Yeah...I know it's been awhile. And I am absolutely ashamed of myself.

So without any further comment from me (other than the disclaimer, but that doesn't count), here is chapter 6!

Disclaimer: White Collar doesn't belong to me.

Peter and his team set off after the man, knowing full well that it was the best—the only—lead that they had in unraveling this whole mess. The only link to Neal that they had right now. Keeping his eyes on the road, he told Jones to report to base and request backup.

The other driver hopefully hadn't noticed their pursuit, but Peter honestly couldn't tell as the blue vehicle in his sights swerved and lurched dangerously through the traffic, FBI car following discreetly behind. Jones updated Hughes on their whereabouts and the license plate number of the car. "—tell NYPD?" he heard, and then he interrupted.

"No. No police on this one." His voice was firm.

"We can't risk losing him," Hughes said just as calmly, "He's the only lead we have!"

"I know that," Peter snapped, aware that his tone was just below insubordinate, but not caring. He was in the field after all.

Hughes reply was lost in the brakes' screech of protest as Peter slammed his foot down hard, barely keeping the car in control. Great. Only a completely deaf person wouldn't have heard that, and only a completely oblivious amateur wouldn't realize that he was being followed. And as the man had demonstrated, he was definitely not an amateur. At least Peter had managed to keep him in his sights around that sudden corner.

But not the next one.

Perplexed and then angry, Peter brought his car to a halt. "Please tell me you have satellite on him…" he said to Hughes.

"Yes, here," a new voice now joined in, presumably that of the technician "following" the man.

"He went around the corner and into a garage that was already open and waiting for him. Looks like it closed immediately afterwards, and that's why you couldn't see him anymore. No one's been in or out of that building." Which meant that he was probably still in there. Unless there was some sort of subterranean passage? Some schematics of the building would definitely be helpful right now, but Peter doubted that secret tunnels would be included in them. It was never that easy.

"Back up's on their way," Hughes voice cut in. "About five minutes out."

"Have them surround the building," Peter said as he motioned his team forward, drawing his gun and watching them follow suit. He cautiously stepped toward the building, but something told him that there was no danger outside.

But it definitely lurked inside

My head ached and my body hurt all over from sleeping in such an awkward position on the floor all night. Not to mention how hungry I was and how my hands were starting to feel numb from being tied up for so long. I stifled a groan and blearily looked around. The sleep I'd had hadn't done me any good at all. I was still exhausted and, I'll admit, afraid. No, not just afraid. Terrified. Then again, as I was being held prisoner by a lunatic murderer, it was probably a justified emotion.

He must have had some kind of hidden camera installed in the room because not long after my waking, I heard the sound of scraping behind the door. Nice of him to wait until I had woken up on my own to renew our conversation, I thought dryly. This time though, he'd sent two henchmen rather than bothering to come himself. Overseeing operations, I thought with a slight jolt of fear. No matter how good Peter was at his job, this scheme the madman had concocted definitely had the potential to leave him injured at the very least. There was no point even escaping; I had to find out what his plans were.

I didn't bother struggling as his thugs lifted me to my feet and shoved me out the door. A quick glance told me that he did place furniture in front of the door—an ornately carved wardrobe to be exact. I snorted inwardly. For a self-proclaimed successful conman with such elaborate plans, Masked Man's hideout wasn't exactly top-of-the-line.

Our destination was the truck again. This time, I did struggle—I didn't want to be locked up in that dark, jolting junk of a vehicle for an undetermined length of time, but my resistance was futile and only earned me a kick in the ribs. I really had to start picking my fights better. If I wanted to be in any shape to be of any use to anyone, I'd have to stop accumulating injuries, even if they were minor ones.

One of the henchmen grabbed my arm and twisted it sharply upwards, sneering when I let out an involuntary gasp. "Stop. Moving." he said in what he probably thought was a menacing tone. But as he punctuated each word with another twist on my arm, it was probably best to obey.

I glared as he took out a blindfold and roughly covered my eyes with it. It was hardly necessary, and the material was scratchy and, with my luck, filthy and disease-ridden. At least it didn't smell. The ropes around my wrists were checked and then I was unceremoniously flung into the truck, landing in an undignified heap on the floor with my head ringing. Mocking snickers were the last thing I heard before the back of the truck was slammed shut with a resounding clang.

…

Like the last one, the ride was uncomfortable, as each bump managed to jar my bruises and give me new ones. The truck seemed to teeter and shudder its way around corners and streets. Just how old was this thing anyway? I wondered irritably, as another bounce from the truck sent me sprawling again.

The pattern of me picking myself off the floor, and then falling back down again was repeated all throughout the ride. I was relieved when the truck stopped moving. After waiting a few seconds, I heard movements and muffled voices outside. Leaning my head against the cold metal, I could make out, "—rry up, he's on his way…everything's ready…" Who was on his way? What was ready?

A few more minutes ticked by, and nothing more could be heard.

Then the door clanged open again, and hands dragged me out of the truck. I swayed, disoriented by the blindfold and the nightmarish ride. But obviously they were in a hurry, as they didn't even bother allowing me time to get my bearings before simply grabbing my arms and dragging me to wherever we were going.

The gravel under my feet turned into the smoothness of cement or tiled floors, and the warm sunlight was exchanged for chilly, stale air. We went through a maze of hallways and I memorized the order dutifully. Right, left, left again, right…and then we went down an elevator. Although I didn't know what floor we were on, which was probably why we hadn't taken the stairs, I continued keeping track of the turns we took. It wasn't as if I had something better to do. Finally, we reached our apparent destination.

I was led to a chair, and my wrists were loosened. I flexed my fingers, feeling blood rushing through them again. This time, they gave me a moment before tying my hands behind the chair again.

"Not too tightly. Don't want him becoming permanently damaged after all." Masked Man had finally made a reappearance.

I turned my head towards the direction of his voice, and smiled a tight smile. "Nice of you to come. I was beginning to think you didn't care."

There was no answer, but footsteps approached me and removed the blindfold. I winced as the harsh fluorescent light hit my eyes. As the room came slowly back into focus, I casually scanned the room, searching for potential escape routes and the location of his pet thugs. The sight of two speakers brought a slight frown to my face before I could stop myself.

Masked Man grinned at me, "Now, now, you aren't planning on leaving now are you?" He waved an admonishing finger at me. I settled for a glare, rather than the choice words I wanted to fling at him. Hearing my unspoken words anyway, a nod from him sent a blow into my stomach from the henchman standing next to me. What had I decided about accumulating injuries?

He scowled at my lack of reaction.

"Your attitude is not going to help you, you know. And it's not going to help him either. But then, again, you'll be past caring about his state of health soon." Again, I felt a jolt of fear at his words. Sensing my unspoken feelings he smirked at me. "Feel free to rough him up a bit," he said over his shoulder as he walked out the door.

The thugs still remaining in the room with me grinned stupidly at each other. Okay, so maybe I was being a little unfair. But then, most people were mentally inferior to me.

This is not the time for self-flattery, I rebuked myself.

The first blow knocked my head back against the chair, and it, with me still tied to it, toppled onto the floor. Coarse laughter rang through the room and I gritted my teeth at the sound of it. Someone kicked me hard in the chest, knocking the breath out of me, and then they were all raining blows on my unprotected body. I let out a groan and they paused.

One of them righted the chair again.

Another pulled out a knife. I didn't quite manage to hide the flash of fear that flickered through me, and he advanced toward me, a cruel smile planted firmly on his face. Ugly face, I thought wildly.

He brought the knife up to my face, where my eyes stared back at me in terror from the blade's rusty edge. Please no, no more…I pleaded silently, my body aching from the mistreatment.

But of course, my pleadings went ignored.

...

A gun shot echoed in the distance. Peter's voice swam in and out of my hearing. "—need backup! Where's the damn backup?!" More gunshots.

"Stop shouting…" I mumbled to myself, "Peter, stop shouting…" Wait, Peter?

Peter!

My eyes shot open and I lurched to my feet. Or tried to anyway. I was still tied to the chair and even that brief movement made my stiff body throb with pain.

Nausea rose up in me when I saw the blood staining the floor.

My blood.

Events began floating back to me, and I remembered the truck ride, Masked Man, his thugs, the knife. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to stop shaking.

Another gunshot shocked me out of my horrified memories. Peter's shouts of alarm.

Where..? Oh, right. The speakers. And from the sounds of it, Peter was in trouble.

Gritting my teeth, I thrashed viciously against my bonds, ignoring the waves of agony that coursed through me with every motion.

Peter was Not Happy. Everything was not going according to plan. They were supposed to have gone in after the escaping man, apprehended him, and found out where Neal was. They were not supposed to be pinned down in the middle of a large, abandoned room, hiding behind some convenient metal boxes.

Hmm…a little too convenient. Peter quickly ran through the events in his mind, but all the while keeping an eye out for an escape route.

After walking through the maze of hallways, quickly and cautiously, they had found "Smithers" talking quietly on a cell phone, leaning against a wall and looking exhausted. Gun trained on him, Peter had opened his mouth to order the man not to move when he suddenly took off at a sprint, darting off through a nearby doorway. Peter swore silently as they raced after him, not wanting to risk accidentally killing him by firing.

At some point Smithers disappeared from view and then it was they who were at risk of being shot. He could literally hear bullets whizzing through the air, but thankfully, none of the shooters had anything close to good aim, and none came close to hitting them. What were they using anyway, pistols? What happened to bad guys using semi-automatics and all that heavy duty stuff?

Still this could not go on; they were bound to get hit eventually. "We need backup!" he had shouted, "Where's the damn backup?!"

Then they ducked into another hallway and then into a room, where they were now taking cover behind some boxes.

Jones and Lauren were keeping lookout, as Peter tried to figure out what to do. They had tried the radio, but its signal was being blocked. He knew he shouldn't have gone after Smithers like that. He had just been so desperate to find Neal, and that man was their only chance…

But his recklessness had led them to a trap. Now's not the time to blame yourself, he told himself firmly. Random gunshots and shouts echoed through the empty room, but they were faraway sounds. Then footsteps.

Thump thump. It stopped. Peter tightened his grip on his gun.

Thump, thump, thump. It was coming closer.

Using hand signals, he directed Jones and Lauren to the two sides of the boxes.

At his hushed "Now!" they sprang out and aimed…at an FBI agent?

The Fates weren't out to get him after all.

…….

"We engaged some of them but almost all of them were already gone by the time we'd got there," the agent reported. The rest of the agents and police—who were here despite Peter insisting that they not become involved—were sweeping the building. There was no sign of Smithers or Neal or anyone else.

His next words got his attention though, as he told him that they had also managed to capture two of them. "They're being held in a room…" He listened as the agent gave him the directions. I need a cup of coffee, he thought vaguely as he went off to see how Jones and Lauren were doing. The captured men could wait; he needed to see to his team first.

He found them standing outside with another agent, listening intently to a radio. They looked up at him when he arrived. Their faces told him that there was something wrong.

"It's Hughes," Jones told him.

Hughes greeted him quietly, and Peter stiffened at his tone. "Peter. Good to know you're alright."

"Yeah, I'm fine," Peter said, "What's wrong?" Out of the corner of his eye, Lauren and Jones exchanged looks.

There was a pause.

"There was a break-in at the Metropolitan Museum. Last night, apparently, but they didn't call us until an hour ago. Looks like it's another inside job."

Peter was confused. What in the world did this have to do with him? It wasn't like he was the only one who worked at the White Collar unit!

"Look, I'm not being disrespectful or anything, but can't someone else handle this?" Peter kept his voice even and polite. "I have to find Neal!"

Hughes voice was unusually solemn as he replied, "Yes. Yes, you do."

There was another pause.

What?

"I think you're mistaken…" Peter began, but Hughes cut him off.

"No, we're not. You, we've tracked Caffrey for years. We know his mannerisms, his signatures, and this entire thing reeks of his involvement."

Peter was breathing slightly faster now. No. No, it wasn't true. Hughes was wrong. The White Collar unit was wrong. You've never even trusted him! He thought angrily, Just how long did it take you to jump to that particular conclusion anyway? But he was still too shocked to voice his disagreement.

Instead, he simply said, "Do you have proof?"

Hughes seemed to take his silence as an indicator to go on.

"We do actually, we do have proof. Not very solid, but it was what led to our suspicions in the first place." I doubt that, Peter thought resentfully.

"It's connected to the music box," he said abruptly, "the one that I know Caffrey's after."

There was silence as Peter tried to get his mind under control.

The music box.

The one thing that he could honestly say that he knew Neal would go to any lengths to get. Other than Kate herself.

And then suddenly, he wasn't sure anymore. Was Neal really a victim in this? Yes. Yes, of course he is, the part of him that was himself and not his FBI self snapped. Neal would never betray him.

"There's more," Hughes murmured. More? "Three people…were killed."

"Three more dead?" Peter's voice was hoarse. He ignored the looks of sympathy from Lauren and Jones.

"I want you to go to the museum and see for yourself. You could probably read more from the scene than any of us," Hughes said after realizing that Peter wasn't going to speak.

Peter's voice was harder and harsher than he intended, "Yeah, I probably could."

"Yeah, I probably could."

I froze at the words, horrified. Peter didn't…he didn't…believe Hughes, did he?

Especially after hearing of the three dead. He must know that I would never kill anyone. That simple statement didn't mean anything. It was just a fact. Peter knew me better than anyone. He hadn't actually said he believed them.

But he didn't deny it either, a treacherous voice whispered deep inside me. He didn't stand up for you against the accusations. He stood there and listened.

He's an FBI agent, they're supposed to listen to all sides of the story! But I knew I was grasping at straws now. He didn't bother listening to your side of the story…

I was shaking violently now, stunned that such a little thing could send Peter's trust in him down the drain. Maybe because it never existed in the first place.

Damn that music box. For the first time, I looked at it not as an object that would allow me to get Kate back, but as a hated thing.

I didn't bother looking up when the door creaked open and Masked Man stood in front of me. He was enjoying my misery, I knew, but I couldn't summon the energy to say or even think anything.

His hand came up and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. His grin widened when he saw the ragged cut on my face from where he thug had sliced it open. "Did you enjoy the show?" he asked me laughingly.

And then I snapped.

He watched me rage and thrash against the restraints, that horrible little smile never leaving his face, until I was exhausted and in a haze of pain. Some of the cuts had reopened and blood was dripping onto the floor.

"Don't worry, it's not over yet!" he practically sang, and his henchmen came in to untie me and drag me out of the room.

My overwhelmed mind began slipping away again.

Peter's voice, hard and flat, echoed inside my head, "Yeah, I probably could."

But it was his silence in the face of Hughes's accusations that hurt the most.

So...was it worth the wait? Hope it was, and I apologize again. But, on the bright side, I do have the story plotted out (vaguely, but it's there) now.

By the way, if you see any mistakes, feel free to point them out and I'll correct them.

And last, but certainly no least, thank you to all those who reviewed!