Um…hi! *cough* Me again! See? I haven't forgotten about you guys. I'm just a bad updater…yeah. Sorry about that…I'm trying to get better. So that's something I guess... ANYWAYS. Another thanks goes out to RandomChick51! You really make my story feel loved =D Also, if it weren't for her, this would probably be coming out like next month so seriously, thank her. Oh, and FYI: I'm NOT ever going to abandon this story! Just thought I'd let you know. So…longly overdue…chapter 11!
Frankie rolled his fingers on the hot dog vendor cart impatiently. How long did it take to make a hot dog? If he had to guess, he'd say…about 30 seconds—and he was being generous. He silently went over the process of making a hot dog in his head. Take already cooked hot dog on bun, put toppings on said hot dog, and give hot dog to customer. Wow, not even four steps and here the hot dog vendor has had his about two minutes. Unbelievable.
Frankie glanced at his wristwatch worriedly. Time, as the cliché saying goes, was money. The vendor couldn't afford to treat each and every hot dog like he was painting the Mona Lisa just like he couldn't afford to stay away from his cab for very long. Not when lunch break was about to hit all the office buildings in the surrounding area. He had a family to support after all.
"Here you go, sir," the vendor said with a thick Brooklyn accent. "That would be about…$4.50."
"For a hot dog?" Frankie asked, annoyance evident.
"No, for the pretzel cart," the vendor replied sarcastically. Frankie blinked at the vendor unamused. "Yes, for the hot dog."
"I got a hot dog for two bucks from a vendor down the street last week," Frankie protested, "and, get this, it took him not even a whole minute to finish it."
The vendor glared. "This is good quality work. It would be a shame to cheapen its value just because some other vendor rushed the process."
Frankie snorted. "How is it 'good quality work'? It's a hot dog."
"With ketchup, mustard, relish, with a side of onions on it."
"Your charging by the topping now? I'm going to go somewhere else."
"You can't leave after I made the hot dog," the vendor objected.
Frankie gave an irritated sigh. The vendor had a point, but Frankie wasn't done yet. "Fine, but people are going to know what a rip off this is," Frankie said, saying the last part louder than was really necessary.
The vendor rolled his eyes at Frankie's dramatics, but Frankie saw the vendor glance at some of the staring potential customers. "Alright, since I like you, I'll cut you a deal. For you, the hot dog is now…$3.50."
"Again, two bucks just down the street."
"You know how the economy is, everything is more expensive. Take hot dogs for example. Their price jumped up just this Tuesday."
Frank glanced over at the slowly steadying stream of leaving office workers. Lunch time had hit. "Good Point. Wall Street's always has a way of biting you where it hurts." He put four bucks down on the vendor cart and quickly grabbed his change before he jogged over to his cab, stuffing the hot dog in his mouth. Frankie loved lunch rush. Everybody running around, trying to eat and get back to the office as soon as possible. Really one of the best—Oh crap! Frankie hunched down in his driver seat, hoping that they didn't see him.
"How was I suppose to know that this is the only building in New York without a sewer line connecting with any pot holes in an 5 mile diameter!" the bald man yelled at the brunette. The couple was only about fifteen feet away from Frankie's parked cab. Don't turn around, please don't turn around, Frankie urged. He wasn't sure if he could handle another trip with them in the backseat. He met a variety of people in his cab, but he tended to steer clear from the potential criminals who break into the 'FBI Headquarters guns blazing.' It helped his moral standings and police record.
"I don't know!" the brunette snapped. "I thought it was your job to know those random minor details!" Frankie peeked at them through his window. His eyes widened at the building title behind them: Federal Bureau of Investigation. His heart thudded. They were actually going to do it. They were going to attack the FBI!
"It's not my 'job,' as you so poorly put it. It's a hobby." the bald man retorted. Frankie fumbled for his phone. He should call the police or, better yet, the FBI.
The brunette shook her head impatiently. "Do you have any other bright ideas?"she asked, derision thick in her voice. "Like walking through the front door?"
"If that's the only point of entrance you can think of, I understand why you're not a mastermind."
"Again. That was sarcasm. If you can't understand its usage—"
"Again. Shallow mind."
Frankie finally found his phone—it was in the cup holder. A place Frankie distinctly remembered not putting it—and flipped it open. His fingers paused. What was the FBI's number anyway? Didn't 911 just patch you through to the police?
Frankie glanced back over at the couple. The brunette's face broke out into a grin.
The bald man paused for a moment. "What?" Yeah, that's what Frankie was wondering.
"I have a theory."
"You do," the bald man said doubtfully.
"Oh, your faith in me is so reassuring," the brunette said with false cheerfulness before dropping back to her somewhat smug tone. "You've cleaned windows before, haven't you?"
"…Why?"
"Because I think this building might need you expertise."
The bald man didn't seem to share Frankie's confusion. "Especially the 21st floor."
"Yeah, notorious for their gloomy windows aren't they?" the brunette grinned as they disappeared around the side of the building.
"Hello, this is 911. What is your emergency?"
The cab door slammed shut. "Bobe's Pizzeria," a harassed looking man said from the backseat.
"…Hello? Is anyone there?"
"Sorry, wrong number," Frankie breathed. He glanced in the review mirror as he snapped his phone shut. Intern. Bullied by his coworkers, but sucks up too much to actually put up much of a fight about it. Frankie knew the type and he knew them well. "Bobe's you said? Great choice. Had their pizza once and I was hooked like that."—Frankie snapped his finger for emphasis as he pulled the cab into traffic—"A friend suggested it to me actually. Of course, I wasn't quite prepared to stop going to Ralph's, he's my brother you know? Awkward business. He didn't understand, of course, and I had to—" and Frankie let his automatic cabbie chatter continue. He made the right decision. What was he going to tell 911 anyway? 'Earlier today two suspicious looking characters came into my cab and I think they're going to break into the FBI headquarters that's currently filled with hundreds of federal agents who all carry'? Yeah, that'd go over well. Besides, they weren't going to actually break into the FBI. It's, well, the FBI! Those agents are trained to handle life and death situations every day. Frankie was positive that they could handle a few criminals attempting to sneak in.
~O~
Steve absently modified the hastily thrown together, top secret laptop's security. Counterproductive? Probably. But modifying the security did two things. One, it made it look like Steve was actually doing his job, a huge plus. Two, it gave Steve the outmost pleasure to know that at some point an agent will try to access the said laptop and they'll be forced to hack into their own laptop to do so. A smirk played at his lips. Steve wasn't the best code-cracking hacker in Eastern Europe for nothing.
He took a moment to glance at the door, hiding his temporary anxiety between sips of coffee. Steve was worried about the gunshot. Sadly, he was used to the unexpected bang of a gun, but with Neal on the loose…Steve shivered while he forcibly hurdled his thoughts away from dead bodies.Hank would know what happened and, more importantly, Hank would tell him what happened. Steve always hated Badeni's annoying tendency to keep him in the dark about unexpected changes in the "master" plan.
A hand grabbed Steve's shoulder. Steve jerked, knocking his newly filled cup of coffee on the floor. Crap, show your nerves much? Steve stared fixedly on the screen in front of him, determined not to let his eyes even peek at the growing coffee stain on the tile, and attempted to glance up nonchalantly. "Yeah?"
A familiar face smirked down at him. "Scared you, did I, Matthews? "
"No," Steve answered shortly, his traitorous eyes flickering towards the fallen coffee cup. "That explains why you're so tense," Charlie replied with a nod, his customary annoying smirk accompanying the usual smartass remark, "and why you seem to think that coffee helps improve the look of tile. Never heard of that home remedy before."
"What do you want?" Steve asked tersely, not enjoying Charlie's mocking for some obscure reason.
Charlie tutted. "Manners, manners," he said with a sad shake of his head, "Hank wants you to go outside and talk with him."
"Was that so hard?" Steve asked as he stood up from his rolly chair.
Charlie snorted, but apparently didn't deem the remark dignified enough for a response. Steve then decided that Charlie's lack of response affected his life not at all, so he started the very short journey to the double doors. Steve ignored the prickle on his back informing him that people were staring at him as he opened the double doors. If he were being held hostage, he'd be keeping a constant watch on his captors too.
Steve pushed the door open and stopped. He glanced around in confusion. Hank was nowhere in sight. Something grabbed him from behind. Steve yelled, but an anticipating hand covered his mouth and he was twirled around to find Hank staring at him grimly.
"What took you so long?" Hank asked curtly.
"Remember the old days when people wouldn't grab you from behind? I miss them," Steve said with slight longing. Hank leveled a glare at him. Steve flinched. Apparently Hank was in one of those moods. Steve knew that it was best to tease Hank when you were either one, somehow make it seem like you're talking about somebody else or, two, accompanied by others. Since neither applied and Hank looked ready to sock him on the head, Steve hurried to actually answer his question. "Charlie told me you wanted to see me just a moment ago."
"Forgot to counter in the time Charlie takes to taunt you," Hank said distractedly. Steve took the time to realize that he and Hank were in a dark corner. Perfect for hiding from prying eyes and watching for oncoming visitors. "Sorry I had to send him. He was the only one I could find. You seem to trip over gunmen until you actually need one, heh?"
Steve watched his older friend cautiously. He'd never seen Hank so frantic before. "Hank? What happened?"
Hank's face tightened. "Badeni…" he began, "okay, kid, before I say anything else I need you not to react."
"That sounds ominous," Steve said, ignoring his tightening stomach.
"Steve," Hank pleaded, "promise me."
Steve scrutinized Hank's face. He only heard Hank beg for anything, well, never actually. "You know I can't do that."
"Then promise you won't do anything rash."
"Okay," Steve shrugged, hoping he was successful in hiding his growing unease.
"Badeni," Hank began again, "I don't really know a way to put this, but Badeni…shot Tommy."
"WHAT?" Steve shrieked. Hank put a hand over Steve's mouth to stop his oncoming rant. Steve's eyes persisted on impersonating a deer's as the news continued to sink in. Badeni shot crew members before, but…Tommy?
"I told you not to react," Hank hissed.
"Mew yan't ell sunon sunan nyike nat an expec dem not oo eeact!" Steve yelled behind Hank's hand.
"Repeat that quieter?" Hank asked with a slight frown.
Steve nodded and Hank cautiously removed his hand. Steve took a breath before repeating slowly, "You can't tell someone something like that and expect them not to react."
"Ah, that makes more sense."
Now free of Hank's hand, Steve could no longer hold back his frantic onslaught of questions. "Where'd he shoot Tommy? Why'd he shoot Tommy? Tommy's not dead is he? Oh, he is, isn't he? I can't believe I thought that Badeni was shooting randomly to psych out the agents. Stupid! Stupid!"
Hank grabbed Steve's hand to stop it from continuing to beat the hacker's head. "In the shoulder. To scare Neal. I hope not."
Steve glanced at Hank briefly, attempting to keep the shine in his eyes from becoming anything more. "Where's Tommy now?" he whispered.
"Badeni dismissedme before I could discover anything useful," Hank said coolly. He cleared his throat before continuing. "He wants me to do damage control with the agents."
"The usual?" Steve asked, striving to sound relatively normal, but the hollow spot in his chest persisted on being felt. Tommy…dead. What were their last moments together? Probably something mundane and both figuring that they'll see each other in the future anyway so why bother to talk about anything sentimental? A comforting hand brought Steve out of his morbid thoughts.
Steve gave a weak smile. "Thanks."
Hank nodded.
"Ready to do this thing?" Steve asked once it became clear that Hank wasn't going to leave the little privacy the dark corner offered until Steve was all right.
"After you," Hank ushered. Steve hurried through the door and over tile until he reached the vague familiarity of his newly acquired rolly chair which he promptly plopped into, not caring what the agents saw and assumed. "All right, agents!" Hank yelled, instantly grabbing all the attention. "We've had a little…mishap with your director and are hoping that our next volunteer will be more forthcoming. Any volunteers?"—there was a shocked silence as Hank's rapid implication finally hit home—"Nobody? Really? Alright, you"—Hank pointed at Agent Burke—"follow me."
"Why should I?" Burke asked gruffly. Steve wasn't sure if he asked out of bravery, instinct, or just plain curiosity.
"Because if you don't," Hank said in a voice that thoroughly creeped Steve out, "then we might be forced to take one of your other colleagues and they might not be able to provide the information we know is tumbling around that thick skull of yours. So we'd be forced to have another federal agent leave in a body bag."
Peter seemed to be trying to evaluate the sincerity of Hank's threat. "Fine."
"Grab him," Hank briskly ordered two of the gunmen as he turned toward the double doors.
Steve watched tiredly as the two gunmen dragged Neal's handler out the door with unnecessary force. He almost missed the brief considerate look on Hank's face. Almost. But Steve recognized that considerate look for what it truly was. Something Hank would refer to as 'an ill advised, not at all thought out plan that would most likely get everybody killed' if Hank saw that expression on anybody else.
It appeared Hank was being impulsive.
Huh.
Guess I'll run back up then. For being one of the best criminal masterminds, Badeni really didn't think it through when he shot Tommy. He didn't think about what that would do to some of the crew's loyalty. Tommy was his friend and Badeni shot him. Bad idea.
Now, how does one run back-up on a plan one doesn't even know the basics of? And how could one run back-up for said plan while one has to stay in the middle of the open bullpen supposedly hacking the "super secret" laptop's security.
Steve eyed the laptop. I wonder if I could access the FBI's mainframe on this?
~O~
The Federal Agent glanced thoughtfully at the hacker. He seemed distracted, well, more distraught really with an underlying hint of…determination? The agent hoped not. The Federal Agent couldn't allow the hacker to gain access to the laptop's information. If he did, then the hacker would have the ability to alter every most wanted criminal's record with a click of the mouse. Yes, it was stupid to have the hard copy in the same place as the primary records, but how was OPR suppose to know that there would be an attack in the FBI Headquarters during the 15 hour time span both copies were in less than a one mile vicinity of each other? Hopefully, the hacker would keep running into roadblocks and barriers and never get past the security. That would make the agent's job so much easier. The Federal Agent turned to watch the two gunmen haul Peter Burke out the door like a piece of luggage. One head agent down and another being dragged off behind enemy lines. Lovely.
~O~
Don stalked through the maze the Feds optimistically referred to as a hallway, always glancing briefly at all the passing henchmen's faces, and constantly coming back to the bitter taste of disappointment whenever the face didn't match up with his mental picture. How hard could finding one person in an enclosed space be?
Badeni sent him off on this human scavenger hunt right after he dragged Tommy's body to one of the few offices in this building without glass walls. One would think that the Feds would value privacy more. As Don took another random right turn, he had the sick sensation that Badeni was punishing him. Apparently, it was his fault that Badeni's left eye was currently surrounded by a black bruise. His! How was it his fault that Neal escaped and got a lucky punch in the fight with Badeni? If anything, Badeni should've seen that coming after he shot Tommy. What did he think the Caffrey would do? Play hopscotch with a pogo-stick? Not that Don was going to tell Badeni that anytime soon. Being on the bad side of Badeni was a place Don never wanted to be. Of course,he was prepared to take the fall for allowing Neal to escape—he honestly never thought anyone could be as stupid as to let a prisoner walk right out the door—but still, he should've checked on the pet convict more than he did in that fifteen minute span Don left Caffrey alone.
The forger sighed. The guys teased him on more than one occasion of following Badeni blindly and Don was starting to think that they might have a point. Then again, Badeni took him in and trained him in the ways of the hidden world, something the guys, or Jack, never bothered to do. So Don always felt more than a little naively loyal to Badeni despite the Austrians sometimes larger than life expectations and vicious temper. Don knew that Badeni might find him useless in some situations, but Badeni always took time afterwards to give him an exasperated, but instructional, lecture.
"Deep in thought?" Charlie asked, leaning by the water cooler.
Don eyes lit up at the small victory of finally coming to the end of his hunt. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"
"That's not creepy."
"Shut up," Don said easily. "Badeni wants you."
"Why?" Charlie asked dryly. Getting unexpectedly called to the boss was never a good sign.
"That's what you get for being our only doctor."
Charlie straightened minutely. "He's injured? I heard the gunshot, of course, I just never thought—"
"Fatally," Don said with a sad nod of his head, "black eye."
Charlie leveled his brown gaze on Don. "Are you screwing with me?"
"No," Don sighed, "Badeni wants you to fix it. Can't talk to the hostages otherwise."
"Then he should call a make-up artist," Charlie snarled.
"But you can—"
"It's a black eye, Don," Charlie interrupted wearily. "You can't just make it disappear with a pill."
Don sighed. "Just follow me." The forger turned around and began the surprisingly short walk to Badeni's room. Don let out a breath when he heard a grumbling Charlie's footsteps behind him.
"Who did Badeni shoot anyway?" Charlie questioned after a moment.
Don glanced at Charlie's stoic face briefly. "Tommy." Don gestured to a door. "Badeni is in there." He heard Charlie huff.
"Glad you're not the type of person to drop a bomb on somebody without warning," Charlie muttered sarcastically as he entered the room, leaving Don in the hallway.Don lingered by the door as he heard Badeni greet Charlie.
"So, vhere's your kit?"
"You don't really need a medical license to fix a black eye," Charlie answered with the barest hint of annoyance, but Don was positive that Badeni still heard it. He didn't become one or the best criminals in the Eastern Hemisphere by being obtuse to the people around him. "So I brought the next best thing," Charlie continued. There was a pause. Don leaned forward unconsciously, pointlessly trying to hear what was going on during the silence.
"Make up?" Badeni asked doubtfully. Don had to stop himself from making a disbelieving noise. Charlie actually carried around make-up?
"Either this or you put on a mask."
"I don't think so. Hostages don't expect to see their captors face. Seeing my face makes them think that—"
"They're all going to die, yeah," Charlie finished.
Silence. Don leaned back. The forger decided to take his creative license and assume that Badeni was staring his iconic cold glare at Charlie which in turn was making Charlie start to squirm like the anxious little schoolboy everyone secretly hid inside.
"I'm going to choose to take your interruption as you proving that you were paying attention."
Charlie nodded. At least, Don assumed he did. "…So ready to be make-uped?"
"Are you sure this is the only vay to get rid of it?" Badeni asked, a slight hint of reluctance in his tone.
"It's the only effective, fastway to get rid of all hint of one, yes."
"Hmm…lurker at the door?" Badeni called. Don felt himself stiffen at being caught in the act of eavesdropping. It's not like he planned to listen in. It just kind of…happened. "Vhat do you think?"
Please don't be red, please don't be red. Please don't be red. "Um…" Don coughed as he attempted to lean against the doorframe with nonchalance, but his stiff body refused to relax. "I suppose make-up would be the best approach."
Badeni studied Don for a moment. "How's your charge?"
"Hm?"
"Caffrey," Badeni emphasized, "how is he?"
"Uh, fine…probably."
"Probably?"
"Yeah, I, um, haven't actually had time to check how he was doing..." Don trailed off. A silence entered the room.
"And vhy is that?" Badeni asked with a raised eyebrow. "It's your only job. Vatch over Caffrey. I thought even you could manage that."
Don decided to ignore Badeni's emphasis. "I had to get Charlie."
"Obviously, you needed to check in on Caffrey before you began your search for Charlie. This is hardly a life-or-death situation. Or vould you rather Caffrey make another escape attempt?"
Don gulped in answer to Badeni's question.
Badeni sighed when it became apparent that Don wasn't going to move…or speak for that matter. "I vas at the belief that your choice of guards didn't reflect your own IQ level, but…" Badeni tsk-ed. "now…" The Austrian shrugged. Don felt his heart jerk. Badeni…thought he was an idiot? Don's eyes slid over to Charlie, who was currently watching the scene unfold with interest.
Don cleared his throat after a moment. "I'll just go check on Neal then," Don said, in what he hoped was a neutral voice. Badeni nodded in clear dismissal. Don swallowed. Apparently he cared for Badeni far more that Badeni cared for him which, though saddening, was something that Don figured out a long time ago.
~O~
Agent Harrison bustled through the bullpen, dodging around desks, people, and the general chaos that made the Organized Crime Unit. This was his first week off of probation and he was eager to get back out on the field. He was sick of the bland office walls and the mind-numbing routine. This was probably the one time he was genuinely grateful for a homicide.
"Harrison!" Ruiz yelled.
Harrison stopped with a glare before turning back to his boss. "Yeah?" he asked shortly, knowing he should probably be more polite, but not particularly caring.
"You going out?"
No, I'm just heading to the elevator for exercise. "Yes, my probation ended on Friday," Harrison answered with forced patience.
"Good, drop this off at Kidnapping"—Ruiz dropped a box in Harrison's unsuspecting hands—"and this"—Ruiz held out a thick folder—"to White Collar."
"Is that all?" Harrison asked through clenched teeth.
Ruiz pursed his lips. "That should do it, Harrison."
Harrison nodded as he turned back to the elevator, muttering to himself as he attempted to punch the elevator button.
"You know that people might start to believe you've gone crazy if you keep doing that, right?" a teasing voice said beside him.
Harrison turned. "Oh, hey, Gwinn."
"Whoa. Don't blow me away with your enthusiasm or anything," Gwinn said cheerfully as she followed him into the elevator.
He half-smiled at Gwinn's antics. She was probably the reason he didn't go mad with paperwork through his three month suspension. "Sorry, but apparently I turned into Messenger Boy today."
"Oh, that sounds fun. Where are you delivering to?"
"The box to Kidnapping and the folder to White Collar. Why White Collar even needs something from Organized Crime, I don't know," Harrison said, radiating irritation while the elevator doors dinged close.
"I'm helping out the Kidnapping Unit today. Do you want me to take your stuff?" Gwinn offered. "I'll get the folder to White Collar eventually."
Harrison turned to her with a grin. "You're the best, Gwinn."
"I know," Gwinn said as she punched the '15' button on the elevator wall. She bent over and picked up the box of files, grunting as she stood back up.
"Heavier than it looks, isn't it?"
"I hate boxes like that. Have fun catching bad guys," Gwinn called over her shoulder when the elevator opened to the 15th floor, her black hair swishing back and forth across her back as she walked away.
"You too," Harrison said, pressing the lobby button. He felt as giddy as a five year old on a sugar high who just found out that his dad bought him a brand new bike. Crime scene here I come.
~O~
Travis and his newly conscious partner, Jamie, had apparently been deemed 'not guard worthy' by Badeni and the other crew members. Was it their fault that Neal lowered one of their escape routes to the ground? Travis didn't think so. Jamie only got rendered unconscious while he was off chasing the non-existent Burger. So really…well, maybe it was a little bit their fault, but they certainly didn't deserve to be put in the worse possible duty. Paperwork. He shuddered.
"Travis?" Jamie called from the other side of the filing room. "You're muttering to yourself again."
Travis snarled. "I just don't understand why we have to sift through every single file. Why can't we just torch the place?"
Jamie sighed and repeated for about the fiftieth time. "Because if we torch the file room, I think even the Feds could put two and two together and realize we took something. So here we are—sifting." Travis muttered under his breath. Jamie glanced across the room. "What?"
"I hate paperwork," Travis grumbled.
Jamie's eyes flickered toward the rifled through file boxes. "This isn't really paperwork."
"It's a waste of time."
"It needs to be done," Jamie said shrugging.
"It's unneeded."
"I feel like you don't understand the words coming out of my mouth."
"It's just—OW!"
"What?" Jamie asked in alarm, looking up sharply from the file box in front of him.
"Paper cut."
Jamie paused for a moment before laughing at Travis' bleak expression.
"Think this is funny, do you?" Travis snapped, pointing his wounded finger at Jamie accusingly.
Jamie clutched his sides. "Just a—just a bit," he managed between laughter. Travis' glare nearly set Jamie off again, but he held back. Barely. "Oh hey," Jamie said in surprise, staring down in his hands, "I found him."
"Who?"
"The guy whose file we've been searching for for the past half hour."
"Theodor Caldwell?"
"What? No. Steven Richards. Our client," Jamie gave Travis an irritated glare. "Are you meaning to tell me that this entire time you've been searching for the wrong person?"
Travis had a deadpanned expression. "I was kidding."
"Sure you were," Jamie said mockingly. "Let's just get rid of his records."
"Okay," Travis said, flicking his lighter open. He made a grab for the file.
"What are you doing?" Jamie asked in alarm, hugging the file to his chest.
"Getting rid of it," Travis said slowly, letting his tone show Jamie what an idiot he was being.
"You can't burn it," Jamie said, mimicking Travis.
"And why not?"
"What part of 'if we burn it, the Feds will know' do you not understand?"
"I thought that just applied to the file room," Travis said in annoyance, "this is just one measly folder."
"One thick measly folder. Seriously, how many crimes did he commit?"
"Not our problem. You're point?"
"The Feds will smell it."
"Well, spray some Febreeze then!" Travis snapped.
"That won't work!" Jamie retorted. "Let's just dispose of it without leaving a smell."
"Oh, and how do you propose we do that?" Travis smirked as he watched Jamie make a quick look around the file room.
"Paper shredder," Jamie finally said with a hint of smugness.
Travis snorted. "Yeah, let's leave the Bureau a nice little puzzle out of pity. That's smart."
"This shredder shreds the paper in those tiny little squares not strips—much harder to put together."
"Really?"
"Yep. Watch," Jamie said. He picked a random piece of paper off the clerk's desk and placed it into the shredder. The shredder roared to life as it grinded the paper through.
They both stared at the result.
"Nice strips."
"Shut up," Jamie snapped.
Travis grinned.
"But seriously, how do we get rid of it?"
Travis shrugged.
"Brilliant!" Jamie said excitedly. "Why didn't I think of that?" He dropped his wondrous expression long enough to shoot Travis a look. "You could contribute you know."
"I'm hungry."
"Do you ever not think with your stomach?"
Travis huffed indignantly. "Yes, actually."
"When?"
"Hmm. I don't know? How about the time where I was searching for Burger and you let the window platform escape?"
"Oh, like you didn't secretly hope that 'Burger' had a burger on him."
"How creative, really, I'm blown away by it."
"Look at you using words bigger than three letters to respond," Jamie said in a childish voice.
Travis glared. "You know what? I tried to be subtle."
"When?"
"I think we should eat the folder."
Jamie opened his mouth to laugh, or gawk at Travis, probably a mixture of both, but paused when he saw Travis' sober expression. "…Really?"
Nod.
"It's a pretty thick file."
"We spilt it."
"You do know there's a possibility that you could paper cut your mouth, right?"
"What happened to 'we need to get rid of it without a trace'?" Travis asked in a poor imitation of Jamie.
"I am not that high pitched."
"Can you think of another way to get rid of the folder?"
Silence.
"Thought so," Travis said smugly. "Bon appétit."
Jamie glared as he slowly took the first piece of paper of the file.
~O~
Neal stared blandly at the forgery–in-progress in his hands. He just smoothed out the basic molding of the dragon. Now, he only had to wait for the clay to dry before he could work on the next step. Neal estimated that it should take about an hour with a hair dryer for the molding to fully dry, but his "body guards" were reluctant to let Neal do anything without Don's or Badeni's approval, which included the multiple steps it took to make a forgery. He hid a sigh. Great, he had absolutely nothing to distract him from...Neal pursed his lips. He should at least think it. Neal owed Tommy that much. He stared across the break room. Tommy deserved that much from him and more.
His blue eyes connected with a stain on the counter opposite from him in the break room. The stain had been there for years. Ever since Neal first arrived at the FBI as a consultant the stain had been there, just another blemish on an already worn counter. That particular stain happened to be directly in front of the microwave, probably caused by one of the hundreds of times a federal agent took a dish out of the microwave and some of their microwavable meal slopped over. The stain also happened to bear a remarkable resemblance to dry blood.
Neal approached the stain warily. He leaned over it. The stain was just that, a stain. Neal didn't really know why he bothered to come over in the first place. It didn't really accomplish anything. A frown crinkled Neal's brow. Was it a trick of the light or did the stain seem to turn brighter, almost wet-looking. Blue eyes widened as the stain started to spread over the counter. A thick, red drop leisurely dripped to the floor. Neal swallowed. Most definitely not a trick of the light. The conman moved his shoe to get a better look at the red drop. Neal crouched down and examined the small puddle. It just laid there, a red splotch on the scuffed floors. He forced a shrug as he made a move to get back into a standing position.
Something wet dripped on his head and started a slow trickle to the back of his neck. Neal stiffened as he raised a quivering hand to the back of his head. He felt around, letting out a relieved sigh. Nothing there, just a figment from his imagin—Neal jerked his hand back as his middle finger came in contact with something. Something sticky. He slowly lowered his hand. It hand looked normal. White, mostly clean, bits of clay under his nails, bright red on the tip of his middle finger. He swallowed. A flash of red went by Neal's peripheral vision. He turned his head slightly. Another red drop stained the floor beside him. Neal slowly straightened fully as he looked up. Neal had to bite his tongue to stop the oncoming scream.
On the ceiling was Tommy. A dead, bleeding, screaming Tommy. A red stain decorated the patch of ceiling behind him. Every one of Tommy's body parts were pressed flat against the surface, everywhere except for his arm—the arm where he was shot. His wounded arm reached toward Neal. A silent plea for help. His mouth was open in a silent scream of agony and Tommy's glazed eyes stared down at Neal, a silent, accusing question reflecting in them. Why didn't you save me? Another drop of blood fell from Tommy's shoulder.
"Why didn't you do anything?"
Neal's mouth went dry when he realized that Tommy was the one that spoke. A cold sweat broke out. "I…" Neal couldn't get the words past the big lump in his throat.
"I helped you," Tommy's voice continued in a monotone, "and you betrayed me."
"I would never—"
"But you did," Tommy said, a demonic glare dancing in Tommy's dead eyes. "I was helping you and guess what I got out of it? Nothing."
"No! I—"
A feral grin crept across Tommy's pale face. Tommy continued softly, "I suppose that's not true though…I did get something. Do you know what that is, Neal?"
Neal's vision blurred as he shrugged helplessly.
"Death," Tommy breathed. "Seems to be a common theme for you doesn't it? People dying to help you. If only you were more self-sufficient. Then we wouldn't have this problem."
Neal couldn't defend himself. He couldn't even speak.
Tommy sighed regretfully. "If only you used that pretty little head of yours…but, alas, you seem physically unable to use it for anything except charming women."
"Tommy—"
"If you weren't so impulsive, we wouldn't have had this problem." Neal swallowed as he rapidly blinked against Tommy's impassive voice, cold with reason. "You could've saved me, but no. You 'needed' my help. Because you bit off more than you could chew and was that myproblem? No, no it wasn't. But I was being a good friend and how did you repay me? How Caffrey? Tell me how. Caffrey."
"Caffrey?"
"Caffrey!"
Neal jerked. His eyes darted around the room as he blinked rapidly. No blood, no tantalizing voice, no Tommy. He let out a breath as he felt his shoulders sag with relief. It was just a nightmare during the daylight hours, nothing serious. His eyes fell on the stain. The normal, brown stain sat innocently at its regular spot on the counter.
"Caffrey!" Don snapped again. Neal's gaze flickered to him. He wondered how long Don had been there. Badeni's lapdog appeared to realize that he finally held Neal's attention. "So what's the progress report?"
"Molding's done," Neal answered, hoping his voice didn't sound as strained to Don as it did to him. "Just waiting for the materials to do the outside layer."
"Like what?"
"I told you earlier."
"Right, well, change of plans," Don said professionally. Neal stared dully back at him, waiting for Don to continue his imitation of Badeni. "The clay molding you have now will have to be as detailed as the real thing. Same size and everything."
"Why?" Neal asked, more out of habit than anything else. He just couldn't force himself to care right now.
"We have a local fence who's going to take it for us and sell it in one month, the same time we're going to sell your forgery back in Europe. So we need you to have something to base your final forgery off of."
Neal supposed that made sense. The Spanish Emperor's statue would probably do better in the Asian market though. A lot of Asians seemed to have a fetish for foreign antiquities. He wondered briefly if he should mention that.
"So get started," Don said after awhile. Neal shrugged as he wandered back over to the pile of clay and gold statue. The blue-eyed conman ignored the sound of Don shuffling out of the room and closing the door behind him. Neal examined the statue. The spork would be perfect for the scales.
Wait.
Wait.
Wait. "The spork would be perfect for the scales"? "The Asian market would be better"? "I should mention that later"? Did he lose all his initiative? Seriously, what the hell? Why is he suddenly not worried about becoming a slave of Badeni's? He hated working with Badeni the first time, why would it suddenly become better after Neal stole from the Austrian and Badeni shot Tommy? He felt his gut wrench. Even if Tommy might've been his fault, Neal blinked, he wasn't just going to lie over and tend to Badeni's every wish and command. If anything Neal shouldn't be cooperating at all. Badeni shot Tommy! He should be figuring out how to escape! Not working on Badeni's next scam. Neal needed to revenge Tommy, stop whatever the hell Badeni was up to, free the FBI agents without getting shot, try and convince Hank and Steve to leave Badeni, and, hopefully, give the Feds a chance to arrest their captors. Neal wasn't picky on the order in which he accomplished his to-do list. He inspected the various forging materials arrayed in front of him. Now, what would be useful for when he escapes?
~O~
Peter watched the henchman—what was his name? Something obviously fake…—lead him to what appeared to be a vacant office. He glanced at the two other henchmen that walked on either side of him. They figured out he could walk after they dragged him a good 30 feet into the hallway and Peter kicked one. He got a slap on the side of the head, but he was no longer being dragged by the armpits—a very uncomfortable experience. Peter was under the impression that they hauled him out like that for show, a very stupid show, but a show nonetheless. Not sure if it had the desired effect though.
The lead henchman—his name started with a B…Basher? No…Bunko?—gestured to a chair in front of the desk.
"Put him there and then guard the door," the lead henchman ordered. The minions hurried to comply and Peter was roughly pushed into the uncomfortable chair. The lead henchman waited until the door closed softly behind the minions before turning his attention to Peter.
The lead henchman, Boomer Peter finally recalled, studied him for a moment. "Coffee?"
Peter blinked. "Sure."
"Black?"
Wordlessly, Peter nodded. Boomer turned to the coffee maker on the table behind him. "I've heard a lot about you Agent Burke."
"I haven't had the same pleasure Mr.…?"
Boomer smiled briefly over his shoulder at Peter. "Do you really think I'm that stupid?"
"It was worth a try."
"I suppose," Boomer shrugged as he placed two mugs by the coffee pot, "but you already know the boss's name."
"True," Peter nodded. "But who knows? 'Badeni' might be the 'Smith' of Austria."
"It's not, I assure you."
Peter frowned. "Or a code name."
"Again, it's not," Boomer handed Peter a mug of coffee. Peter accepted, but made no move to drink it.
"Why are you telling me this?" Peter asked.
Boomer smirked. "I assure you, Agent Burke, the coffee isn't poisoned." Boomer took a drink to emphasize his point.
"Nice to know," Peter said, taking a tiny sip from his mug. Boomer calls that deflecting? He deals with Neal every day. "So, Boomer, why are you telling me about your boss?"
Boomer's smirk faded. "I'm not telling so much as clarifying. Besides, Burke, I'll be doing the questioning not you. Like when does the building empty?"
"This is like any other nine to five job. Of course, the security might wonder why the entire White Collar division all decided to take an over-nighter."
Boomer didn't say anything, but something about how he was standing made Peter's FBI instincts go off.
"You replaced the security people didn't you?"
Boomer took another drink of coffee. "How did you find out all the information about the boss?"
"Why does that matter?"
"Answer the question, Agent Burke." No deterring Boomer, apparently.
Peter sighed. Then his eyes widened slightly as he remembered who exactly provided that helpful tid-bit. "Neal," Peter said softly.
"Who do you think was on the receiving end of that bullet?"
Peter choked on his coffee. "Neal?"
"No," Boomer seemed genuinely surprised.
Peter let out a breath. Good. "You implied you shot Hughes."
"Very good, Agent Burke," Boomer congratulated him.
"Well, you weren't that subtle about it."
"I had to get the point across somehow didn't I?"
"And what point would that be exactly?"
"That Badeni doesn't care about hostages."
Peter noticed Boomer's obvious exclusion. "You and Badeni don't share the same opinion?"
"I find hostages to be quite useful."
"What do you want?" Peter asked bluntly. It had been a long day and even coffee couldn't cure everything.
Boomer studied Peter for a moment. "What do you think about your consultant?"
"He helps us solve cases," Peter answered, knowing that wasn't what Boomer wanted to hear.
"Yes, but what do you think about him in this situation?"
Worried that he's in trouble, anxious that my answers will somehow affect his life, determined to help him, knowing that he didn't expect The Crazy Austrian to show up. "Why?"
"I know you care for him."
"I know you care for him," Peter retorted, feeling slightly childish.
Boomer smiled faintly. "So we're on the same page then?"
Peter felt like he snapped two pieces of the giant puzzle together. "You brought me in here for Neal, didn't you?"
"Do you know who got shot?" Boomer asked again.
"Not Neal or Hughes."
Boomer nodded. "It was a friend of Neal's."
Peter felt his stomach drop even though he never met Neal's friend. All that time when Peter was on the fence about whether Neal had betrayed him or not, Neal was dealing with an unexpected loss. Showed what kind of person he was. "Who was the shooter?"
"Badeni."
"Was Neal there?" Peter asked.
Boomer hesitated. "Neal was the reason Badeni shot him."
Peter's eyes bulged. Neal must be going through hell. He glanced at the door, a strong urge to find Neal and talk to him came over Peter briefly. He took a drink of coffee instead. "Does Neal blame himself?"
Boomer started. "I…I'm not really sure. Probably." Peter felt his stoic expression crack. Damn it, Neal.
A knock at the door made them both jump.
"Look stubborn," Boomer said quickly.
The door opened and a henchman walked in. The new henchman glanced at Peter, before focusing on Boomer.
"Do you know where Bugs is?" the henchman questioned.
Boomer adopted a slightly irritated expression. "No, I've been a bit busy."
"Ah, well, if you see him, tell him I'm looking for him."
Boomer didn't respond. He simply stared at the henchman until the henchman made a hurried excuse to leave.
Peter waited for the door to close. "Bugs?"
"Another nickname."
"For who?"
"The doctor."
"Huh."
"And the guy who was looking for him," Boomer said casually, "his code name is Nod."
"Nod?" Peter asked. Not the typical criminal code name. Peter thought about it for a second. "Oh, nod is Don backwards."
Boomer looked up sharply at Peter. "Good with word puzzles, Agent Burke?"
"I enjoy crossword."
"So, you're not happy with the hostage situation."
"I'm not sure if any FBI agents are," Peter answered. "So, Boomer, you haven't actually said this flat out, but it's been a long morning. So, was the entire reason you brought me here was because you want to work together and free Neal and arrest Badeni?"
Boomer hesitated then nodded. "So you'll help?"
"Course."
Boomer smiled briefly. "Good."
"So, what exactly am I supposed to do? It's not like I can roam around here."
Boomer waved Peter's concerns away. Peter's eyes narrowed. Apparently his "co-conspirator" wasn't willing to share all the details of his plan right now. "You know the agents who are willing to help Neal?"
"I think all of them are ready to do something to get rid of our captors."
"Not what I asked."
Peter sighed. "Badeni did a good job in making Neal seem like a bad guy."
"Convinced you."
Peter looked down for a moment. "I've thought about it and I th-know that Neal doesn't have anything to do with Badeni's appearance."
Boomer's face remained stoic. "Yes, but Neal has always been opportunistic. Who says now that Badeni's here Neal won't just…run away with him?"
Peter swallowed.
When Neal first waltzed into his life, he was in a guise of one of the many crumpled files that claimed residence on Peter's already cramped desk. It quickly became apparent, however, that James Bonds was talented, really talented. What ensued for the next four years was what Peter liked to refer to as "the good ole days." Peter and Neal having a constant battle of wits, each trying to outsmart the other one, Peter working late nights at the office, the thrill of the chase, the only downside that Peter could think of was not being able to spend as much time with El. Then came the day where Peter made his career, when Peter was finally able to slap the cuffs on Neal's wrists. Peter still smiled at the memory.
After that, Peter was solving cases, some occasionally exciting, none with the same consistency of wit and unpredictality as Neal. Honestly, the toughest conman Peter dealt with while Neal was in prison was The Dutchman, and he and Caffrey made short work of him. Then Caffrey escaped and Peter caught him (again), but Neal surprised Peter, which shouldn't actually be that surprising, by proposing a work release with the FBI. Peter was, reasonably, suspicious of Neal's motives and agreed warily, assuming that Neal would jump at the first opportunity to run to Kate.
Peter sipped some more of his coffee. He was right on one thing. Neal did run away…just not to Kate. He ran away to help them catch criminals, sometimes with Peter being in the loop of Neal's plan. Caffrey didn't even do anything overly illegal, bits of gray areas, but that was to be expected with an ex-con.
Peter frowned. Of course, Neal did steal something, a painting that he and Caffrey were doing a case on—the Young Girl with Locket by Haustenberg. Peter knew Neal stole it the morning the FBI agents found an origami butterfly in the stolen painting's hiding spot. Neal didn't give any hint that the painting was in his possession until a couple of days later when Dorsett threatened to kill Taryn. Peter snorted softly. He remembered being irritated that Neal hadn't trusted him enough to come to him sooner about the painting. Who knew that he would soon become the biggest hypocrite in the world?
Peter sat his mug down on the desk, eyes wandering down the mug's handle. Neal went into a place where he knew most of the people would distrust him on sight, but he still performed brilliantly and helped Peter put criminals behind bars in a rate faster than Peter thought possible. Neal obeyed, Peter used that word loosely, most of the guidelines on being an FBI consultant…and Neal was good. Peter sighed. Time to take a leap of faith—El would be so proud.
Peter looked up at Boomer. "Neal won't run."
Boomer's face softened slightly. "What about the other agents who share your past concerns?"
"I know the ones who'll help Neal, I know the ones who'll listen to me because they trust me, and I know that everyone wants to fight back against you guys…no offense."
"None taken."
"So do you know the henchmen who're willing to turn against the Crazy Austrian?"
Boomer made a small noise that may have possibly been a laugh. "I know who to trust."
"Good."
"Good indeed."
Peter took a gulp of coffee. "So what now?"
~O~
In the closet opposite of the break room, Charlie glanced around inconspicuously before entering. The florescent lights flickered to life as soon as he closed the door behind him. Charlie glanced up at them, then around the closet. His eyes finally rested on Don.
"Glad you got my message," Don said with a somewhat official tone, "I got the stuff."
"No, you got a first aid kit, there's a difference," Charlie corrected.
Slight despair covered Don's face. "So you can't help him?"
Charlie rolled his eyes. He was so gullible which he usually considered a gift, but now it was just irritating. "When did I ever say that?"
"You didn't."
"Exactly," Charlie nodded, "so where's our patient?"
"Through here," Don said, moving aside to reveal another door.
Charlie blinked. "I thought this was a janitor's closet."
"It is," Don answered, "the Feds apparently thought that a double entry was needed for this one."
"Huh."
"My thoughts exactly," Don said as he opened the second door in the janitor's closet. Charlie peeked past Don. He blinked. He had definitely not been expecting that. Lying on a small black couch was a pale, barely breathing, Tommy. A hasty bandage had been tied to around what Charlie suspected to be the bullet hole in an attempt to stop the bleeding.
Charlie immediately crouched next to Tommy. "How long has he been like this?"
"I'm assuming since the gunshot."
Charlie cut Tommy's tattered sleeve off as he carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage. "Does Badeni know?"
"Yeah, he shot him," Don answered.
Charlie shot Don a look. "Let me rephrase that. Does Badeni know that you and I are helping Tommy?"
There was a brief silence. "No."
"Alright then," Charlie said. He stood up and walked away from Tommy. Don stared at him, eyes wide. Charlie reached the desk and started rifling through the drawers. "Is it just me or do you think it's odd that an FBI agent doesn't have alcohol around his office?"
"Alcohol?" Don asked in confusion.
"Yeah, I always pictured FBI agents having a bottle of wine hidden in their desk."
Don continued to stare blankly at Charlie.
"For sterilizing the gunshot wound," Charlie said with a you-idiot voice. "You didn't think I'd just ditch a friend did you?"
Don's face broke into a grin. "No."
"Liar."
What? You did actually think I'd kill off Tommy did you?
Oh, and Hank is seeming more and more British-y to me. What say you about turning him British! (which probably means that I won't do anything except add a few words here and there BUT means that whenever he speaks, you can use a British accent! Yay!)
Anyways, yeah so I didn't add the other side of Alex's and Mozzie's conversation with Hank (aka Alex's dad for those of you who forgot). I just couldn't really fit it into the chapter b/c I wanted this entire chapter to be happening in relatively the same time frame which I couldn't do if Mozzie and Alex were breaking into the FBI building and in the next section have Hank talk to them at June's house. If you want me to add it in I'll squeeze it in, but it just bugged me that it would makes things off (at least for me). I might just be over-thinking it…idk. OH! And for those of you who read my hugely long, rambling Author's note, here's a virtual giant cookie and ice cream! ENJOY, awesome people!