Critical Hour
Chapter 12 – An Uncertain Future
"Heralds don't sing about men who lived in orthodoxy or played it safe; they sing about men who lived an uncertain future and took enough risks to make your head spin."
― Evan Meekins
Peter froze, the words he'd been about to say dying on his lips. He saw Neal close his eyes.
He'd been so intent on Neal, on tracking every step of the agonizingly slow climb, worrying that he wouldn't make it, rousing him when Neal was on the verge of passing out, that he'd momentarily forgotten to keep an eye on Regal. He'd been completely oblivious to the fact that their bad guy was waking up. Quietly.
Shit.
Peter's throat went dry. They'd been so close. So close to freedom.
Now—Regal was right. They were right back where they'd started, with Regal holding all the cards, and he and Neal in the worst kind of trouble.
So goddamned fucking stupid. You should have made Neal leave. All that crap about loyalty—what's that going to do for him, now? He's in danger and you let him stay, and now Regal's going to take him—and that will be your fault.
Peter's eyes flew over to Regal. He was still on the floor, sitting up now, groaning and reaching into his pocket for something. An instant later he pulled out a small gun—pansy ass pistol, Peter couldn't help thinking, but of course it would put a hole in you plenty well enough, especially from this range. It looked like a Beretta—a Tomcat or a Bobcat, probably. Compact and very concealable: the perfect second weapon.
Slowly, painfully, Regal dragged himself to his feet, weapon pointed at them. Regal's battered, bleeding face was dark with anger, and he looked a bit dazed at first, but his eyes glinted with amused triumph as he watched Peter catch sight of the gun. "Unlike you, Agent Burke, I had a backup handy."
Of course he did.
Considering recent events, I may need to reconsider carrying a backup, Peter thought.
Considering likely future events, it may not matter, the practical part of his mind automatically retorted.
Neal made a small movement with his hand before pulling back. He had opened his eyes again, and he gave a quick, deliberate look down at Peter's still-cuffed wrists. He hadn't had time to unlock them, unfortunately.
Regal took out a silk handkerchief and grunted in pain as he blotted blood from what looked like a pretty obviously broken nose. His overly nasal voice confirmed it, and his formerly elegant face was a mess.
I hope it fucking hurts, Peter thought venomously.
"I would advise you not to move, Neal," Regal said, "because if you do, the consequences will be truly unpleasant. Possibly even . . . irrevocable."
Peter caught his consultant's eye, just for a moment. Neal, damn him, looked almost excited. While Peter was relieved not to see fear there, he had a queasy sense of anxiety about what Neal was going to do.
Peter knew all too well how impulsive Neal could be. And, right now, he looked entirely too . . . eager for Peter's liking.
So Peter tried to put all the warning he could into the silent look he shot at Neal. Confidence was all well and good—but recklessness could get them both killed.
With his right eye, Neal gave Peter a quick wink that Regal couldn't see and said, "Regal. Nice to see you awake."
"I wish I could say the same," Regal answered in a voice so sharp it could have cut glass. "Get down here. Slowly."
Neal complied. His descent was slow, all right—even more so than his climb had been. Peter hoped it was Neal being cautious, not wanting to spook Regal, maybe exaggerating his injuries to lull the man into a false sense of security.
What Peter feared, though, was that it was Neal reaching the end of his endurance.
Peter glanced over at Regal, once. His gun—definitely a Beretta, Peter decided—was trained on Neal now. There was something undefinable and frightening about the look on his face as he watched Neal's every move. Peter felt his pulse start to race. Jesus.
Don't do anything stupid. Neal.
As Neal prepared to step down to the last shelf before reaching the floor, his left ankle buckled—or maybe his foot just slipped—and he fell awkwardly, face-first, right into Peter. Neal groaned and Peter felt him grabbing on to his suit coat in a desperate attempt to keep from crashing to the floor; Neal only just managed it. Peter gritted his teeth and winced as Neal's full weight fell on him for a few long seconds before Neal was able to right himself.
"Sorry," Neal muttered, breathing hard. He turned around carefully to face Regal, putting himself between him and Peter.
"Let me see your hands. And step away from him, Neal. Again, no sudden movements," Regal ordered, jerking his head to indicate that Neal should move off to the right. Neal stumbled away, clumsily favoring his left leg, until Regal said curtly, "Stop."
Neal looked like the shelves were the only thing holding him up.
Keeping the gun pointed at Neal's chest, Regal took a few quick steps over to Peter and yanked viciously on both of his wrists, testing to make sure the cuffs were still locked. Peter gasped involuntarily at the sudden bolt of pain.
"Just making sure," Regal said blandly. "How were you going to free Agent Burke, Neal?"
Neal lifted his hand, palm facing out in a pacifying gesture, and then indicated his pocket. "May I?"
"Slowly."
Neal reached deliberately into his pocket and drew out the lock-pick set he and Peter had been arguing about moments before. His smile was brilliant and utterly unrepentant—the one he'd appeared incapable of conjuring earlier. "Tools of the trade," Neal said cheerfully.
Regal was unamused. "Toss it over here."
Neal threw it and Regal caught the small leather case easily with his left hand, the gun never wavering.
Regal examined it—he was careful, Peter noted, to make sure the kit was still intact and that Neal hadn't left him any pick or tool to unlock the cuffs with. While Regal was occupied, Peter took advantage of the momentary distraction to stretch his nerveless fingers around on the shelf. It took a few seconds—longer than it should have, given his lack of sensation—to locate the tiny metal key that had been left there for him.
Thank you, Neal.
Now all Peter had to do was figure out how to pick up the key and angle it into the lock, despite the fact that he couldn't really feel his hands. And do it without attracting the attention of the dangerous criminal who had Neal at gunpoint. And then unlock the cuffs and disarm Regal before he shoots you, or shoots Neal . . . .
All right, one thing at a time . . . .
Regal's voice brought him back. "I would think you would simply have used the key, Neal."
At that comment, Neal's face fell into a familiar expression—pitying and almost, but not quite, edging into scorn; Peter always thought of it as the do you really have to ask me that look
"You might think so," Neal observed lightly. "But, honestly, where's the fun in that?"
Regal didn't answer. Blinking in pain, he tucked the picks away and gingerly wiped more blood from his nose.
"Oh, yeah," Neal said, sounding genuinely apologetic. He waved a hand in the general direction of Regal's battered face. "Sorry about that."
"I doubt that," Regal replied. The look on his face said, But you will be. Everything in his tone and posture spoke of danger.
Neal watched Regal calmly, his body language relaxed. The overt menace in Regal's voice had chilled Peter to the bone, but Neal appeared completely unruffled, almost as if he hadn't heard it. Surely he had, though, Peter thought. Neal was hyper attentive to tone, to body language, under normal circumstances.
Except these weren't normal circumstances.
Peter said, "Regal—"
"Shut up, Agent Burke." All of Regal's attention was focused on Neal.
Peter flexed his fingers, as unobtrusively as he could. He knew it was imperative that he start doing something, anything, to try to get the feeling back.
"Turnabout's fair play, I always say," Neal put in, adroitly picking up the conversational thread. His voice turned cold, but he remained perfectly composed. "You clubbed me over the head—multiple times, if I recall correctly, in addition to some other . . . unpleasantries—and tied me up. Meanwhile, I'm told you want to hire me."
Regal eyed him with an appraising look. "So Agent Burke did tell you. Are you interested?"
Neal didn't answer right away. He glanced at Peter, just a quick sideways glance out of the corner of his eye, before looking at Regal attentively. "I'm . . . open to exploring my options," Neal said, punctuating the words with a delicate half-shrug. He sounded thoughtful—the perfect mix of noncommittal, yet intrigued.
"Neal, you don't—" Peter put in.
Regal turned the gun to point at Peter's chest. "You are trying my patience, Agent Burke."
Peter kept silent, but all he could think was, that's good, Neal. Keep him talking, don't antagonize him.
For maybe the hundredth time, Peter was impressed, in spite of himself, at just how smooth a liar Neal could be. Often this proficiency made Peter nervous, because of course if Neal could use it to convince their quarry during an op, that meant he could also do it to the good guys if he wanted to.
At the moment, though, Peter could only be profoundly grateful that Neal was the best damned liar he had ever seen.
"I didn't think your Agent Burke would be amenable to any new . . . employment opportunities for you," Regal explained. "Since we're tossing around apologies, I can assure you that he's to blame him for the rough treatment I was forced to mete out to you earlier." He spoke ruefully, like a man who was helpless in the face of circumstances beyond his control. "It's lamentable, but I didn't think I had a choice at the time."
Neal's irritation was undisguised. "Well, the next time you want to send a message to Agent Burke, maybe you could use another method besides bashing me in the head with a gun."
"With pleasure; I'm sure I can devise something much more fitting," Regal answered, shooting a quick, malicious smile in Peter's direction that did not augur well for the agent's well-being. "Frankly, he seems like the type to require rather a lot of message-sending. Especially where you're concerned."
Neal nodded curtly. "He does keep me on a short leash."
"That must get tiresome for a man such as yourself."
"Oh, you have no idea," Neal shot back, and Peter started at the bitterness in his voice. That had had the ring of real truth to it. He looked at Neal, sharply, but Neal wasn't looking at him. He was watching Regal, intense and calculating, and Regal was staring back with an odd look on his face that was half pleased, half speculative.
It should have made him feel relieved. Regal was engaged with Neal, which meant he wasn't hurting him—or pulling the trigger on Peter.
And yet, Peter found he didn't like it one bit.
"How did you free yourself?" Regal inquired.
Neal gave him a condescending look. "If you want to hire me, you must know I'm resourceful. Found a pair of pliers in one of the storerooms over there." He angled his head back toward the exit.
"And you called the police." It wasn't a question.
"Well, I might have," Neal said, with a little chuckle. "Except there's no phone."
Regal looked satisfied. "No, there isn't. So you returned to help Agent Burke. And where is the gun I had earlier?"
Neal gazed back at him serenely. "I got rid of it, of course."
"And why would you do that?"
"Gee, I don't know," Neal said, all exaggerated innocence. "I guess I was worried about your waking up and putting a bullet in my head."
Regal laughed. "I wasn't going to put a bullet in your head, Neal." He threw a pointed look at Peter, his meaning unmistakable, before returning his focus to Neal once more.
Neal nodded wryly, raising his eyebrows. "Good to know." Now he sounded almost bored.
"You'll understand if I don't take your word for it," Regal said. "Put your arms out and turn around."
Neal moved so he was facing the shelves. He couldn't raise his right arm very far; Peter could see his mouth tighten at the movement. He turned his head so he could still see Regal and Peter out of the corner of his eye.
"Now, Neal, I must verify that you're not lying to me," Regal said. "I'm going to check you for weapons. But I've got mine pointed at Agent Burke. If you move, he bleeds. And if I discover that you've lied to me, then you'll do the same."
"Frisk away," Neal said airily. And damn him, if he didn't roll his eyes at the melodrama.
"I'll need you to face front, Neal," Regal said. Not waiting for Neal to comply, he placed his left hand on the back of Neal's head and forced it around so he was looking at the shelves.
Even though Peter had a few inches on Neal, somehow he never thought of him as short. But Regal was taller, even, than Peter, and he absolutely towered over Neal. Something about the contrast in their heights as Regal hovered close, so close behind him, only served to emphasize Neal's vulnerability as he slumped forward, quiet now. Neal stayed still, except that he closed his eyes and bowed his head, resting his forehead on the boxes stacked in front of him. Either he was gathering himself, Peter thought, or he was fighting to stay conscious.
Having positioned Neal where he wanted him, Regal subjected him to a thorough search. Thorough enough that Peter, watching with helpless apprehension, found his stomach churning unpleasantly.
It wasn't that anything the man did was blatantly inappropriate. Certainly there was nothing like the abuse Regal had inflicted on Neal earlier, when he'd been unconscious. And yet Regal was so meticulous about inspecting seemingly every inch of Neal's body, about not just patting him down, but scrupulously running his hand up and down Neal's arms, his legs, pressing not roughly, but almost . . . tenderly—at least, to Peter's eye, and allowing his touch to linger just a bit too long.
If Neal noticed anything untoward about what Regal was doing, he didn't show it. But after what Peter had witnessed earlier, it was all deeply unsettling.
And Peter's disquiet ratcheted up into horror a moment later. Regal looked over at him, and when he saw that Peter was watching, a sly, malevolent smile broke over Regal's face. He raised his eyebrows at Peter—and winked. Then he returned his attentions to Neal.
Peter tried to keep his face impassive, tried not to let his fear show.
"Where did you say the gun was, Neal?" Regal asked, an edge to his voice. He had completed his search of Neal and come up empty. Peter, his anxiety rising, saw that Regal left his hand on the back of Neal's neck for an extra moment; Neal stiffened in response to the pressure and his eyes shot open. Peter watched worriedly, afraid of Regal would do next, but the man dropped his hand away and stepped back.
"You may turn around." Once more, Regal pointed the weapon at Neal.
"Well," Neal said, turning back toward him very slowly, "if you know anything about me, you know I'm not a gun guy. I threw it away; it's around here somewhere," he added, waving a hand in the air. "Figured it was safer that way . . . ."
Regal looked like he thought that was a load of crap, but he apparently wasn't going to worry about it, since wherever the gun was, he was satisfied that Neal didn't have it. Nonetheless, he took three quick steps over to Peter and frisked him as well.
Thorough, Peter thought grimly.
"I don't suppose you have an extra set of handcuffs that I could use, Agent Burke," Regal said, glancing at Neal.
"Sorry, no backup," Peter said, pasting on a grin of fake regret.
Regal shook his head sadly. "You really are useless, aren't you?"
Neal rolled his eyes again, annoyed now. "What the hell, Regal? You trying to hire me or lock me up?"
"Does it have to be one or the other?" Regal asked, a little smile playing around his lips.
Neal's eyes narrowed; Peter tensed involuntarily at the words—and the way Regal said them.
"One captor to another, is that it?" Neal asked. He didn't sound scared or angry, just weary—almost resigned.
Peter wondered if, underneath it all, that was how Neal really thought of him.
"No, Neal, of course not," Regal said, apologetic now, as if realizing that he'd overplayed his hand. "Forgive me; I was only joking. It's just that I rarely have the chance to add an operative of your caliber to my team. And Agent Burke was quite emphatic in saying that you wouldn't be interested. At all. He believes you're firmly on the side of justice." He said the last word like it was an epithet.
That got Neal's attention. He glanced over at Regal, sharply, and stared at him for several long seconds, a shrewd, assessing look on his face.
Then Neal laughed, a jarring, ugly little laugh that Peter had never heard from him before. "Of course he does."
Regal gave him a curious look. "What do you mean?"
Neal's lips curled into a smile that Peter didn't recognize; when his gaze flicked to Peter before returning to Regal, it was full of contempt. "He believes that for a very simple reason: because I want him to."
Regal studied Neal, pinning him with an unblinking stare and looking intrigued in spite of himself. "He thinks you've changed."
"I would hope so," Neal replied. "Given the amount of time and effort I've invested to that end."
"Is that so?"
"I'm very good at what I do," Neal remarked, sounding not arrogant but matter-of-fact, in that way he had.
"You've been deceiving him." Regal's intonation made it into a statement, rather than a question.
"I would say," Neal said, pausing and looking contemplative, "that I've been using him. I act in my own best interest. When it serves me to cooperate with the FBI, I do. When a better opportunity presents itself, however . . . " he trailed off, glancing at Regal and raising an eyebrow delicately.
"I'm fascinated, Neal, truly, but this is all a bit . . . convenient," Regal said, his tone dismissive. His skepticism was plain.
Neal gazed at him steadily. "You checked Agent Burke for weapons, so I assume you noticed that he didn't have one. And that I didn't shoot you while you were unconscious. I could have, you know. That should count for something."
"Fair enough," Regal conceded.
"I won't deny that I'm a bit . . . mercurial," Neal said, smiling again. "Ask anyone who knows me. My loyalties can be malleable. But clearly Agent Burke isn't in control of this situation any more—you are. That changes things considerably. From my perspective, it creates certain . . . unique opportunities. And I'm nothing if not opportunistic."
Regal didn't answer, just continued to scrutinize Neal.
"Will we work together forever?" Neal mused. "I imagine not. But isn't everything temporary in the end?"
"Like your partnership with Agent Burke?" Regal suggested.
Neal's eyes gleamed appreciatively. "Exactly like that."
"You know, I think you'd find working with me much more rewarding," Regal suggested. "You wouldn't be reduced to what you are now."
"And what is that?"
"A sidekick. A lackey," Regal said, voice thick with disdain. "An underling, at the beck and call of a man and an organization that will use you up at their own convenience, without any consideration of your needs, your desires. They use your mind and risk your life and reap the benefits. And what do you get?
Neal stared at him, silent. Peter watched his blank face, watched his eyes darken with an emotion Peter couldn't decipher. He wondered what Neal was thinking.
"It's pathetic, really," Regal continued. "That a man of your talents—the man who masterminded the Richardson heist—should be trapped that way, force to work for dull, small-minded people with no ability to see what you could do, given the chance."
The Richardson heist. The man really had done his homework, Peter thought uneasily. It was one of many crimes he'd tried to pin on Neal over the years (and failed).
" . . . like telling a Ph.D. he has to sit in class with a group of second graders." Regal was saying.
"Well, now that you've thoroughly insulted me . . ." Neal said, looking disconcerted.
"Not you, Neal. The bureaucracy that's been exploiting you. The people who thought they could keep you." Regal threw another scathing glance at Peter. "I know you haven't had a choice. But now you do."
"In theory. Of course," Neal remarked, "it has to be worth my while. There would be some . . . issues to resolve."
Regal's smile was knowing as he parroted Neal's words. "Of course. Perhaps I can convince you of the benefits that would accrue to you."
"Perhaps." Neal smiled back. "And even if we come to an amicable arrangement, there are other obstacles to a partnership between us."
"Oh?" Regal inquired politely. "What might those be?"
"Agent Burke doesn't rely on a winning personality to keep me in check," Neal said, distaste showing on his face.
"No?"
"No." Neal lifted his left foot and pulled up the fabric of his pant leg to expose the anklet.
Regal glanced at the anklet and then not at Neal—but at Peter, as if to observe his reaction to this revelation. Peter, who'd been furtively trying to get his hands to work, stopped moving abruptly.
"My goodness," Regal said, looking and sounding surprised. "Is that . . . an electronic tracker?"
Regal, of course, wasn't surprised, Peter knew—it was purely an act. Because he'd already made it abundantly clear to Peter that he knew all about the tracker. He'd demanded the key to the thing, for God's sake.
Except Neal had been unconscious for all of that. He had no idea that Regal knew. And Peter hadn't mentioned it.
Peter felt a niggling sense of unease at the realization. Regal is testing him. And Neal is . . . Peter wasn't sure what Neal was doing.
He's playing along. Except—
"- outfitted with the latest government technology," Neal was saying. "So they always know where I am."
Regal studied him sadly. "Now that you mention it, Agent Burke did say earlier that they don't trust you."
Peter couldn't help thinking, Can you blame us?
Neal's gaze sharpened; the look he gave Peter was ominous. "He said that, eh? One bit of honesty." He turned his attention back to Regal. "No, trust is not a high priority for them. I have a two-mile radius."
"Ah. So you're no longer in super max, but you're still a prisoner," Regal remarked. "You have a larger cell, that's all."
Neal nodded.
Regal gave him a thoughtful look. "Well, it is, as you said, an obstacle. We can't have law enforcement knowing your every move, now can we? I assume if it's removed, alarm bells will ring?"
"You assume correctly."
Peter said, "Neal, you can't—"
Regal took two strides to where Peter stood and slammed the butt of the gun into Peter's midsection. Peter clenched his teeth and fought back a cry of pain.
"We're not speaking to you, Agent Burke," Regal said pleasantly. "Neal and I are working on a problem, and I'm not going to warn you again about interrupting."
Neal didn't react; he didn't appear to have even noticed. His glance, cold and impersonal, switched from Peter back to Regal. He waited for a long moment, watching Regal with an unreadable expression on his face. When he finally spoke, his tone had the firmness of someone who'd just made a decision.
"Actually, now that you mention it, Agent Burke is part of the solution to our little . . . problem," Neal said.
A little knot of worry formed in Peter's chest, totally separate from the pain blossoming in his ribs.
Regal stopped, turned to Neal. "How so?"
"My accessory can be unlocked and removed without setting off any alarms. If you have the key."
The knot in Peter's chest tightened.
"The key." Regal looked inquiringly at Neal.
Neal didn't say anything. He just smiled and raised an eyebrow at Regal. Peter froze as cold fear flooded his veins.
Neal, what the hell are you doing?
Regal held Neal's gaze for a long moment, as if searching for something. Seeming to find it, he smiled back.
Peter didn't even look at him. He was staring at Neal's smooth, bland face that betrayed nothing.
What game was Neal playing? Peter knew that Neal had been unconscious when Regal had asked about the key. Neal didn't know Regal was even aware of his tracking anklet, so why was he doing this? Why risk himself that way, especially when he knew that Regal wanted to take him? Unless—
No.
Neal looked at Peter, then, really looked at him, and Peter felt a chill at the emptiness in Neal's eyes. Neal smiled, cruel and arrogant; there was nothing reassuring in it.
The first thing Peter thought, reflexively, was, He's enjoying this. He got to me, he knows it, and he's enjoying it.
The second thing Peter thought of was how hard he'd fought to keep Regal from getting that key. How he'd agonized over whether he could fool Regal into believing he didn't have it. How terrified he'd been that Regal would see through him and hurt Neal as a result.
And now, unless Peter had badly misjudged things, Neal was about to give up the key to Regal without a second thought, nonchalantly revealing the one thing Peter had so desperately tried to hide.
"I think now might be an appropriate time for me to make a show of good faith," Neal said to Regal.
Regal tilted his head and surveyed him. "Certainly. What do you have to offer?"
"You frisked Agent Burke for weapons," Neal remarked, emphasizing the last word. "But you might want to check him again."
"Should I?" Regal asked ominously. The knot in Peter's chest was getting bigger, crowding the air out of his lungs. "Do I need to frisk Agent Burke?"
"I think we'll both find it quite . . . rewarding," Neal said, a surreptitious little smile on his face.
"Neal, this is—this is crazy," Peter said, nervousness bleeding through into his voice. But neither of them was paying him any attention. Mesmerized by the conversation, Peter had to remind himself that now would be a good time to try limbering up his fingers again.
A gleeful expression lit up Regal's face. "I appreciate your decision to share this with me, Neal."
Neal waved a hand languidly. "Check his left pants pocket."
Again, Peter stopped moving his hands, not wanting the man to notice what he was trying to do. Regal shoved Peter to the side roughly so he could reach the pocket. Peter bit his lip as the movement caused pain to spike in his wrists, his shoulders.
It took Regal only a few seconds to locate the key to the anklet, right where Neal had said it would be. He pulled it out, casting a triumphant look at the agent before turning to Neal.
Neal inhaled sharply, all attention focused on the device in Regal's outstretched palm. There was an unfamiliar, almost hungry look in his eyes. Peter had seen it a few times, when they'd come across a particularly expert forgery, once when Neal had talked about that Matisse at the Met that he loved—it's on the second floor, right near the fire escape . . . .
Most recently, he'd seen it when Neal had been examining the printing plate for the hundred dollar bill, those three antsy Treasury agents hovering at his back. At the time, Peter had been glad they'd been behind Neal; that way, they couldn't see the expression on his face.
It was a look of sheer covetousness, a look that said, God, what I wouldn't do to have that . . . .
"Do you know," Regal said conversationally, "I asked your keeper about this earlier and he quite ardently denied having it."
"I see. So you already knew about it," Neal mused, eying Regal and looking impressed, almost in spite of himself.
"You must know: I researched your . . . difficult situation quite thoroughly," Regal said, all solicitousness. "Your keeper—or should I say, former keeper—refused to hand it over, despite the threat of . . . duress."
Neal let out a little laugh; it sounded unnervingly treacherous to Peter's ears.
"Take it." Regal extended his arm to where Neal stood, the key in his outstretched hand. "Consider it a sign of good faith. A sign of the freedom at your fingertips—if you're interested."
Neal took the key proffered by Regal, examining it thoughtfully.
"You've been a prisoner, Neal." Regal said, in a voice filled with quiet confidence. "But now, you can see it doesn't have to be that way."
He turned back to Peter. "As for you, Agent Burke, I warned you multiple times about the necessity for complete honesty, and yet now you've been caught in a lie. We discussed . . . consequences."
"Yeah, you said you would hurt Neal," Peter retorted, filled with a sense of foreboding. He looked over at Neal, who was still studying the key and looking contemplative. Grimly, Peter braced himself.
Regal scoffed. "As if I would harm one of my colleagues. I believe Neal said it earlier. Time for a little message-sending."
Being pistol-whipped hurt every bit as much as Peter had always assumed it would. Maybe more. Certainly it was a hell of alot worse than than being punched, which was something Peter had experienced.
With a vicious blow, Regal smashed the gun into Peter's cheekbone, his temple. Peter saw stars as the world darkened and he staggered helplessly from the force of the impact. When Regal struck him again, he heard himself cry out in pain, in a voice that didn't sound like his own. Dizziness overcame him and for a moment, he thought he might pass out. As his eyes closed and he started to fall, legs going weak, it was the screaming pain in his wrists, as they started to bear his weight, that kept him conscious, that forced him to stand upright once again. His arms, his shoulders, now his head—it was pure, unfiltered agony, and he wasn't sure how much more of it he could take.
You're okay. Get ahold of yourself.
Peter gasped, his harsh breathing loud in the quiet. Eyes still closed, he leaned his head against his right arm, using his suit jacket to wipe away the blood that was now dripping, warm and wet, from a cut under his right eye.
Just breathe. Push the pain away. Separate it.
Regal leaned in close. "Did you get the message, Agent Burke?" With his left hand, he jerked Peter's head back savagely, while, with his right, he pressed the gun against the cut on Peter's face.
Peter groaned—he couldn't stop himself—and winced in pain.
"What did I say earlier about answering my questions?" Regal asked, bending Peter's head back further.
"Not . . . optional," Peter ground out, feeling as if his neck was about to snap from the pressure Regal was applying. I am going to kill you, you son of a bitch.
"You remembered." Regal sounded appreciative. "So, please tell me: did you get the message?"
Hatred—and pain—were making it hard for Peter to actually form words. He wanted, so desperately, to spit in the man's face instead. But it would only give Regal an excuse to hurt him again. Not that the bastard really needed one. "Yes."
Peter had to squeeze his eyes shut against the throbbing in his head. His greatest fear now was that Neal, seeing Peter attacked this way, would be spurred to act. That he might lose his composure and try to rush Regal from behind so he could grab the gun. The thought scared the hell out of Peter; Neal would be taking a terrible risk trying to protect him that way.
But when Regal released him and Peter finally opened his eyes, all he saw was that Regal had stepped away, observing Neal keenly.
And Neal, far from trying to help Peter, instead was just standing there, casually taking in this scene with an expression that could only be described as disinterested. Like he was watching something on television, something tiresome and uneventful. Like he hadn't just seen Peter being pistol-whipped.
Peter had seen that look on Neal's face before, when confronted with a particularly tedious mortgage fraud case. Or when Peter tuned the radio to a basketball game when they were on a stakeout. It was a look of pure apathy.
As Regal watched Neal, reading his utter lack of emotion, Peter could see the man's expression change to a slow, satisfied smile. A moment later, Neal looked over at him and matched it.
Peter blanched.
"Very good!" Regal said. "Now—"
"Now, Regal, we need to talk," Neal cut in. His voice sounded detached. Distant.
Peter, playing the role of uneasy bystander, decided it was time to reinsert himself in the conversation.
"Look, you're hurt, you're not thinking right, Neal," Peter put in. "Going with this guy is not smart. You didn't see, when you were unconscious, what he did to—"
He never got the chance to finish the sentence. He hadn't expected Neal to come up close and then smash his left elbow into Peter's ribs.
"I won't have you talking that way about my new employer," Neal said coolly. Then, to Regal, with a little chuckle of delight, "That felt surprisingly good."
Peter couldn't respond—even if he'd known what to say, the pain had flooded his abdomen and all the air had left his lungs. Talking was impossible when all effort had to be focused on trying to breathe. He wanted to bend over, to curl into the pain, but of course he was immobilized. It was all he could do to keep from crying out and giving that bastard the satisfaction. He drew in air through clenched teeth.
"Disappointed?" Neal asked, a taunting note in his voice.
"Disappointed, but not surprised," Peter shot back. There was a flicker of something in Neal's eyes that quickly died away, too fast for Peter to decide what it had been.
"That's because you take everything too personally," Neal remarked, equanimity restored after an abnormally long pause. "In my case, you mistook expedience for emotion."
"I fell for your con," Peter said, and he could hear the bitterness underlying the words.
Neal shrugged. "Don't be too hard on yourself. It's what I do."
Peter didn't answer. The symbolism of Neal, who'd moved away to stand at Regal's side, was hard to miss.
As was the smug smile on Regal's face.
He turned to Neal. "Now that your partnership with Agent Burke is officially at an end, perhaps we can sever it for good."
"Sever it how?"
"By taking care of Agent Burke permanently," Regal said. "Suppose, as additional proof of your loyalty, I asked you to do it. What would you say then?"
"Oh, I'd have plenty to say," Neal replied, unperturbed. "But I'd prefer to have that conversation elsewhere."
"There's really no need," Regal said, punctuating his words with a slight wave of the gun. "I can guarantee that Agent Burke won't be able to repeat anything he hears."
"Yeah," Neal drawled. "About that. You're smart enough to know the kind of attention that killing a fed will bring."
"I do. But the alternative is also problematic."
Neal looked a question at Regal.
"I think you may be underestimating Agent Burke's . . . attachment to you," Regal explained, with a delicate sidelong glance at the agent.
Neal followed his eyes and Peter caught his gaze. At first he thought it was a trick of the light, but no—Neal's eyes were cold and flat, an icy, searing blue. He was giving Peter the kind of look you could imagine burning a hole in you if it lasted too long.
"Underestimating it? Not at all," Neal said. "Remember—I created it." His smile was full of menace.
Regal smiled back. "So you say."
"I'm not underestimating his attachment to me," Neal said, looking over at Regal. "He's overestimating my attachment to him."
His voice had dropped to that almost-whisper that Elizabeth had described—the one that Peter knew so well, that meant Neal was deadly serious. Hearing it sent a shiver down Peter's spine.
"But he knows better now," Neal added mockingly. "Don't you?" Once again that malevolent, piercing gaze—the gaze of a stranger—was fixed on Peter's face.
Peter swallowed hard, momentarily at a loss for words. This scene was disturbing on many levels. But his was the easier role to play.
Imagine it's real. Imagine that Neal is betraying you.
Peter let shock show on his face. "Neal, you have to listen to me. You're not thinking clearly. You can't even be thinking about—"
"I've already thought about it," Neal said, cutting Peter off before he could finish. "And you don't get to tell me what to think any more. Or what to do. That's all over now."
"I beg to differ, Neal. It won't be over," Regal put in. "Not until he's dead."
Neal gave him a cool glance. "You've got quite the one-track mind."
"And you've got quite the sentimental streak," Regal said, an edge to his voice.
"Oh, a man in my position can't afford to be sentimental," Neal said.
"Exactly. That's why Burke has to be dispatched."
Neal sighed impatiently. "I'm not opposed to killing him on principle, but on practicality. Do you really want us sharing a top spot on the most wanted list? Because that's what'll happen if you shoot him."
He turned to Regal. "There are other solutions to this problem. And some details about our . . . arrangement that need to be discussed. In private. Now."
Neal didn't wait for the other man to answer. Without looking at Peter, he turned and limped away.
Regal stayed, unable to resist gloating. "You said he'd never work for me, Agent Burke." His eyes quickly flicked to a retreating Neal, and then back to Peter. "Or maybe he isn't. He does talk a magnificent game, doesn't he? Maybe he thinks he can con me, as well. Of course, I'm prepared for that possibility."
When Peter didn't acknowledge him, Regal grabbed Peter's chin and forced his head to the right so his eyes met Regal's.
Regal laughed at the fury he saw blazing in Peter's eyes. "Is that anger at me or Neal? Or maybe at yourself?"
Peter didn't speak; he just stared at Regal while he thought of additional, creative ways he could kill the man if he were free.
Regal released him, chuckling again. "It must be difficult to accept the possibility that you could have been so wrong, that you could have been duped so completely."
He surveyed Peter once more, head to toe, and raised the gun to point it at Peter's head, right at eye level, so that it filled Peter's vision. He pressed the barrel against his forehead as Peter fought the urge to recoil from the pressure. "I'll make you a promise, though. You won't have to live with your humiliation. Before it's over, I'll come back to put you out of your misery."
"Regal," Neal called, his voice peremptory. They both looked back to see him standing at the end of the aisle, watching them expressionlessly. "You coming?"
"Soon, Agent Burke," Regal said, tapping the pistol sharply against Peter's temple. "You won't have to wait much longer." Amusement twinkled in his eyes.
Peter met his gaze with a calm and unblinking stare of his own.
"You won't get far, you know," he said, proud of how collected, even authoritative his voice was. Every second he engaged with Regal gave the backup teams another second to arrive.
Regal shrugged. "I won't get far, you say? I guess we'll see. Or, to be more precise, I'll see," he said, glancing at the gun and then back at Peter. "I must say, our interaction here today has left me with grave doubts about the competence of the FBI. But perhaps your colleagues will present more of a challenge than you did."
With one last, contemptuous glance at the agent's cuffed wrists, Regal strolled away to where Neal waited, still watching silently.
Regal was the dramatic, exit-with-a-flourish type, so Peter didn't expect him to turn around. But, still, he watched the man walk away, mentally counting the steps he took. On the second step, Peter started to bend and flex his fingers again. Neal had been right—Peter couldn't really feel them, but he was just going to have to make the best of it. It wouldn't be graceful, but he wasn't being graded on style points today.
Regal reached the end of the aisle and then headed left, following Neal. For a few more seconds, Peter did what he could to get the blood flowing back into his fingers. They were starting to tingle slightly, which was good. It was a precursor, he knew, to pain, but he'd welcome that, too.
He felt the overwhelming need for haste, the fear that Regal would take Neal while Peter was still tethered. And yet—Regal had promised to kill Peter first, and there was no reason to disbelieve him. But that was a race against time, too. If Neal was unable to delay Regal long enough and their adversary returned before Peter freed himself, all of Neal's efforts would be for naught.
Just as it would be if Regal's criminal associates arrived. He'd take his chances against Regal—well, technically, it would really be two against one, except that he wasn't counting on much help from Neal in his present condition. But he didn't like his odds of success against multiple opponents who'd likely be armed. No, Peter knew he had to take action before that happened.
He didn't believe for a moment Neal's charade that he'd turned against Peter. Well, that wasn't quite true. He would admit, privately, to a moment of doubt when Neal had told Regal about the anklet key. And then hit me for good measure . . . .
But he was trusting that the gestures had been Neal's characteristic coup de grace—to seal the deal, as it were. Neal had judged that he'd need a final flourish in order to convince Regal, to gain that extra bit of confidence that would allay his suspicions about where Neal's loyalties lay. And since this was Neal's forte, Peter wasn't going to question it.
"I think you may be underestimating Agent Burke's . . . attachment to you."
No, Neal had said. "He's overestimating my attachment to him."
It brought to mind an exchange he'd had with El, just a few months after Neal's work-release had begun. He'd been expressing doubt about Neal, as he was wont to do, while Elizabeth had been defending Neal, as she was wont to do.
I wouldn't worry too much about him, she'd said. He respects you, you know.
I think you're overselling our bond a little bit, he'd answered.
And she'd said simply, I don't.
As usual, his wife was damn smart—on the subject of Neal, smarter than Peter was, maybe, in some ways. After all, she was the one who'd convinced him to agree to Neal's release in the first place.
No, he hadn't overestimated Neal's attachment to him. Despite all of Neal's everyday little deceptions, despite his hidden agendas, there was a bond there. It was something that, at one time, he would have scoffed at heartily, but no longer. Not after what Neal had done recently to try to save Peter's life.
Not after that look he'd seen in Neal's eyes when Peter had tried to get him to leave.
And despite all that Neal had done to convince Regal and unnerve Peter—a crucial fact remained: he'd left Peter the means to escape.
All right. Regal was gone. And Peter's fingers were as limber as they were going to get under the circumstances. Time to do this.
Reaching out carefully, Peter felt again for the handcuff key, exhaling in relief when he touched it.
Take your time. You have to do this right.
He began trying to pick up the key.
Trying and failing miserably.
His thick, lifeless fingers weren't cooperating. Peter swore under his breath at how clumsy he was. The key slid along the shelf a little, away from his fingers. Shit. If he pushed it too far, he wouldn't be able to reach it at all. He had to be careful. Anxiety crawled inside him, feeling as if it was pushing through his skin.
It's not working.
Peter lost count (at five) of the tries it took him to pick up the key and angle it into the hole that would unlock the restraints. He stopped counting and kept trying.
Failure is not an option.
He wanted to scream. He had no dexterity, no fluidity with which to maneuver the key where he needed it. It felt like back when he was a kid, trying to pick up a dime while wearing gloves.
I can't—no. No. You will. You have to.
Finally, he had got the key caught clumsily between his first and second fingers. Then he brought his thumb over to get a firmer grasp and move it over toward the keyhole, wincing at the pain in his wrist at the twisting, awkward movement.
Because he was concentrating so fiercely on the feel of the metal, the precise location of the release point on the cuffs, on not dropping the key, because he was so resolutely ignoring the despair that was lurking in the dark corners of his psyche that he would never be able to do this, he was almost surprised when he heard the click and felt the metal around his wrist loosen.
Peter exhaled, long and slow. Yes.
He unlocked both wrists as quietly as he could, holding the cuffs to prevent the metal from clinking. Finally free, he brought both arms down and dropped cuffs and key into his pocket. Then he started to step away from the shelves.
And narrowly avoided a face plant. Only his right hand, wrapped around the shelf support at the last moment, was holding him up. Blood was rushing back into his arms, his hands, and the tingling had begun. As he'd feared, too, his knees felt ridiculously weak as the stress of holding one position for so long was released. The pounding in his head had redoubled.
And none of this matters because you have to get going. Neal is counting on you.
Just for a moment, Peter allowed himself to stand there, breathing deep. He bent his knees and moved his arms to speed up the recirculation, to get his muscles used to motion again. The tingling had been replaced by pain—the kind of pain you got when your foot fell asleep, except in this case it was a magnitude of ten, and seemingly over his entire upper body.
He grimaced, waiting for the pain to fade. After a few moments, it had diminished to a manageable level, and he was ready to move.
Now he had one more thing to do before he went looking for Neal and Regal. He had to arm himself.
Improvising a weapon was always an option—if he had to. Hell, he'd have little compunction about strangling Regal with his bare hands if necessary. But given that Regal had a gun, it only made sense to equalize the firepower as much as possible.
Don't want to bring a knife to a gunfight.
The next order of business, then, was to lay hands on the last remaining weapon available: Regal's Glock, the gun that Neal had grabbed for when he'd first woken up, Instead, with his hands bound, he'd sent it spinning under the shelves and had been unable to reach it. Peter was praying that he himself wouldn't have the same problem.
He walked—well, okay, it was more stumbling than walking—over to where he thought the gun had disappeared and knelt down gingerly, wincing at the creakiness in his joints. Jesus, he felt like he'd aged ten years since getting up this morning.
The bottom shelf wasn't far off the ground, just high enough for the gun to slide underneath. Hopefully it was also high enough that his hand could fit under there. If not, then he'd need to come with Plan B—and quickly.
Peter peered down. He took a moment to strip off his suit jacket—way too confining—and unbutton his cuffs. He was going to need all the range of motion he could get.
The gun wasn't visible from this angle. Please don't let it be too far away. He had to back up further and bend down lower, finally having to lie down flat, his cheek on the ground, to be able to see under the shelf. The smooth concrete was pleasantly cold against his overheated skin.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the weapon, fortunately not too far away. Peter had feared he'd have to waste precious time—time they might not have—finding a pole or some other tool to reach the gun, but it looked as if he'd be able to just reach it with his arm.
Carefully he extended his arm. His plan was to go slightly to the right of where the gun was, getting a little beyond it if possible, and use a sweeping motion to bring it toward him. He didn't want to risk just banging into it, as Neal had done, and sending it further away out of reach.
It was a sound strategy, right up to the point where Peter realized that his hand wouldn't fit under the shelf. Damn. He flattened his hand, pressed it on the floor as hard as he could, and slid it under. This time he got a little further, but when he got to the meat of his hand and his knuckles, he again met resistance.
Shit.
Peter thought about pulling back. He could hunt for something to poke under the shelf with. But where would he find what he needed? How long would it take? What would Regal do if he returned and found Peter gone?
The first two questions he had no answers to. But the third—with frightening certainty, he knew the answer to that one. He knew exactly what Regal would do.
He'll hurt Neal to draw you out. He'll make Neal scream, so you'll hear it.
His gut told him there was no choice, that there wasn't time to conduct a search. He needed to get the gun now. It was only a few inches away, for Christ's sake.
Following his gut usually served him well. So he gritted his teeth and forced his hand, his wrist, into the too-narrow space between the shelf and the concrete floor. He was conscious of the pain in his knuckles first as they scraped the rough underside of the shelf. There were holes in the metal at regular intervals and the edges were sharp; no one had bothered to file them.
He kept going, kept forcing his arm further under, feeling first his shirt and then the skin on his wrist and forearm being shredded as he pushed on. His blood was warm and wet as pain ripped through him. Peter bit his lip to keep from crying out, tasting copper in his mouth. Swallowing the blood made him gag; he had to concentrate on not vomiting.
Keep going.
Another thrust and it felt as if his whole arm was soaked in blood. The pain had somehow gotten worse; now it was like fire, burning tracers up and down his arm. He mouthed curses he couldn't risk saying.
One more push and he was there, trying to breathe through gritted teeth, afraid even that was too loud. The smooth metal of the gun felt cool against his fingers. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks which, he realized an instant later, might have been premature.
Because his arm was stuck.
No. If you got in, you can get out. And blood makes a great lubricant.
Peter drew in a quick breath and pulled back. Nothing. He was trapped.
He reached his free hand, his left hand, around to brace against the shelves and pushed as hard as he could, lips pressed tightly together to prevent any sound from escaping.
Still stuck.
Wrenching one last time, a mighty and excruciating pull, and finally he got some traction.
Surely his arm wasn't really being pulled from his body. It just seemed like it.
He wasn't imagining the feeling of his own skin tearing, though. That, he knew,was all too real.
And then his arm came free. Or what's left of it, he thought, almost laughing and realized he was lightheaded from the pain.
He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath and trying to think about something other than the searing agony blazing up and down his arm that threatened to become his whole world.
Finally Peter turned his head to look at his arm, swallowing hard at what he saw. What a mess. It looked as bad as it felt, which was saying something. And even more blood than he'd feared. When you rip the skin off something, it does tend to bleed, the practical part of his mind said.
He was bleeding, all right. He should probably try to bandage that. But it would take time he didn't have. And he had nothing to use, anyway.
There was nothing for it. A minor problem in the grand scheme of things. If he didn't get off his ass soon and find Neal, a few scrapes on his arm were going to be the least of his problems.
And as ugly as his arm looked, the sight of the gun made up for it. Because right now, to his eyes, the gun looked beautiful.
Peter climbed to his feet, reveling in the feel of the weapon in his hand. Adrenaline flowed through him, helping to push the pain to a back corner of his mind and make it something he could worry about later. For the first time since this nightmare had started, Peter felt in control and the feeling was a rush.
He had a weapon, he was basically okay, and it was time to take this bastard down.
Using his left hand, Peter wiped sweat away and then checked the Glock to make sure it was ready to fire. He shouldn't have used his gun hand to get the weapon, he now knew. Too bad he hadn't thought of that thirty seconds ago. His right hand was shaking a little, and that was worrisome. He grimaced and let his right arm fall to his side. He was a good marksman under normal circumstances, but this was anything but normal. So much of shooting was confidence; with his hand slick with blood and his arm on fire and trembling uncontrollably, his confidence was at a low ebb.
With any luck, he wouldn't have to fire. But luck had been in short supply so far today.
Stealth was essential, so Peter toed his shoes off before beginning to creep down the aisle. Walking around in his socks felt bizarre, but he needed every advantage he could get. His first instinct was to run in the direction Neal and Regal had gone, to find them as quickly as possible, but Peter knew he had to proceed with all caution. He'd get only one chance to do this, and both their lives depended on his getting it right. And he was still at a disadvantage. Regal was mostly uninjured, he had a weapon, and most importantly, he had Neal.
Maybe when he found them, Neal would be a safe distance away from Regal. But Peter wasn't going to count on that. And he couldn't risk a repeat of the earlier fiasco. He couldn't let Regal use Neal against him again.
Peter's big advantage was the element of surprise, and he'd have to use it well. Which meant that he had to be completely quiet, and he had to locate Regal without the man seeing him first.
He ran through the layout of the warehouse in his mind. It wasn't complicated. Just one long set of shelves, maybe 10 rows total, with a hallway running along the wall at either end. There had also been a few doors along the hallway they'd entered—offices, maybe, or locked storage.
Regal and Neal could be a few aisles down, or in one of the rooms. He'd have to work his way down silently until he found them and then figure out how best to approach.
At the end of the aisle, he stopped to listen. For a few seconds he heard nothing.
Then he picked up the sound of Regal's voice. Peter couldn't make out the words, which likely meant he wasn't in the next aisle, but Peter couldn't take any chances.
Slowly and carefully, he peeked out beyond the end of the shelves that hid him, looking left—the way Neal and Regal had gone. There was no way they could be anywhere to the right—he would have seen them.
His quick look had revealed nothing. Peter took a deep breath, tightened his grip on the gun, and stepped around the corner into the empty space that ran along the ends of the shelves. He was now exposed; if Regal came down to the end of any of the aisles, he'd see Peter.
But the man was nowhere to be seen.
Pausing again, he listened for Regal. There was a weird, deadened quality to the sound in here, but the voice didn't seem too close. He followed the soft murmur of Regal's voice and kept heading left.
He hadn't heard Neal's voice. That was alarming, but he couldn't afford to waste time worrying about what that might mean. He wants to use him, not kill him, Peter reminded himself.
The thought should have been reassuring; instead, it was mostly disturbing.
Reaching the opening that marked the next aisle, he peered down it, seeing no one. He continued to work his way down to the next aisle, similar to the way he'd searched for Neal when all this had started, except that now he was being much more cautious, and trying to ignore the agony burning up and down his arm.
Regal's voice was coming through more clearly now. He took a quick glance to the right, back the way he'd come, seeing nothing but the trail of blood that was dripping from his arm.
They had to be nearby, he decided. Or, at least, Regal was. He still hadn't heard Neal.
Peter took a deep, focusing breath and he reached the edge of the next set of shelving. He stood stock-still, listening and hearing only silence.
Shit. Either Regal had stopped talking or he'd moved. And there was only one way to find out which it was.
Now or never.
Peter risked a quick glance around the boxes and down the aisle.
Finally he'd found them.
They were about a quarter of the way down the aisle—perhaps fifteen feet away. Regal stood in profile, looming predatorily over Neal. Peter's stomach flipped at the sight of his consultant, once again on the ground, half-sitting, half-lying against the boxes, looking chillingly vulnerable. Neal's head was lolling backward and his eyes were closed.
Okay, no help there—but Peter hadn't really expected any.
His sight line to Regal was clear. Regal was facing Neal, facing left, so Peter couldn't see the position of his gun. He assumed it was still in his right hand.
Peter ducked back to safety, just for an instant, and gathered himself. He would order Regal to drop his weapon—and he'd be ready to fire immediately when Regal refused. The man would probably go for Neal, just as he had before—Peter rather doubted that Regal had really been convinced by Neal's 'betrayal.'
Peter was just about to step out from the shelves, opening his mouth to yell. Then he saw the scene in front of him and stopped, closing his lips just in time to prevent the sound from escaping.
Regal was on the phone again.
Dammit.
That was why he'd heard Regal's voice and no one else's. He was talking on his cell. If Peter acted now, he'd alert whoever was on the other end of the line, triggering all kinds of potential unknown dangers.
And where the hell was the backup? Peter was starting to fear that Neal might have hallucinated that part. Yes, mobilization took time, travel took time, but still . . . .
Right now, it didn't matter though. They weren't here yet, so it was up to him. Peter sneaked another quick look.
Shit.
More bad news. Neal hadn't changed position, but Regal had. He'd moved to his left and crouched down right next to Neal. Regal's cell was in his left hand as he murmured into it. Peter couldn't see his right hand, because Regal's body was blocking it, but if he still held the gun, then it was likely pointing somewhere in the vicinity of Neal's chest.
And he was so very, very close to Neal.
Tension hummed through Peter as he realized that he had to wait. He couldn't risk an abrupt ending to Regal's phone conversation, couldn't risk giving the man's accomplices reason to hurry here any more quickly than they already were. Unless Regal overtly threatened Neal, the sensible course of action was to bide his time. His very skin itched with the need to do something, anything, to help Neal, to end this, but he knew he couldn't. It would be the height of foolhardiness to act now, and it would put Neal at greater risk.
No. He had to wait, goddamnit.
He heard Regal's low chuckle. Regal was talking so quietly; Peter wondered, heart racing, if it was because he didn't want Neal to come to and hear him.
Waiting behind the shelter of the shelves, Peter listened, straining to hear.
. . . bond forgery," Regal was saying. "But that's just the tip of the iceberg with our Neal."
The whole situation, having to sit there and do nothing, was making Peter livid. But it was hearing Regal's casual use of the possessive "our" with regard to Neal, talking about him like . . . like a goddamned piece of property, that nearly sent him over the edge. It made Peter's hand clench tighter around the gun, it forced him to take measured breaths, to remind himself that no, he could not run down the aisle at that moment and squeeze Regal's throat until he was the one begging . . . .
" . . . quite the entertaining sort," Regal said, capping it with a suggestive little laugh that made Peter's skin crawl. "You'll see."
Peter seethed. The pain in his arm spiked and he relaxed his grip on the gun with a conscious effort. He blinked; the warehouse seemed darker, somehow. Glancing up quickly, he looked at the fluorescent lights to see if they were flickering again. Was something wrong with the power?
When he looked overhead, he got a shock.
The ceiling was tilting.
No, he realized, a heart-stopping instant later. It wasn't the ceiling, or the lights - it was him. Dizziness was creeping in, threatening his equilibrium. His legs felt frighteningly weak and everything was beginning to take on a strange, hazy quality, like nothing was real . . . .
No, this is very real. You're about to black out and you're in very real trouble.
Grabbing onto the shelf with his left hand, Peter clutched it with a death grip, and relaxed his throbbing right arm. He'd been trying to keep the arm elevated to slow the flow of blood, but it was too much of a strain. He couldn't do it, he was just too tired . . . .
Peter let himself lean against the boxes, allowing them to take some of his weight and took deep breaths as he closed his eyes, just for a moment, trying to conserve the energy he had left. His stomach churned threateningly.
This was what blood loss did to you, he knew. It sapped your strength; it made you sick and unsteady and weak. He'd lost more blood than he'd realized, enough that he was on the verge of passing out, and he couldn't afford that.
Neal couldn't afford that.
After waiting as long as he dared, and telling himself that he felt marginally better, Peter opened his eyes, blinking furiously to clear his vision.
Not now. You cannot pass out now.
He tried to will away the lightheadedness and the exhaustion by focusing his mind on everything he'd been trying to avoid thinking about. Peter let himself think about what would happen if he gave in to the fatigue and the pain now. He thought about what Regal would do to Neal if Peter didn't stop him. He thought of Regal's goons, injecting Neal as he lay there, defenseless. Of Neal, drugged and helpless, waking up God-knows-where, alone and confused. He thought of Regal, eager to coerce Neal in unspeakable ways, taking pleasure in hurting him if Neal resisted and, of course, Neal probably would resist at some point because he was, after all, Neal . . . .
Once I've had him for a bit, he'll learn that I'm extraordinarily persistent when I have the whip hand.
Rest assured that I'll bring Neal to heel. And I'll enjoy it—much more than he will.
As awful as they were, the horrifying thoughts helped to sharpen the edge of his desperation. Or maybe it was just being able to stand for a moment, leaning against the boxes so he didn't have to support all of his weight. Whichever it was, after a minute his head felt clearer, and the dizziness had receded a bit.
Then Peter caught the words ". . . should be fun. Yes. . . Soon."
And it was that moment that finally, finally, Regal clicked the phone off and slipped it into his pocket.
This is it.
"Oh, Neal," Regal said appreciatively, and he leaned in, reached his right hand out to Neal again, and now Peter caught a glimpse of his weapon, held loosely. "I am so looking forward to getting to know you."
Bastard. He'd hoped Regal would stand up and move away, but no such luck. With the man in such close proximity to Neal, Peter feared a repeat of the scene from earlier if he announced his presence too soon. Regal could once again try to grab Neal and gain the upper hand. And Peter couldn't fire—Regal was right on top of Neal, he was too close. Peter didn't think he could risk it.
So he stepped out, into full view—or what would have been if Regal hadn't mostly had his back to Peter—and advanced on the man, as rapidly and soundlessly as he could. Screw it. He wasn't going to warn this bastard. Change of plan. His strategy now was to get to Regal before he ever knew that Peter was there.
Before he knew that Peter was coming for him.
It was a good plan. And it almost worked.
TBC….
A/N - Another monster of a chapter; everyone who said they enjoyed those should be pleased! I actually did some combining, here, to try to move things along . . . .
Hope everyone has enjoyed this latest installment. As always, I am incredibly grateful for all the reviews (you have no idea how exciting they are to read!) and eager to hear your thoughts.
