Breaking and entering was Mozzie's least favourite way of gaining access to a building. The open window behind him brought in a lazy summer breeze, and the place really needed a breath of fresh air, in his opinion. Unoccupied for quite a few months, a layer of dust had settled on everything inside the apartment. He tied a handkerchief over his face to prevent an allergic reaction. He fished out a contraption from his bag, which mimicked the sound of a small explosion, but it was self-contained and wouldn't set anything else on fire. Arson wasn't really something he was keen to dabble with.
He placed it slightly away from the door, close enough for someone in the corridor to hear the noise clearly. He inspected the device one more time to check if everything was intact and abandoned it on the floor, leaving the room as he had come. He began to whistle a tune and slipped his hands casually into his pockets, palming the detonator in his right hand. He leaned against a lamppost and kept checking his watch every now and then to give the notion that he was waiting for someone. He had earphones on and bobbed his head to a non-existent rhythm. In reality, he was listening to Neal's voice as he carried out the next phase of the operation, waiting for his cue from Neal.
Neal hated having to dress in cheap clothes, but his part required it. As the manager of the building grasped his hand, he resisted the urge to tug at the coarse material, unfamiliar against his skin. He faked a smile and responded in broken French.
"Look at the apartment?" the man asked, resorting to English as he noticed Neal's American accent.
Neal acquiesced with unfelt enthusiasm. The man kept up a string of commentary as he led the way, highlighting the main selling points of the place.
He stopped by the door and hesitated a little. "Not clean," he muttered, leaning in closer so he would be audible. "No use in long time. Sorry."
"That is to be expected. Scratches on the door. Looks like I need…" The rest of his words were never heard.
The sound of an explosion ripped through the quiet neighbourhood. They instinctively threw themselves away from the door, collapsing in the hallway. The impact left both of them reeling, even though Neal knew this was going to happen.
Doors were opened hastily and the residents poured out, all of them displaying varying degrees of shock and curiosity in their faces. Rumours began to fly as they spotted the manager and a stranger crouched on the ground. A few stepped up to help and few more inched closer to the door. People from other floors came hurrying down just then, adding to the confusion. Shouts echoed through the passage. Someone called the police and fire department. Another tried to bring order to the chaos, asking them all to evacuate the building and leave the investigation to the authorities. The acrid smell of fire consuming plastic hastened the process and it took several level-headed people to prevent a stampede.
Neal anxiously scanned the crowd that was spilling out of the building, trying to find the agents that held Peter among them. He had studied the photos Sara had passed around carefully, but they were shot from a distance and not very detailed. He pushed through a knot of people in his hurry, curses following him. He almost turned back to apologise when he saw one of the men hurry out, his face contorted with worry. Neal inched closer, shadowing him, hoping he'd got the right man. His target seemed to be waiting at the entrance, presumably for his companion.
Neal's mind raced. Their plan was by no means foolproof. They didn't control all the variables and didn't know how the men would react when they would be forced out of hiding. Although he'd never admit it openly, Neal was extremely worried about Peter. He was never much of a believer, but he prayed for his friend's safety. But it seemed like fate was playing a cruel joke when he looked at the next set of people coming out of the building's exit. The other Interpol agent hobbled into view, supporting the limp body of Peter Burke.