A/N: Part 2 of Kidnapped.

As he turns the handle on the unlocked door of the unassuming house, ignoring the queasy feeling in his stomach telling something isn't right, Neal finds himself hoping it'll be Alan he's meeting on the other side. So, when his head hits the wall, a result of trying to fight off the owner of an arm that had wrapped around his throat the second he stepped inside, Neal regrets ignoring that gut instinct.

As he drops in a boneless heap to the floor, his last thoughts are of Peter and how disappointed he's going to be when he finds out he's screwed up yet again.

…

When Neal wakes up, he finds his situation less than ideal. Hands tied behind his back, wooden chair keeping him upright, the pounding in his head signals the meeting had not gone exactly as planned.

"Well hello, Lance is it?"

Blinking heavy lids, Neal's vision clears enough to take in the presence of the burly man sitting on the opposite side of a large ornate desk.

"That's right." A sly glance around tells him they're alone. "Nice welcoming committee you have." He smiles like he wakes up tied to chairs every day.

The man, who looks shorter in stature but twice as wide, lets loose a deep guffaw. The kind of sound only achieved after a lifetime of daily bourdon and cigars. "You are very amusing. Alan was right to recommend you."

"Where is Alan?" Neal asks coolly, "I'd like to thank him."

The man turns serious, a decisive frown replacing all humour. "Maybe you'll get the chance soon," he stands, trailing his fingers over the green felt top as he strolls around to Neal's side of the desk. "We have a job for you Lance, it's very important and I wouldn't normally entrust this to someone new, but… you're exactly what we're looking for."

The eerie similarity to words Ruiz had used when requesting him raises hairs on the back of Neal's neck. As does the way his mystery captor keeps saying 'Lance' like he knows it isn't his name.

"I've been told that before," he interjects with honesty. "So, what's the job?"

His blinding smile is interrupted the second the man's fingers abandon the desk and start trailing him. First along his arm up to his shoulders, then the ice-cold digits reach his neck, squeezing in a way that makes him flinch with pain. Neal instinctually tries to move out of his grasp, pulling forward as far as his binds allow.

The man laughs, deep and disturbing and far too amused for Neal's liking. "You'll do absolutely fine, kid." He sits back behind the desk like nothing happened, smile a mile wide as he reaches into a draw. "But you do need to relax." Pulling out a cigar, eyes making contact with someone behind him, across the room he calls out, "Get our guest a drink."

Absolutely terrified and fighting not to show it, Neal takes deep measured breaths. Though, throughout this exchange he's been able to ascertain one good thing. His restraints are merely rope. Chafing his skin as he wiggles his wrists, it hurts like a bitch but they're in no way a match for him and luckily, though they obviously suspect Lance is an alias, it seems they have no idea his real name is Neal Caffrey, because anyone who did know him would never be so careless.

Keeping his plan under-wraps Neal watches patiently while another man, this one taller, thinner and subservient looking, enters the room with a tray holding a tall glass of what he's certain is meant to look like water. He eyes the pair carefully, though he may not be able to read lips as efficiently as Peter or Mozzie, Neal doesn't need to know the words to read their expressions. Whatever is in that glass, it isn't anything good.

"Drink." The man in charge commands as the other places the glass on the desk before him.

"Well, I would but I'm at a disadvantage." Neal shrugs his still restrained arms and throws another wide grin into the mix, one that contrasts starkly with his fear filled bright eyes.

He's under no illusion as to what he's just invited. As predicted the thin guy picks up the glass, following the fat guys silent instruction and makes to force the liquid down his throat. It's when the glass is inches from his lips, his server leaning over in a less defensible position that Neal makes his move. One final tug and the thin rope snaps, cutting his wrists slightly but not so he notices the pain right away. A hefty shove and the thin guy with the glass falls backward, hitting his head on the table. The contents of the glass soaks the wooden floor, burning tiny holes everywhere it splashes. Neal doesn't think from that point forward, he runs.

Out the open door and down the stairs that present themselves like a gift, he pounds his way into the wide-open entrance hallway and toward the solid wooden front door. He gets his nimble fingers around the doors handle, seconds away from freedom, when multiple hands grab him, pulling him back. Neal's swept off his feet with ease and dragged into the nearest room, which, during his struggle to grab purchase onto anything that may prevent what's coming, he notices has an excellent view of the park.

"Get him under control, for fuck's sake." The stout man's angry voice booms down the stairs.

"Whoa, look at this!"

Lying flat on his back, a foot pressed central to his chest keeping him down, Neal feels his right leg lifted high into the air. Trouser cuff rolled up.

"What the fuck is that?"

He closes eyes, swallowing down the sense of impending doom. They found his tracker.

"Cut it, get it off him!"

Yes. Cut it you idiots! Then have all hell rain down on you. Neal prays they do it quick, and that Peter is still on the receiving end of any alerts. He wouldn't put it passed Ruiz to have circumvented the Marshalls to ensure he had absolute control over his fate.

"Wait!" A voice outside of the three holding him down calls silence to the room. "I know what that is."

Shit. All hope of them being incompetent henchmen flies out the window. If they know what the tracker does then he's screwed, because Peter isn't watching him this week. Peter's been locked out by the powers that be for fear of interference – the Rice case having been cited as a prime example. Only Ruiz has access to his current whereabouts so long as it remains active. Which means attached to his leg.

While his internal thoughts spin in full panic mode, conversation moves on around him. A discussion he wishes he'd listened to when twin hands start dragging him again, placing him in an upright position against the filthiest couch Neal's ever seen. He's very woozy, no doubt the effect of the first blow he received, coupled with the additional whack to the head he took when he was pulled backwards from the door, not to mention the numerous kicks and punches received since, under the guise of 'calming him down'.

Just as he's regaining some equilibrium a pill is thrust in his face. "This was going to be for later, but I think I'm going to have more fun hearing you scream."

That's as much warning as he gets, within seconds hands are on him again holding him down. The smooth talker with the oily voice, the one whose face he never sees clearly, palms his jaw and slips the pill between his lips. Neal fights, he really does, but he's out numbered, panicked and in a situation way over his head. One meaty fist clamps over his nose and mouth and it isn't long before he swallows. The pill's chased with liquid that he's certain isn't water. It burns his throat going down, but just enough to feel discomfort, nothing more. Seconds, maybe minutes pass he's not sure, everything is dipping in and out of focus. The hands restraining him eventually let go but Neal stays sitting on the threadbare rug, staring at a settee that's a twin of the one he's been propped up against. The light fades, comes back again, then fades some more. Try as he might the fight to keep his eyelids open is lost. Slumping to the side, the warm mid-morning sun shining through the bay window and ghosting over his hair, Neal thinks of Peter. Of all the times he's found him and that he really wouldn't mind making it 3-0.