Critical Hour
Chapter 10 – Unwavering
"His loyalty, so fierce and unwavering, makes my eyes water and heart ache."
― Emily Giffin
….
There were few things in life Peter Burke hated more than waiting for something to happen.
But now, handcuffed and helpless, that was all he could do.
He'd tried everything—not that he had many options. He had nothing to pick the cuffs with, and, thanks to Regal, they were far too tight to slip. As for the shelves, they wouldn't move. He'd given up pulling on them when all he'd accomplished by doing so was to make his wrists bleed. In the grand scheme of things, a pretty goddamned meaningless accomplishment.
In some ways, it was like being in the surveillance van during an operation. There, all you could do was sit and listen and . . . wait. Wait for other people to do things so that you could react. Peter was used to that by now, but that didn't mean he liked it.
Early in his career, Peter had been about as patient with sitting in the van as Neal was now. When Neal groused and fidgeted like a hyperactive child who'd been told to sit still, Peter smiled inwardly, because he'd been there (well, he'd hid it a lot better, but the emotion was much the same).
Not that he'd ever tell Neal that, of course.
So, yes, this was a little like the van. Not exactly the same; in the van, small though it was, at least you could move around, stretch a bit. That was a luxury he didn't currently enjoy. And you didn't have the constant threat of death. That was different, too.
But the anxiety of knowing Neal was out there, doing something dangerous, that was the same—only a hundred times worse. Because if Neal got into real trouble this time, Peter couldn't help him. There would be no waiting for the "go" word, no backup team of agents ready to rush in if things went sideways. Things had already gone far beyond sideways, and Neal was on his own. If Neal needed help, Peter wouldn't even know, until it was too late.
Really, it was all in Neal's hands, now. And after recent events, that thought would normally have held no trepidation for Peter. He was well aware of how many of his colleagues at the Bureau would scoff at the idea of willingly putting their lives in the hands of a convicted felon, a prison escapee who wore a tracking anklet. Peter couldn't help being aware of it, because more than a few of those colleagues didn't hesitate to voice their derision when Neal was the topic of conversation. (Of course, they were agents who'd never actually worked with Neal.)
For those agents, so cynical, so trapped in a narrow-minded and conventional world view, Peter had nothing but disdain. Maybe disdain wasn't even the right word—it was more like pity. Because he knew, from very recent and very personal experience, exactly how far Neal was willing to go to keep him from harm. Neal had broken every FBI rule, risked Hughes' wrath, gone alone to a meeting with a kidnapper, and handed over a multimillion dollar ring—all to save Peter when he'd been abducted by Keller. And Neal had done all of these things, apparently, without a second thought.
When it was all over, after Peter had freed himself (with Neal's help, of course), after Keller had disappeared (bastard), after a public display of affection on a Garment District sidewalk that normally would have been anathema to Peter (but not today), after Elizabeth finally let him go (it took a while), they'd all returned to the Bureau. Peter had gone through a quick debrief of his ordeal while Jones and Diana entertained Elizabeth. Then he'd gone to look for Neal.
Neal hadn't been avoiding him, exactly, but he hadn't sought Peter out, either. Peter had cornered him and discovered that Neal didn't want to talk about it, changing the subject with stunning speed after giving the barest summary of his own actions, Neal had been clearly uncomfortable, which was intriguing in itself. His consultant, who could be glib about anything and who never missed an opportunity to make himself look good, had been shockingly reticent—almost terse—on the topic of what he'd done. In the end, Peter had had to talk to both Elizabeth and Diana to get the bigger picture.
As well as he knew Neal, in many ways the man was still a puzzle, and insights about him were like gold to Peter. He dug for them, he treasured them, he hoarded them. He never missed a chance to get one. And today was no exception.
…...
"Hey, Diana, got a minute?"
Peter had beckoned her into his office after he'd finished the initial debriefing session. He was back at his desk, fighting a strong urge to catch up on emails after being completely out of commission all day. Being abducted really put a crimp in the workflow, but Elizabeth would probably kill him herself if she caught him working. However, she was currently downstairs, chatting with Jones as Neal hovered nearby. So Peter had a few minutes to satisfy his own curiosity, at least.
"Okay, have a seat. Let's hear it," he said as she entered his office.
"Hear what?" Diana remained standing in front of the desk, her posture oddly tense.
He tsked at her. "Your account of what happened. Off the record. The stuff that somehow won't find its way into your official report."
She stared at him steadily. "This just ended—" she checked her watch, "not even two hours ago. I haven't even submitted a report yet. I'm good, but I'm not that good."
Peter leaned back in his chair, relaxed and curious. It wasn't like Diana to be evasive. "That's not really an answer. You must be taking lessons from Caffrey."
"Caffrey," she spat. "Oh, Caffrey. He is devious, you know that?" But she didn't look angry, not really. Instead, her face reflected a peculiar mixture of exasperation, guilt and . . . pride?
"I had no idea," Peter drawled. "Anyway," he added, turning serious, "Hughes already implied as much."
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I guess he would have."
"Diana, what exactly did Neal do?" Peter asked. He added, in a tone carefully calibrated with frustration—he thought Diana would respond to that— "I mean, I know the broad strokes, but . . . he won't tell me anything."
That caught her by surprise. "Really?"
"Really."
She sighed and sat down. "All right. Keller called Neal on your phone right after you were taken. But does Neal bring us in, then? No. He goes to meet Keller at the prison. Alone."
Peter groaned.
"I know," she agreed, frowning. "Neal only informed us later. He came back here, and Hughes pulled us both into his office, where Neal made an impassioned speech about how Hughes had to let him talk with Keller, that Keller wouldn't hesitate to kill you."
"Why?" Peter asked. "Why was he so sure?"
Diana hesitated. "I—I think you'd have to ask him that. But," she added, "he had his reasons. And I've never seen him that worried. About anyone or anything."
Peter mulled that over for a moment. Diana was holding back, but if it involved something Neal had told her in confidence, he didn't want to push. Not right now.
After a short pause, Diana resumed. "Hughes explained that that's not how it works, that Neal had to stay out of it, go home, let us do our jobs, and that we'd bring you back safe."
"What did Neal say to that?"
"Nothing. But you could tell from the look on his face that he thought it was just so much horseshit." She fidgeted with the arm of the chair, running a nail along the edge, back and forth. "He usually hides it much better than that."
She was right. Neal usually did. "So let me guess: sometime after that Neal hared off?" That must have been when he'd met with Lang and handed over the ring.
Her gaze wandered away from his, beyond him to the buildings outside the window. "Not quite. Hughes sent him out of the office; he'd seen the look on his face, too, and he knew exactly what it meant. He warned me that my job was to make sure Neal stayed out of it, because, as he said, I want this done by the book, and Neal has a tendency to write his own ending."
Peter snorted. "That's almost poetic."
"Yeah," Diana replied, smiling faintly. She thought for a minute, remembering. "I think that's when Neal talked with Elizabeth; she'd just come into the office."
Elizabeth. Peter made a mental note to ask his wife about that later.
"Then what?" he prompted.
"Then your devious CI used you to manipulate me into disobeying a direct order from my boss's boss," Diana retorted, eying him narrowly.
From Neal, Peter would have expected nothing less, but he fixed an appropriately sympathetic expression on his face. "Tell me."
She shook her head. "We left the office, like Hughes ordered. Then Caffrey starts in on me. I need to engage Keller, he'll kill Peter, I can get a lead. He must have already communicated with him again by that point . . ." she mused, almost to herself. "Anyway, when I told him I couldn't let him go off on his own, he said, what do you think Peter would let me do?"
"Aha."
"Yes, aha," she shot back. "Using you against me. But I'm not you, Peter."
"No, you're not."
"And even if I were, I don't think I'd let Caffrey get away with half the crap that you do."
"Probably not," he agreed solemnly. "So you . . . ."
"I let him go, of course," she said, throwing up her hands in a gesture of helplessness that was so not Diana.
He was glad she looked back at him, then, so she would see the proud, affectionate smile (the one he wasn't really supposed to have) on his face.
"What the hell else was I supposed to do?" she grumbled. "Now I know why you let him get away with all that crap. One, he's too goddamned convincing, and two, it's so much easier to give in than to argue with him."
"Persuasive and obstinate," Peter commiserated gravely. "Very trying." He considered for a moment. "So he met with Lang, got the message from me—"
"Quick thinking, on that, by the way, boss," she interrupted.
"Yeah, though it was Neal's idea to begin with. I just wish we'd been able to stop the transfer," Peter said, frowning.
He was alive, and thus the day had to be counted as a win. But the fact that Keller had orchestrated everything, had set him up, had him kidnapped, and still managed to escape—that transformed it into a mixed victory, in Peter's book. When he thought about Keller walking around a free man—well, Peter tried not to think about it, because with that thought came an overwhelming rage. Not to mention a very uncharacteristic desire to smash things.
Most of the rest of what Diana had to say, Peter already knew—or could guess. He knew—of course, he'd been on the other end—about Neal's quick thinking that had helped him to escape the cell where he'd been held. He could guess at how badly Hughes had reamed both Diana and Neal out after Keller had gotten away. He hadn't known that Diana had defended Neal to Hughes, though; that surprised and pleased him. Just another reason to be glad she was back . . . . .
Diana interrupted his reverie. "You look tired, boss." She threw a meaningful glance at his computer, now booted up. "Please don't tell me you're going to do work. The only thing you should be doing is taking Elizabeth home."
"I will," he promised. "Thanks, Di. For everything."
She smiled, looking relieved to have this conversation over. "Don't mention it. Caffrey did the heavy lifting, anyway."
…..
Elizabeth's account, of course, was quite a bit different from Diana's mostly dry, clinical report. It was shorter, for one thing—she'd only seen Neal once. But apart from that, Elizabeth's narrative was visceral and visual. It was infused with the emotion Diana had buried—El's worry for Peter and her abiding affection for Neal.
El focused much more on what she thought Neal was thinking, what she'd felt, how Neal had looked. Her words painted a vivid picture that allowed Peter to visualize the conversation they'd had in his office, as if he'd been a silent bystander.
Neal leaning against the windowsill, arms tightly crossed against his chest, appearing somehow smaller than Elizabeth had ever seen him look. Neal, grim-faced, not wanting to verbalize his worst fears, not wanting to make her worry more than she already was, but being honest about the kind of adversary Keller was, because—she was pretty sure—he thought he owed her that.
Elizabeth, standing ram-rod straight on the other side of the desk, trying to be brave.
And all the while, Peter's empty chair sitting symbolically between them.
Of course, the other major difference between El and Diana, as Peter soon learned, was that Elizabeth had, very deliberately, incited Neal to do the exact thing that Diana had tried to warn him off of.
At Elizabeth's insistence, she was driving them home. Hughes had caught Peter sitting in his office, just as Elizabeth had bounded up the stairs to demand why the hell, after everything he'd been through, that he appeared to actually be working. Shaking his head, Reese had ordered Peter to listen to his wife, who was clearly much smarter than her husband, and to go home immediately. It had been one hell of a day and there was always tomorrow to finish the reports and paperwork.
So Peter and Elizabeth left, holding hands the way they sometimes did, in unspoken admission that each needed to know the other was right there. Neal had politely refused their offer of a ride, saying he needed to meet Mozzie so he could update him on the day's events.
When they got to the car, Elizabeth surprised him by taking the keys out of his hand. He protested that he was perfectly able to drive—and of course, he was. Other than some leftover soreness in his wrists and shoulders, he was fine, and he'd popped a few aspirin from his desk drawer when no one was looking, so even that pain, sharp as it had been initially, had dropped to the level of nagging discomfort. But Elizabeth ignored him, shooing him over to the passenger side. She hardly ever got behind the wheel when they were together, but Peter could sense somehow that she needed to do something, so he let her.
As befitted an event planner, Elizabeth was a very careful, almost methodical driver. Peter watched his wife navigate the streets of Manhattan, enjoying the way she concentrated on the task, the way her eyes darted systematically from the road ahead to the rear view and side view mirrors and occasionally to Peter, sitting on her right. She kept a careful eye on the traffic around her, but she never went very long without stealing a glance at him, either, as if to reassure herself that he was really there. And any time she looked at him, she couldn't help breaking into a contented smile.
There was something inexplicably intoxicating about those smiles, about the way her manicured hands gripped the steering wheel, exactly at ten and two, slim fingers tapping restlessly when sitting in traffic, about her casual epithet when someone cut her off and she had to slam on the brakes. A few times, when they were stopped at a red light, she reached over and rested her right hand on his knee, giving him the opportunity to cover her hand with his.
Peter didn't like to think that he ever took El for granted. And yet, somehow, he'd never noticed before how adorable she was when she was driving.
How did I not notice that?
El was relating her story of the encounter in Peter's office. "Neal was just standing there, he seemed relaxed, leaning back on the sill, but if you took a second look, you could see he was like . . . like a coiled spring. And when I made him tell me about Keller, he was walking a tightrope, trying not to lie to me, but trying not to scare me, either. Holding back, you know?"
"Oh, I know," Peter assured her. Did he ever.
"And, it actually kind of pissed me off a little bit," she burst out. "I mean, Reese had just left, after showering me with platitudes about how everyone is focused on finding you and they're going to bring you back and I shouldn't worry, blah, blah, blah. And the whole time Neal is standing there, watching and listening and not saying a word, but I can tell that he . . . ."
"That he thought it was just so much horseshit?" Peter suggested, borrowing Diana's turn of phrase (because, really, it had been pitch-perfect).
That got him a look—and the brilliant smile he treasured above all others. "Exactly!"
"And you believed a criminal instead of a senior FBI agent."
She rolled her eyes. "Of course, honey. It's Neal."
He groaned as she kept going.
"So after Neal tells me about Keller and how he knows everything the FBI is going to do, because he's a chess player who thinks twenty steps ahead, that's when I said to him, point-blank, 'What are you doing?'"
Her emphasis on the you was alarmingly definitive. Peter, sighing inwardly, was pretty sure he knew where this was going.
Everyone knew that Neal broke the rules, but what would they say if they knew that Peter's wife had been the chief instigator of said rule-breaking more than once? Peter hadn't forgotten—how could he?— about a certain video tape on which he appeared amenable to a bribe from a federal judge. About how that tape had turned out, in the end, to be mysteriously blank. About thanking Neal (because surely Neal had been behind it), and then the shock as Neal's throwaway line belatedly registered, belatedly made sense.
I have no idea what you're talking about. But you really should thank your wife.
And this was going to be more of the same, he could just tell.
"You put him on the spot, El."
She shook her head determinedly. "Neal was already there, hon. When I asked him what he was doing to help, he uncrossed his arms, got up, and came to stand right in front of me. So close . . . . Then he gave this long, contemptuous look back toward Reese's office, and he said, in the—the most mocking voice you can imagine, 'Well, they want me to go home. They want me to sit tight.' So naturally, I said, 'Is that what you're going to do?"
Elizabeth was a hell of a storyteller. Even though he was pretty sure he knew how this scene was going to end, Peter couldn't deny he was caught up in the tale.
She had paused, though, so he jumped in. "Okay, I think I know what happens next. Neal tells you he's going to go off the reservation to figure out a way to get me back."
El didn't turn, but her gaze slid over, so that she was looking at him out of the corner of her eye. Even at this angle, he could see a kind of surreptitious sparkle there. And her lips had curved into the beginning of a grin he could only describe as wicked.
"You would think that, wouldn't you?" she said airily.
"What, you're saying he didn't?" he asked, confused.
"He never said that. Instead, he looks at me, so focused, like I was the only thing that existed in his world at that moment and he doesn't so much say it as he whispers it: 'What do you want me to do?'"
Peter knew that whisper. It was one of the tools Neal used when he knew Peter wouldn't want to go along with whatever he was proposing. In fact the more convincing Neal thought you needed, the lower his voice got. When Neal pulled out the I'm serious whisper, that meant he was completely committed.
And that, soon enough, you would be, too. Whether you wanted to or not. Often in spite of your better judgment . . . .
"It was as if he was almost . . . asking for permission—but for something he was going to do anyway, whether I gave my blessing or not," Elizabeth said quietly.
"Maybe, but more likely he would have just talked you into it," Peter answered, thinking again of what Diana had said: He's too goddamned convincing, and it's easier to give in than to argue with him.
Elizabeth pursed her lips. "Thinking back on it now, though, it wasn't even a question, not really. I think—no, I know—that was why he asked me. He . . . he knew what I was going to say," she said, as if she were just realizing it.
Peter had to smile at that. Of course he had. Neal was like a good defense attorney. He never asked an important question without already knowing that the answer would be in his favor.
"And then you told him to do whatever he needed to do," Peter surmised.
"Yes," she said, giving him a defiant glance, like she was expecting him to challenge her.
"Which means you gave him your blessing to defy the FBI," he said with a sigh.
"That's a little harsh."
"But not untrue," Peter retorted as she shot a mock glare at him. "And what did Neal say to that?"
"Not a thing. He just looked me in the eye and gave me this little, satisfied nod. And neither of us said another word because we totally understood each other."
He watched her, watched the small, affectionate smile on her face as she remembered, and shook his head. Neal and El truly were a dangerous combination. When he said as much to her, she just smiled wider.
"I know this is a reversal of what I normally say about Neal," Peter tried, "but I think you may be a bad influence on him. Encouraging him to violate policy—"
"Hon, this wasn't about policy." Now she sounded exasperated, verging on angry. "This was about making sure you came home. And if you don't think Neal and I are going to be simpatico on that, that we're always going to move heaven and earth to make that happen, then you don't know either of us very well.
Then Neal had gone and done exactly what she'd told him to do—he'd made sure Peter came home.
….
Neal had followed up that bit of heroism, on their next case, with the kind of careless, trademark risk-taking that Peter hated most of all. Neal had been playing the part of the FBI agent, while Peter played Neal. Secretly, Peter had enjoyed the role reversal more than he thought he would, even as he worried that Neal was reveling in it a little too much. And at the end, Neal really gave him cause to worry. With Peter trapped in the gallery, Neal had rushed in to confront Stanzler, who had a gun, for God's sake, while Neal had nothing but a badge—and a fake one, at that.
Peter had managed to disarm Stanzler, but only just in time. Another second and the bastard would have pulled the trigger on Neal.
Another second and Stanzler would have gunned Neal down right in front of him.
While Peter watched helplessly.
When it was all over, after Stanzler had been cuffed and Mirandized, glowering at them over his shoulder as he was led away, Peter had really let Neal have it.
"What the hell were you thinking?" he'd demanded, and he didn't care that his fury was audible, that he sounded, atypically, as if he were on the verge of losing it. He wanted Neal to hear it, to know how enraged he was. Because this wasn't the first time Neal had done something so reckless that it made Peter want to lock the man back up just to make sure he kept breathing.
Unperturbed, Neal had looked right back at him, not backing down. "I wanted to help. You were in trouble. It's what you would've done."
"I carry a gun, Neal!" Peter had had to fight the urge to shout. "You had a badge. That you made yourself, for God's sake. He could have shot you, so easily." Peter rubbed his face in frustration. "And there you are, charging in and holding up that badge like . . . like it was a goddamned bullet-proof vest."
He had been, too. That image was burned into Peter's brain, of Stanzler aiming his gun at Neal, while Neal clutched that badge in front of him, like it was going to protect him, somehow. That kind of thing was sheer insanity, and it had to stop.
"Oh, Peter," Neal had said mildly, in his surely you jest voice, "Give me a little credit. I knew the badge wasn't going to protect me. You were."
And just what the hell was Peter supposed to say to that?
The truth was, Peter's faith in Neal had never been stronger—Neal's penchant for taking excessive risks notwithstanding. But today, his confidence in Neal's capability, given the injuries Regal had inflicted, had never been lower.
Neal would move heaven and earth to help Peter, of that the agent had no doubt.
The problem was, Neal had to be conscious to do it.
Diana was going to be angry, Neal knew.
No, he corrected himself. Actually, angry was a major, major understatement of what Diana was going to be.
She'd told him to stay. To wait outside. But he'd left. To go back inside.
She'd been talking to him. And he'd hung up on her.
When Neal behaved for Peter, often it was because, secretly, Neal didn't want to let him down. When Neal obeyed Diana, often it was because he was afraid of what she'd do if he didn't. She was much more likely to resort to threats to keep the resident ex-con in line. And she wasn't the type to make idle threats, either. Thus Neal had a well-developed sense of wariness where Diana was concerned.
But that wasn't enough to stop him. Not today. For one thing, he doubted she'd have the heart to carry out any threats now: he was in far too pathetic of a state already.
Anyway, she didn't fully understand the situation, the danger Peter faced.
Neal did.
He knew that his partner was trapped next to a coiled snake that could strike at any moment. What if Neal allowed himself a few moments of blissful, horizontal, safe repose and, during that time, Regal regained his senses and hurt Peter? Or . . . did worse than hurt him. It didn't bear thinking about. Neal would never forgive himself.
There's no time.
And he knew, with every fiber of his body and soul, what Peter would do, if their situations were reversed.
Peter wouldn't have let anything—or anyone—stop him from going back for Neal.
You have to go, the warning voice in his head said. Now. You have to get back to Peter. Nothing else matters.
So he got up, dragged himself to his feet with Darryl's help, realizing he absolutely could not allow himself to think about the burning agony in his chest, his hip—well, really it was pretty much everywhere by this time. You got hit by a truck, you're lucky to be alive, the rational part of his mind noted, even as another mental voice retorted, This is lucky? It sure as hell doesn't feel lucky.
Neal didn't remember the truck hitting him, and he was grateful for that, for the fact that he'd blacked out at some point. But the new, white-hot sparks of pain blossoming in his chest, his hip, his back, had to have come from the impact with the truck, the ground, whatever.
Doesn't matter. All that matters is getting back to Peter in time.
So he staggered away from Darryl, back toward the warehouse, back across the street.
Right into the path of another truck.
Shit.
Heart pumping double-time, he launched himself back onto the sidewalk, barely avoiding the oncoming vehicle, and grabbed for a pole. Except, even though he could see it plainly, the pole wasn't where he thought it would be. Did it move? Neal reached out and got nothing but air at first. Finally his flailing arm found the rough metal and he clung to it like a drowning man clutching a life preserver, gasping in pain.
No, poles don't move, you idiot. You're seeing double. Or triple.
For a second, he let himself hang on, thankful that he once again had the use of his hands to keep himself from falling. Even though they hurt like hell, he could still use them. Well, one of them, at least. The pain was starting to recede, finally, as feeling returned to his fingers. He'd never take his hands for granted again.
The sudden movement had sent little rockets of pain exploding and bouncing around inside his head. He had to close his eyes until the fusillade died down. Now that his hands were free, he knew for sure that something was very, very wrong with his right shoulder, the one he'd rammed into Regal. Neal was no doctor, but he knew enough—and the pain was intense enough—to realize that he was probably going to need the services of one when this was all over. Assuming he was alive to see a doctor. In fact, a mere doctor might not be enough; Neal was starting to think he would need a whole team of medical professionals.
I've already got the team in place for my next project, but I'll make an exception for your Neal.
Neal blinked at the little voice whispering in his head. Where had that come from?
It took his jumbled brain a few seconds to recognize Regal's words, Regal's voice. He'd been talking to Peter while Neal had been lying on the floor.
More fragments of conversation came back to him.
Neal's not going to work for you. That was Peter, sounding confident. Like it was automatic. It made Neal smile, a little, to hear it. It was just so . . . Peter.
Of course he will, Regal had responded, also sounding awfully sure of himself. After all, I'll be offering him the chance to be himself again.
Except that's not who he is anymore.
Regal, disbelieving: I'm sure that's what he'd like you to think. I wouldn't have believed an FBI agent could be duped that easily . . . For Neal's sake, I hope you're mistaken . . . .
Neal frowned. Interesting that Regal just assumed he'd jump at the chance to get away from the FBI. But this wasn't really important. He needed to concentrate, get himself under control.
I won't need an anklet to control him. And Neal is quite smart enough to know what's good for him.
Regal's voice again, sending a little chill down his spine.
Stop it. Shaking his head, Neal focused himself on the task at hand. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes and continued to make his way back, back toward Peter, as quickly as he could. He was able to move much faster now, though he felt the beginning of panic that his pace wouldn't be fast enough.
His body wanted nothing more than to lie down and not move for several days, if not weeks. But his heart and mind overruled those baser instincts. When the pain flared, when he had to pause to catch his breath or to wait for the dizziness to subside before he could move again, Neal thought about all the times Peter had saved him. About waking up in Avery's hermetically sealed comic-book storeroom—comic books, seriously?—feeling oddly cold, gasping for breath, Peter's reassuring hands warm and solid on his chest; he'd faced down a shotgun to save Neal's life—and started him breathing again, too.
Or he recalled coming to his senses in the Howser clinic, confused about where he was and how he'd gotten there, confused about everything except that Peter—of course, Peter—was there to get him out.
He thought about Peter at the airfield, when it felt like the world had just ended in a blast of heat and flame, Peter grabbing Neal and holding on tight, refusing to let Neal throw himself into what had become Kate's funeral pyre.
Peter, convincing Neal, just with the power of his voice and their connection, to put the gun down, to not fire the bullet that would have killed Fowler—and would have effectively killed Neal, too, by putting him in prison for the rest of his life.
How many times had Peter saved him? All of those times-and more.
It was time for Neal to return the favor.
...
Maybe the water and the painkillers were kicking in a bit to aid him; the fire in his shoulder and the sharp pain in his ribs had eased slightly. His head still felt like someone was rhythmically tapping it with a hammer, though, with any movement he made. And every step he took felt like someone was shoving a knife into his ankle—and then twisting it for good measure.
Despite the pain that was seemingly everywhere, and the nauseating way the world tilted and blurred when he moved too fast, he felt somewhat revived both physically and mentally. He felt more like himself, at least. Not quite clear-headed, but definitely more in possession of his faculties than at any point since Regal had knocked him out.
Which was good, because he had a feeling he was going to need as many of his wits as he could marshal before this was all over.
He knew it wasn't just the water or the painkillers, though. It was the grim certainty that Peter needed him, that Peter's fate might rest in Neal's hands. Collapsing wasn't an option. The rush of fear and adrenaline when he thought about what Regal could do to Peter helped to spur him on. It was sort of a second wind—determination fueled by sheer desperation.
Neal had always been a nuance guy; he automatically saw complexities and shadings in everything. There were always alternatives, there were always multiple outcomes, all kinds of possible scenarios for how events would play out, depending on what course of action one chose. But there was no nuance here. This situation was frighteningly simple. He had to get to Peter or the unimaginable would happen.
It's unfortunate that I have to kill you, Agent Burke.
He swallowed hard as, once again, Regal's mocking voice rang out in his head.
He had to keep moving, or Peter could die.
Put in such stark terms, it meant he didn't have a choice. It meant whatever discomfort he was feeling paled in comparison and had to be pushed aside.
He retraced his steps, limping and lurching as fast as he could manage. Blood was once more dripping down his forehead, threatening to obscure his vision; he swiped his left arm across his forehead and winced at how much he was still bleeding. It was hard to tell, though, how much of the blood now on his arm was from his lacerated wrists and how much had come from the head wound.
Now that he'd reached the building, at least he could conserve what little energy he had by leaning on the wall for support. Neal concentrated single-mindedly on putting one foot in front of the other, on not allowing himself to stop, for fear he would never get started again. At least now that his hands were free—well, he was afraid to use the right one for much of anything for fear of wakening the pain in that shoulder—he could use his left hand to help him balance, to grip the concrete in case he needed to hold on.
Neal slid along, parallel to the wall, panting from exertion, but progressing much faster than he had before. Problem was, the cumulative effect of the blows he'd taken was becoming hard to ignore. Whether he wanted to or not, he was going to crash soon; his body would demand it.
And that would be fine—better than fine, really. Unconsciousness actually sounded pretty appealing right now. As long as he made sure Peter was safe before that happened.
Once Peter was safe, he would handle everything. What had Neal said to him at the close of the boiler room case, after he'd given Peter the mini-breather and counted on Peter to get them out of it?
I knew you'd take care of it.
And he had. That was what Peter did. Yes.
So once he made it back to Peter and freed him, Neal could pass out and leave everything in Peter's ultra-capable hands.
And if Peter wasn't okay—well . . . Neal couldn't think about that right now. Making elaborate and multiple contingency plans was a hallmark of his normal MO, but even he had his limits. That just wasn't an option his brain could conceive of. His mind got so far and then just whirred to a stop when he thought about what he would do if Peter weren't okay. Beyond that there was a kind of nothingness, a black hole that would swallow him up if he thought about it too much, so he was careful not to.
Please let him be okay.
Again he followed the outside wall of the building, turning the corner and stumbling clumsily along the back wall, toward the door.
There it is. It's not much further. This is good, he told himself, trying to be optimistic as he drew in painful, shuddering gasps of air, struggling to catch his breath. You made good time, so much better than when you were coming out. By his guesstimate, it had probably been no more than a minute or two since he'd hung up on Diana.
The only worrisome part of that was that help was still a ways off. Their current location was outside his radius and thus not a place he could normally go. But he knew the city intimately, and simple geography—the distance between any help and this warehouse—meant that he was on his own for now. For a little while, at least, it was all up to him.
Finally, he'd arrived at the back entrance. Seeing the door, Neal was reminded of when they'd first arrived. When he'd gotten the door open, before this whole nightmare had started.
Neal had removed his picks from his pocket with a flourish. Then he'd stopped, waiting a beat, pondering as he shifted his gaze from the leather case to Peter. "Hmm. Wait a minute."
A little smile flitted across Peter's face; he knew a choreographed scene when he saw one. "Yes?"
"I've just had an idea."
"Well, that's dangerous," Peter remarked wryly.
Neal gave him an eager look. "As a recent participant in Mozzie's training program, you're more than qualified to handle this, aren't you?"
"Actually, I was described as a 'difficult student,'" Peter noted with his trademark honesty.
"But you did graduate. You did put your skills to use. Consider this a final exam," Neal suggested.
"Oh, no," Peter answered, solemnly. "This is your area."
"Well, of course," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "But think of it this way: who needs the practice more?"
Peter frowned. "I'd say you could use some practice. It's been a long time since I had you pick any locks."
Neal's smile faded just a bit, and Peter's frown grew. "Unless . . . what sort of lock-picking have you been doing to stay sharp, Neal?"
Neal hesitated, then opened his mouth, but Peter spoke first. "Don't answer that."
"Sounds like a plan," Neal agreed, giving a relieved nod.
Peter waved a hand in the direction of the door. "I defer to you," he muttered, which was probably as close as he would ever get to openly praising Neal's lock-picking expertise.
Smiling, Neal had walked over to the door. "Watch and learn. See if you can pick up a few pointers."
As he knelt down to examine the mechanism, Neal saw Peter shaking his head.
Flashing back to it now, he could see Peter in his mind's eye. Peter had been standing right there, leaning relaxed against the side of the building, carefully schooling his face into a nonchalant expression.
But when Neal had looked up a moment later, just a quick glimpse, he'd caught Peter smiling as he watched Neal work, an indulgent little grin on his face, in spite of himself.
It was such a contrast to the last time he'd seen Peter—handcuffed, tense, rigid with fear—that it made Neal's heart twist in his chest.
Find him.
He stepped up, careful not to trip this time, through the doorway, back into the warehouse.
Back toward Peter.
Peter would be okay.
He has to be, Neal thought desperately. He always is.
TBC….
A/N - Ah, so many cheery, uplifting, holiday-themed stories on the site right now that are such a pleasure to read—and then there's (ahem) . . . this story. ;-) Nothing says 'Happy Holidays' like grim tension, lives in jeopardy, and endless angst, right?
Anyway, thanks for sticking with me with through a tale that has been far from cheery and anything but uplifting to this point. As always, appreciate the encouragement from all of you followers and reviewers. Hope everyone had a wonderful Christmas!