Neal went into the darkness without a second thought.

He didn't know how much faster he could blindly move, but he pushed himself to find as much speed as humanly possible.

As his heart pounded, he tried to dismiss the underlying uncertainty that he had no idea what was in front of him.

He didn't have time for those considerations. He couldn't allow room for any thoughts that might make him pause or slow down.

Anxiety and adrenaline pumping, he could feel his heart in his chest, like it was ready to break through his ribcage, but pushed harder.

It was blind – going just forward into the blackness of the duct system, but what choice did he have?

Any minute now… Eventually Dean would notice.

It was inevitable.

He would notice there was no movement behind him. That the other light was stationary.

He might try to address him, to make some instructions, and there would be no response.

And when that happened, all hell would break loose. The man was already angry and unhinged. Neal knew he had to be as far into this other tunnel as he could and therefore as far away from Dean as possible before any of that happened.

Otherwise it would all be over. He would never make it out of here.

Dean didn't need him now. He had all of the artwork. Their deal was complete, and Neal was now a liability. A liability on the run.

And soon Dean would realize that.

So he pushed, and pushed, and pushed/

He knew it would happen at any moment but still felt a surge of panic that made him jump when he heard Dean's voice suddenly bellow through the vents just minutes later.

"Hey!" came the barked objection. It traveled from a distance, but was loud enough to make him feel unnerved. While the voice was angry, it also sounded somewhat alarmed. "I said, hey!" came the additional shout, more emphatic. This time it sounded more angry than alarmed. The voice traveled with an echoing tinniness through the tunnels. "Where the hell are you?"

Now that Neal's deviation was official, he knew the clock started ticking. Dean would be in pursuit.

This was motivation to go faster. He had to. He had to get out of here. He could do this…

"I know you can hear me!" roared the voice.

But how much faster? What was humanly possible? These vents weren't even made for travel like this...

"I told you not to cross me!" Dean's voice thundered. The shouts seemed louder now, and Neal feared that it meant the man was gaining on him and getting closer.

At one point, Neal had been fairly certain he had a lead on Dean. After all, the man hadn't even been on the same route – he'd been headed down a different path than him. He'd have to go back, retrace that path, and then realize Neal had turned and gone down the other route, head that direction….

Even if all that had just happened, Neal still had to have a decent head start. Right?

"I will kill you!" the voice shouted.

Right?

Somehow Neal couldn't convince himself of that fact and still felt panicked.

Yet he also knew that Dean couldn't be as close as it sounded. Sound was just traveling. It had to be the case.

Don't look back, Neal urged himself. Just don't look back.

At the same time, he braced himself, expecting something to happen at any moment. After all, Dean was armed. He was reckless. He might fire at him or at least in his direction – and while it might be a futile shot if aimed from the other tunnel in this network of ducts, once Dean was within the same route or duct as him, he would probably barely need to aim. It would be a straight shot.

Would there be a ricochet? Could a bullet penetrate this material?

Just keep going, Neal continued to tell himself. Don't think about it and don't look back.

Another minute in, he swore he sensed Dean gaining ground behind him, even though that would be impossible to gauge. It was his own mental demons convincing him of that – nothing based on fact.

He also thought he could see a flash of light come from behind him, which could only be Dean's headlamp since he'd left his own behind. Then again, it was possible the flash was behind his eyes, out of fatigue and panic, or completely imagined. When he tried to focus on it, all he could see was pitch black.

It was driving him mad, not knowing… Was Dean close?

Unable to bear not knowing any longer, he gave into his impulsiveness and risked it all for a moment, turning his head to take a look backwards. It lost him time, but it gained him reassurance when he saw the complete black void behind him. He couldn't even make out any shapes or the duct system itself. Surely he would see the light of the headlamp if Dean had gained any competitive distance and was behind him.

Yet it wasn't enough to sigh in relief.

He turned back around, promising to himself that he wouldn't risk looking back again.

Just keep going, Neal continued to tell himself.

He was repeating this mantra in his head, charging forward, when suddenly out of no where the floor seemed to cave in.

From complete and utter stark darkness, there was suddenly bright, blinding light, and he realized instantly he was falling. The floor had given way beneath him, and suddenly he was dropping like dead weight. The sensation of gravity taking its hold of him was forceful and disorienting.

For a snapshot in time it was like he was moving in slow motion, body frozen and mind stunned as he fell through the air.

But then it all rapidly caught up with him.

He didn't know how far he fell but he landed with a hard thud flat against his back, head slamming back behind him against some kind of solid surface. He winced at the blinding impact, squeezing his eyes shut as he heard a cacophony of commotion around him.

It took him a moment to gather his senses, at complete shock from the fall even as he managed to open his eyes, vision slowly clearing. He winced again. He'd been in darkness for the better part of the last hour, and even regular room lighting was painstakingly blazing.

He found himself staring upwards at the ceiling, wide-eyed at a huge, gaping hole from where he had fallen. The duct work had just given way, breaking through the drywall of the ceiling in jagged exhaustion, resulting in his current position.

The commotion around him mixed with a loud ringing in his ears. But then things suddenly registered, and also how time was of the essence, and so he desperately struggled through shock to quickly sit up, feeling like his limbs were temporarily made of jello.

His eyes took in the scene around him.

He realized he was in a kitchen. A commercial kitchen.

He was surrounded by stainless steel and… chaos.

What the hell?

He realized in shock that he had landed on a countertop, in the middle of some kind of a food preparation. Around him was now a mess. Broken sheetrock and dust. Part of the commotion was the clattering of plates and bowls that he had crashed into that were now in shattered pieces around him and on the floor, food strewn everywhere. He felt a wetness dripping off of him and made a face, registering that he was surrounded by a now very deconstructed … salad?

It looked like an explosion.

Standing within a few feet of him, three kitchen workers, two women and a man in white uniforms and hair nets, stared at him in abject horror. The man was shouting something at him in Spanish and appeared angry and confused. He was gesturing with a lot of energy, hands going in every direction. Behind them a radio was playing loud music. To the side of the room was a grill, large pots of something boiling over with steam. Maybe soup. Another kitchen worker stood there, a ladle in his hand, jaw gaping open in shock.

Ignoring them and the mess, now staring back up at the gaping hole in the ceiling, terrified that any minute Dean would be looming over them with a gun drawn, Neal rapidly pushed himself to move past his dizziness and shock. He slid off the countertop, toppling to his feet and nearly slipping on an upturned bowl of sliced tomatoes.

The one man shouted at him again, throwing a spoon at him.

"I'm sorry," Neal told him, slightly hastily. The spoon hit his shoulder with a dull thud and then clattered to the floor. He had no idea what they must have thought of him, other than he'd ruined their day's work.

The man responded back something unintelligible.

The women were talking to themselves almost frantically, casting sideways suspicious looks at Neal.

Neal haphazardly brushed wilted lettuce off of his shirt, scanning the mess behind him and on the floor as he tried to steady himself on his feet. Another wave of dizziness passed over him and for a moment he had to grip the countertop – his landing platform from a moment ago – to remain standing.

"Lo siento," he added sincerely as he gained his composure.

They glared at him.

His eyes scanned them only briefly, relieved they were keeping their distance, as he remained focused on the potential for Dean to arrive any second. He cast one last glance at the ceiling above, heart pounding, and knew he had to get moving.

He carefully pushed away from the island countertop, navigating his feet through the mess of tomatoes, cucumbers, lettuce, onion, radish, and pools of dressing.

He stumbled slightly, but kept moving, knowing he was out of time.

He located the exit sign in the kitchen, and ignored the yells after him as he headed that direction.

Once he made it through those doors, finding himself in a hallway, he ran.

He had no idea where he was, except that he needed to get far as possible from this location.

"You're not going to like it."

Peter raised his eyebrows at the comment from Jones as the man sat down beside him at his dining table. While he was itching to be elsewhere, he was also respectful of his supervisor's request, and therefore he was operating from home. He had been relieved when Jones had agreed, with little question, to come to him.

"No?" he asked.

Jones settled into the chair beside his supervisor with a frown. "Definitely not," he warned.

Peter just nodded, pressing his lips together. He pushed the laptop open in front of him to slide it closer to the other man. "I'm not liking a lot of things these days..." Peter told him dryly. "Just play it."

"Are you even sure I'm supposed to be doing this?"

"The recording was shared with all of the agents on the case," Peter responded impatiently.

"Yeah, all the active agents," Jones replied. "Boss, don't take this the wrong way, but—"

"Then don't say it," Peter responded.

Jones simply stared.

Peter exhaled. "Look. You're already here and the clock is ticking. Let's just play it."

With a sigh and a look on his face that conveyed his uncertainty, Jones reached into his jacket pocket to withdraw a thumb drive. "If you say so..."

Peter remained silent, simply watching as Jones took the drive and inserted it into the computer's USB drive. A few clicks on the keyboard and he was opening up the file.

"It's a video?" Peter asked in slight surprise as he watched the computer program open on the screen.

"It is.…" Jones replied, glancing his way. "Why?"

"No reason." Peter shrugged. "I thought it was just audio for some reason..."

"Nope, you get the full effect…. Here we go… Ready?" Jones asked.

"Yes."

Jones clicked the spacebar on the computer and the video began to play.

It opened on a zoomed in screen capture of Samantha. She looked tired and had a worried, almost pained look on her face. Peter watched her expression carefully, thinking back on their last encounter uneasily. She was someone he had trusted. He had pulled her into this…

"Are you ready?" someone off camera asked. It was ironically an echo of what Jones had just asked Peter.

Samantha almost appeared startled by the question but then quickly nodded. "Yes," she said softly.

Clearing his throat, Peter shifted his weight in his chair as he eyed the video. "Where is she?" he asked.

"They discharged from the hospital," Jones replied. "She insisted that she wanted to give a statement as soon as possible. Obviously we complied…"

"So this is from her hotel?"

"I think so. I'm not sure."

Peter frowned. "You and Diana weren't there?"

"Hughes felt it would be better to have an… impartial audience present for this."

"Impartial," Peter muttered.

On the screen, the camera was panning out a little bit, revealing that Samantha was seated in an arm chair and an agent was off to her side in a folding chair, sitting stiffly with a notepad balanced on their knee, pen armed to take notes despite the recording.

"Let's hear what happened," the agent said to Samantha gently. "On your own account. You can start with when you were left alone in the room."

Samantha nodded, looking a bit hesitant, but then she began to speak.

Peter could feel his hands clenching themselves into fists, even before she had her first words out.

Without much prompting, Samantha set off into an uninterrupted account of the afternoon. There was no need to ask questions – she did a detailed play by play, pausing only to reach for a glass of water on occassion.

The beginning of the account focused on her gratitude for having the opportunity to revisit her family's estate and to see the artwork.

She mentioned her fond memories of seeing the artwork when she was younger and what it meant to all of them. How it now represented the legacy of her late husband and her children's future…

How it meant so much...

Her voice was solemn as she spoke, and a few times her voice wavered with emotion.

However, she didn't spend too much time dwelling on history. Before long she quickly propelled the story into the current day.

She narrated what had happened while she happened to be focused on one particular painting in the room. Lost in her thoughts (her own words) she barely noticed when suddenly she was no longer in the room alone.

Initially she she heard a voice address her, but she thought it was one of the agents returning.

But it wasn't one of the agents.

"He startled me. He had come from the ceiling," Samantha explained. "Really clandestine. Not the door. The ceiling. He had somehow removed one of the ceiling tiles and come into the room that way."

Peter frowned, glancing at Jones. "Have they checked that?" he asked. "The access to the room from that way?"

"They were on it as soon as she mentioned it," Jones replied. "I haven't heard back."

"We need to know," Peter replied.

Jones nodded.

The video continued. "He introduced himself as Neal," she said on the screen. After a pause she stated, "Neal Caffrey."

"Bullshit," Peter muttered under his breath.

Jones glanced Peter's way.

On video the account continued. "They asked me back at the hospital what he looked like," Samantha said slowly. "I gave a description… I can repeat that now if it helps, or…" She stopped at the question. Someone in the room must have given the affirmative, as she then began to describe Neal – height, build, hair color, his attire… "Does that help?" she asked. Someone off camera affirmed it did.

Peter rolled his eyes.

"He said he'd been watching this case," Samantha said on the video. Her frown deepened. "That he was connected to the Bureau somehow. You all probably know more than I do about that…"

Peter watched with narrowed eyes.

Samantha went on to set forth how Neal began to describe to her a detailed plan. How he'd developed a keen interest based on his involvement in the investigation in what her family's estate had collected over the years, and how he had made it his goal to find a way throughout this case to get access to it...

"He offered to partner with me," Samantha said. "He said he knew I had asked repeatedly about the status of the collection, and how it might one day be returned to my family. He said he could help to circumvent that whole process…."

This was where she paused for a sip of water.

"I won't deny that I was tempted by the offer," she admitted, bowing her head slightly. "I think it's on record that I've asked the question about the artwork multiple times over the years." She let out a sigh, long and sad. "I told you how much it means to me. Sentimentally… But I knew whatever he was offering… I knew it was illegal. I knew it was too good to be true." Her brow furrowed.

Peter sighed. He admitted she sounded quite vulnerable as she spoke.

"So I refused," Samantha stated firmly. "I told him I wasn't comfortable with that. And he got angry. Really angry."

"Angry in what way?" someone off camera asked.

"His personality changed," she replied. She shook her head, closing her eyes briefly with a frown as if pained to recall to the memory. "He said he was going to do it with or without me." She let out a shuddering breath. "Then… Then he pulled out a knife."

"A knife…" Peter echoed under his breath.

"They found it," Jones noted. "By the way."

Peter's head snapped to Jones' direction. "What?"

"They found it on scene," Jones replied. "A knife, just like what she described."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "How convenient…"

"They also found prints on it," Jones continued. "Gonna take at least until later today to hear back on results."

Peter simply frowned and turned his eyes back to the scene. "Mm-hmm…"

She was describing "Neal's" subsequent mission to take all the artwork. His elaborate plan to remove each piece, one by one, from the room.

"I told him I'd scream," she said. "I told him there were agents just outside of the door." She paused, letting out a deep sigh. "He said he would kill me. I didn't know what to do. It was my fault too – I had actually just asked Peter if I could have complete privacy. I didn't want anyone watching. If I hadn't done that, maybe someone could have helped me."

She took another sip of water.

"He told me no one would believe me," she continued. "He said he was part of the FBI team. I don't know if that's true or not, but… I was terrified. I wanted to scream. I wanted to try to run for the door. To alert someone. But I have children… I just… I couldn't stop thinking about what if this was it for me?"

"What are people saying about this?" Peter asked, not bothering to look at Jones this time. He kept his eyes on Samantha. On her panicked, emotional look.

"Well… What do you think? They're looking for Neal," Jones replied dryly.

Peter couldn't respond. The video continued.

"He moved so quickly," Samantha continued. "It was like he had it all planned out to every detail. He had a real system. He… he also seemed to have an accomplice. But I didn't see them. They stayed up… up in the ceiling. He handed things to them." She visibly swallowed. "And when… when he was done… Which didn't take any time at all… Then he came back to me."

"An accomplice…" Peter echoed.

"Dean?" Jones mused.

Peter simply grunted. "Who the hell knows."

"When he came back to me," Samantha spoke, voice shaking slightly, "he pulled out a syringe. I asked him what that was, but he was approaching me so fast. It was terrifying. There was nothing I could do. And then I really was about to scream, but it was too late. He grabbed me, and whatever was in that needle, it took me out right away. I don't remember much after that."

"Let me guess…" Peter started. He turned to Jones.

"They found the syringe," Jones confirmed. "They're testing it."

"Mm-hmm…" Peter replied.

The video shifted at that point where the focus was more on Samantha herself and if she needed to take a break or perhaps rest. The view of the camera was blocked as someone stood in front of it to bring her another glass of water.

"Jesus." Peter reached out and with one hand slammed the lid of the laptop shut.

"I told you that you wouldn't like it," Jones replied, giving his boss a tentative look.

"When was this?"

"Maybe ninety minutes ago…"

Peter leaned back in his chair, frustrated. "Does any of that sound like Neal?"

Jones sighed. "Look, Boss, I've seen like ten different characters of Neal's and –"

"Fine. But do any of them sound like that?" Peter persisted.

Jones shook his head. "Not like that, really, no…."

"He's smart and conniving," Peter replied. "And I'm sure he could whip up a plan to mastermind his way into that collection if he had his head set on it, but knives? Injections? Threatening her like that? Does any of that sound like Neal? Telling her he'd kill her?"

"No," Jones admitted. "No, he's never been violent, Peter. I know that."

"Exactly. He doesn't do violence."

"And based on my take of him, he would never take a hostage."

"I agree." Peter clenched his fists. "God, she's really framing him." He gave Jones a look. "Is it only obvious to me?"

Jones sighed. "Well… Not everyone else seems to be so opposed to him as a suspect…" he replied. "There's a real manhunt out now. I mean, there already was but now… Now it's getting heated."

"She plays a good victim," Peter acknowledged. "And I trusted her."

"We all did."

"I had history with her," Peter continued, angrily. "I thought we had a mutual understanding. I had my suspicions earlier, but…. But now I'm certain. She's framing him."

Jones nodded, not responding.

Peter continued, focused. "I know he didn't do this. I know it's her. To this day, I'm confident she has never even met Neal. Never mind had this experience with him. This complicated plan she's proposing Neal fabricated… It's her plan and Dean's… I'm confident."

Jones watched his boss, continuing to nod. "So what now?"

"We have to find him first," Peter stated.