A/N: Sorry this chapter's late. I took a weekend trip to NYC. I even had time to see some White Collar filming landmarks! This story's final chapter will be posted later this week. Thanks again for all the reviews.
Chapter 8
Peter was held pinned against the back wall by two of O'Reilly's men. They were holding his body upright since he could now no longer stand on his own. The thug named Joe seemed to take particular pleasure in forcibly twisting his right arm. O'Reilly stepped closer to the agent, intentionally pausing to heighten the expectation of assault.
Hatred distorting his features, the malicious criminal reached forward and grabbed Peter's shirt front. "Your informant seems to be missing, Burke. Where is he?"
O'Reilly tightened his grasp on Peter, moving his hand in a viselike grip on his neck with steadily increasing pressure. The agent remained silent, he could barely breath. "I asked you a question," he demanded, anger flaring.
"He's gone for help," Peter choked out. "The authorities will be here soon."
O'Reilly released his hold, stepping back, chuckling. It was a cold, calculating sound. "You think so? I wouldn't put much hope in that." He smiled smugly at his two henchmen. "Hey Roberts, why don't you tell our prisoner what really happened to his friend."
"We found him trying to hotwire one of the trucks. I was ready to kill him right there, but I knew the boss would rather take care of him," he callously explained. "Now he's down the hall in his own room. This time we made sure he won't escape. It's really a shame he put up a fight; he doesn't look too good right now."
O'Reilly motioned to his men. Pulling Peter up higher against the wall, he was hard pressed to keep a moan from leaving his lips. As pain blinded him, he clenched his teeth to keep from crying out.
"Once I finish with you, I'll continue on Caffrey."
"Caffrey was forced to be my informant," gasped the desperate lawman. "He's serving his sentence under my custody. He's not part of the agency."
"Don't bother, Burke. I don't care."
Peter hit emotional and physical rock bottom. He was left devastated. He faced enemies who again had his partner at their mercy. All the cards had been played out.
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Peter startled awake upon hearing noise. Loud voices resonated from down the hall. Drifting in and out of consciousness since Johnson's departure, he had been dreaming stark images of being back under O'Reilly's control.
"Hey," shouted Roberts. "Have you checked this corridor? O'Reilly is really bent out of shape. He wants us to be thorough. Go into each room and do a quick visual. And Joe," his friend added, "look behind any big pieces of furniture and junk."
Joe answered back. "I haven't checked this area yet. I'm heading that way now, but maybe they're hiding out downstairs. They could be anywhere in this building."
"I know," he replied. "Johnson…did you find anything?"
Peter stiffened, listening for his imminent betrayal. His heart began to race; his breathing quickened. Tension exacerbated his shortness of breath.
"No. I'll check all these rooms. If they're here I'll find them…" The voices became muted as footsteps receded in the direction away from the agent's room.
Peter momentarily closed his eyes in relief.
A short while later he heard the door to his room open. An individual approached, rounding the corner of his fortress of broken furniture. There was now enough light to quickly recognize Johnson. The young man moved past the stacks of ruined desks and mildewed cartons. Johnson faced him, holding a weapon in his hand. He moved quickly toward Peter, crouching down by his side.
"I'm afraid the alarm's been raised," said Johnson. "I was heading downstairs on my way out when I heard someone yelling." He shook his head in disbelief. "It was Roberts. He never gets up early but this morning some rat," he paused, "the rodent variety, Agent Burke, not the human kind, spooked him. Since he was awake, O'Reilly must've asked him to check on you and Caffrey." The young criminal had a bemused expression on his face. "You know, since I've met you, the only luck you've had is bad!"
"A man makes his own luck," rasped Peter. "Lately… my efforts have all been inadequate."
The two men scrutinized each other.
It now took concentration for Peter to speak at all. "You said you were on your way out. Why'd you come back?"
"I don't know. My father always said he raised a fool for a son." Johnson hesitated as Peter narrowed his eyes with a questioning look. "All right. Once I realized your absence was discovered I had to return to see the game played out."
"This is a…a game to you?" Peter's anger flared.
"Poor choice of words. No, this isn't a game to me," he replied, sweeping discarded old inventory sheets aside as he knelt down. "Look. I don't want to be an accessory in your murder. Okay?"
Suddenly both men heard voices returning closer to their vicinity. Johnson motioned Peter to remain silent and approached the door. His body tense with nervousness, he waited to see if his associates would continue toward their hidden location. For the first time, good fortune seemed to favor the federal agent. Roberts and Joe turned the corridor and chose a different direction to investigate.
Peter glanced up at the man who appeared to be an advocate, at least for the moment. He had no illusion that Johnson wouldn't put his own interests first if the situation placed him in danger. For now he was grateful for the young criminal's protection.
He shifted his body to gain temporary relief from the pressure of the unyielding concrete floor, causing waves of intense pain to envelope him. Any movement, at all, set off knifelike stabs of agony throughout his ribcage and back. His overall state of affairs, encompassing bodily anguish and prolonged emotional ordeal, was pushing him close to the edge of despair.
A frown creased Johnson's brow. "I still plan to get out of here. The sooner the better," he said. "The question is what do I do with you?"
"Leave me your weapon," requested Peter.
"No," Johnson shook his head. "I may need it for O'Reilly. But I have a plan…"
