Okay, I will extend the story a bit past seven chapters. I just won't say how many since I might be encouraged to change my count. Thanks to all who are reading and reviewing and encouraging me to keep at it. It really is a lot of fun and the reviews just make my day. Nothing brightens a boring meeting like getting an alert on my phone that a review has been posted :)

I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter Six

"Federal Agents!"

Derek was startled from a deep sleep he didn't realize he had achieved. Having been in a state of hyper-vigilance for so long, he instinctively responded by springing from where he had been reclining in the chair.

"Don't move," the men standing in his living room held guns and appeared quite threatening. One held up a badge "US Marshals Service." He came to his senses and stopped his movement, raising his hands to indicate that he was not resisting, attempting to flee or a threat. Again his thirty years of experience benefited him.

"My name is Derek Andrews and I am a retired police officer from the 31st Precinct. I've been expecting you," hands still raised, he looked at the man who lay lifeless on the sofa, "He needs immediate medical attention."

One of the agents had holstered his weapon before Derek finished speaking, hastily approaching the sofa and kneeling down by the man. "Neal," he said, a hand going to the fevered brow, the look on his face was one of serious concern, "Neal, can you hear me?" he ruffled the sweat drenched hair in what Derek could only be see as an unexpected gesture of affection. Not the way he had expected the marshals to handle the man. "Neal?"

That at least answered one question; the man, at least to the federal agents, was Neal and not Nick. Neal didn't respond to the effort to awaken him. The other agents had also holstered the weapons; one man called for a bus to transport the man to the hospital. The questions began. Derek explained that he had found the man, suffering from exposure as well as stab injuries to the mid-section, on his porch the evening before. "I have no idea how he got here," Derek said, "I assumed he was dumped along the road and in his confused state thought going into the woods was safer than staying along the highway."

"Has he been conscious at all?" one of the agents asked, "Did he tell you what happened to him?"

"No, not really," Derek answered. The concerned agent was doing a deliberate check on the man's injuries; there was a sharp intake of breathe at the sight of the stab wounds. "He said someone took him. He's been in and out all night, but hasn't made a lot of sense," Derek continued, "He's running a fever, is in a lot of pain and he's scared."

"Scared of what?" There was surprise in the question as the agent covered the man again with the sheet.

"I think of who ever did this to him and being found by the Marshals." Derek explained. He frowned and then added, "He has a partner, though, and he seemed to think he was looking for him, too."

"A partner?" This came from the agent who had questioned him.

"Yes," Derek continued, "that's what he talked about the most, this friend of his. He kept saying that he would find him and that he would make everything okay."

"Did he say who this partner was?"

"Yes," Derek told him, "His name is Peter." He looked at Neal who shifted slightly, "He's really important to him; the thought of him coming is the only thing that has brought him any comfort." The agent had a peculiar expression on his face and he shot a look at the agent who was still kneeling by sofa. He didn't seem concerned by the news; he almost had a smile on his face.

The conversation had apparently awakened, at least to some degree, the injured man. His eyes, bright with fever, opened. "Peter?' the man whispered, "is that you?" His hand moved as if to grasp the man beside him.

Derek was about to explain that this had happened several times in the night; that in his delirious state he had kept asking for Peter. But before he could do so the agent beside Neal answered:

"Yeah, Neal," the agent's smile was warm, "It's me; its Peter." The agent grabbed Neal's hand in his own. The relief on the young man's face was only matched by that on the agent's face. The partner was evidently not a partner in crime; and judging from the way the agent was behaving, the feeling of friendship was a mutual one. Derek was more than a little surprised at this revelation.

"I didn't tell them, Peter," Neal whispered, voice shaking with weakness, "They didn't know about the anklet and I didn't tell them."

"That's good," the agent answered, "that was smart, Neal. We are going to get you to the hospital and they will fix you up."

"Knew you'd find me," he said, eyes closing again, "You always do."

Derek, not wanting to interrupt the reunion, could wait no longer.

"You're Peter?" his tone indicated both his surprise and curiosity.

The man didn't raise from his place beside his friend, but he looked at Derek with a proud, if tired, smile, "I am. Agent Peter Burke, FBI."