Chapter 9

Bang.

Finch flinched; trying to keep his hands steady. The monitor on the laptop was dark, but a faint white light signalled that the computer was still on. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, and he would not feel the extent of his injuries for at least another few minutes.

"Oh you will be sorry, you son of a bitch, you will be sorry..."

A small blue light came on somewhere in the room, as his captor tried to fumble with his phone using one hand. Finch squared his jaw and danced his fingers over the keyboard, a drop of sweat gathering on the tip of his nose.

"Say goodbye to your FBI friend -" Finch entered a final tap on the keyboard, again - "geek."

The gruff man pressed down the button with hateful fervour, and nothing happened. He pressed again.

"What the hell?"

"You see, the thing about technology is, it can be manipulated by geeks," said Finch, his voice faint, coming from a corner. "Right now, as they say, there is no signal."

Cursing, the man kicked away the phone and moved in closer.

"I bet a bullet don't need signal to travel to your brain," he sneered.

Finch stared into the thinning darkness, his eyes beginning to adjust. His ears strained to pick up the familiar footsteps, there were a scurry of them, hurried, urgent, but they were far... still too far. He raised his index finger again.

"And on the first day God said..." Finch recited in a mesmerising voice, briefly throwing the other man off guard, "Let there be light."

Light flooded the room.

"Aww! Geez! I know Glasses has magic with computers and all, but do you think you can quit playing with the lights? It hurt my eyes!"

"Talking to deaf ears here, Fusco." Carter squinted around. "In fact, I think that's the whole purpose of this shenigan."

"Whoever your friend is, he's clever." Diana said, making a quick survey of the hall. "It takes time for an untrained eye to adjust to the light, same as it takes time to adjust to the dark."

"Yeah. Not much help though, if there's gonna be a bomb."

"If Neal is right, then we need to call backup." Diana pulled out her phone, then arched a brow. "No signal. Of course there is no signal."

"Oh, glasses is good," Fusco exchanged a glance of appreciation with Carter, oddly proud of their friend.

"Right. Let's get this painting out of here so we can make the culprit red-handed, and go home."

"Hear hear. Now, does any of you know how to extract a multi-million painting from its frames, without damaging it?"

Realisation dawning upon them, all four of New York's Finest stopped what they were doing, and stared at each other once more.

Finch winced as another shot missed him narrowly by inches.

"Oh, you like games, do you?" said the man, rubbing his eyes and squinting. "Computer voodoo. I get it now. You are annoyed that I called you a geek."

"It's not the worst name I've heard," said Finch. "One more enter and we go back to darkness."

The man laughed ruthlessly. "You think I'm going to fall for that again? My gun - "

But his gun wasn't faster than Finch's tap, for Finch had far more experience in typing than any man would have had in pulling the trigger.

"Great. Blind again."

"What are we going to do with the painting? Caffery's the only one who knows how to extract a painting without damaging it."

"Yeah. I'm not doing it, this painting is way above my pay grade."

"The janitor. The janitor!"

"I did wonder. He an inside man as well? This Caffery person has strange friends."

"Oi! Short funny guy with no hair! Show yourself! We need your help!"

The sound of someone sweeping the floor made them fall silent again. In the far corner of the hall, someone chuckled.

"Never thought I'd see this day come, agents. You needing my help."

The last gunshot promptly made Finch's ear deaf. Adrenaline still pumping, his touched the side of his head tentatively, just to check that it was still there, and was met with a pair of firm hands.

"-"

He couldn't hear anything beside the ringing in his ear, but his instincts told him what he needed to know, so he pushed himself into those warm hands.

"MR. REESE! IS THAT YOU? I'M ALRIGHT, I THINK, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?"

"- No need to shout, Harold," Reese's voice sounded faint and far, but he also sounded bemused. Finch still couldn't see out the dark, so he stared at the direction of that voice.

"Right on time as usual, Mr. Reese." Finch swallowed back some of the fear that had been rising in his chest, "Thank god."

"When have I ever let you down, Finch?" Reese's voice said, closer now. Finch could feel the other man's body warmth, though the sound still fluttered like a broke radio. He could feel Reese's hands stroking his face, shoulders, then body, checking for injuries, and his heart thumped relentlessly against his chest.

"Never." Finch said, finally able to make out a dark figure in front of him. He hoped his voice was soft. "You never let me down, Mr. Reese."

Reese's hands returned to the side of his head, cupping his cheek. Finch widened his eyes, startled.

"I have a contingency plan for you too, Finch." said Reese, even quieter than usual. From what he felt, Finch figured Reese was trying to apply pressure behind his ear. His head throbbed in pain as firm hands massaged a particularly sore point, and Finch was nearly distracted from processing what Reese had just said. As the piercing ring faded in his ear, suddenly Reese's voice came back into sharp focus, and he heard the man say:

"Your contingency plan is me."

"Peter! Peter! Hold up!"

Sparing a look at Reese, who was two levels above him, speeding up the stairs three at a time and without a halt, Peter gave up his pursuit, and paused at the sound of Neal's cry. "Neal? What happened?"

Neal bounced up the stairs, having no problems navigating in the sudden dark. "Take off your jacket. Take it off!"

Looking startled at the urgency in Neal's voice, Peter complied. "Why?"

Neal caught up with him, grabbed the jacket and gave it a good shook. When nothing came out of it, he lifted his gaze to Peter, flung himself forward, and patted Peter down.

"Wh- Neal, what are you doing? Neal!'

Neal grabbed the front of Peter's shirt, and with an urgent whisper, said, "Take it off."

Peter was completely bewildered. "I'm not - Hey! Hey! I'm gonna be naked if you do that!"

"Off," said Neal, fumbling at the buttons, then giving up and tearing the shirt apart, breathing heavily.

Something pooled in his chest and Peter was not sure whether it was panic or arousal. "Are you drugged?" He asked uncertainly, giving only a half-hearted struggle as Neal pinned him with surprisingly strong arms and proceeded to peel the shirt off his body.

"No, I'm not drugged," said Neal, lifting something small from the shirt pocket carefully with his fingers. The lights came on conveniently at that moment, and he held it up in front of Peter, squinting. "But you were planted with a bomb."

"What? This tiny thing?" Peter said, trying to salvage what dignity he had left, from being naked in a stairwell. It had been easier when it was dark. "I could've thrown it out the moment I realised it was there. Hardly threatening."

"Tailor designed so when it goes off it looks like an impact gunshot," said Neal, studying it carefully. There was some sort of transmitter attached to the tiny amount of explosive, and the light was off. Neal pondered for a moment, gave a cursory glance to the jacket lying in a heap on the floor, back at Peter, then frowned. "Your trousers."

"I am not taking off my trousers here too," said Peter. "No. I don't care what you say."

The lights flipped off again. Darkness surrounded him, offering odd comfort.

"What is going on here?" Peter wondered out loud, a little agitated.

"Just -" Neal began exasperatedly, but thought better of it. "I'll do it."

"Do what?" Peter was definitely alarmed now.

Without another word, Neal stuck his hands down Peter's trouser pockets, groping, his face tight in intense concentration. Peter rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. "The things that happen to me since we got together, Caffery."

Ignoring him, Neal probed carefully, until his hands paused and produced another small device.

"A paired device with an automatic switch-on," said Neal, his voice surprisingly level. "Throw one out and another one explodes."

Peter grimaced. "What happened to good old fashioned strap-it-around-your-waist bombs?"

"But I don't understand." Neal studied the device again, appearing oblivious to Peter's comments. "It should have gone off when I took off your shirt...unless..." He pulled out his phone. "Of course. There is no signal."

Peter let out a long huff of breath. "I'm guessing we owe it to your new friend up there."

"Yeah." Neal let out a sigh of relief too. "Yeah. I hope Mozzie don't get too upset, for his stolen thunder."

"Oh, Mozzie had his own thunder alright," said Peter, witnessing a part of the janitor debacle before he took off after Reese. "Throw that out, will you?" He said, pushing open the stairwell window with his shoulder.

Neal did what he was told. Then, turning around in a bright smile, he announced, "You look good naked, Peter."

The agent gave him a dirty, but not unamused, look. "If you really wanted to see me naked, you could've just asked."

"I did. You thought I was on drugs."

Neal was grinning again, all teeth. But nothing on his partnership's face escaped Peter, and he could tell the younger man was tracing his chest, an intense look on his face. Then, maybe it was the false safety of the darkness, or the aftermath of the adrenalines pumping, but for a brief moment Peter felt uninhibited, and he bent down to kiss Neal's forehead.

He was not very surprised, at least not as surprised as he should be, when his lips instead met with something far warmer and softer. Neal was kissing him back, intent and full of meaning, and Peter felt his chest tighten.

After a long moment they pulled back. Peter tried to search for unspoken words, an understanding in his partner's eyes, and he tried to speak, but his voice was hoarse. "I - "

The light suddenly came on in the stairwell, blinding them temporarily. Both men adjusted quickly, blinking owlishly at each other, surveying their current situation, and the moment dissipated.

"The painting!" said Neal, suddenly wary. "None of the agents know how to remove the painting from the frame. They'd better not damage it!"

"With their pay, they wouldn't dare," said Peter, putting on his jacket and zipping it close, hoping that no one would be able to tell that he was naked underneath. "Where and when is the pickup?"

Neal glanced at his watch. "In 10 minutes. Two alleys down, behind Griffin's Head. One of the men is on his way already."

"Do you think our mystery friends will be fine by themselves?" Peter spared a glance upstairs, where sparing shots could be heard. As if on cue, there was a howl, and a badass looking guy rolled down the stairs, crying out in pain as he clutched his bloody knees.

"I daresay so," said Neal dryly. "This Suit clearly has a more hands on approach than you, Peter."

Peter thought about telling the man how hands on he could be, but decided against it for the moment. "Come on. Let's wrap this thing up before anyone else gets hurt."

"What are you amateurs doing around a multi-million dollar painting?" said Mozzie with a maddening air of condescension. "Away from it, all of you. Now."

The agents looked annoyed, the detectives confused. "What do you suggest we do then, to make sure these people don't come after Caffery and compromise Peter again?"

"Simple." Mozzie pulled out a rolled sheet of painting and spread out on the floor. It was an exact copy of the Francis Bacon. "That's the switch they were going to use on Caffery. As the Chinese say, let them have a taste at their own medicine."

"Use the fake as evidence for their theft," said Diana, impressed. "What about the real one, then?"

"Oh, it'll go into maintenance for a few days," said Mozzie airily. "By the time they authenticate the painting as a fake, the news would have been made and the connection secured, that if they ever come back for the real one, they'd be number one suspect internationally."

"To make the object as undesirable as possible," said Jones. "Good plan."

All of them looked up at the sound of incoming footsteps. Two detectives reached for their weapons instinctively, though the agents were quick to recognise the steps that came towards them.

"Peter! And Caffery. Alive and kicking is what we like to see." said Jones, sounding pleased.

"There is a bleeding man on the stairs whom I will leave to your jurisdiction," said Peter breathlessly, rushing in, only nodding as a way of hello. The two detectives exchanged a glance and rushed off. "How far along are we with the paintings?"

Mozzie made a welcoming gesture at the floor, where the the fake laid. "Tempting as it may be, I wouldn't trust your agents's handiwork when it comes to a genuine Francis Bacon." He eyed the painting with regret. "The real beauty will have to go into maintenance."

"Careful, Mozz," Neal quipped, "Or the FBI will have to put you on a pay roll too."

"Alright, let's move, let's move," Peter waved for Neal to gather up the painting, glancing at the watch in agitation. "Jones, Diana, the deliver is going down in less than 5 minutes. We have the element of surprise. I want you to surround that alley and make sure no one gets out."

"Sure thing, boss." Diana unholstered her gun. "Are you going with Caffery?"

"Yes, but I won't be making an appearance straight away," said Peter. "They think I'm knocked out cold here. That's why we have the element of surprise."

With a final look of affirmation, Peter nodded at his agents. "Let's do this."

"What did I say, Carter? I knew this would turn into a homicide investigation, one way or another."

Fusco holstered his gun exasperatedly as he entered the room, eyeing the two men in the corner warily.

"Yeah. Except we have our shooter right here." Carter followed him into the bathroom, her eyes alarmed. "Are you two alright?"

"I'm afraid can't hear you very well, detectives," said Finch, his voice louder than usual. "The last bullet damaged my hearing somewhat."

Reese didn't turn. He knew what Carter was going to say, and he cut her short. "He was going to kill Finch, and I wouldn't have allowed that."

"No taking out kneecaps like the one in the staircase?" said Carter sarcastically, though in her heart she knew Reese had no choice. "This is a hot mess. How are we going to explain this in the report?"

"You'll think of a way," said Reese, smirking as he saw Fusco mouthed the same words, mocking. "New York's Finest as you are."

Carter huffed. "Glasses alright? No lasting damage to his brain?"

"I can't hear you, Detective."

"I said you are a brave idiot to pull a stunt like this," said Carter, louder, only a touch mocking. "You could have been killed."

"Worried? I wasn't worried." Finch's gaze flickered to Reese's face briefly. "I have faith in my friends in and outside of law enforcement."

The two detectives grimaced in good humour. Gifting him with a small, genuine smile, Reese pulled Finch up.

"Take your laptop. Caffery and Burke may still need our help yet."