Cautious and naturally suspicious, Mozzie gradually moved across the Burke's living room, following Peter's lead. He slowly settled into the armchair that was suggested to him by a waved hand in its direction. Then, unsure what came next, he folded his hands in his lap awkwardly, not quite certain where to settle his eye contact.

Being here without Neal was more than just a bit unsettling.

As he briefly stared at his shoes, which seemed as neutral a place to begin, he questioned for the umpteenth time whether or not coming here had been the right decision.

Maybe coming here had been just a tad bit drastic...

It was too late though, because here he was. Again in the home of an FBI agent. This time without anyone's persuasion but his own.

He looked up, watching as Peter rejoined Elizabeth on the couch a few feet away. They both seemed deep in thought.

Impatient, Mozzie then cleared his throat. "When did you last talk to him?"

Despite a temptation, he didn't look away as Peter settled his eyes on him, not missing the mix of curiosity and potential distrust on the other man's face. Next to him, Elizabeth appeared more concerned than mistrustful.

He didn't blame Peter. He felt the same way. They really didn't know each other. The only thing in common was Neal.

For a moment, brief but heavy, the three of them simply viewed each other silently.

Finally Peter replied. "I called him. We spoke on the phone when he was on his way back here," he said. He then added, "That's if he was actually telling the truth."

"He was coming back here," Mozzie said stiffly.

"He said he was."

Slightly defensively, Mozzie replied, "Do you really think he'd pick up the phone if he wasn't planning to?"

"Possibly," Peter answered slowly, as though considering his words. "Would buy him some time, wouldn't it?"

Mozzie narrowed his eyes just slightly. "You think he was going somewhere else?"

"Was he?" Peter asked, raising his eyebrows.

Mozzie sighed. "Listen, Suit," he began after a pause. "If it were up to me, maybe he wouldn't have headed back here. But I assure you, against any of my advice, he was."

Peter considered that. "If it were up to you, where would he have headed?"

"You don't want me to answer that," Mozzie responded dryly.

Peter's brow furrowed.

"It doesn't matter anyway," Mozzie continued, adjusting his glasses, "because he was on his way here."

"And you're sure of that?"

"Positive." Mozzie gave him a look. "You've somehow instilled an inadvisable sense of loyalty in him."

Peter frowned. "Have I?"

Mozzie exhaled. "Yes."

"Inadvisable..." Peter echoed slowly. "Why is it inadvisable?"

"Loyalty is dangerous," Mozzie told him factually. "And you and him?" He just shook his head, not finishing the thought. "Let's table that," he replied. "What else did he say?"

Peter studied him for a moment, clearly a little apprehensive of the conversation. Then he replied, "That he was on his way back, and then a little about the case, and that was it."

"The case," Mozzie repeated. "What about the case?"

Peter looked uncertain. "The case..."

"Look," Mozzie told him, "for what it's worth, I already know more than you probably think I should. Let's not get caught up in your concern over agency disclosure and other red tape. I just want to know where Neal is- just like you."

Peter leaned back into the couch, sighing. "Right." Then he paused, thinking back on the short phone conversation. It had been so brief. Inconsequential. He thought he'd be seeing Neal a short while after it. Bothered by that thought, he shook his head. "Just that he was going to potentially try to, uh…potentially counterfeit something for the case. That was the last thing we talked about."

Mozzie frowned slightly. "Seriously? That was his idea."

"He told you?"

"He did... But…" Mozzie trailed off only momentarily and then asked, "You were actually going to let him do that?"

"Was strongly considering it." Peter paused. "You seem surprised," he noted.

"A little," Mozzie admitted, frowning. "Isn't that the kind of thing you locked him up for?"

"Intent would be different this time. It's… Never mind." Peter cut himself off. "It's a moot point now," Peter answered. "What about you? He didn't call you?"

"No." Mozzie shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "I left, and he was on his way here. So what happens now?"

"Now?" Peter replied. "Well, now there's a manhunt for your friend."

"Describe what you mean by a manhunt…" Mozzie said tentatively.

"Actually what it sounds like," Peter answered. "What do you think happens when someone goes off the grid?"

"You told them he ran?"

"No," Peter said firmly. "I didn't. But he's missing. To them it's the same."

"Them?" Mozzie persisted. "Aren't you them?"

Peter didn't respond, simply pressing his lips together, jaw tightening.

Mozzie glanced uncomfortably towards the front door, as though he was suddenly reconsidering where he was.

"You're safe here," Peter told him.

"Am I?" Mozzie shifted his view from the front door to the back, from where he'd entered.

"Yes."

"Maybe this was a mistake…" Mozzie turned his head back to the agent, frowning. "Someone is also after you," he added. He then let out a sigh. "I had a feeling we were being watched yesterday."

Peter frowned. "How do you mean? When?"

"Just a general feeling… Neal said I was being paranoid."

Peter glanced over towards Elizabeth, who had remained silent and still during the conversation.

"What's the plan?" Mozzie persisted. "Neal said this whole case was derailed or redirected because this guy wanted to reconnect with someone, and that you were the facilitator. So how's that going to happen?"

"That's right. And she's cooperating," Peter told him. "We have another meeting with her later today. Or…" He hesitated before simply stating, "My team does."

"Your team?" Mozzie replied. "What about you?"

"I'm…" Peter paused. "I'm coordinating from here."

"From here…" Mozzie repeated, though a bit tentatively. "What's that mean?"

"It means exactly what it sounds like."

"It doesn't sound promising."

Peter cocked his head to his side, giving Mozzie a frown.

Mozzie was about to voice further skepticism when the other man's phone rang. He stayed silent instead.

Peter had the device out in seconds, and to his ear immediately after that. "Burke," he said into it. After a pause, he said, "Jones. Good. Tell me where we're at."

"Your hotel?" Dean spoke into the phone, pacing the room slowly. Presumably hearing a response, he then let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. "That's even more perfect than I expected."

Neal frowned, listening to the conversation from his uncomfortable position on the floor. His legs were stiff, and he ached from being on the ground for so long. Shifting his weight to futilely find a better placement for his constrained limbs, he tried to make sense of the dialogue.

Dean's conversation continued. "I thought they'd have you come into some kind of federal facility, or something similar, and that I'd be using him as a decoy." He paused, as though listening. "It's all going to be ours again, Sam."

Despite not formally proving his theory, Neal was well aware at this point that Dean and Samantha had created their elaborate scheme solely in an attempt to retrieve her family's confiscated artwork. He could understand why she wanted it returned, but after everything he'd read in the case file, he still couldn't completely understand why Samantha would work with someone like Dean….

Unless of course she was similarly motivated by the value of the work. Did that economic value really outweigh the truth of everything else that Dean had done?

"What time?" Dean asked. As he turned in his pacing, his eyes were locked on Neal. That was the thing. He was always acutely aware of the room. It was only seconds that his back was turned. It left little opportunity to figure a way out.

The conversation on the other end of the phone continued, unheard by Neal.

"That works," Dean told the other line. "We can be there."

We. Neal wonder if he was part of the 'we' and feared that he was.

"Yeah, exactly… We'll stick to the same plan," Dean said. "It'll actually be much easier now for me to map out the schematics. I thought I'd have to call in some favors, but the hotel is essentially a public record."

The hotel, Neal repeated in his head, frowning.

The rest of the conversation was more cryptic. Very little words from Dean, mostly like he was listening.

Pacing and listening.

Neal watched uneasily.

And then, the phone call was over.

Dean returned his phone to his pocket and moved back over towards Neal, lips curling into his now typical sneer. "And we're all set…"

"All set," Neal echoed. His raw wrists objected for the thousandth time as he pulled his hands against his restraints. "What's that mean?"

"Means the clock starts."

"I thought the clock had already started." Neal couldn't hold back his exasperation this time. "It's been a countdown this whole time. It was sixty hours until it was forty-two hours until it was —"

"Until it was now," Dean interjected. "To this moment. When Burke would set up what we wanted. Access."

"Access," Neal repeated.

"Access," Dean affirmed. "This isn't like your usual heist, Neal. This isn't an art gallery or a museum. This is locked away contraband, hidden away at some undisclosed location. Until we got your dear federal agents to actually expose the loot, there was no way of getting close."

"And Samantha –"

"And Samantha, what?" Dean persisted. "She wants it back well. It's hers. It's her inheritance. What was she going to do – ask nicely? She's been in hiding all these years, and they've ignored every request. Telling her its still under investigation. And giving her some other runaround. Under investigation until when? How long will it take? Our daughter will be my age by the time they figure it out."

Following the rant word for word with a dull feeling of dread, Neal suddenly frowned. His eyes narrowed, trying to understand. "Your… daughter?"

Dean glared at him. "What about her?"

"You have a daughter?" Neal replied.

"Are you an idiot? What'd I just say? Yes, I have a daughter."

"With Samantha," Neal stated as though it was a fact, but it was very much a question.

"Sofia," Dean answered stiffly. "And this is all for her."

Neal's stomach turned. Suddenly the reason why Samantha, who had been in protective services to be safe from Dean, was actually working with him... It was all starting to piece itself together.

"You look surprised," Dean said stiffly.

"I just... I didn't know," Neal answered.

"Yeah," Dean replied, suddenly sneering again. "Neither does Burke."

Neal didn't respond.

"That wasn't in your case files, was it?" Dean answered condescendingly. "Now, here's how you're going to help me."

"You pulled this together today? I'm kind of impressed…"

Jones frowned, brow knitting together in a slight state of confusion. The comment came from a small, balding, quirky man that had arrived with Peter. A man who was currently meandering around the room - a room full of artwork. Artwork that Jones and a team had in the last hour completed setting up.

Jones knew his man as Mozzie, but knew little else about him. Including why he was here.

"Um… Thanks?" Jones replied, feeling slightly uneasy as he watched the other man reach towards one of the two dozen frames on the wall, shifting its position in the display just slightly. "Please don't touch that."

At the request, the man simply turned, adjusting his glasses. He looked at Jones slightly critically, before he turned and moved on to view the next piece.

Jones turned. "Uh, Peter?"

Peter still stood in the doorway of the room, which was originally a hotel banquet hall that had been partitioned off and secured for them to create this faux art gallery of sorts. His arms were crossed over his chest, a serious and concerned look on his face as he scanned the display.

"What's up with this guy? And are you supposed to be here?" Jones asked him. "You said you'd be off site today."

"Hm?" Peter asked, as though suddenly hearing his agent. His eyes shifted towards him. "What?" He frowned.

"I thought you said you'd be at home the rest of today."

"That was the plan. But I just needed to see it. This." Peter swept his hand across the air, indicating the artwork across the walls. "Looks good, Jones."

"She'll be here in about an hour," Jones told him. "I mean, this is her hotel, so she's likely here already. But you know what I mean."

"Mozzie's going to be your curator," Peter said.

"Mozzie…" Jones repeated slowly. "Peter…" he lowered his voice, "I'm not questioning your judgment, but why do we have one of Neal's cohorts here?"

"He can help," Peter answered.

"Help with…"

"He's an extra set of eyes," Peter replied.

Jones raised his eyebrows. "To add to the two dozen federal agents you've got staffed here as hotel personnel as we speak?"

"Yes," Peter answered, turning his head back to give the other man a look. He then sighed. "If somehow Neal's been roped into this, then I need at least another person here that he's going to trust to make sure this goes the right way. Believe it or not, he wants to help."

Jones frowned, but said nothing.

"Is this the entire collection?" Peter asked, eyes scanning the room again.

"Most of it," Jones replied. "There were a few that didn't meet the cut. Besides, we were kind of running out of space."

"And these…." Peter pointed a finger towards the two hotel security cameras in the room, none too discrete, one in each corner. "We've got these eyes too?"

"Yup," Jones affirmed. "We're wired into their network."

"Good." Peter paused, taking another look around the room. "And once this all starts… She gets an hour."

"We know." Jones watched the senior agent as he continued to observe the space. "One hour." The older man looked tired, but determined. "What's all this going to accomplish anyway, Boss?"

Peter pressed his lips together, accompanied by a long pause. "Not a hundred percent sure," he admitted. "If getting her another look at this collection is the step to getting Dean where we want him, then it's a step I'm willing to take."

"And you think… Neal's involved somehow?"

"I don't know," Peter began, speaking the words with a slight sense of reluctance. "When I say that, I don't mean that I think he's involved in the sense of deliberate involvement…" he explained slowly. "I just have a feeling."

"Well, you always said we should trust a feeling…" Jones replied, despite a frown at his supervisor's uneasy expression.

"That's the part of the job you can't train," Peter mused, though he didn't sound too certain of himself. "The hunch." He then glanced at his watch. "What time did you say she'd be here?"

"About an hour," Jones replied. He paused, watching as Mozzie across the room leaned in to inspect one of the pieces of art, his nose just an inch from the canvas. "And how exactly does this lead you to Dean, Boss?" he asked. "You said this is a step towards that, but… You agreed to actually connect him to her – how is this connecting them?"

"Something tells me it will…" Peter answered.

"The hunch again?"

"Well, the alternative is waiting around," Peter replied. "And I don't think any of us have time for that."

Neal was feeling groggy and unbalanced when he once again realized he was reentering lucidity.

This was becoming a feeling that was far too common.

As soon as it became apparent, he suddenly jerked away from the unnatural feeling of restraints instinctively, muttering to himself through a dry mouth while nearly biting his tongue.

He felt uncoordinated and like he was in another skin.

What the hell was happening now?

As his eyes opened, he realized his scenery had changed once again. He looked left and right, up and down. It seemed like he was sitting in the back of a …. truck? Or a van?

He frowned, once more feeling confused and trapped.

Why were his hands still tied?

He quickly tried to recap his recent memories, to piece together what had transpired.

Dean had been explaining his plan, and his intentions – what this whole thing amounted to. He had only made it a couple of minutes in, walking around Neal, slowing drawing closer, when suddenly he'd kneeled down.

He'd been moving in, suddenly intentions more obvious and more devious: to inject something.

Neal remembered saying, "No. You don't have to do this," in a fleeting moment of desperate panic. He remembered getting himself ready to even beg.

Then as the room faded, Dean had said something like, "Oh, but this is so much easier."

Frustration had surged, but then all had gone black.

Now he was back. And once again, now as the present tense returned, Neal had no idea where he was or how much time had passed.

Or what was next.