Chapter 8
The truck pulled up outside Verbanski Corp. and two men hopped out. The guards stood to attention and blocked them from entering.
Neither of the men seemed particularly intimidating; short and bespectacled with a black toupee atop his head and the other one tall and thin with his delivery uniform hanging off his body and the uniformed cap atop his head.
They could be heard chatting as they walked up to the door.
"Can't believe we agreed to do this," the taller one commented. He took his cap off for a moment and wiped his forehead before placing it back on.
"Man, you know Wes and the boys are all lazy as," the short one responded, leaving the simile hanging as his hand flicked the air. "And Ms. Verbanski wants this job done quick."
"She has her own boys-" the taller one was cut off as the short one nudged him in the stomach.
"Good day, men," the short one said in a pleasant manner. He held out a clipboard. "We're here to pick up a delivery."
The two guards shared looks.
"We didn't hear anything about this," one of them said.
The taller delivery man spoke next.
"Tom, is it?" he said, taking the clipboard from his partner and holding it out for the guard to take. The guard nodded and took the clipboard. There was an order form attached to it. "Ms. Verbanski gave us orders to get out here and pick up something from her office. She wants it moved."
Tom flicked through the order form. The signature looked like Verbanski's and the instructions to pick up and deliver one of her mounted guns were her handwriting and the handwriting of someone else; a Robert Jones, either one of these men or their boss.
"Seems legit," the other guard muttered under his breath and he read over Tom's shoulder. He then turned to the two delivery men. "But, we can't let you into the compound."
"Oh, that's fine," the short one said, "one of you can go. As long as we get what we need to get and deliver it where it needs to go, I have no complaints."
The guards shared looks. There were a few moments of silence.
"You know what, Rob, how about you go get the box?" the taller delivery man said.
The short man nodded and began his walk back to the truck.
"Hold on," the other guard shouted. The short man just gave a wave and kept walking.
As the taller man waited, he took back the clipboard, flipped the page and began filling in another form.
"This just says that we turned up and did our job," he explained. He glanced up at the guards for a moment before muttering, "or tried to."
"Man, what are you doing?" the short man asked with panic in his voice when he returned. He was carrying a box just the right dimensions to hold the mounted gun.
"I'm not going to push it," the taller man said, "if she really wants this done, she's got her own guys. Maybe Tom or Aaron," he motioned to the two guards as he spoke their names. "Would be willing to take time off to deliver it."
"No way," the short one said with a shake of his head. "I'm not looking to vex Ms. Verbanski, not today; not any day. I like my job. And I like my pay check."
The guards shared another look.
"Alright," Tom said, as Aaron spoke into his communication device. "We'll get someone to bring it out."
"Thank you," the short one said in a short tone. The taller one just gave them an apologetic shrug.
Less than ten minutes later, the mounted gun was boxed up and taken away. Tom and Aaron breathed a sigh of relief as the truck drove away.
Casey ran his hand over his old gun. It helped, having this gun back in his possession rather than his ex-girlfriend's. It didn't heal the urge to punch something which was borne of heartache; not that he would ever admit it was heartache he felt or that he felt at all, but it helped.
"I still can't believe they fell for that," he said, looking over the Mozzie and Neal.
Mozzie bowed with a flourish while Neal just looked impassive.
"You'd be surprised," Neal said, "with the right circumstances, most people don't ask questions."
"Basically, we had their boss' signature and we were posing as a delivery company she has used before."
Casey made an appreciative hum and ran his hand back over the gun again.
"I also checked it for bugs and trackers," Mozzie informed him, "it's clean."
"Now we fix Larkin's problem," Casey announced.
Sarah straightened her skirt right as the elevator stopped at the twenty-first floor.
"Here we are," Chuck announced, stepping out. "FBI, White Collar division."
The couple walked through the glass doors and immediately noticed the tense air. FBI Agents were sitting at their desks, typing away, working away, and barely speaking.
Sarah's plan had been to walk up to the first desk by the door however, it was mysteriously empty. Chuck walked over to the desk and rubbed the head of the small statue bust.
"Socrates," he commented, "cool."
"Chuck," Sarah hissed at him, reminding him not to touch anything. They didn't know what the FBI might take offence to and they both wanted this over quickly. Sarah, because working with other agencies tended to get very messy at the best of times and Chuck, because he wanted to look around New York; since they were there.
A dark-skinned agent walked over to them and cleared his throat.
"Can I help you?" he asked.
"Yes," Sarah responded as Chuck snooped over the empty desk. She didn't know what had attracted him to it but, it bothered her how obvious he was being. "We're here to see Special Agent Peter Burke."
"His office is up there," the agent said, pointing to a clear-windowed office at the top of the bullpen stairs. He looked over at Chuck, who was twisting some pens in his hands. "And you?"
"Same," Chuck responded, "here to see Special Agent Peter Burke." He paused for a moment and then held out the pen. "Do you know who owns this?"
"That'd be Neal's," the agent responded. Sarah's heart sank at suspicious look which crossed his face for a moment.
"Neal?"
Sarah wanted to slap Chuck. Neal Caffrey was a felon on work release to the FBI, under Special Agent Peter Burke's supervision. They hadn't focused on learning about the felon but, Chuck should of at least recognised the name.
"Neal Caffrey," the agent said, "he's currently out of the office." Chuck deflated with disappointment. "Something wrong?"
"I wanted to know where he bought these," Chuck said, "they're high quality, fine line art pens, perfect for drawing." He saw the uninterested look Sarah was giving him and elaborated. "But they're really good for anything. Last longer than regular pens, don't blot or explode with ink," the ink in the last shirt that had happened to was still visible and everyone kept telling him to throw it out. "Nor do they run across the page. They're like the best pens ever. But, they're expensive back home."
The agent looked at them impassively for a moment and then gave a chuckle.
"Only Caffrey," he commented with a shake of his head. Only Neal would buy the best pens on the market. He held out his hand to Chuck. "Clinton Jones, just call me Jones. Everyone else does."
"Charles Carmichael. You can call me Chuck. Nice to meet you, Jones," Chuck said with his easygoing smile. Sarah smiled at him over Jones' shoulder. She didn't even think he realised that he had managed to get the trust of an FBI agent; the FBI tended to be very distrustful of anyone who wasn't one of them, in only a few moments. When he was already suspicious of them. It was quite a feat.
"I'll show you to Burke's office," Jones said, guiding Chuck out from around the desk and down towards the stairs.
