Thanks for the reviews.
Warning: There is torture in this chapter. Unfortunately, enough that I must say Neal will never look as handsome as he did before my fic. However, I know of someone with a magic elevator that will heal him when this is all over. Of course, that will leave him gorgeous and whole again... leaving me no choice to write another fic about him to inflict more damage. It's a viscous cycle. :) This one if for you, Chris. I hope I do it justice. I love ya girl!
Unfinished Business
Chapter 9:
Peter had been hit upside the head the second they made it to the van. He now sported a big round knot at the base of his skull. He assumed he got pistol whipped but whatever he was hit with was irrelevant at this point. His clothing was filthy and torn like he had been dragged into the warehouse they were in. His left wrist was handcuffed to some nasty pipe in the corner of the room. He was half sitting half laying up against the wall.
The only light in the room came from several super sized candles that were slowly being burned away and melting into the concrete floor.
Once Peter gathered his thoughts and focused, he gasped in alarmed surprise. There, several feet in front of him hung Neal. The young man's wrists had been bound tightly by heavy rope that was strung over a ceiling support. His feet hung limp inches from the floor causing his entire body to stretch and hang as a heavy anchor to his arms and shoulders. His t-shirt had been stripped from him. The only thing covering him were his sweat pants that hung low on his thin hips. His head was down and his eyes were closed.
Peter took in all of Neal's injuries from earlier. The new laceration dead center on his forehead still bled freely down his face but appeared to have slowed some. It also looked like the stitches above his eye, or at least a couple of them had been ripped out but he couldn't be sure with the makeshift lighting and the way some of Neal's bangs stuck to his skin. There was extra rope tied around Neal's injured arm and the cast was now a murky shade of black. The sick bastard had removed the tape from Neal's ribs exposing the darkly bruised bones. In fact, his entire chest was full of random bruising and cuts. He didn't even want to imagine what his back looked like.
Peter began tugging hard on the pipe, testing its strength. He used his right hand to test the tightness of the shackle around his left wrist, growling out loud with frustration.
"Ironic huh?"
Peter stopped and looked at Neal again who slowly lifted his head. "Ironic I get strung up with rope and you get cuffed, huh?" A light smirk formed then disappeared on Neal's lips.
"How's that ironic?" Peter glared at Neal but continued rolling the shackle back and forth on his wrist.
"Well... cause I can pick locks. If I was cuffed I'd already have us out of here." Neal let out a small chuckle that turned into a deep cough. "Don't... don't get me laughing Peter. It hurts."
Peter thought about his words a second then replied, "You are right. That is ironic. Maybe it's time for me to take the Neal Caffrey's lock picking 101 class?" He shook his head at Neal. "And you are the one clearly entertaining yourself. I find nothing amusing about our predicament." Now that Neal's head was up he took a hard look at his damaged face and asked. "How are you feeling?"
Neal licked at his lips. "I could use more wine... and one pain pill."
"Yeah well I seemed to forget to bring those. That tracker still on your ankle or did they cut and drop it?" He couldn't tell due to the bulky sweats that bunched up around Neal's ankle.
Before Neal could respond, a loud door slammed and a voice echoed out. "I see my guests are awake," Al came into view with a cigarette in one hand, beer bottle in the other. He walked up behind Neal and kicked him hard in the back, sending him swinging forward in his bondage.
"AAAAArrgghhhhhhh!" Neal yelled as the ropes dug further into his flesh. He arched his head upward and pointed his toes trying to gain some purchase. His toes just dragged across the floor as he swung back and forth several times.
"YOU BASTARD!" Peter began to frantically pull at the pipe again.
Al let out a hearty chuckle. "That I am... takes one to know one." He threw the beer bottle at Peter and luckily his aim was off. It shattered a good foot above his head and a few inches over. Still, he was sprayed with alcohol and busted bottle.
Peter just swiped at the chunks of glass that landed on his shirt and eyed Al up. "Your beef is with me... just let him go."
Al got a look as if he was actually contemplating the idea. He held his arm out and stopped Neal from swaying. It was another blow as the arm racked him across the lower stomach. He couldn't draw into himself which intensified the agony.
Neal's eyes squeezed shut, his mouth clenched closed he breathed hard puffs of air through his nostrils.
Al looked up at Neal's wrists and grinned as he followed the trails of blood that were dripping off the ropes and running down both his arms. "Why would I do that?"
"Because he's not FBI," Peter exclaimed. "He's a no good thief just like you!"
Al clicked his tongue. "Now is that anyway to talk about your partner? Are you true to anyone, Agent?" He took a heavy drag of his cigarette, looked Neal up and down again then extinguished it into the tender area below Neal's armpit.
Neal bucked and attempted to twist away from the burning sensation. "Gaaaaaaawwdddd!"
Peter yanked at his cuff again. "He's not my partner! My boss assigned him to me! He's a consultant for the FBI! And a piss poor one at that! He belongs behind bars just like you!" Peter knew he was grasping at straws. His own actions were betraying the words he was spewing out.
Al just tipped his head back and howled in laughter. "Ahhh, you're a trip, Agent Burke. You expect me to believe that? I've watched you two for awhile now. Any fool can see you've taken a liking to this little shit... consultant, FBI or otherwise."
Neal spoke through a pained voice. "It's true. It's his job to look after me..." He let out another round of wet coughs before he continued. "Check...check my ankle..."
"You should have listened to your brother," Peter warned. "That device is a tracker. No doubt the FBI and the half of NYPD that are competent at their jobs will be charging in at any second."
Al snorted then lifted up Neal's right pants leg.
"Other ankle... moron." Neal hissed between breaths.
Skeptical, Al lifted the other side, exposing the device.
Neal knew it was going to hurt but lifted his leg up and kicked him as hard as he could muster.
Al backed away rubbing at his chin. "You little punk!"
"Good one, Neal!"
"I was aiming for his nose! I... Oh damn that smarts. I want THREE pills NOW!"
Peter grinned at Polanski. "The light is red, Polanski, which means Neal is out of his allowed two mile radius. Sirens have been going off at FBI headquarters. It's over."
"Huh... well I'll be..." Al shrugged it off. "This doesn't change anything." He paced the length of the room and picked up an old thick piece of wood that was in the corner. "First things first... break this thing..." He began swinging the wood around like it was a baton.
"That's not gonna work!" Peter's eyes widened as he made his way back to Neal.
"Oh but I think it will." He lifted the wood back with both hands gripping the base and called, "Batter up!" He swung the wood into Neal's ankle. A loud pop sounded loudly and Neal tipped his head back, letting out the most horrifying cry Peter had ever heard.
500500500500500
He had plenty of time to trace back the events. Plenty of chances to make things turn out different. Obviously he wasn't the best. Why did he leave his gun on the table? Why didn't he tackle Polanski when he thought he had the chance?
His voice was hoarse from screaming. He had watched Polanski hit Neal numerous times with that piece of wood. Neal had blacked out minutes before. He begged Polanski to stop to no avail.
"YOU'RE KILLIN' HIM! I BEG YOU! STOP!" He pleaded again as he watched his friend hang deathly still save for the momentum the sickening swings brought.
Al had tuckered himself out. He dropped the board that was now saturated with Neal's precious blood. "Damn that was a work out!" He gave Peter an evil smug look. "Better work out than the ones I had in prison. Ya know... with all that free time I had in between plotting my revenge."
"I'M GONNA KILL YOU!" Peter was up on his feet pulling at the pipe like a rabid animal. His own wrist slick with sweat and blood he had done everything to get free but chew his own hand off. Not that the thought hadn't crossed his raged mind.
Al ignored his threat. "I'm thirsty. Where is that back stabbing bro of mine? I send him for beer and it takes him forever. He probably got side tracked with... I dunno... a grasshopper chewing on grass perhaps? I love him dearly, but all his lights aren't on upstairs if ya know what I mean."
Peter said nothing. He kicked at the pipe one last time then sunk down onto his butt. He fixed his watering eyes on Neal and just stared at him.
"Ahhhh buck up! Is the once great Agent Burke reduced to tears? He's not dead. You may not see it from your angle but he's breathing... barely." Al pulled a soft pack of Marlboro's out of his shirt pocket and pulled one out of the pack with his teeth before depositing the pack back. He lit the cigarette and took a heavy drag.
Again, Peter said nothing.
"Cat got your tongue?"
Nothing.
"Well, I gotta see what's takin' Sam so long. Don't miss me too much. I'll be back." He turned to leave then bent down, flicking his bic under Neal's barefoot he held the flame there, rousing Neal awake his head jerked back and his foot twitched. A guttural moan escaped his throat.
"See? He's not dead... yet." With that Al stood and left the room, slamming the door on his exit.
As soon as Al was gone, as if on cue, a single tear rolled down Peter's dirt covered cheek. He cleared his parched throat. "Neal?"
"Mmmmmmm..."
He couldn't believe after that beating Neal could even hear him, much less be semi responsive. "I'm sorry."
There was a long silent pause.
"Forrr-whatz?" Neal spoke again, words slurred and barely audible but Peter understood them.
"For not protecting you." He couldn't handle looking at Neal's battered body anymore. He brought his knees up, put his free arm over them and put his head down. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled again.
Neal couldn't move. Every inch of him was on fire. It hurt to speak. It hurt to breathe! He wasn't getting much oxygen in between his shallow gasps. But he had to stay awake for Peter. If only he could talk more clearly. "1...0...1."
TBC...
