A/N: Okay, someone commented on the random jump from El/Brooke being in peril to suddenly being in the hospital- I promise I will get back to that whole missing scene, I just want to finish this bit first. So be patient and enjoy the chapter, knowing that it will all make sense eventually.

Neal stared as Keller discussed his fate with Peter over the phone. He stood silently, hands up and open almost at chest level; hair tossing about in the wind; eyes wide; and mouth slightly parted as he held his breath, waiting. He listened to the psychopath list all of the reasons Peter should give up on Neal, and his heart sank as he realized that the dirt bag wasn't really wrong. Even as he cocked the gun, the con could only focus on the words as Keller spoke them.

I mean, do you really want him to go back to prison, knowing full well that he could just escape, or do you just kinda wish he'd drop dead for all the trouble he's caused you?

Neal knew Peter—knew the agent would never give Keller that kind of opening, that he didn't really want Neal dead. Although, if he was answering his phone, that meant that they'd found Keller's guys, and Neal wondered how they'd found Elizabeth…

If it wasn't illegal or unethical or whatever rules hold you back… Are you really telling me you wouldn't shoot Caffrey if you had the chance?

Neal hated Keller. The man always had a way of pushing his buttons; of voicing opinions or questions that always got Neal to act rashly; got him into trouble. And now Neal was staring at Keller instead of the gun, his eyes wide with curiosity over Peter's answer—because, despite knowing what Peter would say to the criminal, Neal had, on some level, been wondering the same thing since yesterday. Neal may have made his choice about which side of the line he wanted to be on, but did he make it too late?

Keller smiled at what he heard on the phone, although Neal never could understand what went on in the sadist's head. When he took aim though, Neal decided the reason behind the smile was pretty much irrelevant.

Then a shot rang out, and a bullet- not from the gun in front of him- slammed into the crate behind Keller. And then another shot, just missing his head, instead lodging into the bastard's phone, destroying the connection, along with the device itself, and eliciting a sharp cry from the criminal.

Neal didn't have a gun, and since the FBI weren't known for a "shoot first, talk second" policy, he knew he likely wasn't exempt from the sudden onslaught of ammunition. He glanced around and saw three dark figures half-hidden behind various buildings not one hundred feet away starting to empty their clips at the two exposed men. Their grim faces caused Neal to almost laugh—he had wondered when Keller being on the Russian Mob and every hit man's most wanted list would catch up with him. Of course, the CI was kind of hoping it wouldn't be with him standing right there next to his rival, in an empty lot with little cover.

The two bolted for shelter, the blue-eyed consultant reaching the side of the truck facing toward the water-away from the warehouses and the bullets- and he breathed a small sigh of relief when he felt the metal behind him offer some protection from the hail of gunfire. He knew the FBI was on their way—their plan was to rush in as soon as El was located. Yet, as bullets rained down from an unseen source, he couldn't help but hope they were closer than he had originally guessed.

And then there was Keller. Neal watched as his rival braced himself up against a conveniently-placed piece of scrap metal, cursing in that damn accent under his breath and wrapping part of his now-shredded jacket around his wounded hand to stifle the blood flow. The two men looked at each other from their covers as the fire temporarily paused.

Well, Neal couldn't help but think. At least Keller can't shoot me.

Apparently, a variation of that same thought seemed to cross the other man's mind at the same moment, because he suddenly began shifting from side to side, craning his neck from behind his shelter to find his gun, and Neal realized he didn't want to find out if Keller had any skill with his left hand.

They both saw the weapon at the same time. Laying about ten feet from where Neal crouched, the gun had been dropped in the surprise of the attack and now lay on the ground, a deadly black shape, surrounded by blood stains and dark plastic fragments of electronics that contrasted starkly with the bland gray of the sunlit pier. Neal's eyes shifted from the gun, to Keller, to the unknown assailants in the distance. He watched the cogs turn in his nemesis' eyes.

"Ah, sh—" he cursed under his breath, standing and sprinting for the weapon at the same time Keller did. The gunfire immediately recommenced, and Neal's subconscious began running on loop as it reminded him how much he hated guns.

Neal always was the quicker of the two however, so he wasn't surprised that he reached the weapon first. He planted his foot over the dirt's crimson stains, pushing off toward the other side of the truck, zigzagging around in the direction of the cab, working his ass off to avoid being caught by Keller, whom he didn't even have time to look around for, or get shot by the mystery men with guns out in the distance.

He'd just rounded the first corner of the front of the U-haul when he heard his saving grace, which curiously sounded off in the form of Agent Kimberly Rice. "FBI! Drop your weapons and put your hands in the air!"

Neal was so relieved he didn't realize that the shots hadn't completely stopped—he vaguely registered the echo of another round before he suddenly felt a blinding pain in his shoulder, radiating throughout his torso. Completely bewildered, the last thought that formed in his head was puzzlement as he found the ground moving at an unnatural speed as it rose up to meet him.