Chapter 10

Neal's euphoria was short-lived, quickly replaced by a heavy sense of dread as a multitude of emotions came crashing down on him. Cold soon invaded the flimsy material that covered him, and the weight of the Boss's phone in his pocket was a constant reminder of his invisible tether to the mobster. This taste of liberty was transient, and it would either end swiftly with a bullet through the brain, or slowly, with him lingering in a musty cell. This was the last freedom he would know for a long time. Now he had to confront his erstwhile colleagues, who almost certainly blamed him for Peter's death.

He stopped well short of the line established by the Boss, not wanting to tempt fate by stepping nearer, and not wanting to be close enough to the FBI to read their expressions. There he stood, waiting for acknowledgment, head held high, body braced for a blow, whether it was the physical punch of a bullet or the emotional buffet of accusation and distrust.

It seemed like hours, but was probably more like two minutes, before he received a response from behind the gates. "Caffrey." It was Hughes' voice, wary, carrying a caution that Neal read as mistrust, but may merely have been uncertainty at the situation. "Please continue to move forward. The gates have been unlocked, and we can talk in a more secure location."

Neal raised his voice to carry the distance. "Actually, the situation dictates that I stay right here."

With every fibre of his being, he wished it were Peter on the other side of the gate, first and foremost because it would mean he was alive, but also because, with the near-telepathy they sometimes seemed to share, he knew his friend would pick up on clues, hints and implications in his words and would figure out the true state of affairs. Neal's voice was gruff from the constriction in his throat as he continued. "I've been asked to negotiate with you to try and resolve this standoff."

The reply was stern and unyielding. "There will be no negotiation. All weapons must be surrendered, and all personnel come out with their hands raised."

It was the response Neal expected, straight from the FBI playbook, yet, despite this matching of his expectations, he was at a loss to know how to proceed. His ideal plan would placate both parties, a tricky proposition considering their opposing agendas and one his usually fertile mind seemed unable to master. The stress he was under might be a stimulant for his body, but it seemed to be a sedative for his brain, or maybe with the loss of his partner and his own dismal long-term prospects, he didn't care enough to try.

He could play the hapless hostage, trusting that the Boss would remember what he said about currying favour with the FBI. But Hughes and his unit knew him too well to take such a performance at face value. It would make no difference to their conduct either way; they would proceed professionally. In the end, he decided it was best to continue the role of impartial go-between and hope that Hughes would understand he was operating under duress. The Boss had told him to play for time, and he would do that, not so much because it was what the mobster wanted as because it would give Hughes and his men the opportunity to contain the situation.

Neal kept his tone cold and distant, with no attempt at his usual conman warmth. This was the persona he'd used with the mobster, who wouldn't notice the difference. Hughes would hopefully draw the correct conclusions.

"I quite understand your position and, under normal circumstances, my...employer would not hesitate to cooperate with the authorities. However, I hope that you understand that this facility has just suffered a vicious and unprovoked attack. My employer's first responsibility is to his men. It would be unconscionable to send them out unarmed before he has verified that there is no longer any threat to their safety. Can you guarantee that there are no members of the gang that attacked us still out there? Have you even secured the perimeter?"

Peter would have understood the hint behind the criticism. The Boss must have a bolt hole somewhere that he was planning to use, and playing for time worked both ways, giving Hughes time to plug it with the aid of blueprints and additional men. It was a risk saying as much, and Neal's shoulders tightened in expectation of a bullet, but the Boss appeared to approve of the direction he was taking in his negotiations.

There was a pause from behind the gates, which Neal hoped meant Hughes was giving orders to block all escape routes, then: "It would help if you could give us more information on your assailants."

"I know nothing about them," Neal answered with absolute truth. "I didn't see any of them. There was no warning before the attack, and I could only very vaguely estimate their numbers from the gunfire - maybe 15 to 20 - and the shots seemed to be coming from that direction." He gestured along the length of the wall.

There was a long silence before Hughes spoke again, and he sounded distracted. "Clearly, this is a complicated situation. We'll check out the security of the location and get back to you. Please stand by."

Neal shivered and folded his arms around himself to try to retain some heat. He was used to being the cynosure of all eyes, even enjoyed it under normal circumstances, but being targeted by the barrels of scores of guns was a different situation. He contemplated a retreat to the warehouse. It would afford him shelter of a sort, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Seeking out the company of the mobsters would brand him as one of them. It was somehow appropriate that he was alone in no-man's land, neither criminal nor law enforcement, but it was also profoundly lonely.

Enough time passed for the crawling maggot of fear inside to start to metamorphosise into a contained pupa of boredom. Apparently, imminent death could only hold his attention for so long. There was nothing to sit on and nothing to watch, and the last thing he wanted was time to think. He tipped his head back to see if the sky held any diversions and tracked the white trail of an airplane, but his interest in that quickly palled.

In the end, his attention was grabbed by a sudden increase in noise beyond the gates in the FBI base. It seemed as if an argument was developing. He couldn't really hear the words, but recognised Hughes' strident tones of irritation. The altercation went on for several minutes, and at one point, he thought he picked up the particularly vociferous words, 'Are you insane?' The comfortable familiarity of it almost made him smile, and the concomitant suggestion behind it that something was about to break loose renewed his attention, although he carefully kept his body language relaxed.

An amplified squawk signaled that the debate was over and that Hughes was ready with another announcement aimed more at the mobsters in the warehouse that at Neal. "We've secured the perimeter, and we're in the process of checking nearby buildings for remnants of the gang you were fighting. Meanwhile, I'm sending in a negotiator to talk to your man. Do not fire. Any hostile actions on your part will be met with immediate retaliation."

The iron gate groaned open, and a figure limped through the gap, swinging between two crutches. Neal's breathing stuttered to a halt at the man's resemblance to Peter. At this distance, he couldn't even say what he based the similarity on. The guy was in sweatpants, and clearly his gait was disguised by the injury. Black spots danced in front of Neal's eyes, obscuring his vision, and he inhaled sharply, dragging in the air he'd forgotten to breathe.

His eyes burned as he continued to stare unblinking, his chest tightening in a band around a sudden sense of panic, fearing that if he looked away, he'd lose the comfort of illusion. Time appeared to slow in his own personal dilation as his entire universe narrowed down to that approaching figure. He waited, poised, shaking in a rhythm that matching the stomp of crutches and feet. It was only when the man closed to an unmistakable proximity that Neal allowed his head to believe what his heart already knew.

His eyelids slipped shut, chasing out the moisture that had gathered there to slide down grimy cheeks. There was a big crazy feeling lodged up behind his ribs. Of course he was alive. Peter always came for him, his personal trumeau between the world of crime and that of rectitude. He opened an eye to risk another glance, his friend now close enough for Neal to take in that characteristic expression of determination and solidity, currently tempered by tight lines that seemed to be permanently etched around sombre eyes.

His world tilted back on the correct axis as if Peter were his ballast, the source of his upright stability and horizontal balance. With that adjustment, Neal's brain rebooted, allowing it to run with a clarity that had been lacking for several days. The sheer joy and relief of seeing Peter alive was quickly subsumed by an equally intense horror that nearly compelled him to echo Hughes' cry of 'Are you insane?'

Peter might not be in danger from the FBI guns behind him, but the Boss had every reason to want him dead, since the agent was the most credible witness of the crimes the mobster had committed. Neal's first instinct was to simply refuse to negotiate with Peter, forcing him to return back behind the protection of the gates. However, if Neal didn't convince the Russian of Peter's value as a negotiator or if the mobster suspected any type of collaboration, it was a long, slow walk back to safety for a man on crutches.

As Peter limped to within a few yards, Neal felt an overwhelming urge to close the gap, to throw his arms roughly around his friend, as he had after Keller's kidnapping, to assure himself of Peter's continuing existence. Instead, he did the opposite, taking a step back and flinging up a hand to stop Peter's forward movement.

Peter and he had faked a fight before, so he knew the signal he had to give, flicking his finger across his nose as if wiping off an errant bug, a gesture that would be impossible to see from behind.

"You're like a damned cockroach." The words were thick and wet, but gained strength as he continued. "We kill you off, but you just come back again, as much as a pest as before." He hoped Peter could hear the subtext - they told me you were dead.

Peter's response was immediate, no hesitation discernible. "That's rich, coming from you, a parasite on society. I'm just fine and I'm not going anywhere until I see you behind bars where you belong." Neal hoped the subtext of that was that Peter was fine and, moreover, was willing to follow his CI's lead.

Neal's arms were crossed, and gently, with his forefinger, he tapped out 'EARS' in Morse code on his upper arm. As Peter's gaze flickered to the movement, Neal cast his eyes down towards his pocket. His friend's expression didn't change, but Neal thought he caught a slight nod. Encouraged, he continued his diatribe.

"At least I'm honest about what I do. You hide behind the law while you hound, blackmail, and manipulate those who are supposed to be in your protection."

"I've done my job - which is to protect society from criminals like you."

"Well, as I was telling your Boss, you're barking up the wrong tree here. We're not the aggressors in this situation, but the victims of a ruthless attack. Why aren't you chasing after the real villains?"

Peter huffed scornfully. "Oh, drop the innocent act, Caffrey. We know exactly who you're working for and what they've done, and we have the arrest warrants to back it up."

This was the part of the con that Neal usually enjoyed the best, living on the edge, adrenaline perking, words his weapon of choice, shaped by his will, sparkling and weaving in a dance of distraction. Instead, he was shaking slightly, his simulated anger making him slightly nauseous. He felt out of control. Not only had he no aces up his sleeve, but there were also no trumps and no court cards. Bluff was his only recourse, that, and the hope that his partner's hand would shore up his weaknesses.

"When we took over this facility, we took the workers and several of their families hostage." This time he tapped out 'false' and then, in case that wasn't clear enough, he added, "none' while he continued to talk. "You can go back and tell your boss that any attempt to storm this place will lead to a bloodbath, so unless you want to be known as the federal agent who started the new Waco, I suggest you go and look up the word compromise in the dictionary."

"Why don't you look up capital punishment in yours." Peter stumped closer. "Now you listen to me. Stop wasting our time and ask your boss exactly what his terms are. If they're reasonable, we might listen to them. However, you also tell him that if we believe the hostages are in danger, if as much as one shot is fired inside that building, we'll be in there so fast and with such heavy fire power that you won't even have time to duck for cover. Do you understand?"

Suddenly, a long arm reached out, grabbing Neal by the coat and yanking him in closer. Peter lost a crutch in the process, but it didn't seem to affect his level of intimidation. It was a parody of a private moment as Peter hissed in his ear quite loud enough to be picked up by the phone. "This is my promise to you, you little vermin. If as much as one person dies, I'm holding you personally responsible." For a split second, he was pulled even closer, preparatory to being cast aside, and a ghostly whisper tickled his ear. "I'm going to get you out of this."

Neal was pushed away, and he sprawled on the ground, exaggerating the shove. "You hear me Caffrey? That's a promise." Peter spat out the last words like a threat instead of the solemn oath of protection they were. He watched Neal pick himself up and dust himself off as if embarrassed.

Peter bent to retrieve his crutch. Sending Neal back to the mobsters went against every protective instinct he had, but short of dancing around him, sprinkling sage and singing warding chants, there wasn't much more he could do. Instead, he had cloaked his partner in the unlikely shield of opprobrium and threats. He hoped that the Tarasov brothers were paying attention when he warned of the dire consequences of even a single shot. He stomped his way back to the FBI base, too intent on plans to redeem his promise to Neal to worry about his own predicament.

Eager hands pulled him to shelter behind the wall and hustled him to the back seat of a car, where he could take the pressure off aching legs. The car dipped again as Hughes folded his long limbs into the seat beside him. His craggy face was even more dour than usual, verging on restrained anger. "What the hell is going on, Peter. Is he really working for them?"

Peter stared at him blankly for a moment, not understanding how Hughes could even suggest that. While he'd been very aware that two conversations had been going on, in his mind, the second had been purely for the convenience of the Tarasov brothers. It hadn't occurred to him that his FBI colleagues would take it at face value. He pondered sadly on the tendency of the department to always expect the worst of Neal. He was guilty of it himself sometimes. After all, they couldn't afford to forget that Neal was a conman - his very job description involved the violation of people's trust. His livelihood depended on him being charming and personable, making people like him. Neal's description of the long con had sent a chill down Peter's spine as he wondered if Neal's position in the FBI fell under the same category.

Yet these suspicions hadn't altered his feelings for the young man. Partly with the help of Elizabeth, he had come to terms with that. It had involved a major shift in his own concept of propriety, but after all the time he'd spent chasing Neal and during his day-to-day partnership with him, Peter had become comfortable with the realization that although he might never trust Neal around certain artifacts, there was no doubt that his friend's heart was in the right place.

He was almost positive that Neal knew where the submarine treasure was, even if he hadn't stolen it, but somehow Peter's priorities had shifted from catching Neal to protecting him from the consequences of his own actions. When it came to the important things, he could trust Neal absolutely. He now found himself insulted on Neal's behalf that Hughes could believe he would join a group of thugs.

"No, Sir, of course not. Neal believes they are trying to play for time, that the leaders have a bolt hole they intend to use. We need to get the specs for the sewer system around here."

Hughes frowned. "How did you get that from your conversation? What about the hostages?"

"There aren't any, with the exception of Neal himself, of course."

"Peter, are you sure about this?"

Peter maintained strong eye contact and pushed his case. "Reese, you let me go out there, despite the circumstances, because you knew I was right when I said I was the world's expert on Neal Caffrey. He's playing a role to stay alive, and he communicated with me very clearly."

Hughes still looked a little doubtful and maybe a trifle uncomfortable. "Don't you think you might have lost your objectivity where Neal is concerned?"

It was close enough to his own musings to bring a tinge of colour to Peter's face. He thought of the tear tracks he'd seen on Neal's face as relief replaced devastation. "If there is truth in that, it's because I know him. I know what he's capable of and what he's not capable of. Right now, I trust him with my career and my life."

Peter's convictions must have satisfied Hughes. "So, how are you thinking of playing it?"

"We get Neal out, then hit them hard and fast."

"What's your plan for accomplishing the first half of that?" He watched Peter pull out a gun. "You know you are out on sick leave and shouldn't even have a weapon."

Peter ejected the clip and checked there was no round up the spout. "Then it's a good thing there'll be no bullets in it."

Hughes opened the door. "I'll prepare the SWAT team and have a team look into possible bolt holes."

"Thank you, Sir. I have a phone call I need to make."

Within ten minutes, all the troops had been briefed and were in position, though still well concealed. Peter had spoken to his team and was standing near the gate, looking more grim than usual, but steady and determined. He gave Hughes a final nod, and the lead agent picked up the microphone and called on the mobsters to send out their negotiator for a final discussion of terms.

This time, both Neal and Peter left their bases simultaneously and strode, or in Peter's case, hobbled towards each other belligerently. It felt like the high noon showdown in an old Western, although usually it was the participants who were armed and not the spectators. The most he and Neal could do was to spit venom at each other as they did before.

The trepidation in Neal's eyes and his suspiciously bruised cheekbone made it easy for Peter to get into character. "Okay, Caffrey, let's hear it." He only half-listened to Neal's list of demands, both of them knowing that they were merely intended as nothing more than a blind distraction. Slowly, he started to circle Neal, forcing him to turn with him until the two of them were perpendicular to their original positions, Peter's back to the full length of the wall.

Once satisfied he was in place, he interrupted. "That's it! You think you're going to step on a plane and fly away?" Neal fell silent, watching him warily, unsure where he was going with this combative statement. "The things you did as Mr. Black should not be forgotten."

He saw Neal's eyes widen with comprehension and, satisfied, he brought his oration to a thundering conclusion. He threw down his right crutch and drew his gun from under his back waistband, firing it at Neal. Even knowing the gun was unloaded, he couldn't bring himself to fire directly at his friend, aiming it slightly to his left, knowing that, at their angle, no one would know the difference.

Neal took one faltering step backward before collapsing on the ground. Peter had been afraid he might try something over-dramatic, but it was frighteningly realistic, and his heart swooped in sickening fear as he stared at the figure sprawled, one leg twisted at an uncomfortably boneless angle, on the ground. He only had a split second to curse Neal's artistry; the stunned silence was broken by the sound of a shot, the echoes making it impossible to determine its point of origin, but perhaps coming from the buildings beyond the wall. It caught the FBI agent in the back, roughly propelling him forward so he collapsed on the body of the man he'd just 'murdered'.

The violence was sudden and shocking and, as Hughes had promised, retaliation was immediate. The SWAT teams fired tear gas canisters into almost every window, followed by flash bang grenades and a seeming army of blue-clad armed men.

The Tarasov brothers seemed to have disappeared, leaving their men leaderless, so few put up a fight in the face of the odds, and none gave any thought to the two dead men piled in the courtyard, motionless, discarded, their mute stillness an odd contrast to the flurry of activity, shouts and shots that reverberated across the empty space.

Most of the gang surrendered or were subdued within minutes, but sporadic fighting continued for much longer. In the end, the SWAT team had the equipment and experience to root out these diehard pockets of resistance. Even when all the fighting had finished, all hands were needed to restrain and Mirandize the suspects, seize the evidence, including the artwork, and see to the injured. So it was a harried Diana who ran up to give the two men the all clear.

It was too similar to the scene in the container for her liking. Kneeling next to Peter's seemingly dead body was getting old fast. Her distress and anxiety were hidden by a testy tone. "Boss, it's over. Are you okay?"

Peter lifted his head slightly and flapped a hand in her direction. "Yeah, I'm good. Neal, are you good?"

Neal's eyes opened, but he made no effort to move. "I was until you pancaked on top of me. Now I'm may be a bit flatter than good."

There was a moment's silence, then Diana asked, with a trace of amusement, "So, I hate to mention it, but do you realize that you are still lying on top of Neal?"

"I hadn't noticed," Neal answered immediately.

"To be pedantic, I'm lying across Neal. It just so happens that he's occupying a perpendicular space under me. If you must know ,it's because being shot in the back, even while wearing a bulletproof vest, feels like being kicked in…" He broke off, glanced at Diana and, maybe for the sake of gender solidarity, changed what he was going to say. "…kicked in the gut by a mule. Moving just seems to be an optional extra at the moment."

"I'm on my way to call for some extra transportation. I'm going to call for the medics to check you out."

"No!" Both men spoke out simultaneously.

"I'm fine, really," Peter insisted and, to prove it, he levered himself off Neal into a sitting position. Getting shot after falling down the stairs should definitely be characterized as bad. His back was to Diana, so only his young CI could see the effort it cost him.

"OK," Diana conceded. "Why don't you get over to the base. Call me if you need me."

As she hurried away, Neal also curled up until he was sitting. It was a graceful movement, but also engendered a wince, which did not escape Peter's notice.

They were bolstering each other up by leaning against each other's shoulders, and they sat in companionable silence.

"I thought you were dead." The words were spoken so softly that, despite the second person pronoun, Peter wasn't sure they were addressed to him or if he was supposed to hear them. Upon reflection, however, they seemed to deserve a response.

"You weren't the only one. I was beginning to have my doubts about your continued health. If maximum security prisons couldn't hold you, what chance did these half-baked thieves have?"

"I wasn't trying to escape. I wanted to take them down, to make them pay." He gave a short laugh, which contained little humour. "I was even going to do it legally." Peter heard the unspoken 'for you' and felt a fierce rush of affection for this complicated man. He tilted his head a little, allowing it to rest on his friend's. The contact allowed him to feel just how violently Neal was shaking, and he turned slightly to get a better look at the young man, frowning in concern at what he saw. Having so recently experienced hypothermia himself, he was alert to the signs in Neal.

"Why are we sitting here in the snow when I'm sure there are warmer and dryer places to be? Your jacket is completely soaked. Take it off, and put mine on." He bulldozed over Neal's automatic protest. "I've got several layers on, including an extremely insulating bulletproof jacket. I won't miss my coat."

Neal tried to comply, but his hands were just too cold to manage the intricacies of such a job. The garment clung wetly as Peter tried to extricate him, and the process pulled up Neal's shirt, revealing an assortment of bruises on his torso. Most of them were several days old, but they told the story of abuse over time.

Peter felt a slow burn of anger. "Damn it, Neal. You look like a walking bag of skittles."

Neal bundled himself in Peter's coat, engulfing himself in its very welcome warmth while he retorted, "I imagine your back looks like a starburst and not the edible kind." Then quietly he added, "Don't worry, I've had worse."

That wasn't ultimately reassuring, but the sartorial maneuvers had left Peter drained, and he didn't have the energy to pursue that line of enquiry at that moment. Neal came to his rescue, handing him a crutch, then drawing Peter's arm around his own shoulder, pulling him gently to his feet.

"This is familiar, isn't it," Neal joked. When there was no response, he twisted for a glance at his friend, whom he could feel swaying dizzily despite his two props. "Peter, you are the colour that artists commonly term 'eggshell white.'"

Peter was in no mood for conversation. His leg was making it clear that he'd been ignoring his doctor's orders to take it easy. His back ached with a fiery passion, and he was finding it oddly difficult to fill his lungs. "Your lips are blue. We're a regular artist's palette," he managed.

They stumbled across the yard, Neal keeping the pace steady but slow, not sure what was wrong with his friend, but positive something was amiss. He'd checked that there was no blood on Peter's leg, and he'd surreptitiously inspected his back and found the bullet embedded in the jacket; it hadn't penetrated the material. But despite the relative lack of exertion involved in their walk, Peter's heart was pounding at a breakneck pace, and his breathing was shallow but harsh.

If there had been a place to rest, he'd have left Peter there and fetched a medic, but there was nothing in the snow-filled expanse, and the warmth and comfort of the FBI vehicles weren't far, so they continued. The sight of Hughes approaching from the gate filled Neal with profound relief, which was, he reflected, a first.

"Peter, I swear you're spending too much time with Caffrey. This plan was truly insane."

Neal could feel his partner straighten up. "Actually Sir, I'd like to think of it as inspired. Can you think of any other way we could have got Neal out of this unhurt? Do we have any casualties?"

"Nothing serious. We came out of this in great shape, and I'm grateful for that. But Peter," he hesitated. "The bad news is that we have to take Caffrey into custody."

"No!" Peter's response was instantaneous and definitely insubordinate, but Hughes appeared prepared to overlook that.

"Ultimately, it's for his own protection. He's been off anklet for five days, working with known felons, after disobeying an order to stay put. It's important we avoid any appearance of impropriety if we want to prevent a Board of Inquiry later."

Peter knew that was true, but he had a deep-seated need, which he didn't intend to explain, to keep the trouble-prone young man in his sight. "I understand that and agree with the need to debrief Neal as soon as possible. However, I don't believe we need to take him into custody to do that. He should be treated as an agent would under similar circumstances."

"Peter, we need to follow protocol."

Peter's chest was so tight, it was nearly impossible to breathe, but he had to make another point. "This is by the book. May I point out that Neal has been held captive for five days and has suffered injuries as a result. He needs to be in a hospital, and I think…" He was about to add, 'so do I', but at that point, the ground chose to shift and warp, then fall away completely.