Critical Hour 13
Chapter 13 – Lighthouses
"We are all the captains of our own ships sailing the sea of life, but in times of stormy weather, you will discover true friends when they don't hesitate to be a lighthouse."
— Dodinsky
Peter's plan to take Regal by surprise should have worked.
In fact, it came really, really close to working.
Except that when Peter had taken three steps—meaning he was too far away to duck back to safety, but not close enough to reach his quarry—Regal heard him. Or sensed him. Whichever it was, he reacted to Peter's presence.
Then everything seemed to happen at once—and simultaneously slow down.
Regal started to turn. Peter saw the gun glinting in his hand.
He's going for you, not Neal.
Peter didn't hesitate. He yelled, "Don't move!" as he pulled the trigger twice in rapid succession.
It should have been easy. Just . . . ridiculously easy. The shot was from close range, after all. An FBI agent facing deadly force just shouldn't miss from this distance. But Regal had become a moving target, with unexpected quickness. Between that and Peter's blood-slicked hand, his shaking arm, the feeling of lightheadedness, and, above all, his terror that he'd inadvertently hit Neal, still lying prone to Regal's left, and so close, so frighteningly close—both rounds that Peter fired missed to the right.
Not by much. Regal flinched, so it had been close enough to scare him and to disrupt his movement as he tried to turn his gun on Peter.
Then just as Peter was about to fire again, a new obstacle presented itself.
Finding some reserve of energy, Neal unexpectedly reared up from where he lay, lunging at Regal. He was probably aiming for Regal's gun hand, but uncoordinated as he was, it ended up being Neal just throwing himself at the man, hoping to make contact.
It wasn't graceful, but it succeeded. For the second time that day, Neal crashed into Regal, who lost his grip on the gun as he and Neal tumbled to the floor. For a moment, Neal was on top and grunting loudly as Regal bucked underneath, lying face-down and trying to throw Neal off. Peter ran toward them, breathing hard. The Glock was useless to him now; he couldn't fire, not with Neal in the way.
Then Regal brought his right elbow up and back into Neal. Into his bad shoulder, Peter realized an instant later, because Neal screamed then, really screamed, and it sounded nothing like Neal—it almost didn't even sound human . . . .
Something snapped in Peter, and he was dimly aware that he was shouting too, as he charged forward. He saw Neal fall back, rolling in pain on the concrete floor, quiet now except for the shuddering, agonized gasps he couldn't contain. He saw Regal sliding the opposite way, scrabbling across the floor, going for the gun Neal had dislodged from his fingers.
"Freeze, Regal! I will shoot!"
Regal ignored him. Peter was almost glad, because his promise to shoot had mostly been a lie. He was practically on top of Regal now, which meant he was perfectly positioned to bash him in the head with the gun. Peter could have shot the man, justifiably so, but he realized in that moment that he didn't want to. Not really. A bullet was almost too good for him, and it would make one hell of a goddamned mess—in more ways than the obvious. Shooting an unarmed man in the back from close range would create a lot more paperwork than Peter felt like doing. Plus, thanks to Neal, the weapon Regal had dropped was out of his reach; he was scrambling toward it, but he'd never make it.
And so, with a rush of heady joy, Peter brought the gun butt down on Regal's head. Doing a little message-sending of his own.
"I told you he would never work for you, you bastard," Peter said, breathless, as he slammed the gun down again into Regal's skull. And kept doing it. Multiple times. Until he stopped moving.
And, okay, yes, after Regal had stopped moving.
God, but it felt good.
If someone else had been there, they would have stopped him. Peter, that's enough, they'd say, alarmed, and hold him back. But there was no one to restrain him. Neal might have, if he'd been aware enough. Neal wasn't violent. You've never seen me do evil, Neal had said to him earlier, causing Peter to flash back to the only time when he'd ever feared Neal would hurt someone physically. Of course, that one time had been full-value: when Neal had nearly shot Fowler. Ironic that he'd talked Neal down that day. Peter wondered, if Neal had been aware, if he'd have done the same for Peter now. Or would he have given in to his rage, as Peter had?
Peter kind of doubted it. Neal had been unconscious for the worst of what Regal had done.
Still, he could hear a voice in his head.
You're not a killer. This isn't who you are.
They were Peter's words, when Neal had been holding a gun on Fowler. But now it was Neal's voice saying them.
So, after raining a few extra blows down on Regal's head, Peter stopped. He could easily have hit Regal all day—and he knew he could have killed the man. But he was an FBI agent and thus had rules to follow.
Too bad . . . .
Regal had gone limp, his motionless body splayed slightly.
Peter risked a quick glance at Neal. He was lying where he'd fallen, no longer moving, on his side with his face turned away. Peter felt dread rising inside him as he pulled out his handcuffs, the ones Regal had forced him to use on himself. It was indescribably satisfying to be able to use them on him.
"Neal? Are you with me?"
No answer.
Peter pulled Regal's wrists behind his back and cuffed them. He pulled on the bracelets to assure they were locked, then cinched them down. If the cuffs were quite a bit tighter than they needed to be . . . well, the bastard deserved far worse. He reached over to grab Regal's pistol. That task complete, he looked back again at Neal, hoping to see some signs of consciousness.
"Neal! Talk to me. Are you okay?"
He thought about Neal, managing to get up even while restrained, and suddenly decided that he wasn't going to take any chances. Wincing at the shooting pain in his suddenly-weak right arm, he dragged Regal a few feet to the nearest shelf support pole—Christ, he was heavy—and released one wrist before quickly looping the handcuff chain around the pole and recuffing him.
Peter looked him over, satisfied that the unconscious Regal was securely attached to the shelves and couldn't duplicate Neal's earlier heroics.
He rushed to Neal's side, felt for a pulse. It was reassuringly there, if alarmingly slow. "Neal, you need to wake up now. Come on."
Neal let out a low, guttural noise, and Peter sighed with relief even as his gut twisted at the underlying agony in the sound.
"Hey. Neal. Talk to me." He thought about slapping Neal's face to rouse him, but it was so battered that Peter couldn't bring himself to do it. Instead he carefully put his hand on Neal's head, rubbing awkwardly, hoping he'd respond to the contact. Peter was careful to avoid the area where Neal's hair was stiff to the touch, caked with dried blood.
Finally, Neal started to move. Peter helped him turn over, chest tightening as Neal groaned in pain. His eyes were fluttering, but not quite open; under the blood and the bruises, his pallor was unnervingly gray.
"No. Can't . . . breathe. Help me . . . sit," Neal gasped.
Peter didn't know how wise that was, but he supported Neal's head and back as best he could until the younger man was once again propped against the boxes. Neal leaned his head back and closed his eyes, letting out another groan.
"Talk to me, Neal. Are you okay?"
"Fuck. Hurts," Neal said through gritted teeth, as if he hadn't heard the question. Or maybe he had, and that was his answer.
"How'd you end up on the floor?" Peter demanded. "He hurt you again?"
When he got no response, Peter spoke again, sharply now. "Neal. Did. He. Hurt. You."
"Huh? Uh, well . . . " Neal said vaguely.
"I'll take that as a yes," Peter said, anger flooding through him anew. "Now, I need you to open your eyes for me."
"Kinda came at me and he got my—my shoulder, he just . . . then I kinda lost my balance," Neal muttered, eyes still shut.
Bastard. Peter put aside his rage at their suspect for more important things. "Neal, look at me. Come on, now."
A few seconds passed before Neal blinked his eyes open. "There you are," Peter said, satisfied, even though Neal's eyes had a cloudy, unfocused look to them. Even though his pupils were a little larger than they should be.
"Oh, 'm here all right," Neal said. He was slurring his words just a bit, like he had when he'd woken up the first time. "'nfortunately."
Peter leaned closer, gently turning Neal's head toward him so he could peer into his eyes.
"What're you looking at?" Neal asked crossly, sounding as if he were resisting a childish urge to slap Peter's hand away from his chin. "What—they're not blue anymore?"
"There's that famous Neal Caffrey wit," Peter said in an absent tone. "I'm checking your pupils."
"Oh." It took Neal's muddled brain a moment to figure out what Peter was worried about. "So how—how are they?"
"Roughly the same size."
"Yayyyy," Neal said, drawing out the word in a giddy, inappropriate way that did nothing to assuage Peter's concerns about his mental state. "I mean, 's good, right? What do I win—do I get a—a prize?"
"A prize?" Peter sighed. "Your prize is a trip to the hospital to make sure they stay that way. Eventually."
Neal frowned. "Well, that's no fun."
"Can't argue with you there. Where does it hurt?" Peter said, going back to Regal now that he'd gotten Neal conscious again.
"Where doesn't it?" Neal said, sighing, all his focus apparently wrapped up in trying not to move.
Or so Peter thought. He should have known better.
"Oh, God," Neal said. Peter looked over at him, concerned. Neal had been ashen before, but now he'd gone completely white. And his voice was . . . well, frantic was the first word that came to mind to describe it. Except that Neal generally didn't do frantic.
"What?" Peter asked, all senses instantly on high alert. "What's wrong?" Are you all right?" Then he glanced around, fearing Neal had spotted another armed opponent, or something equally terrible.
But Neal hadn't discovered some new danger. No, he'd discovered Peter's mess of an arm—and he wasn't taking it well. He'd gone from dazed to furious in about two-point-five seconds.
"Oh, my God," Neal repeated, but he was starting to sound less horrified and more venomous. "That goddamned fucking bastard. Did he—did he shoot you? When'd that happen? How long was I out? Peter, I—"
"Only a few seconds. Take it easy, Neal. He didn't shoot me."
"Th—that's a lot of blood, Peter." The slight stammer was jarring. Neal never stuttered. And his voice . . . he'd said it like he thought Peter was lying to him.
Peter looked down, grimacing at the sight. It was a hell of a lot of blood, there was no denying it. He'd been hurt on the job before—thankfully not often—but this was, hands-down, the most gruesome injury he'd ever suffered. Not only were his arm and hand covered in blood, but the whole right side of his shirt was saturated with it as well.
"It looks worse than it is," he said defensively. "It's not that—"
Neal didn't even let him finish. "What happened?" Apparently, seeing Peter injured took Neal's usual persistence to a whole new level.
Peter sighed. "I had a little trouble getting the gun out from under the shelves. I'm not as agile as some people and I just scraped my arm a little, that's all."
Neal's eyebrows threatened to disappear into his hairline. "A little scrape. Huh. You call that a little scrape?"
"I'm telling you, it's not that bad," Peter insisted.
"Okay, Dr. Burke. Sure, 's fine. It's just great," Neal snapped sarcastically. "It's like—like something in a horror movie. And I helped cause it," he added, suddenly contrite, looking stricken. "Jesus, Peter. I'm sorry, I . . . " his voice trailed off uncertainly.
"You have nothing to apologize for. Forget it," Peter said, using the voice that brooked no disagreement. "Not another word."
A few seconds passed, and then Peter glanced over at Neal, wanting to get an acknowledgment out of him. Instead, he saw that Neal's eyes had slid shut again. Not good.
"I didn't mean that literally, Neal. Talk."
"Mmmm," Neal mumbled.
"Normally, I can't get you to stop talking. Come on, say something."
"Like what?" Neal asked dully.
"Anything."
"Really not in the mood, Peter."
"Which is why you need to keep talking. No dozing off with a head injury, Caffrey—didn't anyone ever tell you that?" he called out as he busied himself with Regal. Peter didn't want to have to explain to the FBI—or, more importantly, to Elizabeth—that after all they'd been through, he had let Neal sleep himself into some kind of coma.
Neal grunted.
"Did you hear me, Neal?"
"Not . . . dozin'," Neal said, with a petulance that make him sound like an angry toddler. Peter glanced at him; Neal's eyes were closed. "Jus' restin'."
Yeah, sure you are. Peter tried another tactic, hoping the lure of conversation would be impossible for Neal to resist, even when in a fog. "You know, speaking of prizes, if there was a prize awarded for most head injuries on the same day, you'd win, hands-down,"
"Over … achiever," Neal said, with an audible note of pride.
"Yeah, except that's not a prize anyone wants to win," Peter retorted.
He began to search Regal—and almost immediately found what he was looking for.
"Um, Peter?" Again, Neal sounded genuinely alarmed and Peter, responding to the anxiety in his voice, looked over at him immediately. "Why's he have—that?"
Neal, suddenly much more awake, was staring, wide-eyed, at the photo of Elizabeth, which Peter had just extracted from Regal's jacket pocket.
Peter fought the urge to swear. He hadn't meant for Neal to see that. He looked down at the photo, at Elizabeth's brilliant smile, so he wouldn't have to look at Neal. "Bastard took it out of my wallet."
"What for?"
Peter hesitated. "To . . . get to me. He knew about El. And he—he said he was going to show it to you."
"To me?" Neal said, nonplussed.
"Yeah. Along with the pictures he took of me. And . . . he took pictures of you when you were unconscious," Peter said abruptly. The words came out in a rush; he hadn't even meant to say them. Not now, maybe not ever.
"Ew." Neal frowned. "Kinda . . . unsettling. Lemme guess—photography class at the Annex?"
Peter didn't get the joke—oh yeah, he wasn't there for that, Neal remembered belatedly. His brain really was operating in a lower gear today.
Instead of laughing, Peter gave Neal a deadly serious glare. Then he glanced away, looking uncomfortable. "He talked a lot about . . . leverage. You can probably figure it out."
Neal ignored the part about himself—of course. "Did he—but I don't . . . how'd he know about Elizabeth?"
"Someone at the museum saw you two at the Stanzler gallery event."
"Oh?" Neal said, confused. Then his eyes narrowed. "Oh," he said, comprehension slowly dawning.
"Yeah. He knew . . . he knew all about you. From that. And us coming to the museum, the other day."
Neal stared back, perhaps once again reading in Peter's expression everything that the agent couldn't say—it was, after all, one of Neal's many talents.
"Oh, yeah," Neal said at last, apparently putting together the disjointed fragments of his own fuzzy memories with the stricken look on Peter's face. "Umm, what'd you say? Personal . . . personal thing?"
"Personal criminal plaything," Peter mumbled, hating the very sound of words, hating that he had to say them. He didn't want to talk about it. It had been too near a miss. One he didn't think he'd ever stop being pissed at himself for allowing to happen. Neal had saved him, but it was supposed to be the other way around. That was two times in a row, as a matter of fact. First Keller, now this.
A brief silence ensued in which Peter checked his wallet, continued searching Regal, and kept busy so he wouldn't have to look at Neal. Images of what Regal had done to Neal kept flitting through his mind and he tried, resolutely to push them out.
"Where the hell is the backup?" he muttered to himself. "You did call for backup, right?"
" 'Course. Would I lie to you?" Neal asked, sounding surprised - and mildly insulted. "I mean, I might, but not about somethin' like that . . . ."
"Not lied, Neal," Peter said patiently. "But imagined, maybe? Are you sure you didn't, I don't know, hallucinate it or something?"
"Nope." Neal was definitive. "I called'em. Just like I said. Did say it would take a while . . . ."
Peter still wasn't looking at him.
"Hey, Peter," Neal said, voice soft. It was the I'm serious whisper again. "Hey."
Finally, Peter met his gaze.
"I really wouldn't, y'know," Neal said.
"Wouldn't what?"
"Work for him. Or . . . break that easy."
"As if you have to tell me that," Peter said, in his best exasperated voice. "Neal, it's me, remember? There is probably no one in the world who knows better than me how hard it is to get you to do something you don't want to do."
"Yeah, guess so." Neal laughed tiredly. "And . . . you know all that stuff I said wasn't true, right?"
Peter didn't have to ask what all that stuff was. "Again, you don't have to tell me that."
After a silence that lasted just a shade too long, Peter added, "And for the record, I—I didn't mean what I said, either."
He had a quick, vivid recall of that moment—when Neal had mockingly asked if he were disappointed, and he'd shot back with, Disappointed, but not surprised.
That flash of emotion in Neal's eyes—at the time, Peter had failed to diagnose it. Now he was pretty sure of what it had been.
It had been hurt.
Neal would probably never admit it, but he'd be just as affected by any perceived lack of faith on Peter's part as Peter had been by the thought of Neal's potential betrayal. Being a professional con artist, Neal just hid it a hell of a lot better. There had been only the tiniest crack in the smooth façade, barely visible to the naked eye.
Whereas I was practically standing there with my mouth open . . . .
"So you weren't . . . freaked out or anything?" Neal pressed, unwittingly echoing Peter's thoughts.
"Nah," Peter said, carefully casual. Because freaked out is not how I would describe it, he thought, to ease the conscience that was sternly rebuking him for not quite telling Neal the truth.
"But you were . . ." Neal hesitated, uncharacteristically, as if pondering what word to use. He resumed after a few awkward seconds. "You were . . . worried when I told him about the anklet key, though. I could tell." He didn't sound rancorous or reproachful—just matter-of-fact.
"Maybe a momentary qualm," Peter allowed. It figured that Neal would have caught that; he missed very little, especially when it came to Peter. "Just until—"
"Til you realized what I was doing." Neal finished his sentence, as he so often did. "'S okay, though. I wanted you to be worried, y'know? To help sell it."
"Oh, you sold the hell out of it, Neal," Peter said, mind shying away from the memory of the cruel, unrecognizable smile he'd seen on Neal's face, the ice-cold look in his eyes.
"Aw, thanks," Neal said, sounding pleased. Peter had to resist the urge to roll his eyes; he hadn't exactly meant it as a compliment, but, of course, Neal would take that way. "You were pretty good too, Peter."
Peter didn't see much to laud himself about. "In what way?"
"When you pretended to believe me," Neal said. "You know. Believe that I'd . . . turned on you."
"Oh, yeah. That." Peter cleared his throat. "Well . . . ."
"Was really good, Peter. Convincing." Neal's face held nothing but admiration. And it looked real.
"Uh. Thanks," Peter answered, and then stopped because he didn't know what else to say. If Neal noticed his hesitation, he didn't comment on it.
"Knew you'd get free and I hoped you could get the other gun. Sorry 'bout your face. And your arm, didn't know that would happen," Neal said, casting a worried glance at Peter's mangled arm. "And for—for hitting you. I uh . . . went a little . . . overboard there."
"It's okay."
"Just kind of . . . in the moment." Neal let out a long sigh. "And I—I needed him to trust me. To let me lead him away from you. So I could keep him from . . . y' know," Neal finished, almost in a whisper.
From shooting me, Peter's mind supplied. But all he said was, "I know. You have nothing to apologize for. You did good."
After a minute, Neal said, "Truth, Peter?" and Peter had only an instant to reflect on the irony of Neal Caffrey asking for honesty before his consultant said, "Did I scare you?"
"Sometimes you do, Neal, yeah." Peter admitted. In the grand tradition of Caffrey himself, Peter had neatly sidestepped the specific question; Neal was apparently fading too fast to notice, though. "You're just so . . . so damn good at it." He didn't bother to define what 'it' was—there was no need.
"Yeah, ever since I was little, my . . . my . . ." Neal began, then hesitated before his voice broke off completely for a long moment before resuming. "You know, people . . . they always said that about me."
Unexpectedly, they had veered too close to Neal's past, Neal's family—topics Peter knew were off limits. And as badly as Peter wanted to know about them, he wasn't going to press it. Neal would tell him when he was ready.
And if Neal never was ready, that was okay, too.
"You took a hell of a personal risk, though, Neal," Peter told him, because it had to be said. Because he tried never to miss an opportunity to remind Neal to be careful, even though Peter had come to realize that these urgings had little to no effect on his CI's behavior. "I shouldn't have to tell you this, but just a reminder: if someone's threatening to kidnap you, a GPS tracker is a good thing to have on your person."
"Oh, he already knew about it," Neal said, unfazed. He shifted, just a bit, and grunted in pain.
"But you didn't know that," Peter countered. "Right?"
Neal frowned up at him and didn't answer right away. Finally he admitted, "Well, no. I didn't."
Peter continued. "And he didn't have the key—"
"That's right," Neal interrupted, face brightening. "Because you lied to 'im. And he believed you! Meant to tell you how proud I am for you pulling that off. Might be hope for you, yet."
Peter shook his head in frustration. He was trying to make a serious point. And as usual, Neal, who should have been paying attention and nodding solemnly and agreeing that Peter was right—instead, Neal was being . . . Neal.
Neal sensed it, of course—and refused to acknowledge it. "Also," he said, regretful once more, "speaking of that, I am sorry about your face, how he hit you. That's on me. I never woulda guessed that you'd lied to him about having the key. If I knew, I . . . I would have played that differently, I could've—"
Peter exhaled slowly, trying to stay patient. "I'm not talking about that, Neal. I'm talking about you making it way too easy for that nutcase to kidnap you."
"Calculated risk, giving him the key," Neal allowed. "But it was the best way to seal the deal. Convince him that I wanted to go willingly."
"While also eliminating our best chance of finding you. If it came to that."
"Nah," Neal insisted. "Didn't matter."
"The hell it didn't!" Peter said angrily. "Because—"
"Because you always find me," Neal said, and the look in his eyes stopped Peter mid-bluster, made him forget the scolding he'd been about to deliver.
" 'nless . . . ." Neal started, then trailed off.
"Unless what?"
"Unless you're slipping," Neal mused thoughtfully. He reached up with his left arm to swipe at the blood trickling down his forehead. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head against his arm for a moment.
Peter gave him a mock glare. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Well, you never needed an anklet to find me before," Neal pointed out, blinking his eyes open to gaze innocently at Peter. "Are you admitting you couldn't track me down without it?"
"Hell, no," Peter shot back.
Neal smiled and Peter could have sworn there was something like relief in it. "Didn't think so. You not finding me is the least of my worries. Hey," he said, shifting gears, "don't forget my picks. I need those."
"Got'em," Peter answered. How utterly predictable of Neal to be more worried about his lock picks than his bureau ID or even his wallet, all of which Peter had extracted from Regal's pockets. "And speaking of your anklet . . . ."
"Yeah, figured you'd get around to that 'fore too long," Neal sighed. He dug into his pocket and produced the key, handing it up to Peter.
"Hey, since we're putting things on the record," Neal said. He'd squeezed his eyes shut again; Peter could see the little lines of pain around the corners. "Maybe I shouldn't bring this up, but I . . . I don't even wanna think about you not having all your—your . . . fingernails. You, uh . . . you know that, right?"
Peter hesitated. That had come out of the blue. "Ah. You heard that part, huh?" he asked uncomfortably.
"Bits and pieces, yeah." Neal hadn't opened his eyes. "Enough to be very . . . uh, really . . . ." he didn't finish the sentence.
Freaked out, Peter thought, supplying the words in his own mind.
"I know it, Neal," Peter muttered, because he didn't know what else to say. "I know."
"Yeah, what'm I saying? Course you do." Eyes still closed, Neal smiled, just a little grin, almost like he was smiling to himself.
Peter had never been more ready for a change of subject. He'd finished his search of Regal, which had taken longer than it should have because he was trying to avoid using his right arm. He'd hoped to keep the pain to a manageable level simply by not moving it, but that strategy had been less than successful.
Finally, Peter finished re-checking Regal's cuffs for the third time—just to be safe. That kind of obsessiveness wasn't like him, but Regal had made Peter paranoid in a way he just wasn't used to—and, frankly, didn't much like.
Satisfied that Regal was well and truly restrained, Peter turned back to Neal. "Okay, you ready? Time to get up."
He'd given Neal long enough to get himself together. They couldn't stay here. Peter had been weighing the options in his head, analyzing the pros and cons of trying to leave the warehouse altogether versus finding a room or office where he could barricade Neal . . . .
Neal looked up at him, bleary-eyed. "You c'n leave. I'll stay."
"Oh, okay," Peter shot back. "So you're just gonna stay here by yourself, then?"
"Well," Neal said seriously, considering, "if you leave, then, yeah I'd be by myself. 'Cept for him"—Neal's eyes flicked quickly over to Regal and back—"but I wasn't counting him. Now, if you count him, then I wouldn't be—"
Peter made a mental note that, in Neal's case, at least, concussions and sarcasm weren't a good mix. "Neal, I wasn't being serious. There's no way in hell you can stay here."
"Sure, I can. I'm 'kay right here, really," Neal said drowsily. "He's all tied up. Back-up's on the way," he added, as if that would clinch things. As if Peter didn't know that already.
"Yeah, and so is whoever Regal called," Peter reminded him. "We need to get you somewhere safer in case they get here first."
Neal sighed. "This is plenty safe."
"No, it's not."
"You're here; I'm safe," Neal said, as if it were self-evident.
Peter swallowed the little lump that had formed in his throat. Despite all that had happened today, Neal's faith in him was unwavering. Peter didn't want to admit, even to himself, how much that meant.
"You say that now," Peter told him, grim-faced. "But you'll be singing a different tune if we have to fend off a bunch of goons armed with guns and syringes."
Neal looked baffled. "Syringes?"
"Not now, Neal. Focus. You need to get moving."
"Come on," Neal implored. "Really, I—I think 's better if I don't try to move right now."
"Sorry, Neal," Peter said, and he really was, because in his head he could still hear the sickening sound of Neal's scream when Regal had slammed his elbow into that injured shoulder. Neal was in bad shape; even the slightest movement was going to be agony for him, Peter knew, let alone the effort needed to get up and walk far enough to get someplace safe. "Sorry, I know it hurts, but we have to go."
The last thing in the world he wanted to do cause Neal any more pain. But, not for the first time today, he felt he had no choice.
"Peter, please, I'm serious. You c'n keep an eye out, I trust you. Can't I just stay here? Please?" Neal locked eyes with Peter, and Peter expected to see those infamous puppy-dog eyes Neal conjured up whenever he was trying to guilt Peter into doing something against the agent's better judgment. Instead he saw a look that stopped him cold, because it was pure, unvarnished desperation.
That desperation—and hearing Neal say please, not once but twice—shocked Peter like a dousing of icy water. This was so not Neal, it made Peter want to smash something—specifically, Regal's head. Again.
The pleading look in Neal's eyes, the beseeching note in his voice, were all wrong.
I bet he's enchanting when he begs.
Peter felt horror bubble up inside him as he suppressed a shiver. "This is not negotiable, Neal," he insisted, bending down next to him so Neal wouldn't notice how shaken he was. He would not—could not—let himself get outmaneuvered again.
At the sudden movement, a wave of dizziness washed over him and he had to close his eyes for a moment until it faded, grabbing onto the shelves to anchor himself and taking a couple of deep, steadying breaths.
Now he was remembering what Regal had said about entry points into the warehouse, about underground access from the neighboring building.
Shit.
His eyes flew open, and Peter glanced around apprehensively, afraid that an army of criminals was about to pop up through some goddamned trapdoor at any moment.
You have to get him somewhere safe. Now.
"Here, I'm gonna help you up," he said, striving to project reassurance. "And if you can't walk, I—I'll carry you."
"Oh, God," Neal groaned. "Like I'd ever hear the end o' that." He took a deep breath, gathering himself. Then he extended his left arm, preparing to push up. A muffled expletive burst from his lips as the movement jarred his other arm, which was carefully nestled against his stomach. Slowly, gingerly, Neal shifted so he could begin to bend his legs to get the leverage needed to rise.
"Well, you did warn me," Peter said, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "About carrying you."
Neal glanced up at him, puzzled. He doesn't remember that, either, Peter thought, sighing inwardly.
"Now, what was that 'bout . . . syringes?" Neal asked. That was Neal for you: persistent as always.
Peter ignored the question and put a hand under Neal's arm to help him up, wincing at the reawakened pain in his own injured arm. He should have kept his mouth shut about Regal's plans for Neal; he really didn't want to get into that again.
The gaps in Neal's memory were alarming, but before Peter could focus on that, he had something new—and much more frightening—to worry about.
Namely, the unmistakable noise of a door opening and slamming shut, followed by the sound of shoes thudding quickly across the concrete floor.
Someone was coming toward them. And fast.
It wasn't a team. They hadn't identified themselves as NYPD. Or FBI. Which, to Peter, could mean only one thing.
His worst fear had come true.
Regal's cohort had arrived. And he and Neal were sitting ducks.
TBC….
A/N - This chapter is in memory of our devoted Old English sheepdog, Darcy, whom we lost this week, very suddenly. She was part of our family for twelve wonderful years and she is greatly missed, even as she'll always be in our hearts.
Sorry for the delay in posting. Thank you for your patience and your continued reviews—they are so very appreciated!