Chapter Four

Help was coming. Neal knew that. He wasn't sure what form it would take, and he didn't care. It just needed to hurry.

He and Mozzie had calculated out probable response times from several locations within his radius. In most places, it was less than seven minutes. Not a lot of time when you were trying to escape federal custody but a whole lot of time when someone was bleeding to death in your arms.

"I'm sorry I got you into this, Neal," Peter mumbled, still clinging to consciousness. Each time he felt Peter start to drift away, he'd coaxed him back, but Neal could tell he wasn't going to be able to keep that up much longer.

"You can make it up to me later," Neal answered. "Maybe increase my radius..." He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Peter wasn't the only one about to pass out, "or up my monthly allowance..." Never had the authorities taken so long to close in on his location. "I'd be good with that, too."

He didn't know he'd closed his eyes until he felt Peter squeeze his arm.

"Thanks for not leaving me, Neal," Peter's voice was low. "You're a good man," Neal felt a lump rise in his throat "and the best friend I've ever had."

These were things he'd wanted for a long time, for Peter to think of him as a good man instead of as a convicted criminal; as a friend and not just asset. But these were things, even if Peter thought, he'd never say. Peter, just like him, wasn't big on expressions of sentiment. Peter had lost a lot of blood, and God only knew what kind of internal injuries he'd sustained. This was his goodbye.

Neal didn't want to believe it could end here, like this, but he knew there was a chance it would do just that. For a person who'd learned not to need anyone or get attached, sometimes it scared him how important Peter had become to him. He was the only constant he'd ever had in his life. Keeping that to himself had been part pride and part self-defense, but if this was indeed the end, then he wanted Peter to know the truth.

"I feel the same about you," he admitted, pulling Peter closer. "You're the only person in my life..." He stopped, swallowing hard before continuing, "I've ever been able to count on. The only person I could trust." He paused again. "I didn't know how much I needed that until I found you."

In the silence that followed, Neal was afraid he'd waited too long, that Peter had already drifted away.

But he hadn't. "Technically, I found you."

Peter's voice was weak, but there was no mistaking its teasing tone. Surprised, it took Neal a moment to respond.

"Only 'cause I let you."

Again there was a lag before Peter responded. "You did not," he mumbled. "I caught you fair and square."

Neal closed his eyes, finding solace in their quibbling. "I practically turned myself in."

Neal was drifting himself when he felt slight pressure on his hand.

"Well, I'm glad you did, Neal," Peter's voice was faint, "because it's been a privilege to know you."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Voices pierced the darkness; distant and indistinct. Then they came closer. Neal felt fingers against his neck.

"Neal." The voice not only was clear, but it was also familiar. "Can you hear me? Neal."

He opened his eyes. Clinton's face swam in front of him. "It's okay, Neal," he said. "You can let him go."

He could see the face and hear the words but his mind was sluggish in understanding. "It's okay Neal," Jones said again. "Let him go."

"We're clear," another familiar voice rang out. "Get that medical team in here!"

Neal moved his gaze from Clinton's face upwards to Diana's. His team was here. Behind her, the room was swarming with people. Uniformed officers, men in black gear. He could hear the rumble of their voices, the crinkling of the plastic sheeting beneath many feet.

"What the hell happened, Neal?" Diana barked as she holstered her weapon. Her voice was harsh but not her eyes. She knelt beside Jones at his side. Her eyes flickered over him before settling on Peter. Her frown deepened. "How bad?"

Neal was still trying to process an answer to the first question and didn't know the answer to the second; Peter wasn't conscious, he hadn't stirred at all. They had shifted and the weight of Peter's body had made Neal's entire leg numb. Even though his arm was still wrapped around Peter's chest, he couldn't tell if he was even breathing.

"I don't know," Jones replied, answering the question Neal thought had been meant for him. "Neal's hit in the shoulder and it looks like Peter took a round in the side. His pulse is weak but its there."

Peter was alive, was still hanging on. Relieved his team had found them, that help had arrived, Neal gave into the weakness and closed his eyes.

"They've lost a lot of blood," Jones continued, "We need to.. Hey," the tone sharpened, prompting Neal to open eyes. "Stay with us, Neal."

There was a real concern on Jones' face; Diana's as well. Neal wanted to thank them, for coming and for caring, but his tongue, like his eyelids, were heavy and uncooperative.

"Caffrey!" This time it was Diana's voice that cut through the darkness. There was a firm tap on his cheek. "Eyes open, Neal." He again managed to comply but it was more difficult and this time their faces refused to come into clear focus.

"What've we got?"

This was a voice Neal didn't recognize. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. White shirt, blue slacks...

"Gunshot wounds," Diana answered as both she and Jones surrendered their spots to the new arrivals. "Neal's to the shoulder, Peter's to the abdomen."

"We're here to help, Neal," the man said. Neal tried to make his eyes focus on his face. "Do you understand?" He did understand. "You can let him go."

He hadn't realized he still had a tight grip around Peter's chest until the man placed a hand on his. Again, even though he understood the request, his response was sluggish.

"You can let him go," the man said again, gently pulling his hand away from Peter. "It's okay."

Neal nodded numbly, releasing his grip. A moment later, Peter was moved and placed on the floor a few feet away. Neal only got a glimpse of him before his view was blocked by medical personnel but it was enough to cause his heart to drop. Covered in blood, motionless, and sickeningly pale, Peter looked like he was already dead.

"Peter..." he managed to mumble, watching the flurry of activity around Peter's prone form. "How bad is-"

"They're gonna take good care of him, Neal, don't you worry." The medic gave his partner a nod and together they moved Neal away from the wall and lowered him to the floor. The dull pain in his shoulder sharpened and without Peter's body for warmth, he began to tremble.

"Can you tell us what happened, Neal?" One of the men asked, unbuttoning Neal's shirt as his partner cut both his jacket and shirt sleeve from wrist to shoulder, then across to his collar in a quick, well-practiced move.

"He bought us here," Neal's voice was unsteady as he glanced across to where he knew Reich's body lay. "He shot me and then..." he paused, trying to reconstruct the event in his mind, "...he and Peter..." There had been a shot; Peter had driven the man into the wall. "...they fought. Peter was hurt...he was bleeding..." There had been so much blood. Were they still working on Peter? Had they stopped? Was he still alive? "Please," he implored, grasping the man's arm as panic caused his chest to constrict. "I need...to know... how Peter is."

"They're taking care of him, Neal," the man assured him once more, disengaging his hand gently. "I promise; try to stay calm."

"I've got bone fragments," the medic examining his shoulder informed. "This is an exit wound. Raise him up." Neal was pulled forward, the movement sending another wave of pain through him. "Yeah," the medic continued grimly, "here it is. Hand me the gauze."

Neal didn't know what the man was doing but it hurt; he grunted as pressure was applied to his already throbbing shoulder. When he was again lowered to the floor, similar attention was given to the exit wound. The process took longer, the waves of pain drowning out whatever the men were saying as they worked. The pain grew steadily, finally tearing a hoarse cry from his lips.

Then, thankfully, it was over.

Weak and trembling more than before, Neal found it increasingly difficult to breathe. There was more snipping of the shears, this time from the wrist to the shoulder of his other sleeve. A moment later, a blood pressure cuff squeezed his arm. The room started to spin; he felt like he was going to be sick.

"90 over 60. Pulse is rapid and thready." The voice sounded strangely muffled; the edges of Neal's vision began to darken. It was as if he were looking through a tunnel. "We need to get his pressure up. Start the O2 and let's get him out of here." The tunnel narrowed. "We'll get a line in once we're in the unit."

A mask was placed over his face. His field of vision grew smaller, to a pinpoint, then disappeared, leaving him in darkness.

"Stay with us now," a voice coaxed. Neal could feel himself being lifted, moved. A heavy blanket was spread across him. "Come on, Neal," the voice said again. "Stay with us."

But he couldn't. Now that breathing was easier and the blanket was bringing warmth to his chilled body, Neal was unable to keep himself from drifting away.