a/n: These next few chapters are dedicated to my friend Roxane who spent hours with me pouring over every inch of these next few to make them as medically accurate as possible. If anything seems too Canadian, it's all her fault :)
"You ready for this, boss?" Diana asked as the two agents reached into the trunk of Peter's car to retrieve their tactical gear.
Peter straightened the crooked FBI patch on the back of his tac vest before answering. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess."
"You're worried he's not here," Diana said. "Aren't you?"
Peter inspected his weapon, pulling the clip out to make sure it was still full before tapping it against the pistol's grip and slamming it back home again. Just like he'd always been taught. "More like he might be."
Diana chewed on that for a moment as she secured the straps of her vest. The sound of the Velcro echoed around the parking lot.
It had begun to snow and there was moisture beading on the car's finish when Peter finally slammed the trunk lid closed. It had been a long time since he'd had to go into a place in full tactical gear, but he had no idea what to expect when they got into the prison and he was done playing it safe. If Neal really was in there, then Peter was going in guns blazing.
The prison parking lot where they all had gathered was overrun with vehicles. No lights this time though. Peter wasn't expecting their arrival to go entirely unnoticed, but he figured at least some discretion was warranted. The SWAT van was parked in the fire lane just beside the set of stairs that led up to the prison's main entrance. The ambulance was in one of the spots in the lot, it's engine idling and its occupants' heads bent over their phones.
Any other time and place and Peter might have had a problem with that. Maybe pulled up his FBI britches and gone over there to give the preoccupied medics a stern talking to. But today he let it go. Today he was willing to look the other way. Not because it didn't bother him, but because he was still holding out hope that Neal would be ok and they wouldn't even need the ambulance in the first place. It didn't matter that Leech had already sent him a photo proving otherwise. In Peter's eyes, and until he saw otherwise, Neal was perfectly fine. He would be leaving that prison on his own two feet in short order, grinning like a loon as the SWAT team guys gave him high fives and the sheriff's men all clamoured to shake his hand.
"We're all so glad you're ok," they would say. And those relieved words would follow them back to New York where they would be repeated by their friends at White Collar as soon as Peter and Neal returned to the office triumphant and smiling. It could all still happen. Right?
"Head's up, Boss," Diana said, nodding over Peter's shoulder. He turned his head and watched as a very disheveled and very tired looking man in his mid 60's extricated himself from the passenger seat of a police cruiser.
He nearly rolled his eyes when he looked back to Diana. Here we go.
"Which one of you is Peter Burke?" the very angry man demanded as soon as he reached them.
Peter turned, forcing a smile as he fished for his badge. "That would be me."
"You better have a damn good reason for dragging me out of my bed in the middle of the night, Agent," the man snapped, practically throwing Peter's badge back at him after squinting at it for a moment. The elderly man needed no introduction.
Diana tapped Peter's arm with the stack of papers Jones had faxed over to them before they left for the prison. Peter held them out to the warden.
"I have a very good reason," he said. "This is a federal warrant to search these premises. We have reason to believe a man is being held here against his will.
The warden seemed to pale under the weak light of the parking lot lamps. "Excuse me?"
Peter extended the papers out a little further and the warden snatched them from his hand. He patted at a breast pocket for a moment before apparently realizing he had forgotten his glasses.
"Up top, Sir," Peter pointed out. His efforts were rewarded by a glare from the warden as the man retrieved the glasses from the top of his head and settled them onto his nose.
He skimmed the warrant at first, his eyes flashing across the page. But they soon slowed as the red anger on his face was gradually replaced by pale shock. "These are some pretty serious charges, Agent Burke."
"So is kidnapping a federal employee and moving him across state lines," Peter replied darkly. The FBI probably wouldn't have agreed with his assessment of Neal's position at the bureau, but that hardly mattered now.
The warden paled further, if that was even possible. "What's his name? This man you say we're allegedly holding?"
"Neal," Peter forced out. "Neal Caffrey."
The warden seemed to ponder this for a moment as he handed the warrant papers back to Peter. "I'm sorry, Agent Burke, but that name doesn't ring a bell."
Peter had been an FBI agent for a long time and he'd learned a thing or two while working with Neal. Like how to tell when someone was trying to hide something from him. The Warden, who Peter reminded himself was named Thomas Grant, was not acting like the sort of man who knew his involvement in a conspiracy was about to be exposed and he was in deep shit. This was genuine surprise and concern Peter saw on his face. And he almost didn't know what to do with it. Every single person they'd come across during this entire investigation had been dirty and corrupt. Not one of them had shown even the slightest modicum of human decency or compassion. To find it in the warden of the Bucks County Correctional facility was a surprise to say the least. And for this man's sake at least, It had better not be an act.
"What about a corrections officer by the name of Franklin Smith?" Diana asked this time.
This name got a reaction from the warden who wrinkled up his nose in disgust. "Yes. What of him?"
"Is he on shift right now or anywhere on the premises?"
"I'd have to check," he replied. "I don't have the schedules memorized. They're all on the computer in my office."
"Then why don't we take this little shindig inside so the warden can check his records and we all can warm up?" Sheriff Martin suggested, waking up to the little group. The SWAT team leader was with him, a man named Andy Gilchrest.
"My guys can easily hang out here until you're ready to move, Agent Burke," Gilchrest added.
Peter was fine with that plan. It was snowing harder now and the temperature had dropped considerably. A nice warm office was sounding pretty good right about now and Peter was ready to get this show on the road.
Decision made, Diana and Peter began following the warden across the parking lot and towards the prison. They'd not made it 30 feet before a figure came bursting through the darkened doors of the entrance. It was a guard, Peter realized as the young man paused at the top of the stairs to stare out over the packed parking lot with mouth agape. His eyes swept over the police cruisers and milling SWAT team members before finally settling on the Warden. He came bounding down the stairs, taking them two at a time in his haste before jogging the rest of the way across the lot. He was winded by the time he reached them.
"Warden Grant! I can't believe you're here!"
"What do you want, Officer Barrett?" Grant asked.
The officer's eyes were wide as saucers. "I mean, Richards told me you'd probably be out here with a bunch of FBI agents, but I didn't believe him. I thought he was pulling my leg."
"Officer Barrett," the warden repeated.
Barret couldn't have been older than 20 and his face colored when he realized everyone was hanging on his every word.
"Oh Christ, I'm sorry. Officer Richards told me to come out here and tell you there's been an incident in the infirmary."
Peter stiffened, instantly alert. "What kind of an incident?" he asked.
The guard glanced over at Peter and then back to his boss. Grant gave him a nod indicating it was ok to answer.
"Between one of our guards and an inmate, Sir."
"Which guard?" Peter and Grant asked at the same time. This was apparently becoming a thing for him.
"The one they call Smithy, I think? I'm not sure. I'm still pretty new. Frank, maybe?"
Peter had to pause and take a breath as the officer's words sunk in. Smith was here, and he had just been involved in an incident with an inmate. It had to be Neal. It was just too much of a coincidence.
But Peter also knew it was too early to hope, and that he needed to keep that hope (and his nerves) in check until they knew for certain that Neal really was here. He had to stay calm and focused, because losing it now wasn't going to do anyone any favors. Least of all Neal.
"And the inmate? Peter asked, pleased that he was able to keep his voice so steady.
"That I don't know, Sir. Richards just grabbed me in the hall and sent me out here to tell the Warden and the FBI guy to get up to the infirmary pronto."
That was all the confirmation Peter needed. He turned to the warden.
"Of course, Agent Burke," the man answered before Peter could even open his mouth to ask.
That taken care of, he turned to Diana next, but she, too, was already two steps ahead of him.
"I got it, Boss. I'll stay here with SWAT and get ready to breach on your order, if we need to."
"And have your paramedics pull round to the back while you're at it," the warden added. "There's a door near the infirmary we use for transporting injured prisoners to the hospital. They can use that to… I mean, if your man is… well, what I mean to say is… just in case… you know."
Peter did know. He'd been finishing that thought for himself ever since leaving the sheriff's office. New York, really.
In case Neal was dead.
In case his CI was seriously injured and required medical attention.
They were all swirling around his brain, though Peter refused to let any of them come forward and be acknowledged.
"I'm on it, Peter," Diana said again, touching the side of his arm. "Go."
Peter and the warden followed Barrett into the prison. They passed through a heavy metal gate that marked the entrance to the cell blocks and then through a confusing warren of long hallways, dark, cramped stairwells lined with chain link fencing, and heavily guarded checkpoints. Peter lost track of how many they'd been buzzed through by the time they finally reached the infirmary.
It was nothing more than a door in a hallway. A slab of pine hung in a painted frame with a white sign on the door that announced it was the Prison Infirmary in red, splashy letters. It was nothing special or particularly extraordinary. Yet it felt like the gates of hell.
His steps faltered suddenly, his palms sweaty as he rubbed them against the fabric of his pants. This was it. Moment of truth. He unholstered his gun for good measure and Barrett shot him a confused look. Peter shrugged. There was no time to explain to the young man why he felt the need to pull his weapon. Describe all the emotions that were churning around in his guts and fighting for supremacy. How utterly terrified he was to go through that door and possibly find Neal dead on the other side. Or even worse, not find him there at all. Peter wasn't sure what would happen with either scenario, so gun it was.
But in the end, it didn't even matter.
The three men stepped into the room and were immediately greeted by the sight of an unconscious man slumped over and cuffed to a chair. Peter elbowed his way past Barrett and Grant, holstering his weapon as he moved in for a closer look.
Could it be? The crooked nose and black hair were certainly evidence enough, but he still had to get in closer to be sure.
But there was no denying it. The unconscious man in the chair, the one who was bleeding from the mouth with a slightly swollen face, was none other than Franklin Smith. The nephew of Robert Leech. The man who was likely holding Neal. And if he was here, then maybe…
"You Burke?" someone asked and Peter tore his eyes away from the unconscious Smith and over to the person who had addressed him. There were two other guards in the room, he realized suddenly, and one of them was holding the other at gunpoint. They were both breathing heavily and showing all the signs of a recent battle. Peter reached for his sidearm as he met the eyes of the man holding the gun.
"Officer Richards," the warden demanded, "what is the meaning of this?"
But Richards ignored his boss.
"He's in there."
Richards inclined his head towards one of three cells in the infirmary. Peter glanced over into a small cell that was set up much like any other hospital room he'd ever been in. There was a table and equipment, even an IV hanging from what looked to be some kind of stretched out coat hanger. But that wasn't what brought Peter's world to a sudden and unexpected halt - like he had been the one up on that bridge in that shitty Ford tempo instead of Neal and Jones. What stole the breath from his lungs and had him barreling past Richards and into the room as if the world was on fire.
Because it was.
Peter's eyes couldn't decide which utterly wrong thing they wanted to focus on first: the fact that it was Neal lying unconscious in the cell's bed - Neal, with his twin black eyes and battered face. Livid red bruises in the shape of long fingers encircling his throat. The man who was struggling and wheezing for breath even while unconscious - or the frantic nurse who was begging for Peter's help the moment he entered the room.
"Please," she said.
Peter's feet moved forward of their own accord, some hidden instinct taking over while his higher brain functions were off on holiday.
"I need you to apply pressure to his wound."
She grabbed his hands and placed them over a saturated bandage covering Neal's shoulder.
"Right there, hard as you can."
He did as he was told and blood welled up between his fingers. Again his brain was having difficulty deciding which horrible thing it would focus on first, the blood on his hands or the panicked way in which the nurse was trying to resuscitate Neal. This seemed to entail trying to take his vitals all while keeping the oxygen mask secured over his face at the same time. Breath or blood, blood or breath, he kept waffling back and forth until there was a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Agent Burke?" It was Gale, one of the paramedics from the parking lot, his paramedics. The other one was there, too. He hadn't even heard them come in.
"She told me to apply pressure."
Gale smiled. "And you're doing a fantastic job. But why don't you let me take over?"
Something in Peter's brain clicked back into place and he realized that he was in the way. They were trying to get to Neal and Peter was being an idiot. He immediately removed his hands from Neal's shoulder and stepped aside. The paramedics swooped in just as fast, and Peter just kept going backwards until his back hit the wall. He stayed there watching while they worked.
Gale took the head of the bed and her partner, Tim, began rummaging through the bag of supplies they had brought with them.
"What have we got?" Gale asked.
It was the infirmary nurse who answered. "Dominic Sanchez, 30 years old. Strangulation trauma to the throat. Stab wound to the chest. The bleeding was under control until a few minutes ago but started again after he was assaulted. Bilateral breath sounds but clinical signs of what could be pneumonia. He's been unresponsive for the last five minutes. He was at 94% on 5 liters before he was strangled, but I had to raise it to 8," she rattled off.
Gale narrowed her eyes as she looked over at the nurse. The paramedic seemed to be extremely annoyed by what she'd just heard. "This man should be in a hospital, not a prison infirmary," she snapped. "Why didn't you call us sooner?"
But the nurse didn't answer. She just averted her eyes to the floor, as if the tiles had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the room. Peter wasn't sure what was going on there, but he sure as hell was going to find out. Once Neal was taken care of, of course.
Gale shook her head in disgust at the woman before focusing her attention back on Neal. She dug her knuckles into his sternum as Tim wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Neal's arm. "Dominic? Can you hear me?"
"Neal," Peter said, suddenly finding his voice. Gale's head popped up again as their eyes met. "His name is Neal, not Dominic."
She nodded once. "Ok then, come on Neal, open your eyes for me buddy."
But Neal was not responding. His bruised eyes remained closed as he continued to struggle for air.
Gale pulled a stethoscope from around her neck and started listening to his chest. Peter thought he saw the smallest flicker of concern cross her face before she pulled the stethoscope from her ears and moved to the very head of Neal's bed.
"Pass me the OPA, would you Tim?" she asked her partner. Peter didn't know what an OPA was, but he sure as hell didn't miss it when Tim looked up sharply from where he had begun sticking little white pads to Neal's chest beneath his jumpsuit.
"And the C-Collar while you're at it," Gale added while gently palpating the sides of Neal's neck and then prying his jaws apart to shine a penlight down his throat. Peter nearly lost his shit when she added, "He's not protecting his airway."
Peter felt all the blood drain from his face as the paramedic's words washed over him. This was all wrong. This was not the way any of this was supposed to go. Neal was supposed to be ok. Had Peter's hands not been covered in blood, he might have brought them up to his face.
He wasn't stupid, he knew Neal was going to be at least a little worse for wear after being kidnapped and held in a prison for a week - despite what Peter kept telling himself on the way over here - but not like this. Never like this.
Peter felt lost. He glanced down at his hands. The ones covered in Neal's blood.
Never like this.
It was all so incredibly wrong.
When Peter forced himself to look up again, Tim was fishing through their kit for whatever Gale had asked for. Gale was still at the head of Neal's bed though she was now using the index and middle fingers of each hand to push Neal's jaw up, her elbows planted on either side of his head for more leverage.
Tim resurfaced from the depths of their bag a moment later holding something in one of those packages medical supplies always seemed to come in. Opaque plastic with a window at the front so you could tell what it was. The contraption inside reminded Peter a little of a meat hook, though this one was short, made of plastic, and slightly flattened. Tim passed the package over to Gale who let go of Neal's jaw to rip it open and hold it up to the side of his face. Why, Peter could only guess.
"That'll do," Gale said a moment later before gently prying Neal's jaws apart yet again. Peter watched in horrid fascination as she began to slowly push the tube-like object down Neal's throat. And when Peter said push, he really meant forced. He almost said something it was so hard to watch, but stopped himself. He knew Neal was now in the best hands possible and he had to trust in Gale's abilities. She wasn't some shoddy prison nurse who had left a man to die in an infirmary cell. Gale was the paramedic the county had hand-picked to send with Peter on this little mission. She knew what she was doing.
Even so, Peter held his breath as he watched her struggle for another moment or two before she twisted the tube 180 degrees and gave a triumphant little "Got it!"
She was smiling as she replaced the oxygen mask on Neal's face with one they had brought along. "How are we doing over there, Tim?" she asked her partner.
Tim had Neal hooked up to a cardiac monitor by now and began listing off the vitals he'd been collecting. Gale paid close attention as she began to cut away the bandages from Neal's shoulder.
"BP is 92/56. Heart rate 116. Respirations are 28. I'll do the sat again in a minute since we just got the mask back on him," Tim said as he passed Gale a wad of gauze. Peter tried to sift through his rudimentary medical knowledge and decide how bad all that was supposed to be.
Gale took the gauze and recovered Neal's shoulder. "Alrighty, let's move him."
The guard called Richards came forward and helped the paramedics transfer Neal over onto their gurney once they had stabilized his neck with the c-collar. When that was done and Neal had been secured, they rushed out of the room with hardly a glance back. Peter, realizing that he needed to snap the hell out of it now, and do his goddamn job, shook the shock from around his shoulders and turned to follow. The warden tried to come with him.
"Agent Burke, I have to insist that two of my guards accompany Mr. San - Neal to the hospital in the ambulance," the man said as he struggled to keep pace with Peter who was practically jogging to catch up with the paramedics. "He is still considered an inmate here and it's against protocol for me to allow you to take him out of the prison unaccompanied."
"Are you kidding me?" Peter growled over his shoulder without slowing down, even though he wanted to. Even though he wanted nothing more than to stop dead in his tracks, right there in the middle of the hallway, grab that stupid man by his rumpled lapels and shake him. Shake him until he understood how serious all of this was. What it would mean for him if Neal died because of what happened here. "Are you seriously trying to argue protocol with me at a time like this? After what just happened back there?"
But the warden would not back down. "I know how that sounds, but you have to look at it from my prospective. I have no proof that this man is who you say he is. I have to protect the paramedics in that ambulance. It's just the way it's got to be, Agent Burke."
"I don't think so, warden," Peter shot back. He was entirely done with this entire situation. "There is no way in hell I'm leaving Neal alone with any of your men." It was like every professional filter he'd ever had was gone and he didn't care. He kind of liked it, actually.
They'd reached the side door of the prison by now and Peter walked into a wall of cold air mixed with snow. The paramedics were already loading Neal into the back of their rig. It was now or never.
"Agent Burke, please!"
Peter turned on the warden, his face calm and voice low. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you, Warden Grant. If any of your men so much as try and stop me, or get into the back of that ambulance with me, I will shoot them on sight."
Grant went pale under the lights again and snapped his mouth shut.
"And then," Peter continued, pointing a finger at the warden's face, "I'll be back for your job."
And he meant it. Peter was going to use all that hate that had been growing inside of him since the very beginning and use it to ruin a lot of lives once this was all over. What were a few more names added to the list?
"I'm going with," he informed rather than asked the paramedics after they finished loading Neal into the back of the ambulance. Gale looked to the warden for confirmation that it was ok, but the man was otherwise occupied. Diana had shown up finally and was giving the man a rundown of the shitstorm that was about to descend on his prison if he didn't stand down and let Peter handle things. This seemed to satisfy Gale who waved him in.
Peter settled himself down onto the bench and the doors were slammed shut behind him, cutting off the sounds and the snow. He glanced out of one of the little windows cut into the doors and caught Diana's eyes through the glass.
She was going to take care of everything, she promised with her eyes. Don't you worry about a thing.
Only Peter was going to worry. There was plenty to worry about. They were rushing Neal to the hospital for heaven's sake, and he was pretty sure he'd just threatened to shoot a bunch of prison guards. Regardless, Peter found himself nodding anyway. Promising even though he knew he'd never be able to keep that promise.
The ambulance pulled away from the prison and Peter didn't look away from the windows again until Diana disappeared from view.