Hey y'all! How's it going? Me, I've got no free time after school recently, so I've been writing like crazy! I hope you all are doing well now that it's spring again (or fall, for those of you in the southern hemisphere), and go take the time to enjoy the weather! Or, read fanfics all day; that works too.

Once again, thanks to everyone who took the time to review this fic for me! I love to hear from all of you! Please please pleaaase take 30 seconds to review. It will make my day!

Now, I do believe I left a cliffhanger at the end of the last chapter; let's see what happens, hmm?

Chapter Nine: The Bigger They Are

Neal opened the door into an inky blackness of eerie silence. It was the kind of darkness that seemed to have a life of its own, swirling and twisting into shadowy shapes that would seem almost whimsical if they weren't so sinister.

Cautiously, Peter took point, flanked by extraction teams A and B. He had a flashlight held in one hand and his service weapon in the other, wrists crossed to allow him to fire and see simultaneously. The entry hallway somehow seemed even eerier with the dancing shadows cast by the flashlight. Peter nodded forward and the teams took off toward the two side rooms of the suite, while Neal and Peter continued forward.

"Clear." Came the soft call from the left.

Peter swore silently. He should have reminded them to keep silent. He desperately hoped the other team had more sense than to tip-off the thief.

"Clear." Came a call from the right, as if in direct defiance of his thoughts.

Shaking his head, Peter turned his thoughts back to the door in front of him. Silently hoping to catch the thief inside unawares-and hoping that there really was a thief inside, he kicked the door open.

"FBI, don't-" Peter cut off when the room flooded with light, exposing, from what he could tell, many very bright blobs.

Cursing, Neal covered his eyes at the sudden, stunning brightness. Finally his vision adjusted, and he looked around at the hoards of cursing agents shielding their eyes. Then he saw the room.

"What the Hell?" He muttered aloud. He wondered if he was unconscious or dreaming. That was more likely than this. At least that made sense.

The entire room was decked out in colorful streamers and balloons. Across the middle of the room, hanging low from the ceiling was a banner reading 'Congratulations!'

Peter was looking around, mouth slightly agape. What the Hell was going on?

"Peter?" Neal said, the unspoken inquiry clear in his voice.

"Yea, Neal, I see it too. " Peter shook his head in wonder.

"Well, looks like someone threw us a party," Neal moved to one of the several streamers hanging from the ceiling. "And a very colorful one at that."

One of the agents moved over to Peter. "We found this on the coffee table, sir. I thought you might want a look before forensics hauled it off." The agent gingerly handed Peter a folded note, held through a rubber glove he'd been smart enough to put on, and handed Peter a glove of his own.

"Thanks, Sullivan." Said Peter, taking the note from him. Sullivan nodded and walked back towards forensics.

"From The Gentleman?" Neal asked.

"I'd bet my last dollar on it." Peter replied, and unfolded the note. He began to read aloud:

Dear friends,

I'm afraid I was unable to be here for our meeting, but I hope that you have fun with the festivities. I was called away on business, but I'm certain we shall meet soon. Who knows, maybe I'll see you as I leave your office.

Forever yours,

The Gentleman

P.S. Congratulations on finding my humble home, Agent Burke. Do be sure to keep up the good work.

There was a moment of silence between the two as the meaning sunk in. The two looked at each other.

"It was a trick," said Neal incredulously, looking almost in awe with the note in Peter's hand.

"We've gotta get back there." Said Peter, already gesturing to Jones and Diana.

"I'll get the van," said Neal, already heading out the door.

Five minutes later, they were weaving through traffic towards the office.

By the time they arrived, Neal had put it all together, though he most certainly didn't like what he saw. There was no way around it: Mozzie had played them. Though Neal had found Mozzie's repentance a little hard to swallow, he had really believed his friend was trying to apologize.

Now they would pay for trusting him.

But why? What could Mozzie possibly gain from helping the thief? It would have to be more than money-Neal doubted Mozzie was that desperate. Either that, or it was a sum with so many zeros that Mozzie couldn't say no. Either way, it was hard to believe Mozzie would betray him like that. Again.

As for the thief, what could The Gentleman want with the FBI. Why raise the stakes? Any thief breaking into the office was bound to get caught by a ton of security cameras, which thwarted all the work the thief had put into avoiding recognition. Plus, breaking into a government building, especially one containing classified documents, was just asking to be America's Most Wanted, if not put on the terrorist list.

Why do it? There was only one explanation: art theft wasn't the goal here. There was some bigger achievement on the horizon. Something worth all the risk.

Neal explained his revelations to Peter as they weaved through the roads, trying to get back to the office. He skirted over Mozzie's part and focused on The Gentleman

When he finished, Peter nodded. "But," asked Peter, "what could be worth that kind of risk? I doubt it's about money."

"No, that Dalí was worth enough to keep several people very easily set up on their own private island for a very long time." Neal shook his head. "There's bigger gain here."

"Which leaved political motive-"

"Doubt it," said Neal. "usually those make demands or, at least, want as much attention as they can get. The Gentleman is too discreet."

"Alright; it could be concealment. Maybe it's an elaborate coverup?"

"Maybe. Hopefully we'll know in a minute." They pulled up to the office, screeching to a halt with Diana and Jones on their heels. Neal had a sneaking suspicion that the thieves were already long gone; it wasn't ever that easy.

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