sticky trails curving down from brow, cheekbone and nose to pool around mouth and chin. Hesitant probing suggested a fractured cheekbone, each feather light touch a nauseating stab of pain.
A queasy, clammy feeling washed through him, leaching strength with every beat of his pulse. He felt strangely disconnected from his body, a feather afloat in the breeze, suddenly aware that his teeth were chattering and every muscle shaking in an uncontrollable tremor. His sensory receptors were so confused and overloaded, he couldn't work out if this was due to pain and shock or merely the cold. He decided it was simplest to blame both.
Unfortunately, once the awareness of the chill of his surroundings permeated his consciousness, it was impossible to banish. Glancing down at his clothes, he realized that not only were they skimpy and effectively useless against the cold, but that apparently blood was the new fashion accessory.
He yearned with a deep and ardent fervor for the coat he'd worn that morning, imagining its warm folds enveloping him. There was a mental conflation of the concepts of warmth and safety which made the idea particularly appealing.
Approaching voices shocked him out of a pain-filled mental haze to a greater alertness. Neal had left him in an infrequently travelled nook of the warehouse, and there was no reason for any of the Chechens to be searching in this direction. Had they left a trail? He pictured little drops of bright red blood illuminating their path. His heart cramped beneath his ribs as he prepared heavy limbs and disconcertingly wobbly knees for the hopeless task of renewed flight.
However, although talking continued nearby, it was desultory and its source remained out of sight. Peter, puzzled, hovered on the edge of heaving himself to his feet, until the acrid odor of cheap cigarette smoke finally succeeded in penetrating the clogged blood in his nose. In the aftermath of the deadly factional fight, at least two of the mobsters had snuck away for a smoke and, also attempting to find the most inaccessible spot in the warehouse, had ended up in more or less the same location. Attempting to move would only attract attention, so he was forced to sit, motionless, the cold seeping deeper into already chilled flesh, numbing both body and mind.
He spared a moment's worry for Neal and the possibility that he might inadvertently stumble into a confrontation on his return, but the prospect was too absurd for serious consideration. When he wasn't basking in the spotlight of his own brilliance, the cynosure of all eyes, Neal could be stealth personified. He could certainly ninja past two men without detection.
Peter gritted his teeth to prevent them from chattering, but his right knee was jittering uncontrollably and a cough was building up inexorably in his diaphragm. To distract himself, he starting counting all the pallets he could see with his blurry one-eyed vision. It wasn't a high number because he couldn't look around, since every movement of his head set off fresh waves of pain and nausea. How long could a smoke break last? Hopefully, the incipient cancer patients would remember they had jobs and return to their duties.
The urge to cough grew more insistent, his pulse thundering frantically as he restricted his breathing to quash the impulse. All concerns about discovery, however, evaporated into a world of agony as a massive cramp seized his body, squeezing the air out of his chest and constricting his rib cage as if wringing out his lungs. He was unable to bite back the whimper that bubbled up in his throat.
He curled instinctively into a fetal position in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure, but in the process, his center of gravity was irrevocably compromised, and he toppled off the pallet with a dull thud, not even aware enough to catch himself. The impact forced a grunt of agony from his lungs. Winded and exhausted, he attempted in vain to lever himself up as footsteps approached.
