Chapter Two

Peter sat quietly as the group was circled, the sound of quiet crying and muffled sobbing permeating the area. Fortunately, the gunman seemed more concerned that all hands remained in sight than he was in silence. The level of distress of the hostages had an upside; it allowed Peter to assess Caffrey first hand. He could learn more from an exchange, even one as limited as the circumstances now dictated, than from digging through reports and witness statements. Nothing was ever as revealing as personal interaction with a suspect.

"Thanks for that, by the way," Peter remarked quietly once the armed man reached the other side of the room. Caffrey sent a questioning glance in his direction, prompting explanation. "For not telling them who I am."

Peter was surprised at the expression of shock on Caffrey's face. "You thought I'd do that?" he asked, his tone incredulous. "Tell them who you are?" He seemed genuinely taken aback that Peter would even suggest such a thing. "They'd probably kill you."

"Yeah, I know," Peter responded, now watching the men in masks. "But you might earn some points and get rid of me in the process."

Caffrey continued to stare at him and Peter grew uneasy; they needed to blend in, not make a scene.

"Damn," Caffrey swore softly. "After all this time..." Something in his voice made Peter look at him, but just as he did, Caffrey turned away and looked forward. A muscle tightened in his jaw. "You don't know a damn thing about me."

There was anger in Caffrey's tone, but there was something else, too. He was actually offended by what he'd said, Peter realized. Offended and...hurt. How could that be and why? Confused, now it was Peter who stared but only for a moment. Remembering the importance of not drawing attention, Peter tore his eyes away from the young man's now flushed profile. Their brief conversation abruptly over, the two of them sat in silence, the chill between them unmistakable. The man patrolling them continued to circle around the customers, and there was still the sound of quiet crying and sniffling. Although most of the customers kept their heads and eyes down, both he and Caffrey watched the movements of the robbers. The silence between them felt heavy and added to the already stressful situation. Time seemed to drag by, but Peter knew that in reality, it was only moments before Caffrey broke the stillness, raising his arm to again wipe at his face. He gave a slight wince.

Peter ventured a look at the man beside him. "You okay?"

Still angry, Caffrey chose to ignore him. Both his nose and the cut on his cheek continued to lightly bleed and Peter could see that the bruise on his face had darkened. He'd taken quite a blow in that office. Why? Peter wondered. From what he'd learned about Caffrey, the man was all about self-preservation and went to great pains to avoid violent confrontations. What had happened? He thought back to the robber's words when he'd shoved Caffrey forward. He'd called him a Boy Scout. Caffrey was many things, but Boy Scout? That seemed grossly out of character. Curious as to what had transpired before he'd been forced from the office, Peter again tried to engage.

"What happened?" Caffrey offered no response to his inquiry. "Why did he hit you?" Peter pressed.

The third time was the charm, and Caffrey's head snapped around.

"Falling out among buddies," he whispered harshly, his eyes fierce. "Remember?"

Peter frowned, puzzled by the level of his outrage. It was as if his opinion of him mattered which made no sense at all.

"I'm sorry," he said without thinking. "I didn't mean to insult you."

"Are you serious, boss?" Jones protested through the ear whig. "Federal agents do not apologize to criminals."

Caffrey was wanted on two continents and would be in Federal Custody by day's end, but oddly enough, Peter's meant what he'd said. Caffrey used intelligence, charm, and, when necessary, sheer nerve to pull off his crimes, but he had never resorted to violence. He didn't hurt people or work with those who did. He did have of moral code of sorts and he did have standards though they did, inarguably, fall outside the norm of law-abiding society.

Caffrey's expression had transformed into one of startled confusion. He seemed as surprised at receiving the apology as Jones felt at Peter having delivered it. The young man regarded him doubtfully before looking away.

"He was rude to the lady." His words were clipped, his tone curt.

He'd gotten an answer to his question but Peter found it hard to believe. "And you called him on it?"

Caffrey shrugged without looking at him as color again crept into his cheek. "It was the gentlemanly thing to do."

Peter knew personal interaction would undoubtedly flush out and improve his profile but he was having trouble reconciling the Caffrey in person to the Caffrey on paper. Especially as he realized that Caffrey was suddenly self-conscious and that it was embarrassment, not anger that now colored his complexion. Instead of growing more clear, his sense of the man was becoming quite muddled.

"Good grief, Caffrey," he said with a shake of his head. "I thought you were smart."

Caffrey's continued to keep his face averted but Peter saw his mouth quirk.

"I am smart."

Since he was clearly pleased with the inadvertent compliment, Peter couldn't let it stand.

"No, you're lucky," Peter corrected wryly. "Lucky he settled for breaking your nose instead of shooting you."

Caffrey's head spun around, his eyes wide. "You think it's broken?" he asked in horror as his fingers moved to the body part in question. "Does it look broken? Is it crooked?"

Peter fought back a bark of laughter but couldn't contain a chuckle. "You're being held hostage in a bank surrounded by law enforcement, sitting beside the agent who is going to arrest you and you're worried about your nose?"

"It's the only one I've got, thank you," Caffrey retorted, fingering it tentatively. "So is it?" he pressed with a frown. "Is it crooked?"

Before Peter could answer either way, a sudden whirring in the back of the bank drew both their eyes and attention.

"What's that?" Peter frowned. "Are they cutting into the safe?"

Caffrey gave a small shake of his head, absently wiping his bloody fingers on his pants leg. "The vault is a Hamilton Class Four," he informed in a low voice. "Time lock, 6-inch solid steel. They haven't got time for that."

Peter looked at him with a raised brow. "And you know that how?"

"Research," Caffrey returned, a hint of a smile on his face. "I like to know the place I do business is secure."

"Yeah, right," Peter scoffed. "So what are they doing?"

Caffrey frowned in thoughtfulness. "Drilling safe-deposit boxes, I'd guess."

"Four minutes!"

The sudden shout made both he and Caffrey jump and elicited several yelps of fear from those around them. The thieves were working quickly, hoping to get clear of the building before law enforcement arrived. One man was by the door, one was with them, another was behind the counter filling bags with cash, and the last man, according to Caffrey, was drilling the safe deposit boxes.

"But drilling boxes is time-consuming, too," Peter pointed out. "How do they even know they'll find anything valuable? All that's in mine is paperwork and two hundred and fifty-two thousand dollars of debt."

It was Caffrey's turn to chuckle. "I don't know but whatever they're doing, they are taking way too much time. Response time here is just shy of five minutes." Peter didn't bother at ask as he knew the answer, research. "They shoulda been out of here two minutes ago. They've stopped." He frowned, listening. "They only drilled one," he noted when the sound didn't resume "That's it!" Caffrey burst out suddenly making Peter jump. "That's what they're here for," the young man said with certainty. "I bet this is just a distraction. What they really want is whatever they found in that box."

The sound of approaching sirens filled the air, and Peter felt Caffrey's frame grow tense beside him. He guessed the sound of sirens was never a welcome thing to Caffrey, but they weren't to him, either. Not in these circumstances. His heart began to hammer. He'd hoped the NYPD would respond in stealth, with no lights and sirens, and confront the suspects once they were outside the building. But that wasn't the path the boys in blue had chosen to take and now they'd made an already bad situation worse.

Now they had a group of armed, desperate bank robbers with a room full of hostages. The day just kept getting better and better.