Peter sat tiredly on his couch. His jacket, which he'd grabbed earlier in haste when intending to head to the office, was now discarded, draped across the arm of the chair beside him.

On the coffee table in front of him sat his phone, speaker setting turned on. Beside his phone was his laptop, which clearly displayed the status of his CI's current location on its screen. Neal was represented by a prominent dot on the map. The dot was rapidly blinking red, the obvious and glaring symbol that it was not in its approved radius.

"New Jersey…" Peter said out loud, repeating the name of the state where the dot currently resided.

"Yeah. New Jersey," Jones confirmed over the speaker phone. "And maybe that's a final destination? He stopped moving a bit…"

Peter frowned, eyes fixated on the screen.

"He's still not answering his phone?" Jone asked.

"No." Peter hadn't tried for about ten minutes, but he knew the result would be the same.

"I tried too," Jones replied. "Not that he'd pick up for me..."

Peter simply grunted, perplexed and deep in thought. Then, unprompted, he added, "You know he's not acting on his own." Peter wasn't sure why he felt the need to state that, especially to his own team. But he did. This wasn't Neal.

Jones didn't respond directly to that comment. He cleared his throat, almost awkwardly, like he was purposefully finding a reason not to respond.

But that lack of response made Peter feel a bit defensive. "He's not just crossing state lines on his own accord, Jones," he stated firmly.

"Well, let's hope not," Jones replied.

"He wouldn't." Peter stared at that red dot. What the hell are you doing, Neal? he asked the screen silently. "We know Dean has been watching us. It's possible he's behind this."

"Right." Jones paused again. Another throat clear. Finally, he then replied with, "By the way, I forgot to mention… He's actually not in your car."

"Really?" Peter frowned. "He's not?" He wasn't sure why that surprised him as much as it did. "How do you know?"

"Well, according to his tracker, he definitely went through the tunnel… However, your car definitely did not… Otherwise we'd have confirmation of your plates from the Port Authority. We've cross-checked it a few times. We don't think your car left the city."

Peter paused, mulling that over. "Well, if that's the case, then... where's my car?"

"Another million dollar question. We're on that too, Boss. We started the search based on where you thought he was when you last spoke to him. The NYPD's on it as well. Unless it's in a garage, I'd expect to know where it is fairly soon."

Exhaling, Peter simply nodded. "Right," he responded slowly. Of course he wanted the vehicle located, but at the same time, the car was the least of his concerns at the moment. They'd find it when they found it. They needed to focus on tracking Neal.

Jones slowly began again. "Peter, uh... a little earlier you said he was with a friend…?"

"He was..." Peter admitted carefully. He scrutinized the dot, squinting at it, as though it would somehow give him a sign.

"By any chance did that friend have another vehicle?"

Peter paused. "Not that I'm aware of." He thought that over. How had Mozzie gotten to his place? He actually had no idea… And there were many ways he could have arrived. "But Neal's not with him."

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm not entirely sure," Peter replied, more reactively than he'd intended. His frustration was certainly not towards Jones. Jones was here pulling the extra hours to help. Still, he couldn't help but continue to hear this underlying skepticism in the other man's tone. "I'm not sure of anything at this point. But, look, are you implying something, Jones? Because I don't think Neal suddenly ditched my car to go on a joyride. Just like I don't think he had plans to cross state lines tonight."

Jones sighed. "I didn't say that, Peter."

"Maybe not in so many words, Jones, but I hear the suspicion."

"It's not my suspicion," Jones replied, some of his own frustration evident. "Boss, I trust that you've got a good feeling about Neal. About his intentions. And he's been a good team player, for the most part. But… How long have we really known him?"

"Jones…"

"Boss, with all due respect, you turned off his tracker. You turned it off, and he's a con artist. So anything he might have said to you earlier—"

"Jones, enough. I don't need this from you tonight."

"Sir. I know. I'm sorry. But you should know people are talking."

Peter's jaw stiffened. "People can mind their own business. There's enough work to get done without adding speculation to the mix."

"But they—"

"I don't want to hear it," Peter answered firmly, raising his voice. Then he let a moment of silence linger between them as he took a deep breath. "Listen… Let's focus on Neal's location. One step at a time, without speculation. He's definitely in New Jersey?"

Peter heard Jones sigh, a deep breath and out. Clearly there was more going on behind the scenes, and Peter realized it would only get worse if Neal's location remained unresolved tomorrow. At the moment, it was late enough in the evening that only those that needed to know were aware of the situation. Tomorrow word would travel fast.

"Yes, Boss," Jones told him. "As you can see yourself, he is most definitely in the Garden State."

"Well, let's think – what could be in New Jersey?" Peter wondered out loud. He again squinted at the map. "Looks like they're in…Union. Or around there…. What could be there?"

"Don't know, Boss." Jones paused. "For full disclosure... Originally their suspicion was that he was headed to Newark."

"Newark? Jesus…" Peter muttered. "Like he would do that," he said sarcastically. "Head to an international point of entry with a target on his back." He rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Well, if you simply followed the trajectory of the tracker, Peter, I could see why they thought that. He was literally headed directly to the airport before just passing it."

Peter continued to shake his head, increasingly frustrated. He narrowed his eyes at the blinking red dot. "And the exact coordinates?" he asked.

"Well, it's very close to exact, yes."

"Very close?" Peter echoed. "What's that mean? I thought this GPS was accurate within feet. That's what they told me."

"Yeah, it generally is. And it's pretty damn close right now, Boss, but with lots of cell towers in that area and being in the vicinity of the airport… It's not exactly one hundred percent..."

Peter cursed under his breath before stating, "You almost wonder the point."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing," Peter muttered, though his mind was on overdrive. He resisted the urge to curse again.

"And you know – we spoke too soon that he's stationary. Looks like he's on the move again," Jones began. "The address keeps changing. And if I had a guess – it looks like he's going to be back on the Garden State in a minute."

Peter stared at the dot on his screen, which sure enough was now slowly moving again. The question was, to where? He felt completely useless, watching the dot. He knew there was an APB out with Neal's description, and he knew the location of this tracker was being communicated across police channels, but they had strict instructions to notify the Bureau of any sightings before any action – even confrontation – was taken. Still, that didn't make Peter feel any less concerned of this current situation.

He knew this wasn't Neal. Neal hadn't run.

It had to have something to do with Dean.

But if no one else believed that…

"Peter?"

"Hm?"

Jones continued. "Do you have any way of getting in touch with this… uh, friend, of his?"

"Mozzie," Peter stated.

"Huh?"

"The friend. That's his name. Allegedly."

"Allegedly. Alright. Well, we can run a search to—"

"Don't bother," Peter interjected. "Look, I've already run a search on him before, Jones. Multiple times. The moment I met him. You won't find anything," he said dryly. "Neal's friends seem to like to keep low profiles."

"But you have met him."

"I have…" Peter agreed. "He exists. But, Jones, it's not like we exchanged numbers."

Jones sighed over the line. "Right. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," he replied. "Figured I'd ask."

"Trust me, I've been thinking the same thing." Peter frowned, shaking his head. "But I don't think Mozzie's behind this…. When I just spoke to Neal before we lost contact, he specifically said Mozzie wasn't with him any more… And…" He paused. "I believe him, Jones. Something else happened. Dean, or… Or something."

"I know we want to believe that.." Jones replied slowly.

"I don't want to believe that either," Peter replied in exasperation. "Dean's dangerous, Jones. If he has something to do with this, then I don't even want to think about what his plans are or what he's trying to prove…"

"But… Then just to play devil's advocate here for a minute, Boss…" Jones continued. "His friend Mozzie… Why'd he be sure to specify he wasn't with him?"

"He didn't, Jones. I actually asked."

"Right..."

Peter knew Jones wasn't intentionally so skeptical, but the conversation certainly didn't convey any attempt to feel otherwise. He wasn't sure he could blame him, especially in the current circumstances. He'd heard the same sense of suspicion in Reese as well. How could he explain to them with conviction that there was something else at play here? Neal hadn't just disappeared. Even if his tracker had been turned off, and he'd been given an opportunity...

"Well look at that…" Jones began, tone changing. "You see that alert?"

"What?" Peter asked. He frowned at the phone on his coffee table, as though it were the phone that he was conversing with. Then his eyes shifted back to the map on his computer screen again. There was a new alert on the screen. It was blinking in the corner. He squinted at it. "What's that mean?"

"Well," Jones replied. "It's an alert we've seen a few times too many this week. It means the integrity of the anklet is compromised."

"Compromised?"

"Well, what it usually means is that the anklet itself has been severed," Jones answered dryly.

Peter eyes drifted back to the blinking red dot on the screen. He didn't respond.

Now restrained with his arms bound tightly behind his back, Neal sat uncomfortably in a chair, considering his options. He couldn't think of many.

His thoughts felt convoluted. On one hand, his sudden departure from plan with no means to contact Peter weighed heavily on him. He yearned for a mechanism to tell his handler where he was, and in his mind he replayed what had happened, considering what he could or should have done differently. On the other hand, he was highly attuned to the current moment and what might happen next, without much time to contemplate other scenarios. After all, there was no going back in time.

They had taken him upstairs in the house, directing him to a room that appeared not to have been designated for much. The modest home did appear to be well lived in; however, this particular room seemed unused. The walls were bare except for one framed but unremarkable portrait of a sailboat, and there was no furniture in sight except for a simple wooden chair. After binding his hands, they had directed him to sit there, which he had done without argument.

As he sat, with their eyes glued to him as though they were expecting he might resist, it was then that they noticed his anklet.

Samatha noticed first.

"What the hell is that?" she had demanded.

Neal had followed her stare, looking down towards his shoe where the tracking device had conveniently presented itself. Upon sitting down, the cuff of his pants had risen to reveal his sock and the hardware that adorned it.

"Oh that," Neal had spoken himself first in response, trying not to smirk. He'd been thinking of his anklet this whole time, aware that it at least was talking to the Bureau. What it was telling them, he didn't really know, and that was a different story. Still, it was something. He had then fixed a serious but inquisitive look on Dean. "Didn't you used to have one of these, Dean?"

Dean was a red-faced mess of expletives following that, leaving the room in a fury and returning within what seemed like mere seconds with a knife. Neal found himself wincing preemptively as Dean rushed towards him. Without any warning, Dean crouched down, and Neal felt his leg get yanked out forcefully in Dean's grip, so quick and forcible that the chair nearly toppled.

With an emphatic and almost violent slice of the knife, Dean snatched the now severed anklet off of Neal and then roughly shoved his leg away. He got to his feet abruptly and again disappeared from the room.

Samantha stayed there, staring at Neal, looking a bit pale. She hadn't said a word while Dean had cut the device.

Despite a racing pulse accompanied by a heightened surge of anxiety, Neal knew he had to take this chance alone to talk to her.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked her. He straightened in the chair, keeping his feet planted on the floor in front of him. He tried to maintain his posture as he made eye contact with her, though he swore he could feel where the blade may have grazed his ankle.

"I'm only getting back what's mine," she told him quietly. "That's all." Her eyes flitted towards the doorway.

"But working with him?" Neal persisted.

"You don't know our history," she said, quietly but firm.

He frowned, not responding right away. He did know their history.

Downstairs, the front door slammed.

Samatha turned towards the sound, gasping slightly as though frightened by it.

"Where is he going?" Neal asked with a frown.

"I don't know," she admitted, brow furrowing slightly. She paused to step further towards the doorway, peaking out into the hallway, as though trying to see whether Dean had truly left. "I really don't."

"You have to let me go," Neal requested. He spoke the request kindly but with urgency. "Now's your chance."

While speaking, he tested the restraints and his wrists burned in objection. Their choice of binding was a simple yet thick and coarse rope. Samantha had provided the material, as though she'd been prepared for the request, and Dean had secured it around Neal's wrists. While his effort at the time seemed more brute force and hurried rather than calculated or meticulous, Neal had to admit that the knot employed was a rather informed and impressive one.

On one hand, it was promising to be restrained by a material a bit less durable than metal. He'd been expecting tightly secured handcuffs; however, the current state of the knot barely allowed circulation, never mind an ability to simply slip out of it. As he continued to shift his hands, looking for a weakness or some flexibility in it, it rubbed harder against his skin. He curled his fingers up to try to get a better feel for the material.

She still had not responded to him.

"Samantha," he implored. "Please let me go."

She stepped back into the doorway, turning to face him. "I can't."

"Why not?" Neal challenged. "You don't know me, but you know Peter. Don't you know Peter?"

"Yes. From years ago."

"Well, I work for Peter."

"I know," she replied. Her expression remained vague. "That's why you're here."

He frowned, not understanding what that meant. What did he have to do with any of this? "What does that mean?"

"He'll tell you."

"He isn't here," Neal stated firmly. "Samantha, why are you doing this? Why would you do it to Peter?" he persisted. "Peter thought so highly of you."

She rolled her eyes. "Please. It was a decade ago. You have no idea."

"I do. I know all about the case. You—"

"I told you," she replied, interrupting. "I'm not doing anything to Peter. I just need to get back what's mine. What they took from me."

"They?" he asked. Behind his back, he tugged at his wrists again. "The FBI?"

"Yes," she answered firmly.

"This is about the paintings?"

"Yes. They belong to me," she told him firmly. "They've been in my family."

"So why not just ask?"

"Just ask?" she echoed. She shook her head, giving a faint smile. "If only it were that simple. I've been just asking for years. How much longer do I need to wait?" She looked behind her again, leaning back into the hallway once more.

Neal didn't know how to answer that question. He knew that her family's collection was an impressive one, yet the origin of the paintings were in question. That's what had started this whole thing. The pieces may have been in her family, but the 'how' they came into their possession had been under scrutiny. On the collection itself, Neal had been planning to see that list again with Peter tomorrow…. So he could choose which one to replicate…

What was Peter thinking right now? Would he think he had just run? Would he know Dean had something to do with it? He wished there was a way to get in touch… But there wasn't time to focus on that now.

"Didn't this all start with the paintings?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer. Perhaps feigning naivete could get him more information. More leverage. "I thought you were in protective custody because of Dean."

She seemed surprised at the statement. Frowning, she turned back to look at him. Her lips parted, as though to respond, and then closed again. She pressed her mouth shut firmly for a moment, simply staring at him.

A moment of silence passed between them, and Neal didn't dare say anything further, in case she was about to share something with him. She looked like she might. In the mean time, he did keep his fingers busy on the ropes, continuing to look for any signs of weakness.

"I don't know what you've been told," Samantha told him slowly, voice calm but sounding a little suspicious. "But it's a lot more complicated that that."

"Is it? What I read was pretty complicated," Neal told her. "But you know what I do know? This whole WitSec thing? That's pretty complicated. And pretty intense. So why you would bring any of this here and risk everything..."

"Here? This isn't my house," she interjected, speaking stiffly. She frowned at him. "Why would you think this is my house?"

"It's not?" He suddenly realized how presumptuous it had been to jump to that conclusion.

"No." She made a face. "You think I'd bring any of this to my home? Are you crazy? Well, not that what I do is any of your business." She paused. "Look, we really shouldn't be talking. Neal, right? Was that your name? Well, we really shouldn't be talking. He'll be back soon. He's supposed to deal with you."

Deal with him? Neal frowned and more hastily tried to find a means to loosen the rope.

She started to walk out into the hallway.

"Wait," he objected. "Please."

She hesitated, but then slowly turned back to him, looking uncertain.

"I want to help you," he told her. "But Dean… He's dangerous. You know that."

She didn't respond at first, simply looking at him with a perplexed expression. Then she simply said, "You can't help me."

"I can," he persisted. "Peter can. We want to."

"Peter's using me to get him," she answered. "But you must know that."

"He's not using you," Neal objected. "He brought you in but –" He stopped himself as he saw her suddenly laugh. "What's so funny?"

"He brought me in?" she repeated, chuckling a bit. "No, not quite. We brought him in. He only thinks he brought me in."

We. We? Neal was struggling to piece the facts together.

He hesitated before making his next statement, but felt he had no other angle to play. It was this or lose his chance completely. "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but I'm just trying to understand… Isn't Dean why you're in protection?"

She simply blinked, looking at him but not responding.

Neal continued, desperate. The rope wasn't budging. "And didn't Dean have something to do with what happened to your husband? Niall?"

The case files hadn't stated that. Not exactly. He was inferring. Dangerously inferring.

Her brow immediately furrowed, and she again looked taken back by his statement. This time her expression was more offended than surprised.

"You know nothing," she told him bluntly. "And this is the end of this conversation." With that she stepped out into the hallway, disappearing from his sight.

Neal resisted cursing. It was official. He'd made no headway with her.

And with that he'd blown a chance to get her help to escape. At once he began working more in earnest at the binds on his hands.

He now would have to try to escape on his own.

He stood. Nothing was keeping him in the chair. But standing, moving around, really didn't offer him much leeway. His hands were too tightly bound. There was nothing in this room that he could use as a tool… He was about to risk leaving the room – surely he could get past her, even in this condition – when he heard a commotion downstairs.

Dean was back.

And within a minute, he was back in the doorway like a furious storm, Samantha at his heels.

Neal rushed back to his abandoned chair, nearly falling into it as he tried to reclaim his earlier position.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Dean demanded of him. With his question he also now withdrew his gun and pointed it towards Neal. The anklet was no where to be seen.

"No where," Neal replied back with insistent earnestness. His eyes were locked on the barrel of the gun. "No where at all. I was just stretching."

"Bullshit. You were thinking of running. Like I said, I know you're a runner." Dean's statement was more like a growl. He turned towards Samantha, gun dropping to his side. "You can't leave him alone, Sam!"

"Me?" she exclaimed. "Where the hell did you run off too?"

"Run off?" he retorted. "I had to take care of it!"

Now as Neal remained seated, Samantha and Dean moved further into the doorway of the room, continuing their arguing in hushed voices, though he wondered why they bothered. If the reduced volume was for his benefit, it was futile. He could hear every word.

They were arguing about him, and he was ready for it to turn back against him any moment. He remained stiff in the chair, anticipating it.

"You should have done that back in the city," Samantha hissed in the doorway. "Why did he wear it here?"

"Well, it's done now," Dean shot back. He appeared angrier than usual.

"It's done too late, Dean," she answered testily. "Did you really forget he had it on? How could you forget?"

"Shut. Up." He nearly spat the words.

"Well, did you?" she persisted.

"I didn't realize," Dean shot back. It was an honest admittance, tone clearly defensive through his irritation. "Alright? What the hell do you want me to say?"

"Well, you should have realized. You can't afford to be sloppy," she berated. "Someone could be headed here right now!"

"They're not."

"How do you know?"

"They're not, Sam."

She frowned, eyeing him uncertainly, as though she didn't trust his assertion.

Refraining from commenting on their discussion, Neal once again he tugged at his wrists, watching them guardedly. He didn't have any faith that he could get these binds loose in the near term. Not without a tool of some kind.

"Listen, Sam, stay focused," Dean was telling her. "You've got one job in all of this, you got that? You focus on that, or this whole thing won't have been worth it."

She looked dubious but stayed silent. Slowly her arms crossed over her chest.

"Focus on tomorrow," Dean persisted. "What time is your meeting?"

She sighed, frowning at him with a sense of uncertainty. She didn't respond for a moment, but then seemed to give in. "They want me in their office around ten," she replied slowly.

"Good. Who's your meeting with? Burke?"

Neal froze at the mention of his handler, focusing more closely on their conversation. He frowned.

"Yes," Samantha began in response to Dean. She then cast a look sideways towards Neal, meeting his eye before turning back to Dean. "Dean, do you really think you should talk about this in front of him?"

Dean sent a glare Neal's way. "Why not?" he retorted. "What's he going to do about it?"

Neal set his jaw, refraining from a response though he made brief eye contact with the other man. What was he going to do about it, anyway? Until he was able to free his hands at the least, he wasn't going to be able to do much. Not with them standing right there anyway. Behind his back, he tugged at his hands again, feeling hopeless at the futile action.

Dean took a step back towards Neal. "Do you want to talk to him?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"What?" Neal frowned at the question directed at him. Dean's expression gave nothing else way. Neal couldn't help but focus on the scar on his face, which seemed to characterize the sinister person he was dealing with.

Dean simply continued to hold eye contact, staring at him with cold eyes. "You heard me. You want to talk to him?"

"Peter?" Neal asked, slightly confused.

Dean looked impatient. "Yes, moron. Peter. Who else?"

"And say what?" Neal responded back suspiciously. "That I'm tied up at gunpoint?"

"On the contrary, Neal. You don't want to tell him how you're helping us?"

"Helping you?"

Dean's lips curved upwards into a smile as he chuckled. "Yeah. Helping us," he replied. "You offered after all. Remember?"

Neal narrowed his eyes.

"Should I jog your memory? It was just the other day, Neal," Dean persisted. He took yet another step closer, still smiling, looking smug. "Remember your bit? Your whole 'I'm not like him' and 'I can help you.' CI to CI, remember?"

Neal remembered. And he remembered what followed.

"Well, I'm taking you up on it," Dean told him, walking even closer towards him. .

"I won't help you," Neal answered. He didn't know what would happen if he refused. Dean was armed and clearly had access to other means to try to convince him as well. "And she's right. With the tracker, you know they know where we are. Whatever you're trying to do, it won't work."

"If they knew where you were, they'd already be here," Dean told him stiffly.

Neal set his jaw. "Who says they're not?"

Dean simply rolled his eyes. "We both know they're not," he answered. "Besides, your tracker is well on its way somewhere else. And that's the trail they'll be on."

Neal bristled at that comment, feeling cornered. "I won't help you."

Dean just laughed. "Don't even bother resisting, Neal."

"I won't. And you messed up with the tracker," Neal told him.

Dean narrowed his eyes.

"You messed up," Neal told him. "And you'll mess up again."

He barely saw the butt of the gun as he flew towards his face.

He felt the impact and a flash of light.

Followed by darkness.