Peter knew now that Neal had been kidnapped. He knew that the kid hadn't escaped. He knew that he had leapt to conclusions without first examining all the evidence. And he felt deeply ashamed as a result.

But now, as he faced a week on leave with no FBI resources, he was slowly starting to realise that knowing Neal had been abducted didn't actually bring him any closer to finding the kid. He had no leads, no clues and no idea where to start. So he had decided to start at the beginning.

Peter stared at the impenetrable fortress in front of him. June and Neal had lived in a mansion – an elegant white brick manor house with high, cast iron gates and lime green fountains that bubbled like creeks. Peter wasn't even remotely surprised by the extravagance. Where else would someone as refined as Neal Caffrey live? The only problem now was getting in. June Ellington, the owner of the house that Neal lodged in, had resumed her trip travelling the world a week before Neal had been arrested. She knew nothing of the recent events that had left Peter so worried: the arrest, the fostering, the kid's shocking disappearance.

Peter stared up at the dazzling white house, shading his eyes with one hand. He had to get inside. Perhaps if he snooped around a bit he could unearth some clues as to who was holding Neal prisoner. But how? As to be expected when someone like Neal Caffrey was living under her roof, June had tricked out her home with a variety of security features to protect against thieves and policemen both. Getting in was going to be tough.

Peter paced around the well-tended garden, admiring the army of gnomes and neat flower beds. He had absolutely no idea how he was going to get inside. He was an FBI agent for crying out loud – not a burglar! The windows were locked, the doors were barred and with Neal missing, there was nobody inside for him to flash a badge at. He was stumped. For a minute, Peter wondered what he should do. He knew he had to get into the house, but seeing as he was on leave, the only way he could do that was to break in. And that would be going against the law. Was Neal Caffrey really worth it? Was one boy worth turning himself into a hypocrite and going against all of his most precious ideals? Peter didn't have to think about it for long. Of course Neal was. He was family now, and at this very moment, he could be in mortal danger. This was the only lead Peter had at present, and if he had to break the law to find Neal, then so be it.

His foster son was worth the whiplash.

Hefting a gnome in one hand, Peter kissed the creature's plastic head for luck and, taking a steadying breath, hurled it at a window. The gnome revolved once before smashing the glass to pieces. Shards scattered everywhere. Peter leapt up and punched the air, grinning with excitement. He couldn't believe that that had actually worked-

An alarm pierced the silence.

Peter swore and ran to the hole he had made in the first floor window, scarf flapping out behind him. He very much doubted that the burglar alarm had been connected to the police considering the residents of this particular household, but he knew he had to shut it up anyway. The siren was sure to bring everyone from nosy neighbours to patrolling cops running. Ripping off his tie and wrapping it around his hand to protect himself from the jagged teeth of broken glass, Peter followed the gnome and clambered through the window.

He was in. The next step was to stop that infernal wailing. He traipsed through a spacious grand hall and into a kitchen, where he was confronted with a beeping red light – the source of the noise. The only problem was that the thing was on the ceiling. Peter grabbed a chair and stood on it, wobbling precariously. Why couldn't his first break-in have been a little bit easier? Grumbling about the lengths Neal's disappearance had driven him to go to, he reached up and poked at the alarm. Why wouldn't it shut up? He jabbed at the power switch again. Nothing happened. He prodded various buttons with mounting frustration. Still no effect. Being this close to the shrieking alarm was deafening. He couldn't hear a thing save for the incessant wails. Exasperated, Peter reached up and prised the plastic casing off the alarm, exposing the circuitry within. He was just about to triumphantly rip out the wires when he felt the whole thing shudder beneath his fingertips and bright green paint erupted from the device. Peter jerked back, cursing colourfully as the paint sloshed over his hair and onto his forehead, dripping across the banks of his nose and narrowly avoiding his eyes. He screwed them shut as paint, thick and gloopy, continued to cascade down from above. This was going from bad to worse. He groped blindly for the wires and wrenched a handful of them free from the circuit. The alarm stopped. The last drops of acid green paint dripped into his hair.

Peter staggered off the chair and rushed to the sink, where he put the tap on full blast. He proceeded to try and scrub the green paint out of his hair and off his face, but the water was having little effect. His entire head was splattered with the fluorescent acrylic, and with his eyes bloodshot from stress and stray drops of paint, he bore a slight resemblance to a rabid Christmas tree. Damn Neal and his god damn booby traps. He cursed the young forger. He didn't care that Neal might be in trouble; the kid had personally designed that burglar alarm to spit paint at anyone trying to disarm it. It was a classic Caffrey tactic, aimed at annoying and discouraging thieves instead of stopping them. Peter was certainly annoyed right now. But he was by no means discouraged.

Towelling off as best he could and cringing when he noticed that his shirt was splattered with the paint as well, he paced up the stairs to Neal's apartment. The house was eerily silent. The last person to come here had been Jones, collecting a few of Neal's things before Neal had moved in with the Burkes. That had been a week ago. Now, a thin layer of dust was starting to form on everything and the house was deathly still. Peter creaked up the staircase, studying the pictures that lined the walls with interest, and reached a sumptuous landing. Neal's set of rooms were on the right.

Peter padded forward, not daring to make a sound. He was aware of how illogical that was – smashing through a window, tripping the burglar alarm and swearing like a sailor faced with Moby Dick when paint had rained down from above had all made their fair share of noise. Everybody in the neighbourhood knew where he was. But there was something about entering Neal's rooms, where the kid had lived for five years, that demanded silence. Peter felt like he was breaking some sort of rule. He was about to invade a part of Neal's life that Neal had purposefully kept hidden from him. He was about to see the real Neal Caffrey.

Tentatively, he pushed open the door and entered Neal's world.

He was met with a large, open plan kitchen leading out to a lavishly decorated balcony. The intricate structure looked like it was right out of Shakespeare's "Romeo and Juliet." Peter could almost imagine Neal standing there by the stone railings, watching the city turn beneath him and the stars spin in the sky. The balcony was chock full of potted plants of all shapes and sizes, some sporting flowers as big as Peter's fist, some completely green and spiky. It was like a miniature jungle. Peter had to grudgingly admire Neal's determination – he had successfully brought the plant kingdom into the concrete world of the city. Feeling like an intruder, Peter crept deeper into the house. He was looking for clues, hints, leads… anything that might point him towards Neal. But what he found were books. Hundreds of books all stacked on a colossal bookcase, with great, tottering towers of paperbacks and dusty hardcovers piled next to Neal's king sized bed. The books were predominately thrillers (ironic really, considering how Neal's life was thrilling enough) and classics, but he saw dozens of fantasy volumes and dystopias as well. Neal's reading habits were sophisticated, just like every other aspect of his personality.

Peter continued his tour of the residence. He slunk into the bathroom and was met with a French bath tub complete with an army of rubber ducks. The next room gave him such a fright he nearly fainted. Poking around in the various cupboards for clues, Peter opened a wardrobe door and found himself face to face with a Dalek. The thing was horribly realistic, but closer inspection revealed that it appeared to be made of paper maché. Even so, Peter closed the door quickly and backed away, leaving the unfinished, life sized art project in the wardrobe. He noticed then that the entire apartment was strewn with similar projects. He had expected to find forgeries in the house, if not stolen art work, but the scale of the illegal activity surprised him. Each room held another canvas with another copied masterpiece. Peter supposed that this house was the one place in the world where Neal could let his guard down. This was his home, and within its safe borders, he could be himself.

Speaking of safe…

"Good morning, Suit."

Peter whirled around, hands flying up to defend his face. Standing behind him was none other than Neal's criminal friend, the self-styled "Dante Haversham." The kid, who was in his late teens, looked embarrassed by Peter's alarmed reaction. He straightened his bow tie nervously, and watched Peter with big, baleful eyes. "Sorry, Suit. I didn't mean to startle you; you have it on my honour as a Lannister. I assumed that you knew I was behind you-"

"Are you mad?" Peter finally broke free from his surprised state. "You can't just go sneaking up on people! You nearly gave me a heart attack! What's your name, anyway?" He racked his brains, trying to remember what Neal had called the kid when they had met in hospital. "Moz, was it?"

Haversham bristled. "Ha. Ha. No way is that happening. It's Mozzie to you, Suit. Mozz-ie." Mozzie looked offended. "Only people I can safely say I care about are permitted to call me Moz."

"Sorry." Peter muttered sarcastically. "I don't get all worked up when you call me Suit."

"That's because you are a Suit." Mozzie threw his hands up in exasperation. "What are you doing here, anyway?" He asked. "And did you set off the burglar alarm?" Peter remembered, only then, that he was still covered in green paint from his encounter with Neal's modified siren. He must've looked ridiculous. His shirt was sodden, his face was green and he still had his tie wrapped around his knuckles.

"Er, yeah. Yeah I did." He rubbed at his face dejectedly. "How did you get in here?"

"I used the door." Mozzie raised an eyebrow; taking in Peter's dishevelled appearance with interest. "Neal keeps a key under his favourite gnome. How did you get in?"

"I smashed a gnome through a window." Peter mumbled, feeling like an idiot.

"Oh dear. It wasn't Neal's favourite one, was it?"

"How am I supposed to know which one of the dozen freaking gnomes in that garden is Neal's favourite?"

"Describe it for me." Peter rolled his eyes.

"I don't know. It looked like a gnome. I think it had a red hat."

"Great work, Suit. Red-Hat is Neal's favourite gnome."

"Seven hells…" The pair of them faded into silence, reflecting on all of Neal's strange little habits. The habits and eccentricities were what set him apart from the common thief. It was the small things, like naming a red hatted gnome "Red-Hat", which made Neal Caffrey Neal Caffrey: polite and morally sensitive con man.

"So what prompted you to break into Neal's house using a garden gnome, Suit?" Mozzie asked finally.

"I'm looking for clues. What about you?"

"I'm feeding Neal's cat." Peter's head spun. This was all getting a little too crazy.

"Neal has a cat?"

"He's called Sherbet Lemon." Mozzie said, as if that answered everything. Peter decided that he had had enough.

"I'm sorry, Mozzie, but you do realise that Neal is missing, right? He's been kidnapped and I'm here because I have no idea where to start-" He took a deep breath, realising that he was starting to lose control, "And I thought that maybe if I came to Neal's old apartment then I would be able to find something that would lead me to my foster son. But all I find are Daleks and… and you." He looked at Mozzie accusingly.

"Matthew Keller."

"What?" Peter growled. Five minutes with the kid and he was already starting to get a headache. "What about Keller?" Mozzie shrugged, the universal gesture for you know.

"That's who's got Neal. Keller kidnapped him about ten hours ago, and I bet my socks that he's taken Neal to that shady hotel of his."

"How the hell do you know that?" Peter asked incredulously.

"I have my sources. Don't make me betray them."

"But- But why haven't you done anything about this? Told the police? Or rescued Neal?" Mozzie looked at him sadly. Dappled sunlight from Neal's floor to ceiling glass windows reflected off his glasses, making him look a thousand years old.

"Because if I do, if I go to the police or try to take Keller on, Keller will kill me in a heartbeat. And then he would kill Neal."

"But… the microchip…" Peter had worked enough of it out to question this threat. He knew that anybody kidnapping Neal would be after the microchip. Afterall, the thing was like the Philosopher's Stone – it had the power to bestow limitless wealth upon whoever owned it. Keller (if it was indeed that lowlife Mathew Keller who had kidnapped Neal) would want the chip. So seeing as Neal was the only one who knew where it was, surely Keller couldn't kill Neal else he'd never find the thing. He told as much to Mozzie.

Mozzie shook his head sadly.

"Let's make coffee." Peter sighed, but followed the short teenager into Neal's kitchen and watched as Mozzie expertly navigated his way in and out of the various cupboards. He had obviously done this a thousand times before. Peter was suddenly aware of how well Neal and Mozzie knew each other. They were best friends, and even though Peter had only known the mysterious Mozzie for less than an hour, it was obvious that he really cared about the other boy. Neal's disappearance had worried him a lot more than he let on. It struck Peter that he might never come to know Neal as well as Mozzie did. His foster son might never want to bond with his foster father, and even if he did, there was still the small matter of OPR. They would have Neal shipped off to prison in six months' time, regardless of how much Peter and Elizabeth loved him. Peter shook his head.

"Do you follow my logic, Mozzie?" He asked quietly. "Keller can't kill Neal. Neal is safe as long as he doesn't tell Keller where the microchip is."

"That's where you're wrong." Mozzie sipped his coffee, grimaced at the taste, and sloshed in a good splash of Italian liquor. Peter watched with obvious disapproval. "Neal will never be safe when he is with Keller. The chip doesn't matter as much as you think it does. Keller will still kill Neal if he wants to. They have a history. Keller wants to settle old scores." Mozzie took a deep breath. "If we do anything to try and help Neal, Keller will kill him first. Regardless of the microchip. That's why I chose to do nothing. Neal's the cleverest person I know. He'll find a way out of this situation without us. But if we try to help him… he'll die for sure."
Peter leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the hundred year old oak table.

"Mozzie." He said. " We are going to rescue Neal. I will not rest until he is home safely. Let's make a plan."

"This is a lovely cage. Really, it is."

"Shut up, Caffrey." Keller was sitting on a stool, mere centimetres away from Neal who was imprisoned on the other side of the bars. He wasn't taking any chances. After Neal had attempted to bribe one of his guards earlier that morning, Keller had promised to watch him until he gave up the chip.

"Where did you get it from?" Neal asked conversationally. His fingers idly dabbed at his split lip, which had congealed into a crusty scab. "The cage, that is. Because I can't imagine you strolled in to Tesco's and just popped one in your trolley. And you don't really strike me as one of those loners who bids on eBay for hours on end."

"Caffrey. Shut the hell up. Now." Keller peered at him over the edge of his newspaper. "I mean it. If you haven't got anything useful to say, don't say anything at all."

"Ah. Well, you see, Keller, I do have something to tell you. You might find this to be of interest." The way he said it made Keller look up from his column. There was a mischievous glint in Neal's words, an iciness that had not been there before.

"What?" He snapped. Neal looked at him innocently. His blue eyes were as wide as saucers.

"I've been thinking, Keller. About the microchip. Datum 815. You might recall how you threatened to kill me if I didn't reveal the location to you. But, you see, I'm the only one who knows the location of the chip. So if you kill me, you'll never find it." Keller stood up. He didn't know what the kid was planning, but, with a speech like that as a prelude, he knew it couldn't be good.

"You're going to love this." Neal told him serenely, his bruised face cracking into an angelic grin. "You see, when you put me in this magnificent cage of yours, I couldn't help but notice that I could reach the wardrobe from where I was." He nodded at a stout wardrobe in the corner of the room. "Seeing as this is a five star hotel and this room is distinctively devoid of mirrors, I made a small deduction. I concluded that there was a mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. And where there's a mirror, there's light. The wardrobe is fitted with a motion activated sensor – you open the door to view the mirror, and a light comes on."

"How fascinating." Keller grumbled. He examined his nails, looking bored. Neal ploughed on.

"So when you were away doing whatever it is you do in your spare time, I was disassembling the wardrobe from inside the cage. I stripped it of its motion sensor and did something clever with the wires of this electronic lock. That was very nice of you, actually. Giving me an electronic lock to work with. So much more potential, though of course a good old fashioned lock and key is easier to break." Neal smiled slyly at his rival. "Anyway, I hooked up the motion sensor to the lock of the cage. Then I loosened all the screws, nuts and bolts that hold the four walls of this cage together," he nodded at pockets bulging with screws, "and came up with a plan of action. Let's hope this works, shall we?"

He raised his hands and clapped smartly, two sharp raps, and the cage peeled itself like an orange. The four walls separated and crashed to the floor in a circle all around him.

"What the-" Keller was gobsmacked. The cage, once a cube, was now a net of a cube. He had no idea how Neal had done it using a motion sensor from a wardrobe, but at this point, he didn't care. He glowered at the kid, who stood in the middle of the dismantled structure, hands in his pockets, face impassive. "That's quite the party trick, Caffrey." Keller spat. He had to try hard to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Yes." Neal said. "I can imagine disassembling cages by clapping my hands like a genie makes for excellent dinner entertainment. Now I suppose you're wondering about how I managed to pull this off."

"Enlighten me." Keller snarled. He made no move to grab Neal; after all, they were still locked inside a hotel room with armed guards next door.

"Well you see," Neal started, sounding like a university lecturer, "I hooked the motion sensor up to the lock once I'd messed with the circuitry, so that if I make a sudden movement, like clapping my hands, the lock will automatically unlock itself. Rather nifty, if I do say so myself. The motion of the door opening puts stress on the four walls of the cage, because of the screws I removed earlier. When the door opens, the walls fall and… well, you know the rest." He strolled to the edge of the cage, and, with the air of a Victorian nobleman faced with a particularly large and muddy puddle, stepped primly over the bars. He was free. That snapped Keller into action.

"CAFFREY!" He roared, lunging at Neal – but the boy was already running, fast, like a fleet footed deer bounding through the grass lands. He darted away from Keller's grasping hands and lunged for the door handle-

Click.

Neal froze. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around. Keller had a gun pointed at his head. The muzzle, a dull, metallic grey, glinted dimly in the lamp light. He forced himself to stay calm. He had thought this all out, every last detail. He wasn't in any danger.

"You can't kill me, Keller." He said, trying to keep the quiver out of his voice. "Because if you pull that trigger, you will never find the location of the microchip." Keller smiled broadly. That gave Neal a sinking feeling.

"Now you see, Caffrey, that's where you're wrong." Uh oh. Neal fought the urge to bolt. He reminded himself that there was nowhere to go. Besides, his legs seemed to be rooted to the floor. Who the hell invented guns?

"I am?" He asked, as calmly as possible.
"Mozzie." Keller said the word with relish. "Mozzie – your short, irritating friend, your pesky teenage, bespectacled, pimple faced buddy-"

"Is this going anywhere?" Neal interrupted. Despite the danger, hearing his friend insulted rankled enough for him to speak up. Keller stepped forward and pressed the gun against Neal's forehead. He gasped when the cold metal touched his skin, right between his eyes.

"Mozzie knows where the microchip is." Keller practically sang the words. "So, Caffrey, I'm sorry to disappoint. But you have caused me a lot of trouble in the past. And since I discovered that Mozzie knows where this chip is too… Well, I don't really need you anymore." He cocked the gun. Neal felt the click reverberate through his skull. "I'd say it's been a pleasure." Keller continued. "But, you know. It hasn't. Goodbye, Caffrey."

"Keller. Let's at least talk about this-"

But Keller had had enough. His fingers tightened around the trigger. There was a colossal explosion.

And the whole world went black

Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts! :D