Diana felt undeniably nervous as she explained her theory to Hughes. Earlier, Jones had provided her encouragement and was supportive of her raising her ideas to the senior agent, which she appreciated; however, that same confidence she had felt after chatting with Jones now seemed to have dwindled.

Hughes was intimidating no matter the situation, with a no-nonsense demeanor that always implied a sense of irk. Normally she had Peter by her side when she addressed their superior. It wasn't as though she hadn't provided updates to the older man herself before; it's just that Peter was usually there to jump in or simply provide morale support.

This time, she stood on her own.

Hughes at least listened, patiently quiet as Diana recapped their morning, trying to give enough but not too much detail. Once all the facts were laid out, she then expressed her concern over the unfortunate coincidence in all the events.

It was the voicing of that concern she was most nervous about.

She paused, letting out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding as she finished. She felt her stomach flip-flop in uneasiness as she waited for a response.

The silver haired man's reaction was initially similar to Jones the first time she had told him. She was suddenly appreciative that Jones wasn't there to hear it. "We've had him in custody with access to no one but his lawyer," he said, voice low and cynical. "How would he possibly orchestrate all of that?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She internally floundered for a moment, regretting to use that phrase – a phrase that showed weakness and inaptitude – so quickly with Peter's superior, and struggled to find her next words. "I know I don't have a lot of substantiated support for this, sir," she continued, "but I really think there's something going on here."

Hughes slowly crossed his arms over his chest, wrinkling his suit jacket slightly. "Have you heard back from Peter?"

"No," she stated. "Not since they left."

"They," Hughes repeated. He frowned. "He's just with Caffrey, right?"

"Yes, and the pilot that we hired."

"Yes, I remember approving that…" Hughes said slowly, a little skeptically. "Apparently a third party had more expertise than our own resources for going into that area…" He shook his head, clearly still not pleased with that decision. "Why don't you call that company? See if they've heard from their own pilot."

Diana paused. Why hadn't she thought of that? "Yes, sir. I'll do that." While a little abashed to have not considered that route of communication, she now felt a little hopeful that it would get her some connection. Surely the company had been in touch with their pilot.

"And the other agents…" Hughes continued. "Jeff… Beth…?"

"Stable," Diana affirmed. As he nodded, and almost looked dismissive, she spoke again. "Sir, I'm just a little concerned there might be another incident. This case seems—"

"Unlucky," he interjected. "Some cases are. Doesn't mean there will be another incident."

"This is unluckier than I've ever seen," she replied candidly. She felt the need to be persistent. If anything happened to anyone else…

She really wished she knew what Peter would do in this situation.

Hughes studied her for a moment and then said, "What would you suggest, Agent Berrigan? Calling off the other agents? I understand many of them are already in transit, is that right?"

Calling off the whole plan for that day seemed extreme. It seemed like the inexperienced, cowardly thing to do. The 'safe' route. Even Peter wouldn't play it completely safe. Play 'conservative,' he'd previously told her. 'Not necessarily safe.' She swallowed and said, "No, sir. But I just want our agents' safety to be the priority."

"Our agents safety is always our priority," he said, a little stiffly.

"I don't mean you implied otherwise," she quickly objected, kicking herself again. "Not at all, sir."

He eyed her for a moment, silent. Then he spoke. "If you're so concerned…" he began, voice softening just slightly. "Then relay the message that everyone needs to be extra vigilant out there... You have no reason to even explain why."

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll do that."

He nodded back. "You're the acting lead on this until Peter's back. He made that clear to you and the others, correct?"

"Yes," she affirmed.

"Good."

Before another word could be exchanged, they were interrupted by Jones.

He rushed into Hughes office, wide-eyed. "Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt," he said abruptly.

Hughes eyes immediately shifted from Diana to Jones, frowning at the disruption. "What's going on?"

"It's Caffrey," Jones said. "His anklet's been cut."

.

"So… What do we do now, Peter?"

Peter didn't respond to the question right away. Though worded differently, Neal had asked the same question just a few minutes before. Peter had responded then, but he'd be the first to admit that his answer was little more than a convoluted way of basically saying they should stay put.

At the time, the response had quieted Neal. He hadn't questioned it.

But clearly the answer hadn't been sufficient.

Peter's head still ached. He knew, just as Neal knew, that he had a concussion. He felt tired, and irritated, but determined to keep levelheaded. He had to think ahead, and had to focus on their safety. Without a radio or cell service, he knew that cutting Neal's anklet would have sent an alert, surely to have been received already. It was the only way Peter knew how to communicate with the outside world. And now it was just a matter of time.

"Peter," Neal spoke again.

Peter turned his head, viewing the younger man beside him. Ahead of them, the rain continued to come down through the broken windshield.

A few minutes earlier, Neal had shifted back into the other corner of the backseat, distancing himself but sitting sideways so that he faced his handler. One leg was crossed, bent at the knee, resting his ankle atop his other knee. That ankle he appeared to be rubbing.

"How's your ankle?" Peter asked, nodding towards it. He noticed Neal's clothing still looked damp.

"Fine." Neal's hand moved away from the body part in question. "Are we just going to sit here?" He shifted his posture and moved to put both feet on the ground.

"As opposed to what, Neal?" Peter replied. He raised his hands to rub at his aching temples. "You have somewhere else to be?"

"You mean somewhere other than sitting around in an incapacitated vehicle with a rotting corpse?"

"Neal…" Peter sighed and rolled his eyes at him. "He's not rotting… The body doesn't begin to decompose for at least twenty-four to seventy-two hours."

"Thanks. I'll file that under 'facts I didn't want to know…'" Neal replied.

"You have a lot of facts in there?" Peter responded, raising his eyebrows. As Neal's brow furrowed in response, he sighed. "They can locate us now, Neal. Be patient. Think of it as being in the van."

"You know I hate the van," Neal reminded. His tone was a mixture of disdain and impatience.

"I know. One of the few things about you that's obvious."

"And the van has never had a corpse in it."

"That's true. Maybe you should be more appreciative of it next time."

Neal sighed. "Peter…"

"Neal, I know you hate sitting still…" Peter replied, "but we don't have a choice right now. Try not to think about him," he nodded towards the front of the vehicle, where rain steadily fell. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing we can do about that right now."

Neal's frown deepened. He was quiet for a minute, looking out beyond the front of the broken windshield. "Peter, there was supposed to be a lot more infrastructure here. He may have just misjudged where he landed. If we just—"

"No," Peter interjected. "Whatever you're gonna say, no. Save your breath."

"No? You didn't even let me finish," Neal objected.

"You were going to suggest going outside. Right? The answer's no."

Neal let out a frustrated sigh. "Peter, how can you just be fine to sit here, with a dead body—decomposing or not—when you don't even know when someone's going to locate us?"

"They've probably already located us," Peter replied. "And I'm sure you know that, or you'd have cut your anklet the first chance you had on the outside."

"Fine, so they know where we are," Neal allowed, tone still a bit impatient. "But to mobilize and actually physically get here?"

"How is leaving where we are right now going to expedite that, Neal?"

"It won't. But there was supposed to be more here," Neal replied, gesturing towards the window. "The plans I read showed a real infrastructure here, besides the bunker. Not a makeshift, third-world runway like this. I think he miscalculated."

"And maybe he did," Peter replied. "Due to weather, or who knows what. Maybe you distracting him, but nonetheless—"

"Me?" Neal retorted. "What are you talking about, Peter?"

Peter shook his head, wincing slightly at the headache that increased. "Whatever happened, it happened. It's all even more of a reason to stay where we are."

"Why? I don't get why we have to just sit here, Peter."

"Because it's pouring rain, and you don't know what the hell is out there, Neal," Peter responded. His own voice was terse, annoyed. It was the headache, and the situation. And these incessant questions about what was next… "You don't know whether any of that stuff you read about on the plans is anywhere near where we are right now. He may have miscalculated by more than you think."

"Well, rather than conjecture… I'm going to go out there," Neal stated. "And I'll find out."

"No, you're not," Peter replied firmly. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

Neal was insistent, and he shook his head. He reached for the handle of the door next to him. "I won't go far," he said. "Just a quick survey of the land."

"Neal," Peter said sharply. "I said no. No surveys. Nothing of the sort." He felt annoyed, having to continue to repeat a negative response to all of Neal's suggestions. But they had to stay put. They had to…

"Peter…" Neal gave his handler a dubious look.

"Neal." Peter's headache pounded. "Don't mistake this situation as a reason to think you are in any position to call the shots. Because you're not. I told you no."

"Peter, a short while ago you weren't even conscious," Neal replied accusingly. "What do you think would have happened then?"

"Well, I'm conscious now," Peter answered stiffly. "You move and you'll regret it."

Neal scoffed at first but then seemed to consider the threat, his raised arm lowering. "I go out there, and what?"

Peter glared at him, eyes narrowing slightly. Why were they having this conversation? Why couldn't Neal just stay patient for a few minutes? Maybe a half hour? However long it would take for help to arrive? Instead Neal forced him to make ultimatums. "Remember our discussion on lockup? How about that?"

"Would be better than being where I am right now," Neal shot back.

The response, though more childish than usual, wasn't unexpected. Their mutual frustration was obvious. Peter rubbed at his temples again, gaze shifting back to the front of the vehicle, to the falling rain. "That's great, Neal. Really constructive."

"Well, you're threatening lock-up," Neal responded, "when we're in the middle of no where, with no timelines on when we'll get out of here. I'll take my chances."

Peter watched Neal reach again for the door. "Just stop, Neal," he said. His tone now was more exhausted, almost disappointed in having to have the discussion. "Come on." He paused. "Please."

Neal sighed, once again lowering his arm, shoulders slumping. "It's not like I don't want to listen to you," he told the older man, glancing down at the discarded anklet that had been cut just a short while earlier. He looked back up at Peter. "But I really can't stay in here with him," he jabbed his finger in the air towards Ed in the front seat. He paused. "You say to just not think about him, but you didn't see his face."

"I didn't," Peter acknowledged. "And I'm sorry that you did." He was actually sorry for that.

Neal exhaled, frustrated, turning his head towards the window. The view outside was distorted by the rain droplets on the glass. "It's not like I'll run. I don't care that the anklet is off."

"I know," Peter replied. "That's not why I said no."

"There's nowhere to run to," Neal continued. "That would be stupid to even try. I don't know where I am." He took out his phone again. "I can't even get a signal. Can't call Moz."

"What would you do if you did have a signal?

Neal gave him a look. "I'm not going to answer that."

"Because it's an insulting question? Or because I don't want to know the question?" Peter replied. He was actually curious to know…

Neal rolled his eyes. "Both. I can get real creative in my answers, Peter…"

"And I'm sure you'll get more creative the longer we're here."

Neal pressed his lips together and returned his point of view to the window. "It was a loaded question," he told the window.

"At least wait for the rain to stop," Peter said. He rubbed at his temple again, cursing the headache. "If they don't find us by then, then we'll maybe see what's outside."

"Your action plan is contingent on rain?" Neal asked in disbelief. He turned his head back to view his handler again. "Really, Peter? The rain could stop now, or a week from now," he continued. "Yet that's your measure of when we'll do something other than sit on our asses?"

Peter shook his head, which incensed his headache further. "No, Neal," he replied, a little impatiently. He felt like he could feel his pulse pounding in his head, like a painful drum. "My point is that the difference in the time frame for them to find us, and the rain stopping, is negligible. So you might as well just wait."

Neal huffed slightly. "We'll see about that."

Peter closed his eyes briefly. He hoped someone was on their way to them by now. He wasn't sure how long he could really convince Neal to stay idle. He felt impatient himself.

.

"What do you mean it's been cut?" Diana looked at Jones in disbelief.

Before Jones could respond, the senior agent in the room had interjected.

"Find his location now," Hughes nearly barked at Jones. The man's typically sour expression had reached a new level of annoyance. "Get on the phone with the Marshals."

"Yes, sir." Jones didn't wait a second to be told again before he was rushing out of their view, heading back to his desk.

Hughes then turned to Diana. "Let's get in touch with the pilot's company as soon as possible. See if they've heard from him." His tone was curt.

"Yes, sir," she responded. She moved to take a step away, but was pulled back when he spoke her name again.

"And, Diana?"

She turned to view him. "Sir?"

He eyed her morosely. "Do you think it's possible that Caffrey could have orchestrated your coincidences?"

She raised her eyebrows, a bit caught off guard by the question. She then frowned, brow knitting together. "Sir, I…" she trailed off, clearing her throat. "I don't think so…"

"So it didn't cross your mind," he stated.

"No," she admitted. "No, it didn't."

"But is he capable of it?"

"Capable?" she echoed. "I mean… Sure, I guess…" She regretted the honest answer when she saw Hughes brow furrow further. "But I doubt it."

"He knew where everyone would be. He had all the plans."

"But why would he do that? He has no reason."

"He's got a hell of a lot of reasons. He's a con artist whose freedom has been taken away from him," Hughes spoke stiffly. "I told Peter there was risk taking him on. It was a matter of time."

Diana was about to speak, to defend the colleague she had gotten to know over the last few months and didn't suspect of these events even despite the topic being raised, but she couldn't get a word in fast enough.

"Go make that phone call," he directed her. "And let me know ASAP if they've heard anything."

She nodded and quickly headed off to her desk.