"He what?"
"He escaped, sir." Peter rubbed at his face with an anguished air. "Neal escaped. He ran. He cut his anklet and, when I was distracted calling the police, escaped on my bicycle." Hughes looked at him angrily.
"Why didn't you stop him?"
"He… he was too far… I… I lost him in the streets." Peter took a gulp of coffee and looked around with despair. The scalding liquid burnt his throat, but by now he was past the point of caring. He and Hughes were sitting in the White Collar Division conference room, alone, with naught but the flickering of computer monitors and the pulse of the city lights for company.
"I don't believe it." Hughes stood up and paced the office, growing more and more agitated with every stride. "Burke, I don't believe it! You let me down. You lost the kid. We're… we're all screwed. Say goodbye to white collar, Agent Burke, because I can assure you – you won't have a job come tomorrow!" Peter was surprised by the bitterness in Hughes' voice.
"What are you talking about?" He demanded. "Arrange a search party! Give me the authorisation and I'll find Caffrey. I've done it before and I will bloody well do it again."
"Peter." Hughes's weathered hands twisted in his lap. "You don't understand. OPR are so wound up in the very fabric of this case there is not a chance in hell we'll escape this mess unscathed. Neal Caffrey just lost you your job. And mine."
"You're firing me?" Peter's voice was dangerously low.
"Of course not." Hughes snapped. "I'm just saying that OPR are not going to sit back and let this slide. Taking Caffrey on as a foster child was a risky plan from the offset, especially after your hearing and that little spat with Fowler. Now that Caffrey has skipped town OPR will be searching around for someone to blame. And you, my friend, are top of the ruddy list!" Peter launched to his feet.
"Hughes. I don't care about your conjectures." He said in a voice laced with frost. "I don't care what you think might happen to me tomorrow. I don't care if you think I'm going to lose my job. All I care about right now is finding Neal." He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to calm down. "Will you give me the authorisation?" There was a tense silence.
"I can't."
"What? Neal could be in danger – let me find him."
"The kid's fine. He escaped, didn't he? He knows what he's doing." Hughes smiled coldly, a crocodile smile that revealed no teeth. "You, on the other hand, are too emotionally attached to this situation. We'll find Caffrey. I'll have the whole office on it tomorrow. But you, Agent Burke? Well I daresay you won't be involved. I'm benching you."
"No." Peter was defiant. "I have to find Neal. I'm the only one who can-"
"Burke. I swear, right hand to God - we'll find him. We'll have road blocks and wanted posters-"
"It's not enough." Peter stepped forward, right next to his boss, so close he could smell the coffee on Hughes' breath. "Let me find Neal!"
"Step away from me. Now." Hughes growled. Sparks flew from the old man's eyes. That was when Peter knew he had crossed a line. He jerked away from Hughes and straightened his tie angrily, rolling his shoulders back until the bones clicked. When he had calmed down somewhat he turned shakily to his boss, face ashen.
"Agent Hughes, I'm… I'm sorry. That was out of order."
"Get out of my office."
"Pardon?"
"You heard me. Get out. You are hereby on leave, Burke. Until we have Caffrey in custody and cuffs I don't want to see your face anywhere near this office, understand?" Peter nodded stiffly. The injustice of the situation burned within him. Neal had betrayed him, he had cut the anklet and ran off into the night. He had thrown all of Peter's hospitality back in his face, but he could still be in danger. He was still a kid alone on the streets of New York. Peter had to find him. And Hughes had to understand that. But he knew that there was no persuading his boss. He would have to do this alone.
"Good night, Agent Hughes." Peter said gruffly. Then he whipped his jacket off the back of the chair and stormed out the office. New York City sprawled beneath him like an open map. Somewhere in that tangle of roads is Neal Caffrey. And I am damn well going to find him.
"That's enough." The men holding Neal upright let go at Keller's command, and Neal slumped against the wall, gasping for breath. He had been beaten repeatedly, struck in the stomach until there was no air left in his lungs and punched in the face till the blood gushed from his nose, scarlet as rubies. His braces hung crooked, only loosely attached to his teeth.
"Caffrey, you look terrible." Keller paced around him with mock sympathy in his drawl. He was dressed as pristinely as usual, wearing a black tie and shoes shiny enough to reflect the light. Neal hated him for it. Hated Keller and his silky voice, hated the hotel room he was imprisoned in, hated the minions who had caused him pain. He glared at Keller defiantly.
"Thirty dollars."
"What?"
"Thirty dollars." Neal repeated. There was a nasty purple bruise on his cheekbone. The blemished skin shimmered when he turned his head. "That's the price of the shirt I'm wearing. Which, thanks to your friends, is now covered in blood. I want a refund." Keller chuckled without humour.
"Still making jokes, Caffrey? I'd be careful if I were you. I'm not in a very good mood."
"Sticks and stones." Neal shrugged. The movement, slight as it was, caused him to gasp in pain. He was getting tired with this. As far as he could guess, it had been roughly eight hours since he had been plucked off the streets by Keller and his gang. Eight hours and no sign of the FBI. Eight hours of Keller's men trying – and failing – to extract the location of the microchip from his mind. Eight hours of hell.
Neal wondered what had happened to Peter. His foster father (emphasis on foster – Peter would never be his dad) would think that he had escaped. Neal could think of no possible reason why Peter would stop and consider that maybe, just maybe, he hadn't done a runner after all and had instead been kidnapped. It was no secret that the greying federal agent distrusted him. He had probably suspected that Neal would run from the moment he had come home to find him lying on his sofa. His disappearance would only confirm Peter's suspicions.
Neal's already throbbing head reeled. He thought morbidly about the impact his abduction would have on the people around him. Peter would get into trouble with the Bureau and El would be crushed, thinking that he had abandoned them. Mozzie would be confused and hurt; June – if she ever got back from her blasted trip around the world – would be distraught to discover her apartment empty and Neal gone. He could imagine her now, frantically piecing together the events of the last few weeks: his arrest at Merrinote School, escaping from the feds, being fostered by Peter, and now this. Abducted by a lunatic without a trace, leaving everyone believing he had vanished by choice. June would be heartbroken, thinking he had betrayed her. And Sara Ellis! He would never get the chance to explain. Neal closed his eyes. His mind was so full of the things he would never do it wasn't worth thinking about.
Anger flared within him. He was going to die with every single person he cared about believing he had stabbed them in the back. It was so unfair. His lasting legacy wouldn't be respect, admiration, friendship or love. It would be fury. Whenever people thought about him, the name Neal Caffrey would bring them nothing but pain. The prospect of people remembering him as a traitor bothered him for reasons he didn't quite understand.
Keller will pay for this. The savage thought ripped its way into his mind. He couldn't make things right with June, the Burkes, Sara or Mozzie. He was trapped in a hotel that was obviously connected to Keller (so far, they hadn't been disturbed once) and the opportunity for escape was yet to present itself. Neal knew he had to stop focusing on what he couldn't do. Because the one thing he could do was make sure that Mathew Keller never, ever got his hands on the microchip.
"Let me go, Keller." He snarled. Keller examined his nails with a nonchalant air.
"Sorry, Caffrey. No can do. Not until you tell me where the microchip is."
"I don't have the microchip." As soon as the words left his mouth, Neal wished he could pluck them out of the air and stuff them back in. Keller tutted and nodded at one of his burly associates, who grabbed Neal by the hair and cracked his head against the wall. Groaning, Neal sunk to the floor, where he lay quivering. Keller prodded him with one shiny black shoe.
"Lock him up until I return. No food. No water."
"Yes, sir." Strong hands yanked Neal to his feet.
"Keller." Neal forced himself to look his former associate in the eye. "Stop."
"Oh, this should be good. You gonna tell me where the chip is, Caffrey?" Neal choked back a rasping laugh. For some reason, the question struck him as funny.
"Nope."
"Then we have nothing more to discuss." Keller nodded to his minions, who gripped Neal's forearms, dragging him away from Keller and through an adjoining door into a second hotel room. This one was a suite with two beds, a large wardrobe and a man size, silver cage that looked like it belonged in a shady zoo. Neal groaned when he saw it. The thing was massive, an iron, hulking cube with an electronic lock compelte with a keypad. He had seen cages exactly like it in bank vaults and they were an absolute pain to break into. Which meant that it would be equally difficult to break out of.
The cage looked utterly ridiculous standing in the middle of a hotel room, but Neal supposed that that was the point. Part of him had to admire Keller's daring. Keeping him imprisoned in a public building was genius – nobody would expect to find a hostage in somewhere as normal as a five star hotel. It was completely above suspicion. The feds would never find him. The irony of the situation washed over him – here he was, Neal Caffrey: art thief extraordinaire, praying for the FBI to appear. He had been running from the feds for as long as he could remember. And now he needed their help.
Keller unlocked the door and shoved him inside. Neal stumbled, but quickly regained his balance and pivoted to face his nemesis. He rested his hands casually on the bars, as if being locked in a cage designed to hold stacks of money was something he did every day.
"I want to make you an offer."
"You do, do you?" Keller looked bored. "Go on. Regale me."
"I'll give you one million dollars."
"What?"
"I have the funds. I'll give you one million dollars – I swear upon the sun and stars." Keller's lips tilted upwards in a sardonic smile.
"What – you paying your own ransom now, huh, Caffrey? Think I'll let you go if you throw enough of your stolen money in my face?" Neal feigned a look of surprise.
"Why, no, not at all. I'll give you one million dollars if you stop talking for five minutes. You're starting to give me a headache."
"Ok. That's it." Rage flashed in Keller's eyes, and Neal began to wish that he hadn't provoked him. He wasn't sure quite what he had been thinking. The stress and anger he felt about his abduction had come to a boil inside him and the need to inflict some of the emotion on Keller had been overpowering. But perhaps it had not been the best move. Keller's hand darted through the bars and he slapped Neal hard, right across the face. Neal cried out – he couldn't help himself. His cheek burned like acid. He would have fallen had it not been for his tight grip on the door of the cage.
"And Caffrey." Keller looked at him lazily. The sheer normalcy and casual nature of the violence was more shocking than the pain. "Next time I ask you where the microchip is, you better answer. Otherwise things could get… nasty."
Neal believed him.
Peter threw his head back, downing his can of beer in one great gulp. Froth spilled out all around him, speckling his shirt with droplets and wetting his face. He was too fed up to care.
"Peter, hon, you want any dinner?" El popped her head out from the kitchen, dark hair pulled together in a messy top knot, eyes hooded with worry. Neal's disappearance and his lack of respect for El and the kindness she had shown him, had certainly left its mark.
"No thanks." Peter murmured. He leaned back on the sofa, wishing the saggy cushions would swallow him up and hide him from the world. For the millionth time, his mind spun back to Neal Caffrey. The kid's vanishing act wouldn't have been so bad if he at least knew why. Why had Neal done it? Why had he run? Why, why, why… the questions swirled around his head, blurring together until he no longer knew what was up and what was down. He blinked back sudden tears.
"You should eat something. Please, hon, come to the table. We need to talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about." Peter stared at his living room without taking in the details. Had it really been yesterday that he and Neal had sat together on this very sofa, laughing and watching Lost? Neal had seen happy enough then. What had happened to make him change his mind?
"Peter." Elizabeth padded over to her husband, wiping her soapy hands on a tea towel. She sat down heavily and buried her head on his shoulder. "You'll find him. You always do. You tracked Neal down once and you can damn well do it again!" The passion in her voice surprised him. Peter realised with a pang that El really, truly, cared about the young criminal who had ended up on their doorstep. She loved Neal. Almost as much as he did. Yes, Neal was a grouchy, self-righteous teenager who lived a life without morals and made terrible decisions. Yes, he was an insufferably smug conman, a liar, a thief, and was so full of secrets it would take decades to unravel them all.
But Neal was a good kid. His heart was in the right place, and though Peter had spent years tracking down the boy in a dangerous game of hide and seek, now that Neal was his foster son something had shifted. It was as if someone had placed a lens over Peter's eyes. He saw the world in a new light, and had come to realise that Neal was…family. He was the closest thing to a son that Peter would ever have. Peter saw it. But would Neal? Would Neal ever grow to trust the Burkes enough to think of them as family? Of course not. Peter thought bitterly. If he cared even a tiny bit about him and El, then he wouldn't have escaped.
"Peter, it's going to be ok. You do know that, right?" El was still trying to lift his spirits. He appreciated the effort, but right now, his spirits were at the bottom of the Atlantic. It would take a lot more than kind words to raise them.
"How could it possibly ever be ok, hon?" He asked her bitterly. "Neal escaped and Hughes put me on leave for no reason at all." El looked puzzled.
"Surely there was a reason. Hughes is a good agent – he wouldn't just put you on leave for the hell of it." Peter sat forward. El was right. He thought back to the last tense moments in the conference room with Hughes. He had stepped up to his boss. Invaded his personal space and raised his voice a little. But he hadn't done anything all that terrible. Now that he dragged his mind away from Neal and was able to think about it, it dawned on him that Hughes had, indeed, put him on leave for a reason.
"El." He said, as the revelation struck him. "What if Hughes had put me on leave so that I could find Neal?"
"What?"
"Hughes knows how much I care about the kid." Peter was standing now, pacing the room with new, bubbling energy. "You're right – he is a good boss. What if he put me on leave so that I would have a week to focus all my energies on finding Neal?"
"But… wouldn't it be easier for you to find Neal at the office?" El asked carefully. "He escaped. That means he's on the run again. You need the resources of the bureau to track down a fugitive."
"But what if Neal… isn't a fugitive?" Peter sat down heavily, right there on the carpet. The impact of what he had just said played over and over on his mind. El was right, as always. It would be easier to track down a fugitive from the office. But if Neal hadn't run, if Neal wasn't a fugitive… If Neal had been…. abducted…
Then it would be easier for Peter to track him down without the bureau. Hughes had known that. As always, Hughes had been one step ahead of the game.
Peter thought about the slipper he had found at the scene of Neal's disappearance. If Neal was on the run surely he wouldn't be running in his socks and pyjamas? That would have been poor planning on the part of the young criminal. And the tracking anklet. Neal had cut it. Analysis of the broken anklet revealed that it had been sliced by scissors. But if Neal had been wearing pyjamas, where had he stashed the scissors? Peter's eyes glowed. There were a few minor discrepancies in the theory that Neal had skipped town. A few things that didn't quite add up. He silently berated himself for jumping to conclusions. He had automatically assumed that Neal had done a runner. But now?
Now he wasn't too sure.
Hey guys, thanks for reading :) Sorry I didn't update last week... anyway, I would love to hear your thoughts and comments about this chapter and the story so far! :D