So here's the second chapter of my story. :) Like I said, I already have the whole storyline in my head, it just takes some time for me to write it down, especially in English. Please do me a favor and mention all my mistakes and sentences I should rephrase. I'm not sure whether this is good enough to be continued, so please leave a comment with your opinion. Thanks a lot! :) And just by the way, I'll go on with my other storyline in German very soon!
Special Agent Peter Burke was sitting behind his desk, rubbing his tired eyes and staring at the open folder in front of him. He had never had a case like this, which was hunting him even in his dreams and threatened his marriage.
Three years ago, a close to perfect forgery ended up on his table, which was just the beginning. He and his division found several pieces of artwork, obviously created by the same artist. And this unknown criminal became better and better and after he could be associated with some former tamper-proof counterfeit bonds, the hunt became somehow significant. His team even started to call him "James Bond" and Peter got the feeling that many of his team members started to admire the latest, nearly flawless, forgeries.
Ten month ago they had a little breakthrough when one of the forgeries they confiscated could be related with a guy called Nicholas Halden. But that name turned out to be a dead end after all. Then, only six month ago, Peter received the cons first postcard with some very personal birthday wishes. Two weeks later, another card arrives with "Get well soon", directed to his dog Satchmo, who had to undergo a little surgery the day before. After that he had received at least one postcard a week and chocolate and a bottle of real good wine for Christmas.
That Con knew every bit going on in Peters life. Oddly enough, he somehow rejoiced at every message received by the forger after some time. Now two weeks had passed since the last card arrived and Peter had to admit that he started worrying. He leaned back in his chair, sighing, when his mobile phone started to ring.
"Burke", he grumbled.
"Did you receive my messages?", a young voice answered.
It took Peter a while to understand, then his eyes widened. "Who's there?"
"Aw Peter, lets skip these questions, I won't answer them anyway and I'm quite sure you're aware of that. I just wanted to say good-bye. It somehow became a habit I've became fond of writing these postcards for you and it's such a pity that this won't be possible anymore."
Damn, this man sounded like he really meant what he just said, Peter thought.
"So, what was all this about?", Peter asked after a short break.
The man on the phone chuckled lightly. He sounded very young, barely in his twenties, Peter assumed.
"You know, I thought it couldn't do any harm to become friends with the enemy. But Peter, don't take it personally, but it's not possible for this friendship to become even closer. Unfortunately, I really must go now. Please take care of your marvellous wife and your adorable dog. You should really spend more time at home, you know. If all goes well, I won't be a burden to you and your social life anymore. Farewell, Peter. It's been a pleasure."
Peter felt completely stunned. "Wait please…" he shouted, but it was to late.
He furiously threw his mobile phone on his desk and shouted "Dianna!". A young and pretty female agent hurried inside.
"Yes Boss, what's the matter?".
"I got a strange phone call. He knew all about the postcards, so I must assume I just talked to James Bond himself. I'm pretty sure he won't be that stupid, but trace his call, immediately."
When they reached the spot where the call came from half an hour later, they found a disposable phone, lying on a box full of doughnuts and a card that said: "Thanks for the good cooperation." Peter couldn't help but grinning.
After he dropped his gift for the White Collar Devision, Neal snatched a wallet from a man with a noble looking black coat and a nice fedora, which he honestly admired. He took the dollar bills and threw the rest of it in a nearby mailbox. After that he went into his usual liquor store.
"Hi Danny.", he greeted the middle aged behind the counter.
"Hello Neal, the same as usual?", he glanced at him, unagitated.
"No, I need something very strong today, mate. It's a special occasion."
"Right… no problem. Anything special in mind?".
Neal left the shop a few minutes later with a bag full of strong alcohol and headed to his fathers flat straight away. When he entered the front door, he heard James walking in his direction.
"Where have you been, you useless brat?", he shouted at him. He bumped him away with his elbow, took the paperback and looked inside.
"That's some good stuff. You really learned you lesson, didn't you?".
Neal remained quiet, his gaze filled with hate. Without any warning, his father kicked his knee into Neals stomach and pushed him on the ground.
"Just to make sure you got it, son." He said, turned around, grabbing one of the bottles and started drinking immediatly.
Neal lay on the dirty floor, surrounded by dozens of cigarette butts and inhaling a huge amount of dust and his eyes filled with tears. He had to escape, never mind the expense. Even if he had to make a deal with the devil himself.
He slowly sat up, feeling sore and helpless and went to his room to finally finish his Raffael. It took him two more hours until he was satisfied. Now it had to dry for a few hours, after that he would leave this shithole for good, he promised himself.
He decided to lay down for at least one hour, because he knew that otherwise he couldn't concentrate well enough, which was definitely necessary today. When he rested his head on his smelly old pillow, he imagined Peter Burke sitting in his wonderful, clean and warm house, with his beloved wife and his cute dog and his heart grew heavy. He couldn't imagine living in a family like this, with plenty to eat and much love and acceptance. He tried to get rid of this thought and closed his eyes.
Suddenly the door bursted open and his father was standing in the middle of his room, absolutely drunk, but still able to keep his balance more or less.
"You creepy bastard. Did you think I wouldn't find out, you piece of shit?."
Neal felt panic rising inside him. His father took his fist and hit him in his face, so that Neal passed out for a few seconds. His father went on screaming.
"Did you think that I'm just letting you go? Forget it. I know all about the heist. You won't leave me. You're my property, my slave. I'll always find you, no matter where you'll hide. So just stop trying, you bleedin idiot."
James slammed into his back and pulled him over, to shackle his wrists with a cable tie. Neals heart was racing and he was breathing heavily. He knew that he had to fight back now, or it would be to late. He took all his strength together and kicked with as much force as possible in his fathers knees to make him fall. His father keeled over like an old and rotten tree, probably due to the alcohol. Before he could stand up, Neal was on his feet, grabbing a huge and heavy book next to him with some of Raffaels paintings inside and slammed it on his fathers head three times. After that, James didn't move anymore.
Neal was staring at him, shocked and bewildered. He forced himself to focus on the next steps, he had to go, now!
With shaking hands, he took his backpack and stuffed some of his belongings inside. Then he grabbed the painting and without even a final glimpse he rushed out of the apartment.
