Neal was panting, his legs flying across fleur-de-lis painted tiles that covered the floor of the large mansion he was in. He skidded around a corner, heading straight for the hallway. He saw Brown, head of the criminal group he had infiltrated a couple of weeks ago, rushing down the stairs. Since the large mansion was built on a soft mount, there must be another exit to the back gardens in the cellar. He wouldn't let him escape though.
He had been undercover, investigating a group of criminals who had pulled a lot of art heists and collected them in this mansion on the outskirts of New York.
He had gained Brown's trust and was finally lead to the estate the stolen art was held. Brown wanted to show his loot to his newbie. Neal had agreed with Peter that he'd utter the safeword as soon as he laid eyes on the stolen goods, so that Peter, Jones and the rest of the agents could make the arrest.
Once inside, he had said the word, but something was off. Brown suddenly had a hunch that the FBI was onto him and he wanted to flee the scene. Brown bolted, Neal close on his heels.
Neal rushed down the stairs and found himself in a concrete hallway. One of the many wooden doors stood slightly ajar and he ran through it, almost falling down the short flight of stairs appearing behind it. He steadied himself and stood straight, scanning the room. He saw Brown below and across the room, fumbling with a set of keys in front of another door that presumably lead outside. He needed to stall. „Brown, stop!", he shouted. Where the hell was backup? The goon was going to escape! Brown, who hadn't found the right key yet, turned around with a menacing smile. „You know, snitch – you're not armed. I, on the other hand, am." He pulled a gun from the inside of his jacket, pointing it at Neal.
Neal raised his hands and slowly descended the few stairs, towards Brown and said: „Come on, man. You know it's over. The mansion is surrounded and the FBI will barge in here any second now." He had said the safeword only a minute or two ago, but it felt like hours.
Neal had reached the bottom and Brown was moving away from the door. They were slowly circling each other, Neal with his back against the wall. „Look, kid. I will find the right key and escape before your FBI friends get here. And you won't stop me." He pulled the trigger.
The sheer force of the hit threw Neal against the wall, arms flailing. Stars were dancing before his eyes. Surprised, he looked down at the hole in his shoulder, seeping blood...
He slowly raised his head to look at Brown with large eyes and a shocked expression, starting to waver slightly. He took one step away from the wall and paled. His eyes rolled back in his head and his knees faltered. He listed sideways and everything went black. Peter.
Brown took one step towards the man he had gotten to know as „Nick". He didn't want the kid to hit the concrete head-first. As Nick was listing to the side, he caught him on his way down. Nick's legs were sprawled out, Brown had his arms wrapped around Nick's torso, pressing his chest against his. The kid was completely limp, his arms dangling, one touching the floor, the other behind his back. His head lolling over one of Brown's arms, lips slightly parted, face completely slack.
Brown slowly eased him down onto the floor and laid him on his back. He grabbed the kids chin and leaned in to check on his breathing which seemed a bit shallow but otherwise okay. He let go of Nicks chin, whose head rolled to one side. His arms were lying limply at his sides, palms up, fingers slightly curled.
Damn, kid. He didn't want to hurt him.
With one last look at the fallen man who was lying sprawled out before him, he got up and grabbed the set of keys he'd dropped in the process of catching Nick. He found the right one at the first try, opened the door and ran across the garden and disappeared into the woods.
Peter was impatiently waiting in the van, parked on a trail in the woods that surrounded the estate. Only Jones was with him, his other units were at the back of the mansion and further down the long driveway. Cutting off possible escape routes.
Brown was not known to be violent, but he was constantly worried about his CI whenever he was undercover. He wouldn't be able to live with it, if anything were to happen to him, he had said to Ellen once. That hadn't changed. If anything, it had gotten worse, after Neal had been shot by Collins. He'd felt responsible. Though as obnoxious Neal could be at times, he was his best friend.
Neal must've spotted the stolen art. Peter could hear Neal say the safeword through his earpiece.
Something was off though. „You're a mole!" he could hear Brown say to Neal.
„Brown, stop!", Neal yelled. Then there was labored breathing and running footsteps. Peter could only hope that Neal wasn't chasing after the escaping goon, but stayed put until they got the guy as he had told him to. Neal never listens...
Peter signaled Jones to call all units surrounding the estate. They needed to move in. Now.
While Peter holstered his gun and jumped off the van, he heard an exchange of words between Brown and Neal but couldn't quite follow. The rushing in his ears was too loud as he was busy running across the vast lawn towards the house. Then he heard the report of a gun.
He stopped short. Neal. Jones beside him picked up his pace, rushing towards the main entrance, Peter right behind him.
The mansion was larger than he thought. How were they supposed to find Neal in time, who was off anklet?
They had scanned almost every room on the ground floor and called out Neal's name repeatedly, when, over the intercom, Peter heard one of the agents who was stationed at the back of the house state: „Agent Burke, Sir. We've caught Brown. He was running from the mansion practically into our arms."
Peter was relieved but he still needed to find Neal. He had a vision of his friend lying in a corner somewhere. Shot. Bleeding. Possibly dead.
He shoved the thought aside and bellowed at Jones: „You go look upstairs, I'll take the cellar."
Jones nodded and ran upstairs, while Peter headed down. He could hear the other units entering the house above him, busying themselves with securing evidence. „Sir, do you need more men to look for Caffrey?", he heard one agent ask. „No, Jones and I have covered a good amount of ground, but call EMTs right away, please", he said while he reached the cellar and looked around. The hall had several wooden doors, all of them seemed closed, except one. „NEAL!", Peter shouted.
No answer. He reached the door which stood ajar and peered around it. There was a short flight of steps and at the bottom... „NEAL!", he rushed towards his friend, who was lying on the concrete floor, unmoving. He skidded to his friend's side, whose face was leaning away from him.
He reached for Neal's neck, feeling for a pulse and saw the red stain on Neal's shoulder. He could feel a strong pulse and saw the rise and fall of Neal's chest. Peter sighed and frantically pulled out a handkerchief, pressing it against Neal's shoulder. „Come on, Neal.", he whispered. Neal let out a low moan and slowly turned his head towards Peter, eyes slightly open, looking up at his handler. „Pt'r", he slurred. His breath hitched and he made a low, distressed noise in the back of his throat that broke Peter's heart. „Shh, Neal, I'm so sorry. Hold on. EMTs are on the way. You'll be okay." Neal stared blearily at him. The kid was so pale. „Ok, Pt'r. Tr'st you." Neal smiled to himself and closed his eyes. „No, Neal, come on, open your eyes." But Neal's face went slack, his head rolling all the way towards Peter, his mouth slightly open. Peter looked at his friend wide-eyed and let his eyes wander towards the wound. There was a stain forming underneath Neal and Peter assumed that the shot had been a through-and-through. Damn it, Neal.
„Man down! Neal's been shot. How long until the bus is here?", Peter tried to contain the panic in his voice. „About 10 minutes, Sir."
„Peter, I'll be right there", he heard Jones say.
Neal may not have that long until the EMTs will be down here and he didn't have any supplies to dress the wound to stop the bleeding. He needed to bring Neal upstairs, meeting the EMTs halfway. „Jones, look for something to dress Neal's wound with and meet me at the front door, I'll carry Neal towards the entrance", he advised.
He peers down at his CI, who looks so young and innocent, his wavy hair sprawled on the concrete, his dark lashes against his pale skin... This is my fault. He got hurt again and I let it happen.
Peter throws the tissue aside, which was soaked through by now. He shoves his right arm underneath Neal's upper back, jostling Neal in the process who doesn't respond at all. With is left hand he lifts Neal's arm and lies it across his chest. He pushes Neal's upper body upwards, Neal's head hanging limply off his arm. Like a rag-doll. With his left, Peter reaches for Neal's legs, shoving is arm underneath his knees. He sits himself on his heels and with a grunt, he lifts Neal up. Heavy! Damn it, Neal.
He sets one foot in front of the other, nearing the stairs in the room. He stops as he remembers that the backdoor Brown had fled through was unlocked. He reaches the door and pushes it open with his foot and steps out into the garden with a completely limp Neal in his arms. His muscles burn. But he needs to round the house and at least make it to the front entrance.
He grunts with the effort of ascending the slope next to the house, his strength seeping. Neal doesn't make a sound, his limbs are dangling limply above the ground. Out cold.
Peter rounds the front of the house as Jones steps out the door, looking at him and Neal wide-eyed. He springs into action and helps Peter to sit down, seconds before his strength ran out, Neal almost sliding off his arms. He doesn't let go of Neal, but adjusts his upper body so that his CI's head is lying in the crook of his arm. „Sorry, Peter. I didn't find any piece of fabric lest a first aid kid in the house, but EMTs should be here any moment."
Peter nods and clutches Neal a bit closer. He looks down and sees Neal closing his lips, swallowing and drawing his eyebrows together. He let's out a whimper. He's clearly in a lot of pain. Peter's sleeve is soaked through where it touches the wound. Please, hold on.
„Neal, are you with me?" But with a small sigh, Neal's face relaxes again, his head rolling on Peters arm towards his chest, lips parting again, dark hair falling partially over his closed eyes. Peter's heart clenches.
He can hear sirens in the distance, quickly coming closer. Seconds later, he can see the ambulance pulling into the driveway. Anything after that is a blur. He reluctantly let's go of Neal, who is being lifted onto a stretcher, an oxygen mask placed on his face. As Neal is being wheeled towards the ambulance, Peter takes his hand and although he knows that Neal can't hear him, he says: „Please forgive me, Neal. You'll be alright. I'll be by your side when you wake up, buddy." And he thinks he can feel a light squeeze...