The Extortionist

When the infamous Extortionist hits NYC, Peter's got his hands full – between leading the investigation no man has completed, protecting his pregnant wife from a kidnapper gunning for her, and keeping Neal under control. Can he keep the inevitable from happening, or will he end up enlisting Neal and Mozzie in a quest to retrieve what has been taken from him?

Chapter XI

The instant the ringing ceased, Mozzie unleashed the news. "Neal, Elizabeth is gone!"

"I know," he muttered. "We're on our way. Delivery truck?"

"I couldn't see the driver," Moz growled, furious with himself for failing at the one job he'd been given. "They were too quick."

Neal muttered a curse. "How long ago was it?"

"Five minutes," he answered, beginning to pace back and forth along the sidewalk. "Does the Suit-"

"He wants to talk to-"

"Mozzie, where is Elizabeth?" Peter spat over the phone, obviously distraught.

"Peter, I won't waste precious time on words-"

"Then for the love of God, Moz, just say it!"

"Elizabeth was taken," he sighed. "Two guys in a delivery truck; I was too late."

Peter shouted something and a slamming sound burned in Mozzie's ears. "You — You were supposed to protect her! How could-"

"Words are beyond the apology deserving of this, Suit."

"The apology deserving..." he mumbled angrily, on the verge of spouting off countless verbal abuses but reigning them in instead. "Do you have any idea who could have taken her?"

Mozzie scoffed. "Don't you think I would've mentioned that?"

"Forget this!" he snapped before hanging up.

Mozzie sighed and stared at the phone. Knowing the Extortionist like an old friend, he was almost-paralyzed at the thought of what might happen to Mrs. Suit in the event of the FBI holding back ransom. He knew Peter must have felt the same way, only many times worse. He just hoped that they found Elizabeth without harm coming to anyone but the man that took her.

The van squealed to a stop outside of Elizabeth's shop. Peter jumped out before it had even stopped moving, rushing up the stairs and into the building, ignoring all apprehensive comments or sense of professionalism. He needed to see his wife's face behind the counter; he needed her to smile and walk over to him, to kiss him and wrap him in a hug, to shoo him out of her workspace like she always did because she knew with him came Neal and with Neal came trouble, which drove away customers. He needed her to take his hands and tell him to leave, because she was too busy to escape the work she would easily banish in a second for an evening with him if she could, so he could, in turn, ignore her arguments and take her out for lunch, and see her relax with the break she had wanted without saying it; so he could feel the satisfaction of making her happy, because her just standing next to him made him happy every day. He needed to prove himself wrong, to have her ask him why he was so worried, to have her chide him about being so overprotective and send him home to relax. He needed something; something from her, even a shout or a snap or a cold shoulder, because something wasn't nothing, and nothing was the worst thing to receive from someone you cared about.

However, nothing was all he found as he walked into the store, not counting a few flustered customers and Mozzie, who hurried over to him regretfully. Peter looked down at the short man who'd sworn to protect his now-abducted wife and considered throwing a few punches his way, but decided against it. It wasn't his fault, and Elizabeth wouldn't have wanted it.

Elizabeth...

Peter's mind was filled with thoughts of his wife: her beautiful smile, her shockingly blue eyes that deeply contrasted her dark brown hair, the way she moved about a room and drew all eyes to her. How she always trusted him, no matter the situation or the jealousy she should have felt, and offered help without being pushy. How she stepped in and out of an issue, always leaving it better than she'd found it. Her grace and poise, and the way she always listened more than she talked, and thanked more than complained. How she sat at home alone, eating a meal made for two and feeding Satchmo the rest (he knew she did, no matter how many times she denied it), allowing him to work late when, really, they'd both wanted to spend the evening together. Her excitement when she told him about the pregnancy, and her broken expression that morning when he'd been stupid enough to forget the doctor's appointment. The way she said "I love you" even if they argued, and how she never ceased to amaze him with her unconditional love and compassion. Her lips on his, and her voice in his ear, a quiet whisper treating him to secrets for only them to know. Her small weight on his chest in the morning and her slow breathing matching his heartbeat in perfect unison. Her tears on his shirt when life just wouldn't work, but her determination to never give up; a spirit with contagious passion as powerful as fifty horses. Would that spirit remain in her where she was now?

And then, where was she? That was the burning question that tore at Peter's heart. He asked himself this question over and over again, watching his team examine the crime scene and call in back-up, too stunned to do anything but stand next to the doorway and stare right past Mozzie's head, at the empty counter.

Where was she? Who had her? Would they hurt her? How long did they have to find her? How much would the ransom be? Whatever it was, he would pay it. He didn't care what the bureau said.

How had he let this happen? A certain foreboding had been nagging at him since the case arose! He should have kept her with him until they caught the guy. He shouldn't have trusted Neal and Mozzie to protect her; they obviously couldn't manage it. He should have apologized before she was...

But those were useless thoughts. None would be useful in finding his wife, and he would find his wife at all costs. Whatever he had to do, he would do it. He couldn't, wouldn't, live without her. He couldn't let anything happen to her or the baby. He couldn't let them down again.

From the instant Elizabeth's heavy eyelids had opened and throbbing head had begun to function, she knew something was wrong.

At first, all she saw was black darkness, but her vision soon blurred into pictures; one after the other, flipping through the other as her eyes flicked around the dimly-lit room. She made out four walls, closed in around her, shaking and bumping, all metal. Nothing and no one accompanied her in the suffocatingly small room. She was completely alone, and nowhere near where she was supposed to be. Unfortunately, she didn't remember exactly where that was.

Recalling what her husband had told her to do in times of confusion and unfamiliar surroundings, Elizabeth first took note of her physical condition: hands bound with chaffing handcuffs, mouth gagged, head pounding with a dull ache, one earring missing, hair disheveled and left high-heel broken. She attributed her disassembly to the foggy memories she was beginning to recollect; kicking, fighting, pulling, falling, cuffing, darkness again. No faces, but it was something.

Her ankles weren't bound, so, leaning against the wall, she slowly rose to her feet. The room shook beneath her feet, nearly sending her to the floor, but she pushed herself to the wall and concentrated on standing still. She needed to survey where she was and how she could get out. There was a nagging notion in the back of her head that wherever she was, it wasn't safe, and she needed to escape.

All of Peter's "emergency-escape-techniques" came to mind in a rush, so she closed her eyes and listed them inwardly; survey, remove bonds, find a door or window, examine tools at hand, and escape. As she surveyed, though, she found there wasn't much to see. It was apparent that she was in the back of a vehicle. A vehicle in motion.

A truck.

Her eyes widened as she recalled the last thing that happened to her. She had been picking up a delivery, while leaving Peter a message on the phone, when something — or someone — hit her on the head. That explained her aching head.

Thinking of Peter reminded her of their argument; he'd told her she was in danger of being kidnapped and she'd shrugged him off. Now, here she was, sitting in the back of a dark delivery truck, on her way to what was likely the kidnapper her husband had been chasing for a week. She should've listened!

But that wouldn't help her now. There was, however, still a chance to get out. She wasn't breaking out of her handcuffs without something to pick the lock, so that wouldn't work, but Neal had once told her about some law of entrance and exit – wherever she found herself, she got in there somehow, so she could get out somehow. Therefore, there had to be at least one way out of the truck.

She turned to her right and looked at the back of the truck. Surely enough, there was a door – opening it was a different matter. She was almost certain that such doors opened only from the outside. Even so, how would she open it with bound wrists?

El frantically searched the barren room, finding nothing to help her out of her handcuffs or to open the door. The truck took a sharp turn, sending her falling into the side wall. This shot a stinging sensation up into her shoulder, but it was worth it. It gave her an idea.

The only way she could get the door open was by force. She'd seen it done on a TV show once (not that television was always 100% reliable). No telling if it would work, of course, but it was really her only option.

Pushing herself off the wall, she took a deep breath and steadied herself, preparing to ram the door. She didn't know what she would do when she got it open, but she knew it was the only way out, and that she had to get out immediately. One step at a time.

Gussying up all the strength she could manage, Elizabeth pulled her arms tight to her back and ran at the wall, slamming her side into it with all the force she had in her. The door buckled slightly under the pressure, but didn't open. Inhaling quickly, she ran and repeated the action, throwing herself at the door. She backed up and surveyed the door, taking small pleasure in the visible dent in the door. She didn't know if it was working, but she didn't stop. How could she afford to?

Minutes later, El stopped dead in her tracks. The sound of the truck speeding through the busy traffic they'd been in faded into silence and slow motion. Her heart sank and sped simultaneously as the truck slowed to a stop, leaving her defeated. With the last of her spent energy, she sat back against the wall and looked up at the abused door, preparing to face her offender.

She was faced with two men; almost identical, were it not that one had darker skin than the other. Both were bald with brown bullet-eyes narrowed and large shark-like jaws set, arms crossed and lips pressed into a tight line. Clad in black shirts and jeans, the men looked down at the distraught woman – stilted, bound, and gagged – and stepped toward her.

"Hello, Mrs. Burke."

Happy late Easter, everyone :)

This chapter is a little shorter, but the next one is longer, and important to the story. As you can tell, El has been kidnapped. Peter's pissed. And as far as can be seen, El isn't going anywhere.

Thanks for every review! Make sure to let me know what you think, so I can take it and work with it for the next update. You guys rock :)

* *-TheSongbird341-* *

DISCLAIMER: I don't own White Collar or its characters. If I did, Neal would be shirtless more often and poor Peter wouldn't get so screwed over all the time.