Critical Hour
Chapter 7 – Only What You Allow
"Pain is only what you allow it to be."
― Cassandra Clare, City of Ashes
Using the shelves for support, Neal shuffled along, back down the row and toward the door where he and Peter had entered the warehouse. There might be other exits, maybe closer ones, but he didn't know if there were—or where they were—and he couldn't afford to spend time or energy on fruitless searches.
Hurry.
Even the smallest movement hurt like hell, and walking hurt even more. The only good thing about it—well, not good, exactly—was that at least being up and mobile had made him feel more awake, sharper. His brain didn't feel nearly as muddled as when he'd first come to. Hell, when he was able to push the pain away, he felt capable of actual thought again.
Keep going.
He didn't look back at Peter. The movement needed to twist his body hurt too much, and if he saw Peter again, he'd only feel more guilt and frustration at leaving him there. At the end of the row, he did stop for a moment to take a semi-deep breath before stepping out, away from the shelves, aiming for the outside wall that ran perpendicular to the rows of shelves. He could almost feel Peter's eyes on his back, watching him as he moved away.
Outside. You need to get outside.
While getting up and moving around had the welcome effect of making him feel more aware, it also had the unwelcome effect of sharpening the pain. Every movement heightened the agony. He seemed to hurt . . . everywhere. Thanks to Peter, he now knew why he hurt in other places besides the obvious ones, like his head and his shoulder. His neck hurt because the bastard had choked him. And Regal must have hit you in the ribs, too. Neal had had bruised ribs before and he recognized that sharp, piercing pain when he moved, when he breathed.
He was still trying to get his brain to grasp what Peter had said—and how he'd said it. Neal wondered dimly what else had happened to scare Peter that badly. He had some shadowy impressions, but nothing concrete. A big chunk was missing from his memory.
And maybe that's not so bad, he thought, grimacing at much it hurt just to swallow—and at the memory of Peter, looking stricken as he described what Regal had done. All things considered, Neal was just as glad to have been unconscious for that part. It was unnerving, though, to hurt this badly and not remember why he was hurting. Neal had never experienced that before and it was . . . he struggled to think of a word. What had Peter said? Unsettling. Yeah, that fit.
As was the realization that, whatever Regal had done, Peter had been forced to watch it. All of it.
The thought made him shudder.
Generally speaking, Neal thought, privately, that Peter worried too much (about Neal, anyway). He kept this opinion to himself, for the most part, because Peter didn't take well to Neal telling him what he should be thinking or feeling. Especially when the matter at issue was related to Peter's job or Neal's safety.
So Neal kept quiet about it, but he'd always felt that Peter went a bit . . . overboard. It wasn't that Neal didn't appreciate it; Peter's concern could be heart-warming. Neal was used to being on his own, more or less. With a few notable exceptions, having someone who cared about what happened to him the way Peter did, without any truly selfish motives, was a novelty. A refreshing novelty.
And Peter wasn't obnoxious about it, either. He wasn't the type to mother-hen Neal every second. But even when Peter refrained from voicing anything (probably because he knew Neal would just tell him to relax, that he'd done this countless times before), the tell-tale signs of anxiety were easy to spot in Peter: the way he'd fidget, the tension in his shoulders, a certain grim set to his mouth, that look in his eyes.
Neal always felt bad when he saw those indicators, usually right before Peter sent him undercover. Worrying was a waste of energy and time, and it was kind of a shame that Peter couldn't help doing it. What was the point? You prepared as best you could—on that, Peter and Neal agreed completely—you trusted your abilities, and you did what you had to do. Then, if things went wrong, as they so often did, you figured out what to do on the fly. You got to use your brain and your skills to come up with solutions. Neal had complete confidence in his ability to handle whatever was thrown at him, and he was pretty sure that Peter was confident in him, too.
But Peter worried anyway.
Neal would never say it to Peter, but secretly he sometimes thought that when things went wrong was the fun part. Peter wouldn't agree, of course. Peter hated when things didn't go according to plan. When Neal didn't go according to plan.
Like today. Nothing had gone according to plan, Neal was in danger, and Peter was responding predictably. Except that this time, his reaction was totally off the charts.
Neal had never seen Peter that freaked out before, and that in itself was definitely alarming. Well, you'd be freaked out, too, if somebody was choking Peter right in front of you.
And given the other mysterious pain Neal was feeling, Regal had done . . . other things to him, as well, while he was unconscious. Yet, as disturbing as all of that was, right now, Neal was more worried about Peter than himself. Peter had said, quite plainly, that Regal's plan was to take Neal, whereas Regal would have much less need for Peter—
Instead of killing you now, I take you captive.
Neal froze for an instant. That was Regal's voice that he was hearing in his head.
Talking to Peter.
If I had you, I might be able to control Neal much more easily.
Closing his eyes for a moment, Neal tried to concentrate, ignoring the little chill running down his spine. Was that right? Had Regal really said that, really talked about kidnapping Peter as well? But Peter hadn't mentioned it. Neal's mind was so foggy, his sense of time and reality so untrustworthy, that he couldn't be sure.
No, he couldn't rely on his memory right now. He had to go by what Peter had told him: Regal plans to kidnap you and kill me. Which meant, in Neal's practical, triage-like assessment of the threats they faced, that Peter was the one in the greatest immediate danger. Regal had no interest in killing Neal. Therefore, Peter was the one they needed to worry about.
Clearly Regal was violent and creepy and . . . scary. He'd scared the hell out of Peter, so much so that Peter hadn't even tried to hide it—and that alone was enough to scare the hell out of Neal. But Neal had been successfully taking care of himself for a very long time. He'd extricated himself from plenty of tight spots and unsavory characters and come through mostly unscathed. Really, the only person who'd ever been able to get around him with any success was Peter Burke. If it came down to it, Neal would take his chances that he could handle himself with Regal.
After all, Regal had future plans for Neal (disturbing as they might be). His plan for Peter, on the other hand, likely involved no future, only an imminent end, and perhaps not a slow one. That was the part that worried Neal above all else.
That was why he had to get help, as fast as he could manage it.
Two steps and Neal had made it to the opposite wall. His right shoulder hit the concrete and he winced, bracing himself against the wall and gasping to ride out a wave of stabbing pain. It felt like the movement jarred every bone. Something was probably broken in there, but it didn't help to wonder about it now.
You need to stop running into things, he scolded himself. Be more careful.
He let himself stay there and just breathe. Shallowly, because deep breaths hurt like a bitch. Overall, he told himself, this was not so bad. He'd made it this far, he was still upright, and he could follow this wall, lean against it, and use it to help support him all the way out to the door where they'd entered.
As Neal began moving again, though, he immediately realized just how slowly he had to go. His balance was off, his surroundings seemed to tilt crazily without warning, and with no way to hold on to anything, Neal was terrified of falling. He didn't want to think about how much that would that would hurt—and how much more it would hurt to try to get up again. Truthfully, if he fell, he wasn't sure he could get up this time.
No, you would. Because of Peter. But it's better if you don't have to.
The pain made it hard to think, hard to focus on what he had to do. He tried to push it aside and compartmentalize it away into a remote corner of his mind. It was something he'd trained himself to do in similar situations over the years, when he'd been in the middle of a job and suffered some injury. You didn't allow yourself to think about it; you concentrated on the task at hand and made the pain secondary.
So Neal thought only about walking—well, really what he was doing was closer to staggering—but it was movement, it was progress, so that was good. He was doing what Peter had told him to do, what Peter needed him to do. He just had to keep going and not let his mind wander to anything beyond that.
A few more feet, and there was a door. Not the door that led outside—not yet—but a door that led, presumably to a room. He stared at it for a moment and then twisted his body, blinking at the pain, so he could bring his bound hands to the doorknob. His fingers were numb, and the wire—or whatever it was—binding his wrists bit into the flesh as he strained. Neal swore quietly and lifted his hands to turn the knob.
Locked.
Well, an open door probably would have been too much to hope for. He was reminded of a favorite quote of Mozzie's—luck always seems like it belongs to someone else.
It certainly seemed to apply today . . . .
Behind the locked door might be an office, and salvation might be in there: in the form of a phone—or something he could use to snip these damn restraints. Under normal circumstances he would have had the cheap-looking door lock picked in seconds, but he had no tools, nothing he could use.
Well, not quite. He did have tools. But his picks were in his inside jacket pocket and completely inaccessible. He might as well have left them back at the office for all the good they'd do him now.
There was nothing for it; he'd have to keep going.
Again Neal worked his way down the hallway, keeping his shoulder to the wall so he didn't have to support all of his own weight.
Finally he'd come to the end of the shelves. He had to make a right turn, still following the wall. The corridor that led to the exit started here, so there was a wall across from him, now. He stopped to catch his breath and then saw another door.
This one was across the hallway, though, on the other side. He'd have to leave his security blanket, the wall he was currently leaning on, to get to it.
Worth a try, he decided. He stepped out, away from the wall, but realized right away that he'd moved too quickly. Vertigo hit and the world listed wildly, like he was stuck in the middle of a carnival ride gone horribly wrong.
Neal felt himself falling. His only conscious thought was that he had to reach that other wall before he hit the floor. A fall would be devastating.
The corridor was wide - too wide, he thought desperately. I'm not going to make it.
it was a near thing. He lurched forward for the wall—of course, he couldn't use his hands to brace himself—and slammed into it face-first, barely in time to keep from hitting the ground.
He just had the presence of mind to turn his head so his nose and forehead—already in bad shape—didn't take the full force of the impact. He heard himself cry out.
Well, Jesus. That hurt like hell.
He levered himself up the wall and stood there, temple pressed against the rough concrete. His head felt like it was about to explode with even the slightest movement, his shoulder was afire with pain, but the coolness of the concrete felt good. Neal let himself enjoy the sensation for a moment, but only a moment. Staying there was not an option. With every second, his energy was fading. He knew that he was dangerously close to passing out, and he couldn't allow that to happen. Peter was counting on him.
He'd almost forgotten about the door.
This time, he carefully turned his whole body to allow his hands to find the doorknob.
When the knob turned, he felt a surge of hope that almost made him forget the agony in his shoulder.
He bumped the door open further with his bound hands—shit, that hurt, too—and slowly turned to look into the room.
Neal's heart sank. No office, no phone, no help. Just a dark, tiny storeroom filled with more shelves and more boxes. He wondered, automatically, because he was Neal Caffrey, just how much of the contents were stolen as he stumbled back out into the hallway and made it to the other wall again. He leaned back against it, staring into the room he'd just looked in. There was a red mark on the wall next to the door, from where his head had slammed into it; more warm, wet blood was streaming down the side of his face, he realized.
He pondered whether that was from a new head wound, or just an aggravation of the old one.
He resumed his awkward progress down the corridor. Forget this, he thought. He needed to get outside. He could spend all day exploring every room in this place and end up with nothing. No, what he needed was someone to see him, someone to help him, and for that he needed to get out of this goddamned building.
Neal kept going, mechanically, toward the door he and Peter had entered through—what? An hour ago? It felt like he'd been in this warehouse forever, but his memory was too fuzzy to estimate time. He guessed it was just a few minutes, but he had no way of knowing. He didn't wear a watch—not that he could have seen it even if he had one—and his phone was gone.
It wasn't possible, but it sure seemed like this corridor had magically doubled in length since he and Peter had first walked down it. Then again, distances probably always felt longer when you were stumbling along semi-conscious with a head injury and a broken shoulder and God-knew what other injuries.
He continued to slog along until finally, finally, he saw the exterior door up ahead. Neal almost cried with relief. It took everything he had to resist that first, powerful instinct to just run to it, reminding himself that any such attempt would end with him flat on the floor. So he kept moving carefully, still sliding along the wall for the last few feet.
When he finally reached the door, he turned his back to it, maneuvering to open it with nerveless fingers. Neal pushed the door open with his bound hands and stepped sideways through the doorway.
Not only sideways, but down. He'd forgotten. Shit, there was a step down to get to the sidewalk.
A big fucking step and he wasn't ready for it.
Immediately, he started to fall.
Time seemed to be standing still.
Peter hated clichés, and the idea of time standing still was one of the most overused clichés ever. But he had to admit: it certainly fit. It felt like time had frozen in place, just the same way he was frozen in place.
Using the sleeve of his suit jacket, Peter wiped the sweat from his forehead for what had to be the fourth or fifth time—he'd lost count. The heat was starting to get to him. Strange that despite all of it—the adrenaline rush of being restrained and held at gunpoint, the heart-pounding terror he felt for Neal—now he was actually tired. His whole body felt suffused with fatigue as the adrenaline faded and the numb reality of waiting began to sink in. If he hadn't been cuffed to the shelves and forced to stand, he might actually collapse. His legs were ridiculously weak.
His neck and shoulders felt as if they were on fire, but his hands had gone from hurting to tingling. He knew they'd go numb eventually, which was better than pain, Except that if he was freed—when you're freed, his mind chided him—he'd be in some serious agony when the blood flow started again.
And if he wasn't freed . . . well, then he wouldn't have to worry about much of anything.
He couldn't quite see his watch. It felt like he'd been in this position for hours, but he knew that it had only been minutes—he wasn't sure how many. He'd counted, at first, after Neal had left, but couldn't stay focused beyond the first few.
Sometimes Peter closed his eyes and rested his head on his arms, but he was too jumpy to stay that way for long. He had to keep checking Regal, almost obsessively, expecting every time he looked to see the man regaining consciousness.
The good news was that, so far, Regal hadn't even twitched.
For lack of anything better to do (besides worry), he ran through scenarios of what could happen.
The best-case scenario: Neal makes it outside, finds help in time. (Peter didn't want to acknowledge to himself how hard that would be for Neal, who was seriously injured, who had his hands bound behind his back . . .). No, in this, the best-case scenario, the cavalry arrives in the form of Diana and Jones and everyone lives happily ever after, except for Regal, who heads off to prison.
The worst of all worst-case scenarios: Regal wakes up. He kills you and takes Neal away.
Or he takes both of you, like he said.
With some time to think it over, Peter thought the latter was unlikely. All that talk about taking Peter and using him to force Neal to cooperate . . . Peter wasn't buying it. It was too complicated by half, it truly would turn the pursuit of Regal into the manhunt to end all manhunts, and most of all, it wasn't logical. Regal actually did seem to think that Neal was chafing to get away from the FBI. If that were really true, then hurting Peter wouldn't have the desired effect. Because if Neal was just looking to escape Peter's clutches, why would he care what Regal did to him?
No, Peter decided, that threat was just Regal being a cruel, savage son-of-a-bitch. Tormenting Peter because he enjoyed it. It was a giant mind-fuck. Like . . . his threats against Elizabeth.
Or at least, that was what Peter kept telling himself.
Okay, so . . . other scenarios. Maybe Neal manages to get to safety, but Regal still shoots you. Well, that would be better than the worst-worst-case . . . .
Except, he reminded himself, Regal can't shoot you. He threw your gun away and Neal had inadvertently pushed Regal's under the shelves. Regal wouldn't know it was there.
All right, so he won't shoot you. But he'll still kill you.
Because you didn't have to be a criminal mastermind to come up with ways to kill someone if no firearm was handy. You just had to be willing to get your hands dirty. You just had to have the stomach for it. And Peter now knew one thing about Jameson Regal. Under that slick European suit by some designer Peter would never in a million years have been able to pronounce (but Neal undoubtedly would have—in zero-point-five seconds), beat the heart of a sadist who would have little compunction about doing anything.
Regal seemed the type who'd want to want to play with his victims before dispatching them. He'd want to savor it—and would probably relish the opportunity to concoct some creative method of homicide. God knew, there were plenty of ways to commit murder without a gun. You could beat someone to death, or stab them. You could strangle them; Regal seemed to have a thing for that, Peter thought grimly. You could shove a plastic bag on their head, pull it tight, and just wait for them to asphyxiate. You could—
Okay, this is not a productive line of thinking, Peter told himself. Focus on something else.
Positive thoughts were hard to come by at the moment, though. Like a rat in a maze, his mind kept running into the same walls, circling the same paths, and none of them led anywhere but to the same unnerving conclusions.
Neal wouldn't make it. Neither of them would. The odds were stacked dramatically against them surviving—
Stop it.
He'd been staring straight ahead. Staring at his arms, staring at the brown cardboard boxes a few inches away from his face. God, he was so sick of looking at them. In an attempt to ease the strain on his neck, he let his head fall back and his eyes drift shut. It didn't help. After a few seconds, Peter exhaled, brought his head up, and opened his eyes. He was about to rest his head on his arms again, when, out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw something.
His blood turned to ice.
Quickly, he snapped his head to the left, his neck protesting as he turned sharply back to look. He could feel the pounding of his heart.
Had Regal just moved?
TBC….
A/N – I continue to be overwhelmed by all of you interested in this story, and particularly the wonderful reviews many of you have sent along. May not have thanked everyone personally, so please know how much I appreciate it.
In response to some reviewers' comments, please let me clarify something regarding story status. This story is finished, in the sense that there is a beginning, a middle, and an end, with lots of chapters in between and every one of them written. There are no missing pieces. However, this story is not quite a fait accompli, either. I wrote it some time ago and then made some changes. As I re-read each chapter before posting, I am having to do some revisions to make it work from a consistency standpoint.
I only say this because I would hate for anyone to think that the entire story is a completed work product, absolutely finalized and letter-perfect, and that I am just parceling it out piece-by-piece, making people wait for no good reason, simply because I can. That, I would never do. It's just that I have some manicuring to do on each chapter before I post it; I promise I am doing that as quickly as I can.
Thanks for your patience and understanding—and for all of the reviews!
