AN: First of all, thank you all! Over 100 reviews! 22 on that last chapter alone! You guys are so amazing. Thus, here is the chapter that everyone is waiting for. It was amazingly fun to finally write it. Funny side note, I watched Flightplan tonight, simply because Matt Bomer is in it playing a flight attendant. And guess what the bad guy's name was? Carson. Thought that was kinda awesome haha. Anyway, thanks to AwesomeQueenoftheLab, for her great beta work, and onto now the story! :D


Chapter Eleven - Ctrl-Alt-Delete


As a spy, he was trained to stay calm in any dangerous situation. Hand-to-hand combat, gunplay, and sneaking into the French embassy and downloading the entire hard drive of a diplomat's computer all required a level head. He had been trained in tradecraft, such as recruiting, psychology, surveillance and detection, and interrogation techniques–some legal, some not so much (not that the CIA would admit that one). In his case, paramilitary operations–such as parachuting, defensive driving, and weapons recognition–was also critical. During his time with the Central Intelligence Agency, Bryce Larkin had killed, stolen, and kidnapped. His position within the organization was unique, considering he was both a technical intelligence officer and a clandestine services officer.

He had been skilled at what he did, and despite the five-year gap between the last time he had been Special Agent Bryce Larkin and the present time where he was Neal Caffrey, that training came back to him in a rush. The barrel of Carson's gun, which happened to be directed at Neal's head, admittedly accelerated the process, and pictures suddenly flowed across his eyelids as information flooded his brain. Normally, he was quite good at handling and hiding Intersect flashes, but with so much information it was difficult.

Neal was unable to tell how much time had passed. His grey eyes snapped open, and locked onto the fascinated ones of Carson. There was a look of understanding on the man's pale face that caused his heart to sink.

"You are one, aren't you?" Carson asked, stepping closer to him, the gun dropping slightly. He was shaking his blonde head, as if in disbelief.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Neal whispered, and he swayed slightly as a dizzy spell overtook him. His mind was still racing, trying to process the influx of information, and he was struggling to stay alert to the outside environment. When the world settled, he automatically tried to shift his stance into something more stable, in case he had to move quickly.

"I should have realized sooner when you had trouble with my pictures," Carson mumbled to himself, and hit his head with his free hand. "It makes sense. Omaha, Orion. I am so thick! I should have seen the connection."

"You do realize that you're holding two FBI agents, and a CI, at gunpoint?" Peter cut into the man's self-abuse session. Neal chanced a glance in the agent's direction and saw that he looked upset. His hands were on his head and he was directing the question at Hutchinson. The man was standing behind Peter, his gun pointed towards him. Laughter drew their attention back to Carson.

"A CI? Well, that's certainly what they would like you to think, isn't it, Larkin?" Carson brought the gun up again and emphasized his point by jabbing it towards Neal. That name, coming from the man's mouth, set Neal's teeth on edge.

"Like I said, I don't know what you're talking about. What more do you want from me?" Neal said, but knew his attempt at lying failed when Carson sneered, his brown eyes flashing.

"You can't fool me!" Carson snarled, moving forward. Neal noticed the predatory gleam in them, it he wanted to sneer. However, the gun's barrel felt cold where it suddenly touched his temple, and the man came too close. He stiffed as Carson continued. The gun slowly stroked down Neal's face, and the man's eyes followed its path lovingly."You idiots at the CIA think you are better than everyone else is. That you can do horrible things and get away with them."

"The what?" Peter asked, and Neal could hear the shock in his voice.

"We didn't kill Julia," Neal said quietly, keeping the man's gaze even when he stepped away from him. He didn't even want to look at Shaw, who he was now referring back to the man's proper name. Their covers were pretty much blown.

"Shut up!" Carson looked furious, breathing heavily, and the gun wavered a little before steadying. "You do not have the right to speak her name!"

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry," Neal said, opening his palms in a show of surrender.

"Your plan backfired. Rather spectacularly, if I must say so." Carson suddenly turned his attention to Shaw, but kept his gun on Neal. "I recognize you. It's a bit sad that the CIA has to resort to something so low as breaking and entering. You could have just produced a warrant."

"Would you have let us in?" Shaw asked, glaring at the man. The effect was frightening, even though he had his hands on top of his head in a gesture of surrender.

"You will never know, now will you?" Carson was just taunting them now. "I must thank you, though. Bringing the FBI in provided the perfect cover for smuggling out my painting."

"So there was never a theft?" Peter asked, and Carson glanced at him. Neal could tell the agent wasn't really following the conversation, but the word 'smuggling' had obviously caught his attention.

"Of course not. My paintings are not so popular as to be stolen. The only people who actually have an interest in them is the intelligence community, as your little friends Larkin and Superman over here could attest to."

"Why would the intelligence community want a bunch of mosaics?" Peter definitely looked confused, and he kept shooting glances at the other two. Neal met his FBI partner's eyes, pleading silently to leave it alone. He knew it was a moot point when Carson grinned.

"Would you like to explain how an Intersect works?" Carson mockingly asked Neal. "Or shall I?"

"I think I would rather show him," Neal said, before abruptly striking.

While the man had been talking, Neal had been watching. Specifically, the gun that was pointed at him. A plan had been forming in his head, and now he just hoped Shaw would catch on quick.

Before Carson registered what had happened, Neal seized the man's arm that held the gun and directed it away from his body. Rolling with his momentum, he used the man's arm as if he was the one holding the gun. He lined up the shot as best he could and squeezed off two rounds with Carson's gun.

The first one went wide of his target, Hutchinson, and he vaguely registered Peter flinching. There was the tinkling sound of broken glass. However, the second one hit true, and with a crack, Peter's assailant was down. It was really more like a crash, as he had gotten Hutchinson in the chest and the man had stumbled back, only to loose his footing on the glass stairs. A hideous streak of red was now smeared on the steps, like some kind of macabre painting. It was odd what you notice most after you shoot a man.

Another gunshot echoed in his ears, but this one was followed by a yelp of pain. He didn't have much time to contemplate the fact that it was Shaw who yelped, as Carson had finally reacted. The gun was jerked out of Neal's grip, and he ducked quickly to avoid being pistol-whipped across the side of his face. With a whoosh, it barely missed.

Grabbing the man's hand again, he twisted it in towards Carson's wrist and then outward, applying just the right amount of pressure. The man released the gun, which Neal caught, and fell onto his knees in pain. Lashing out, he kneed the fallen man in the face. The satisfying crack of a nose breaking reverberated in his ears, and he took a deep breath as he extended the gun towards the man's head.

"Satisfied? I know I am," he said, his tone even. He wasn't breathing hard, but his hand did shake a little. The adrenaline rush was intoxicating, considering he had not been in a fight in a while. He heard the sound of Peter drawing his own gun, and was relieved that the man had his back despite probably being too stunned to follow what exactly was going on. All he heard from Shaw was heavy panting, and he chanced a look in his friend's direction.

It was bad. Blood covered the man's left arm, streaming out from beneath Shaw's fingers where he gripped the wound. The gunshot that he had heard earlier had apparently hit its target. David looked smug from his position above the man, his gun directed at Shaw's head. From what Neal could see, the only injury David had sustained was a small cut lip. Shaw was glaring at the man, from where he was leaning against the glass partition, with a look of hatred Neal had not seen in a long time. The effect was a bit ruined by the pale skin and tight features.

"You do realize you just shot a federal agent?" Peter asked, and Neal was startled to hear his voice so close. The agent had moved towards Shaw and had his Glock leveled on David. "Why don't you just put the gun down, instead of making it worse for yourself."

"It can't beat being on the CIA's most wanted," David snorted derisively, flashing a look at Neal. "The FBI is nothing."

"So that was the Intersect?" Carson asked, drawing Neal's attention. The man was holding a blood-covered hand over his nose, and the bloody grin he gave Neal made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "I am impressed. Although, I must say, mine is quite a bit more advanced."

Neal stepped forward menacingly, and knelt down to meet Carson's eyes, the gun casually hanging from his hand. "That was all me. You're not the only one who was trained in martial arts. Problem for you is, I'm pretty sure I had the better instructor–"

He was cut off as Carson dove forward with a roar and tackled him around the middle, knocking them backwards towards the stairs. The gun slipped from his grip and clattered against the glass.

Instinctively, Neal tried to adjust his body position so they would go down parallel to the stairs instead of head over heels. In a tangle of limbs, they went rolling down the hard glass steps, every one as painful as the last. Hitting the bottom of the staircase with a cry, the breath was knocked out of him as Carson landed on top of him. Neal couldn't react in time when the man quickly grabbed his hair and slammed his head against the white tile.

Stars exploded across his line of sight, and his vision of Carson's crazed face dimmed. A sudden shout from above drew their attention, and the concussive blast of a gun discharging caused his ears to ring. Neal watched through slit eyes as David went tumbling down the steps towards them, almost in slow motion, a spray of red following. Absently, he realized that Peter or Shaw must have shot the man. Carson let out an inarticulate howl of rage, and tried to scramble off Neal to avoid the incoming body. However, Neal moved first, his limbs moving almost automatically.

He shoved the man off and twisted his own body away from the stairs in the opposite direction. With an unpleasant crunching sound, David's unmoving body smashed into the floor where Carson and Neal had been not seconds before.

Despite the encroaching headache and the double vision his sudden movements had caused, Neal sprung into a crouch and reached down to grasp the gun attached to his ankle. It released, and he aimed towards Carson. The problem was, he was having a hard time deciding which Carson to shoot at. There were two of them.

Shaking his head, he just picked one and squeezed off a shot. It must have been the wrong one, because the man was up and running towards the front entrance. Neal tried to stand and give chase, but his body did not agree with being upright, and his vision went dark. The last thing he heard before he collapsed was Peter's concerned call.

"Neal!"


It felt like he was in a dream. Everything was moving too fast. He was moving too fast. Skipping the last three stairs, he flew through the air before skidding on the slick floor and kneeling in front of Neal. Peter had not seen what Carson had done, but from the pale visage his consultant was sporting and the lack of movement, he assumed it wasn't good.

"Neal! Hey, buddy!" Carefully, he placed two fingers on the inside of the man's exposed neck, and let out a relieved sigh when he felt a pulse. It was a little slow, but steady enough that he wasn't too worried. He leaned over the man and gently slapped his cheek a few times in an attempt to rouse him. However, all that got him in return was a fluttering under the man's eyes. "Neal? C'mon Neal. Wake up."

"Burke!" A weak voice from up above called. "Is he alive?"

"He has a pulse, but he doesn't want to wake up," Peter said, unable to prevent his panic from coming out. "He isn't waking up!"

"Are his eyes moving?"

"What?" Peter asked, but then noticed as the fluttering became more pronounced. "Yes! He's seizing!"

"It isn't a seizure!" Kent said, his voice becoming sharper. "He's fine! I need you to leave him and help me. Right now–" There was a gasp of pain from the man. "Right now, I'm more injured."

He felt stuck. His friend was currently lying on the floor, essentially looking as if he was having a fit of some kind, and Kent wanted Peter to just leave him alone? Neal, his partner, who trusted him more than anyone else? And who the hell was Kent to say he's fine? Neal had fallen down a flight of stairs. He could be bleeding internally for all Peter knew. His hand hovered over Neal's face, his indecision apparent.

"Burke!"

Peter glanced up at Kent, who had somehow crawled closer to the edge of the landing and was gazing down at them. With one last concerned look at Neal, Peter rose and backed away towards the stairs. He didn't want to take his eyes off of the consultant, but he did.

Taking the stairs two at a time, when he made it to the top he knelt in front of the other agent and got a better look at the injury. It did seem quite bad. From what he could tell, it was thankfully a through-and-though, but was bleeding profusely. The entire left side of Kent's clothing looked damp, the red not clearly visible against the black suit. The only real indication it was blood was the small pool of red on the glass around the man's limp left hand, and his right was covered in it from where he was gripping the wound on his upper left arm.

"Give me your jacket," Kent rasped. "We need to try and control the bleeding. When I take my hand away, you have to apply pressure."

"Right," Peter said, quickly shimmying out of his jacket. He waited for Kent to move his hand, and then he pushed the fabric against the wound hard. The agent let out a hiss, and paled a little more. As Peter had never been shot before, it was difficult to imagine the amount of pain Kent was in.

"We need to move," Kent said, meeting Peter's wide eyes. "Do you think you can get me down the stairs? If I stood up right now, I'd probably end up down them."

"I can call an ambulance–" Peter said, awkwardly going for his phone in his pants pocket. A strong hand grasped his arm, preventing him from reaching it.

"No! No calls. No one can know about what just happened," Kent said, glancing down towards the bodies scattered across the welcome area.

"In case you didn't notice, you were shot. You need to get to the hospital," Peter insisted, putting more force against the wound to emphasize his point. Kent glared at him.

"I'm not in the mood to argue," Kent shot back. "Get me to the car, and I'll be fine. There's a med kit."

"Yeah, but I'm not trained in trauma."

"But Neal is. I don't have time to explain," Kent said, gritting his teeth in pain and flashing a look at something behind Peter. "He's awake anyways."

"What–" He didn't even hear the consultant's approach, but suddenly Neal was crouching right next to them, assessing Kent's injury with an expert eye.

"At least it wasn't me this time," Neal said jokingly. Kent actually laughed in response, and then immediately groaned when the movement jarred his injured arm. "He's right, though, we need to move. Carson's already gone, and he may have called for help. Here, Peter, let me do that."

The consultant reached over for the jacket, and Peter let him take it. He hadn't quite registered the man's presence yet, since this Neal most certainly wasn't the Neal he was used to. What had changed?

"Peter! Are you listening?" Neal asked, shooting him a fleeting look over his shoulder. "Grab the guns while I get Shaw out to the car."

"Who?" He was definitely confused now. Momentarily distracted when he realized the consultant had a gun of his own in one hand, Peter was having a hard time following the instructions.

"Secure the weapons," Neal said, helping the injured agent stand up. He gave Peter a hard look as he shifted the larger man so that his good arm was draped around his neck. "Are you okay to drive? I know you're probably not all there right now, but I need you to stay with me."

The FBI agent nodded absently, and said, "Yeah, fine. I'll drive."

A grim smile formed on Neal's face. "Good, then go collect the guns."


He wondered what would happen to his jacket. With the amount of blood saturated in the fabric it was probably beyond salvageable. That was a pity. It was El's favorite suit. At least it wasn't covered in his blood, though. El would have probably killed him if it had been. Unless he was already dead, in which case she would probably find some way to resurrect him if only to kill him herself.

His disturbing introspection was interrupted by Neal's soft voice.

"Head towards your house."

"What? Why?" Peter asked, looking at Neal in the rearview mirror. The man had the large medical kit spread out in the back seat, and he was attending to Kent as Peter watched. The hands that so delicately painted pictures seemed just as good at field dressing a gunshot wound.

"Carson," Neal jerked the gauze he was working with, and Kent groaned, "knows who you are. No doubt he knows where you live."

Peter pressed his foot down, hitting the break. Ignoring the pain from the seatbelt digging into his shoulder, he turned in his seat. "What's that supposed to mean? Is El in danger?"

Neal shot him a dirty look, presumably because the sudden stop. While easing Kent into a more comfortable position, as the man had released a quiet expletive when he hit the seat in front of him, Neal said, "We don't know. With these guys, it's better safe than sorry."

"These guys? What the hell was Carson into?" Reluctantly, he took his foot off the brake, and the car started moving again.

"You don't have a high enough security clearance for that information, Burke," Kent said, watching as Neal took out the materials needed to start an IV. Peter's eyes were glued to the consultant's actions also, but for entirely different reasons. When he processed what the other agent had said, he bristled.

"I was just held at gunpoint, and you can't tell me why?"

"Pretty much," Kent said, wincing when Neal inserted the small catheter into his right arm. The tourniquet was removed and an IV bag, containing what Peter assumed was saline, hung onto a hook on the ceiling. He should have guessed that those weren't for hanging dry cleaning.

"Listen, Peter. I promise I'll give you some answers, just not right now." Neal removed the bright blue sterile gloves and threw them onto the floor. He dug around in his jacket pocket, pulled out a phone, hit a number, and held it up to his ear. While he was waiting for it to connect, Peter could tell he was avoiding his gaze.

"General, we've got a problem. Carson's gone. It was a trap. He had an ambush waiting for us." The consultant hesitated and glanced out the window. "Shaw's shot, and our covers were blown. We're headed to the Studio now."

There was a long pause, and then Neal said shortly, "Two. David and Hutchinson… Understood, we'll debrief him too. Tell him thanks."

The sound of the phone being snapped shut echoed like a gunshot in the silent car. Kent looked at Neal questioningly and asked, "Well?"

"They'll be here in less than twelve hours."


Transportation Security Administration Agent Jim Johnson sighed loudly, and his companion shot him an annoyed glance when he noticed the lack of attention to their conversation. It was break time after a long morning full of pat downs, passport checks, and unpleasant businessmen. He could always tell when there was a conference (which, in all honesty, was pretty much every day in Houston) because the influx of similarly dressed people into George Bush Intercontinental. This weekend, it had been a large group who seemed to care more about checking their e-mail than checking themselves for metal. Taking a sip of his coffee, he was brought out of his thoughts when loud laughter reached his ears.

A woman and a man were walking hand-in-hand towards the line at the Starbucks counter. The woman had her head thrown back, and was laughing at something the man had said. Vaguely, he noticed his own companion had fallen silent. "Whew, lucky bastard."

Jim had to admit his friend was right. The woman was gorgeous. She looked like she had been plucked from a Sports Illustrated and put into a tight black dress that didn't leave all that much to the imagination. Her long beach-blonde hair flowed gracefully down her back, coming to a stop just below her shoulder blades, and her sharp pale features only accentuated her beauty. With long legs, partially covered with skin-tight black boots, she stood as tall as her male companion.

Like the good TSA agent Jim was, he scrutinized the man also. Thick, gelled back brown hair and a closely shaved beard, combined with the light tan, made the man quite handsome. He was dressed in a simple black suit with an open white button-down, and there was a hint of musculature beneath the clothing. They looked like any other couple out on a business trip.

However, it wasn't really their looks that attracted Jim's real attention. It was the air they possessed. Despite the visible lightness of the conversation, only one word came to his mind. Dangerous.

"Don't let Casey hear you say that!" she giggled and nudged the man with her shoulder. "He loves that car."

"I have no intention of telling him that to his face." The man's grin widened when she continued laughing. "But behind his back–" He was cut off by the ring of a cell phone.

Their expressions didn't change, but Jim caught both of them tense slightly. The man reached into a side pocket on his blazer and rummaged around before pulling out the loud phone. He didn't even check the number before he answered it, his voice carrying over to the two agents on break.

"Hey, Mom. What's up?" They took a step forward as the line moved. The man listened to the voice on the other end, and his smile suddenly dropped. "He's where?"

The woman tugged on his sleeve in concern and said, "What's wrong?" Instead of receiving a response he gently brushed her away and stepped out of the line, leaving her alone. She didn't stay; instead, she followed him out of the line. They moved closer to Jim, so he didn't feel like a horrible eavesdropper.

"Okay, okay. Um, I'll have to switch the flight then. I'll- I'll call you back when I get the flight time. Okay, Mom. Yeah, I love you too." The woman reached out and put a hand on the man's arm, as if she sensed something was wrong. "Bye," he continued, snapping the phone shut and staring at it for a moment.

"Chuck," the woman said softly, but, getting no response, tried again. "Hey, Chuck. What did she want?"

"Dad was in an accident," the man said, looking up at her. "We need to get to New York."

Poor bastard.