Chapter Two

The tension grew as they neared Neal's federally imposed boundary but thankfully they didn't cross it. Exiting at Jay Street, they drove north into Vinegar Hill. It wasn't the best of areas, it had one of the highest violent crime rates in the city, but it was just inside Neal's radius.

One disaster averted, they moved on to the next.

They turned right on Front Street, then a block and a half later, left on Gold. Two quick turns later, Peter pulled into an enclosed lot of box trucks that, like the neighborhood, had seen better days. At Reich's direction, Peter pulled in between two of them, effectively hiding the Taurus from sight, and switched off the engine.

He exited the car and Reich and Neal did the same. Overgrown trees from the adjoining lot hid both them and the car from view of any of the neighboring buildings. Peter feared they were destined for the back of one of the trucks, but instead Reich, once more digging the barrel of the gun into Neal's side to provide motivation, ordered them through an opening in the fence. Coming out on the other side, Peter saw their situation hadn't improved; the adjacent property was as equally run down and deserted as the one they'd left.

"Inside," Reich growled, nodding at the rear entrance of the dilapidated building that occupied the lot. "Now," he added at Peter's hesitation.

"You know the bullets come out, right?" Neal snapped as the man punctuated his order in the standard way. "If you're going to shoot me, shoot me but stop jabbing that thing into my ribs."

To be so smart, sometimes Neal could be stupid and this was one of those times. Instead of the barrel, Reich used the butt, landing a blow to Neal's ribcage so vicious it was sure to have cracked, if not broken, several ribs. Neal doubled over, yelping in pain but Reich gripped his shoulder and forced him upright.

"How's that, smartass?" Neal, arm pressed to his side and face stamped with pain, said nothing. Once more using the gun to gesture toward the building, Reich again told Peter to move.

Peter crossed the patch of loose sand and weeds to the back door. The padlock that had once secured it had been cut and now lay at the foot of the door. Stepping across a broken step, Peter pushed the door open and entered a wide hall. Still held firmly by Reich, Neal stumbled up the steps and into the house. Once inside, Reich relinquished his hold, shoved Neal towards Peter and pulled the door closed.

"Down the hall," he ordered. "Second door on the right."

Peter glanced sideways at Neal. The hallway they traveled, with its refuse and peeling wallpaper, was in shadows but he could see the sheen of sweat on Neal's face.

"You okay?"

"Been better," Neal replied, his voice low. "Who the hell is this guy, Peter, and what does he want with us?"

"He doesn't want us, Neal, he wants me."

Arriving at the indicated door, Peter and Neal stepped in but stopped just inside the threshold. Unlike the hallway which had been littered with trash, this room had been swept clean. There was a roll of thick, clear plastic sheeting, a length of rope and a pair of heavy shears. A large piece of the sheeting had already been cut free and now covered the larger part of the floor. Reich had said he'd been thinking about this, planning for this, and Peter knew it was true. His blood turned cold, realizing the sheet of plastic had been put there for him. Or at least, for his body.

Now, it was going to hold two.

"Well this is not good," Neal remarked quietly. He too had deduced the purpose of the room and the heavy plastic.

Behind them, Reich's words validated their fears.

"Might be a little crowded but I don't think either of you will be complaining." This time, Peter felt the gun barrel between his shoulder blades. "Go on," the man urged, pressing firmly. "Over there."

"Sorry I got you into this, Neal," Peter said as the plastic crinkled under their feet. With the weapon now trained on him instead of Neal, if he was going to make a move now was the time.

"You know," Reich told them as they reached the center of the room. "I'd planned to let you die slow, Burke, just like Victor, but I think I've changed my mind." The pressure of the gun barrel disappeared and before Peter could do anything a shot rang out; at his side, Neal stumbled forward.

"Instead," Reich continued as Neal dropped to his knees, "you can just watch your snitch die slow." The bullet had penetrated Neal's shoulder. "Then you can die fast."

Peter had done everything the man had said, hoping for an opportunity to secure their escape without getting Neal shot but he'd been shot anyway. Peter knew that a gunshot to any part of the body could be fatal without immediate medical attention. It wasn't the bullet that killed; it was the blood loss. Depending on the bullet's course through the body, it could take minutes or even hours for a person to bleed out. Peter had no intention of sitting by and watching that happen.

With a guttural cry, he spun, slamming into Reich. Another shot rang out, sending white-hot pain through his side but he was not deterred. He drove the man across the room, slamming him into the wall as the third shot sounded. Again Peter felt the recoil but not the pain as the bullet found another target. The man in his grasp stiffened, then fell forward, causing Peter to tumble back onto the plastic, the man's now motionless body on top of his. Peter's heart was pounding furiously both from exertion and panic and he could feel warm, sticky blood pouring from the man's chest and soaking his own shirt. Reich had at least thirty pounds on him and now, pinned beneath him, Peter fought to clear his head and catch his breath.

"Peter."

Neal's voice was weak but it gave Peter new strength. Reminded of the direness of their situation, he shoved the man aside and sat up. Out of habit, he secured the weapon, but there was no danger of further violence from Reich. Blood was already pooling on the clear plastic beneath him as his dull, lifeless eyes stared at the cracked ceiling above them.

Peter quickly patted the dead man's pockets, hoping to find a phone but there wasn't one. He looked up to see Neal, sickly pale and sweating, peering at him with wide eyes. The bullet had entered his shoulder blade and had gone through and through. Blood oozed from beneath the hand Neal had pressed to his shoulder. Reich no longer presented a threat to Neal but shock and blood loss did.

"It's okay," Peter assured him, crawling quickly to where he was sitting. "You're gonna be fine. Just let me take a look."

Pulling Neal's hand away from his shoulder, Peter felt a wave of nausea at the sight of the wound. Although it was bleeding steadily, it wasn't gushing with each heartbeat; somehow the bullet had missed the subclavian vein. He leaned Neal forward slightly, finding the smaller, more symmetrical entrance wound on his back. It, too, was bleeding but not as heavy as the exit wound.

He could feel Neal, drenched in sweat, trembling in his grasp. He feared shock was already beginning to set in.

"Bleeding," Neal mumbled breathlessly, his voice weak in Peter's ears. "How bad...?"

Having completed his cursory survey of the wound, Peter righted Neal and met his eyes.

"You're gonna be fine, Neal," he reiterated firmly. It was important to keep him calm. "Just keep pressure on it," He took Neal's hand in his, then pressed it to the wound, "and I'll go get help."

"Not me," Neal corrected desperately, his eyes fearful. "You." His eyes dropped to Peter's midsection. "You're hurt, Peter."

Peter glanced down, seeing the large stain on his shirt front. "That's Reich's blood, Neal, not mine." Neal started to protest, but Peter continued. "You just sit tight, and I'll be right back."

The minute he stood, his lightheartedness increased drastically and the room began to spin. Suddenly aware of pain that had somehow escaped his attention, Peter pressed his hand to his side. Feeling warm stickiness, he looked down in surprise. Neal was right. It wasn't just Reich's blood that covered him; he was losing his own too.

Weakness swept over him and he sank to the floor. Then, unable to hold himself upright, he tumbled to his side.

"Peter!" Neal's voice rang out and seconds later, his pale, worried face appeared at his side.

Out of breath and grunting in his own discomfort, Neal fumbled at Peter's jacket, pulling it aside to find the source of bleeding. Just like Peter himself had done moments before, Neal pulled Peter's hand away from the wound. There was a quick intake of breath.

"Damn," Neal winced softly, quickly reapplying pressure before looking at Peter in alarm. "This looks bad, Peter."

It was bad; Peter could tell. He was already drained, was starting to feel cold and the room was growing darker. He wasn't going for help; he wasn't going anywhere. Just like Reich had planned, he was going to die in this room.

But maybe Neal didn't have to. He looked like hell but was conscious and at least somewhat mobile. He might be able to get outside, to get help.

He grabbed Neal's forearm. "Listen, Neal," he began desperately. "You have to get out, get to the street...try to flag someone down..."

Neal was shaking his head. "I think Reich hit an artery, Peter," he said, still keeping the pressure on Peter's side. "If I leave you, you'll bleed to death."

"But if you don't," Peter told him, his gaze shifting to Neal's now freely bleeding shoulder, "we both will. Please Neal," he begged, meeting his eyes again. "You have to try, you have to tell El-" He stopped, choking up as his eyes filling with tears.

"Stop talking like that!" Neal cut in sharply. Peter could hear a hint of panic in his voice. "You're not dying, Peter, you just have to hang on."

"Nobody's coming, Neal," Peter whispered, feeling what little strength he had left waning. "No one knows we're here." Neal's face, just inches from his own, blurred; he was going to pass out. "You have to go...you have to try..."

He didn't know he'd closed his eyes until Neal demanded him open them.

"That's it," Neal encouraged, his face just inches away. "You have to stay awake, Peter."

Peter knew he needed to but he also knew he wasn't going to; he was too tired, too weak.

He was sorry he'd gotten Neal into this, sorry he'd gotten him shot, sorry he hadn't been able to save them.

Sorry he was leaving Elizabeth.

"Sorry, Neal...."