Neal had little time to consider what was next. As soon as he started to move, shifting against his restraints in an attempt to get closer to the door of this van or truck, it was as though he had alerted his captor.

The vehicle doors in front of him suddenly pulled open with a loud creak.

Standing in the doorway in front of him was once again Dean. The man rested each of his hands against the open doors. He had a wild look in his eye, and a smirk on his face. "Good. You're up."

"I'd be up more often if you stopped with the sedation," Neal responded bitterly. He realized with exhaustion his voice was hoarse. It was also then he realized he had a splitting headache.

"Can't promise that," Dean replied. "Especially with what's at stake. The injections guarantee me your cooperation."

Neal felt fury at that. But there was little he could do. Yell? Fight? His hands were literally tied. His options were limited.

"And speaking of what's at stake," Dean continued, "we're approaching the critical part of our mission ."

Our mission, Neal echoed in his head. That there was any sort of 'we' when it came to what Dean was planning was not what he wanted to hear.

Though again - what could he say?

What leverage did he have?

None.

Neal looked behind the man, noting that they were in what appeared to be a dimly lit parking garage, though there were only a couple other cars in view. He tried to look for any signs that could give him further clues as to where they were, but came up short, merely locating a 'one way' sign with an arrow pointing to their left. Between asphalt and cement pilings, he had nothing. "Where are we?"

Dean's lips creeped upward into a sinister smile and he leaned in slightly. "We are finally in position."

"In position," Neal echoed. "But where? What is this place?"

"What does it look like?"

Neal was frustrated with the responses and let out an exasperated breath. "A garage? But are we back in the city?"

"We are…" Dean replied with a slow nod. "We're at the hotel."

"Hotel?" Neal felt suddenly like he was sleepwalking. "What hotel?"

Dean didn't answer immediately. He was studying Neal with a strange look on his face, as though considering his next words carefully. Then he finally said, slow and emphatically, "I'm going to take off your restraints..."

Neal was a little surprised by that statement but tried not to show it. "Okay," he said. Somehow, despite that being what he wanted, he wasn't sure it meant anything good. He was still trying to figure out what it meant to be at 'the hotel'.

Dean paused again, as though waiting for more of a reaction. But Neal had none. He simply stared back stoically. While he wanted to do something, there wasn't much he could really attempt at the moment.

Maybe when the restraints were off…

After a further moment's pause, Dean continued, "You need to follow my lead. The second you try to cross me, you get a bullet to the head. Do you understand?"

Neal nodded. Of course he understood. Dean had been quick to remind him that he had a gun. What was there not to understand when a gun was involved?

"I mean it," Dean persisted. "You try anything and you won't even have a chance."

"I understand," Neal forced out.

"You remember the mission?"

The mission. It was a blur. Not that it was complicated. It was just that Neal's mind was racing instead with thoughts about potential ways to get out of this situation. He'd thought relatively less about the plan, since he'd been hopeful to find a way out before getting this far.

Then again, maybe Dean knew that's what he was thinking. Sedating him gave him little opportunity to plan anything.

"Do you?" Dean snapped. His limited patience was once again wearing thin.

"Yes," Neal replied. Because again, what else was he going to say?

And then it seemed it was game time and Dean was gesturing him to follow him out of the van.

So much for an alternative plan. Anything he could think of ended quickly with a bullet in his head. Scenario after scenario - they all ended the same way.

Once out of the van, they moved quickly, turning a corner in the gray parking garage. Neal cast a fleeting look behind them as they turned, memorizing the license plate number on the van, as if that would somehow help him. He was desperate at this point.

Dean ensured Neal walked in front of him, gun still in his hand as though the constant reminder of the threat was needed. While they walked fast, they didn't walk far. They stopped abruptly around that corner, as there was no where else to go. Neal found they were staring at a wall. Lots of concrete, and a few metal panels covering what seemed to be some kind of industrial heating or cooling system.

"There," Dean began.

"Where?" Neal replied, frowning. There was literally no where else to go. They had reached a dead end. He gave the other man a confused look.

Dean pointed, giving him a look like he was an idiot. "That one."

Neal followed the direction of the outstretched arm. Dean was pointing at one of the panels.

"The screws are already removed," Dean told him.

"What?"

"You are dumb, aren't you?" Dean answered. "Take the panel off."

Neal slowly stepped forward, feeling uncertain but also like he had no other choice. He was suddenly reminded of the first time he'd met Dean, in the woods that rainy, dark day, where he had introduced them to a hidden doorway in the forest floor...

That seemed like so long ago.

"Hurry up," Dean told him impatiently. "We're on a timeline."

Neal stepped forward, reaching out for the metal panel on the wall. It was a square shape, starting at his knee level and going up to his shoulders. He could see as he got closer that sure enough the four screw holes on each corner of the panel were empty. The panel was simply resting in place. He located the screws on the ground, discarded just a few inches away.

He tugged at one corner of it, and it easily pulled lose. He reached for the other corner and did the same, pulling the panel down and setting it to the side.

He peered instead. It looked like a large vent. He could hear humming in the distance. And it was dark.

His stomach suddenly turned.

"Here," Dean said.

Neal turned and saw the man was holding out a small headlamp.

"Put this on and get going," Dean told him. "We don't have a lot of time."

"We're going in there?" Neal asked in trepidation, though he knew the answer.

"Yes," Dean told him. "And now. Hurry up."

"Where does it lead to?"

"It's nearly a straight shot to where we need to meet Sam. If you keep going until the vent splits into two directions, then we take it to the right, and we'll find ourselves above the room they've set her up in."

Neal exhaled, feeling his heart begin to pound.

"There's a panel in her ceiling that will already be loose. Once we get there, you'll remove it when we get the signal, and she'll hand what she can to us."

Everything he said was matter of fact. Like it was easy.

"You're going bring the art back through this vent?" Neal responded, a bit dubious.

"That was the plan, remember?" Dean replied irritably. "You weren't even listening, were you? I showed you floor plans."

"Maybe if you'd stop sedating me," Neal snapped, "then I'd have even a slight lucid recollection of the last day." Despite his natural anger, he then regretted the outburst when he saw the flash of anger over Dean's face.

"Well, whether you remember it or not, that's the plan," Dean told him stiffly. "And it's simple and fool proof unless you become the fool and mess up." He let out an exasperated breath. "The vent size is perfect. It's wide and we can even take the work with the frames."

Neal exhaled himself, equally if not more frustrated than his captor.

"You act like you've never done something like this before," Dean accused, narrowing his eyes. "Is the great Neal Caffrey really just a hoax?"

"I've done something exactly like this before," Neal replied dryly. He wasn't even defensive. He was more exhausted. Besides, what did he care about defending his reputation to this guy? "And unless those frames are smaller than you think –"

"It's easy."

"It's bulky," Neal responded. "Look, I'm only trying to give you my honest feedback here, because like I said I have done this before. Do you want my help or not?"

"I want your help with the plan, not an alternative. If you're trying to delay me with this resistant bullshit, then don't waste your breath," Dean told him stiffly. "I see right through you. This is the plan, and we're sticking with it."

With that, Dean pushed the headlamp into Neal's hands. "Put this on and get in."

Neal sighed yet again.

It wasn't lost on Peter how happy Samantha appeared when she showed up for her private art viewing. He was also well aware that he was technically not supposed to be present at that stage in the process. Hughes' orders had been very clear to him to stand down and be at home. Still, he wasn't yet able to pull himself away.

"Good to see you again, Peter." Her smile was ear to ear. "I really appreciate you doing this," she told him.

He smiled back. "Of course," he replied back cordially. "Like I said, it's in good faith for your commitment to help us out with the case."

She nodded, smile unwavering. "You don't know how much it means to me. This is going to bring back so many good memories of the family. When we were all together."

He nodded. "Good. I'm glad."

"I even have my camera," she told him, raising her shoulder to lift her purse as though to indicate its location. "I figure if we still haven't resolved all the open questions you have on the collection, at least I can have some photos, right?"

"Well, that shouldn't be an issue," Peter answered with a small smile. He glanced towards the room, at the array of frames that his team had set up for the occasion. It was like the room had transformed into a moderate sized gallery. "You'll have an hour." He turned back to her to catch any reaction. There wasn't much.

"They told me," she replied.

"We also have our curator here," Peter began. He pointed across the room where Mozzie was staring at a large piece in the corner.

"Curator?" she echoed, smile finally faltering,

"Yes." Peter cleared his throat. He studied her reaction, slightly puzzled. "He's one of us. He's been personally taking care of this collection. He can answer any concerns you might have."

She looked surprised for a moment before composing herself. "That's really not necessary."

"It's our pleasure," he replied. "It's not a big deal at all."

"It's silly though, Peter. I don't need a curator here," she objected. "These artworks go back years in my family. I know each one." She sighed, shaking her head. "Really. He doesn't need to worry about or cater to me. Same with your agents."

"You won't even notice us," Peter replied dismissively. "That I can assure you."

She frowned, letting out a soft breath. "Peter, when we spoke about this, we talked about having the hour to myself."

He paused. "It is an hour to yourself," he replied.

"I mean really to myself," she persisted. "This is really personal to me," she added. "Extremely personal. It's… There's a lot of memories here."

"Of course," he began. "I understand that."

"Having this many agents around," she continued, "it honestly makes me nervous, Peter. It brings back everything that happened." At this statement her voice wavered. "Honestly, even thinking about it is a bit upsetting."

"Please, Samantha," he began, taking a step closer and softening his tone. "No one wants to upset you."

"It's a lot," she said, voice hitching slightly. "It's really a lot of memories. If there is any way to ... to just have the room to myself... That's all."

"Well, I suppose that shouldn't be a problem..." He sighed, slowly conceding. She did look fairly distraught at the mention of the past. "We'll make sure you're left alone," he assured. "Honestly everyone that's here, Samatha… They're only here for your safety."

She sighed. "I know. I'm sorry. I don't mean to act this way. I'm very appreciative of what you're doing here."

"We know he's out there, Samantha. We just don't know where," Peter persisted. As he said this he tried to watch her reaction again. He had no proof of his suspicion of her intentions, and she seemed genuine in her words, but he was still cautious. "Anyone we have in place here is to ensure you're safe. I want you to have the time you asked for, but in the safest way possible."

"I appreciate that," she replied, "but I'd appreciate it more if they could do that from a distance. Do you think that's possible?"

He nodded. "That's fine. Really we just want to establish a perimeter. No one knows you're here, but we just want to be cautious."

She nodded in return. "Thanks, Peter. I really do appreciate. And… one other thing…"

"What?" he asked, frowning slightly. What else could there possibly be?

"I'm going to sound so neurotic…" she sighed, rolling her eyes. "Like I'm paranoid. And, ugh, maybe after all these years I still am..."

"What is it?"

She exhaled. "Well… I noticed there are cameras," she said, turning her head and looking at each corner of the room. "That makes me... well it makes me feel quite uncomfortable." She turned back to Peter, making a face.

Peter rotated his head as well, taking in the sight of the cameras in each corner of the room, mounted at the ceiling; the cameras that he had just discussed with Jones not long before to make sure they would have eyes. He suddenly felt uneasy. "What do you mean?"

"For a long time I've gone out of the public eye," she said. "I've had no footage of myself anywhere. Of me, or my kids and--"

"Sam, this isn't public, this is just a –"

"Any recording of me," she persisted firmly. "Of any kind, Peter. I just … I can't, Peter. It makes me feel really strange. I told you I'd sound neurotic. But I don't like the idea of anyone just watching."

Peter frowned. "No one is just watching, Sam, it's—"

"Someone is," she replied. "Or someone can." She continued to look concerned. "They are recording. If it's not a big deal, for the hour I'm here, can they just be covered? So I don't have to be filmed."

Uneasiness growing, Peter thought it over, watching the fear in her eyes. But then, he considered the request and her rationale. It was somewhat understandable. It was one hour, just her... He slowly nodded. "Alright, Sam. I'll ask the hotel to turn them off."

"Just cover them," she replied. "That's even easier. Then I'll know for sure." She sighed and shifted her purse to open it. "I probably even have some paper and tape in here. God knows with the kids I'm a walking convenience store… You never know what they'll need."

He frowned at her purse, which suddenly did seem quite bulky. "Let us take care of it, Sam. I can just get one of my guys to do that."

As if on cue, suddenly Jones was approaching him from the hallway. "Sir?" he asked.

Peter turned to view him. He glanced over towards Samantha as he did so, and he noticed she looked distracted. "What's up, Jones?" he asked.

Jones glanced at Samantha and then back to his boss. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure," Peter replied. He briefly looked over again to Samantha and said, "Just give me a few minutes, Sam. I'll be right back."

He then stepped into the hallway with his agent.

"Hughes just called me," Jones told Peter slowly as they took a few steps down the hallway.

Peter's brow knit together, and he pursed his lips together briefly. "And?" he asked, slowly folding his arms over his chest. His ribs objected painfully as he did so, his once comfortable position now excruciating, but he held it anyway.

"He, uh... He actually asked me for an update, which I gave him, and then... Well, he asked if you were here," Jones finally stated, slowly raising his eyebrows.

Peter's frown deepened. Then he let out a laugh. "Of course he did," he sighed. "And, you said…"

"Well, I said I didn't see you here," Jones replied. "Because, technically at that moment, I didn't see you."

Peter sighed, tilting his head and giving his agent a skeptical look. "Really, Jones?"

"I think I was channeling Caffrey," Jones told him with a shrug. "Seemed like a loophole he would use."

"It's absolutely a loophole he would use," Peter replied dryly, "and has used."

"Well, should I have told him you were here?"

"Absolutely not," Peter responded, chuckling slightly. "Though in all seriousness, I probably should heed his judgment." He paused. "Not to mention avoid putting you in that situation. I'm sorry about that, Jones."

"Yeah, something about lying to the senior agent of my senior agent doesn't quite sit right…" Jones replied, making a face.

"Hey, in Caffrey's book it's not a lie," Peter replied, tone slightly teasing.

Jones raised his eyebrows.

"But as you know, his book is being actively rewritten…" Peter said stiffly. "If I could find him…"

"You will," Jones told him.

"Let's hope so," Peter answered. He sighed. "Well, I should go. I'm sure Hughes will call you again. Let me just close things out a couple things with Samantha so we get her hour started. Also, do me a favor?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell Mozzie he actually has a task to do. I need him to cover the cameras in the room. He should be good at that. I'm sure it's not his first time."

Jones looked skeptical. "Cover them? But, Boss, I thought—"

"I know, I know. I thought too," Peter responded, waving his hand dismissively. "Change in plans… Walk with me. I'll explain."

Crawling through the vent was almost like an out of body experience.

Neal felt like he was watching himself from afar.

He wondered how he had gotten himself in this situation. Or what he could have done to avoid it. And what to do next.

But jumbled, unclear thoughts weren't getting him very far.

"Faster," Dean spoke, verbally prodding from behind.

"Going as fast as I can," Neal responded gruffly, though truthfully he was going as slowly as he could without it being terribly obvious. He wasn't even sure that buying time was the right thing to do. He only knew that when there was a plan he didn't agree with, usually delaying it was the right move.

"Pretty sure you can go faster," Dean answer, clearly frustrated. "I told you. We're on timeline."

"I know," Neal muttered. Timeline, timeline, timeline. Dean had repeated that multiple times at this point.

"So hurry up," Dean persisted.

Letting out a deep breath and feeling helpless, Neal moved forward, picking up the pace negligibly. The headlamp he wore only illuminated only a few feet ahead of them. He had no idea how much further they had to go. He also was having a hard time imagining bringing the artwork back through these vents. Sure, they were spacious enough, and it was possible to do it, but he was also literally crawling…

Behind him a phone chimed.

He could hear the shuffle of Dean's movement behind him pause briefly. Though there was room to, he was afraid to turn back to look. If he did, his light would shine directly onto Dean, and it would prompt a forceful rebuke. He knew that for a fact, as he had already done so twice.

"She's ready," Dean told him. "The hour starts now. Pick up the pace."

Neal frowned, continuing to move through the vent. "An hour?"

"We only get an hour," Dean said briskly. "And I'd rather use that hour, so –"

"So hurry up," Neal finished, tone disgruntled. "I am, I am…" Up ahead, he squinted into the darkness beyond the extent of his lighting, and he could see they approaching the point where the vent split into two directions.

He wondered if that meant they were getting close.

He dreaded actually reaching their destination.

"To the right?" he asked.

"To the right," Dean confirmed. "We're getting close."

Fears confirmed, Neal didn't say anything else.

"Let me know when you see it," Dean told him.

See what? Neal thought. He didn't know what he was looking for. He also didn't care to ask.

What happened next was a blur.

As much as he mentally willed it not to happen, they soon reached their destination. The preparation of what was meant to happen next was obvious as Neal approached; he immediately saw that a large panel in the vent was clearly shifted, ready to be removed.

This had to be it – what he was meant to look out for.

"I see the panel," Neal acknowledged. What was he supposed to do? He didn't want to do this. But what else could he do?

"Move past it and pull it aside towards you," Dean prompted him. "It shouldn't be heavy."

Once again there was no choice.

Right? Wasn't there no choice?

He tried in his mind to picture explaining this to Peter and what he would say. Would Peter say back something along the lines of, 'Well, why wouldn't you have…" But why wouldn't he have what ? That was the question. That was the blank he was struggling to fill.

He literally had a gun pointed at him, and no where to run.

And so, Neal followed his captor's directions.

I had no choice, is what he would tell Peter.

If he ever got the chance to.

Pulling back the large panel, which was surprisingly lightweight, was a quiet endeavor, as was setting it aside. Once he did so, he peered down, his stomach twirling a bit to see the drop in distance below into a room, presumably in the hotel. He could see a tacky carpet pattern that screamed hotel.

He looked up, staring back at the face of Dean on the other side of the opening. His headlamp illuminated the other man, and he winced as the man looked back at him, his own bright light shining in his eyes.

He then looked back down.

Samantha appeared below the opening, smiling, staring up at them.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't make it," she told them. "Took you long enough."

Dean ignored the comment, instead demanding, "Are you ready?"

"Yes," she answered. "Took me a bit to get this room secured, but I'm ready, and we've got…" She glanced down at her watch before peering back up at them. "We've got about forty-five minutes."

"It's enough time," Dean told her gruffly. He glanced at Neal and then looked back at her. "Start handing us what you can. If I need to come down there I will."

"I only have this chair," she began, stepping out of view for a moment and then dragging a metal folding chair into view. "But I think it's enough to let me reach you."

"Fine," Dean replied.

And with that, their process began. There were barely any words exchanged. Below, in the room, Samantha retrieved framed pieces of art, carried them over to then step up and stand up on the chair, carefully handing them up through the ceiling, where Dean would grab a hold of it, hoist it through the opening, and store it behind him in the vent.

"We'll bring them all up here," Dean explained, grunting as he shifted back, sliding one larger and presumably heavier frame behind him across the metal floor. "And we can worry about getting it to the van afterwards. Important thing is we get everything."

It was somewhat of a crude plan.

But it was working.

One by one, Samantha returned to their view, hoisting up piece after piece of art. She'd hand one to Neal, then to Dean, and then as they worked to move the art slightly down the vent to give themselves more room, she'd return ready with another one.

Dean looked thrilled with his plan. Neal could see his grinning face as he turned and flashed his light across the man's scarred face.

"No one is with you?" he asked Samantha as she handed him one of the pieces.

"Not now," she replied. "They'll be back in a bit."

"Is Peter there?"

Samantha paused. "He—"

"Hey," Dean swiftly interjected. "Both of you shut up. We're here to work, not chitchat."

Neal tried to read Samantha's face from the unfinished sentence.

Peter. Maybe he was there. Nearby. Maybe somehow he could contact him.

But she quickly stepped off her chair and moved out of view, going to retrieve another piece.

"No ideas, wise guy," Dean snapped at him, clearly reading his mind. "I see that look on your face. Finish the plan, and then I'll let you go."

Neal glanced over at him, masking his look, and said nothing as he accepted another frame from Samantha.

He was counting the frames as they came in. They were at around fifteen or so. He wondered how many there were in total...

He debated risking everything and jumping through the opening, into the room. Surely that would catch them both off guard, and he'd have an opportunity to run.

But he could feel Dean was watching his every move, as though anticipating he might do something like that.

Neal feared that if he tried that, he'd find himself an easy target. It would be like shooting fish in a barrel.

But what was he supposed to do? What happened after this?

"When the hour is up," he began, risking that Dean would become further irritated, "then what happens? They come back, and she's in an empty room?" He watched Samantha's expression as she stepped up on the chair and hoisted a frame above her shoulders to hand to Dean. "Then what?"

"Then she'll tell them what happened," Dean replied.

Neal's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Dean narrowed his eyes as he glared over at him. "That she was incapacitated. Then, against her will, all of the art was confiscated."

"How is she incapacitated?" Neal persisted, voicing his skepticism. "She's a willing participant here."

"You ask too many questions," Dean answered sharply. "Shut up and keep working."

"I told you you that you shouldn't have gone there…" Elizabeth chided softly as she watched Peter slowly take off his jacket and take a seat at their dining table.

"I know," Peter acknowledged with a sigh. He tossed his jacket over the back of the chair beside him. "I shouldn't have."

"Reese is asking you to step aside for a reason. To protect both of you."

"That I also know," Peter replied, rubbing his hands over his face. "And it's the right call."

"So you should have listened to him."

"I have a hard time just sitting this one out, El," Peter replied, looking up at her.

"I know…" she replied sympathetically. She walked closer, moving behind him to place her hands on his shoulders. "I understand, Peter. But now you've put your team in an awkward position as well."

Peter exhaled, shaking his head. "I know." He paused and then added, "I can't believe he actually called to see if I was there."

"Guess he knows you too well…" she replied softly. "Not to mention your security detail likely let them know... Your shoulders are tense," she noted, squeezing them gently.

"My whole body is tense," he replied. He sighed, leaning back in the chair.

She slid her hands off his shoulders as she moved to take the seat beside him at the table. "I don't know how much more of this I can take…" she said.

He looked up, meeting her deep blue eyes. "Hon, I'm so sorry. I never expected this case to turn into this."

"I know," she answered. "It's not your fault, Peter. But I think we just need to trust Reese on this one and take a step back."

Exhausted, Peter nodded though he didn't feel the same mutual response inside. He was about to say so when his phone began to ring.

He fumbled, reaching for his jacket on the back of the neighboring chair, trying to find the pocket to locate the device. The ringtone continued insistently in the meantime.

Finally he pulled out the phone, looking at the screen. "It's Jones," he noted.

Elizabeth said nothing as he flipped open the phone.

"Hey, Jones," Peter greeted. "What's going on?"

Jones breathed heavily on the other line. "Uh, Boss, we have a problem."

Peter immediately straightened in his chair, feeling the edge of trepidation. "What kind of problem?" As he asked the question, he could feel Elizabeth's eyes on him. She was radiating with worry, but he couldn't find a way to look at her just yet. He needed to hear his agent's response.

"We gave her a completely uninterrupted hour, like you said," Jones began.

"Right…."

"And when that was up, the minute it was up, we went in to assess and wrap things up."

"And?"

"Sir, the door was locked, and there was no response from the inside."

Peter could feel his anxiety begin to rise.

"So we had assistance right away from the hotel," Jones continued, "and we got the door open. But, what we found…" He trailed off just for a second before continuing. "Peter, we found Samantha unconscious."

"You what?"

"And all of the art," Jones continued. "All of it was gone."

"Gone," Peter echoed. He pushed back his chair, getting to his feet. "What do you mean, gone?"

"Peter?" Elizabeth asked, watching him in alarm.

"It was all gone," Jones persisted. "Like it vanished."

"How the hell does that happen?" Peter demanded.

"No one was in or out of the room," Jones replied. "Boss, we had eyes on the door the entire time."

"I know that. I know you did. I ensured you did. How the… And Samantha? You said she's unconscious?"

"We had a medic arrive immediately," Jones answered. "She's fine, Peter. She was back with us relatively quickly. They took her for observation and to run some tests. They think she was drugged."

Peter cursed, shaking his head. He began to pace his room for the hundredth time. "Drugged by who? How does this happen? How?"

Jones cleared his throat on the other side of the line. "Well, Boss, that's the thing…"

"Huh?" Peter responded. "What do you mean? What's the thing?"

"Well, according to Samantha," Jones continued, "the person that did this … the person that entered the room and took her by surprise…. That person was Neal."

Peter nearly dropped his phone. "What?" he barked into the phone. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"She gave his description multiple times, Peter," Jones continued. "To us, to the medics, to anyone that asked what happened. She even said the person called themselves Neal."

Peter felt like he'd been hit by a truck. He didn't respond. He couldn't respond. He was stunned.

"Boss?" Jones asked.

"I'm here," Peter responded slowly. Weakly. He knew he had to get it together. "Jones, there's no way that's him. That he did this."

"I'm only telling you what I know, Peter."

Peter cursed under his breath. "Did you speak to Hughes yet?"

"No. I called you first."

"Okay. Thank you for that."

"Listen, I gotta call him next, Peter. Unless someone already has. Things are starting to get heated here. I mean… Everything is gone… How…"

"I understand," Peter replied. He ran his hand through his hair, feeling agitated. "I should get down there."

"Should you?"

Peter paused. It was a fair question.

"Don't get me wrong – I want you here," Jones persisted. "But, after what Hughes said, and –"

"I know," Peter acknowledged, interjecting. "I know." His mind was racing.

"Shit," Jones suddenly said.

"What now?"

"I'm getting a call," Jones began. "From Hughes."

"Take it," Peter replied. "Take it. And then call me back."

"Okay," Jones agreed.

The phone line went dead, and Peter turned around in his living room. As he felt his wife's concerned stare, he resisted the urge to throw his phone violently across the room.

"Peter," she spoke, still sitting at their dining room table. "What is going on?"

He turned towards her, feeling a complete and utter sense of dread. "We have a problem."