One year earlier:
Peter Burke pulled at his bow tie and angrily adjusted his waistcoat. He was standing in one of the most elegant restaurants in NYC – the famed Champignon Bleu, surrounded by diners, waiters and the snobbiest of society's elite. He had never felt more out of place. Jones also looked uncomfortable. The younger man hovered at Peter's elbow, similarly decked out in black tie, dinner jacket and a button down shirt so clean it glowed. He looked rather dapper – but then again, so did everyone. Unbeknownst to customers, the five-star restaurant was swarming with FBI agents, all wearing finery so as to blend in with the opulence of their surroundings. Why? To catch Neal Caffrey. Peter knew that the kid was here, in the restaurant. He was no doubt dressed to impress and was probably posing as a waiter or trainee chef or something equally ridiculous. If Peter's suspicions were correct, Neal was here, in the restaurant, to steal a chocolate chip cookie.
Jones had first read about the "world's biggest biscuit" a month ago, and something about the article had made Peter pause for thought. When he had discovered that the gigantic cookie was being made by celebrity chefs in a Michelin star restaurant and that production was being overseen by a charming teenage princess, Peter knew he had struck gold. He was 99% certain that the biscuit was going to be stolen by Neal Caffrey. The kid was the world's greatest thief and this was the world's greatest chocolate pudding. How could he resist? The more he thought about it, the more Peter was convinced Neal was going to steal it. The cookie was massive – 20m in diameter – and Peter knew how much the young criminal loved a challenge. This would be the ultimate theft: stealing a biscuit bigger than a bus in front of hundreds of people. He only wondered how the kid was planning to pull it off.
Peter strolled around the entrance hall, trying to blend in with the other diners. Everyone was waiting for the grand unveiling of the cookie – Peter had heard a rumour that the biscuit was going to be lowered down from the ceiling amidst an explosion of confetti and pyrotechnics. Most of the tables had been pushed back to create an open space in the centre of the restaurant and though some people were enjoying their food round the edges of the room, most were milling around the middle, sipping champaign. Peter caught Diana's eye. The pretty agent looked unsettled. There was only half an hour left until the biscuit was revealed - and there was still no sign of Caffrey. Peter was starting to feel a little ill. He had the horrible feeling that he had guessed wrong and Neal wasn't going to try steal the cookie – after all, it wasn't like Peter had any actual evidence. All he had was his knowledge of Neal's character and the nagging sensation that the cookie was in danger. He had spread the word throughout the office and, after a bit of persuading, had gotten Hughes to authorise a sting. The White Collar Division had poured thousands of dollars into organising this operation. Peter had been confident that his suspicions were correct throughout, but now, with the unveiling of the cookie getting closer by the minute, doubts were starting to cloud his mind. Where was Neal? Peter's eyes scanned the crowd almost desperately. He saw smiling faces and expensive gowns and elaborate hairdos, but no teenagers. Neal was nowhere to be seen. If he was here tonight, then he was certainly keeping his head down.
Neal Caffrey walked behind the princess Katrina of Denmark, casually swiping a hand through his mop of unruly dark curls. He was dressed for the occasion and looked resplendent in a gold waistcoat, suit and tails. He and the princess were utterly surrounded by a sea of red coated guards. Princess Katrina didn't go anywhere without them.
"So, Steven." She said, reaching out her fingers and taking his hand in his, "are you looking forward to seeing the world's biggest biscuit?"
"It's going to be simply spiffing." Neal replied, in his best English accent. They continued walking through the kitchens of the five-star Champignon Bleu. Waiters rushed to get out of their way, some of them bowing when they saw the princess. One of the chefs was so engrossed staring at them he accidentally dipped his elbow in a vat of soup. He withdrew with a lot of cursing, his white robes stained orange, and left the kitchen in a huff. Neal smiled. Nobody – not the guards, not the staff, not the princess – had the slightest inkling that he wasn't who he said he was. So far, the robbery was going exactly to plan.
"There it is. Isn't it marvellous?" Katrina stopped in front of a tray the size of a small swimming pool and gazed down on the world's biggest biscuit with wonder dancing in her eyes.
"Princess – could you please step back a little?" One of her guards asked officiously. "We wouldn't want you to accidentally trigger the security alarms, Your Highness."
"Of course." Katrina stepped back primly and rested her head on Neal's shoulder. He put his arm around her. He wasn't quite sure he was allowed to do that – his cover as the 'son of a visiting English dignitary' meant that he wasn't highborn enough to be with the Princess – but he didn't really care. She had started their fleeting romance, after all.
"Security alarm?" Neal asked the guard, feigning ignorance. He knew all the security measures put in place around the cookie like the back of his hand.
"Get too close and the sirens go off. It's to deter thieves." The guard said flatly. The steam from various bubbling pots and pans had made his hair frizz like crazy, and the look he was giving Neal was poisonous. It was obvious he didn't approve of the relationship Neal had with the princess. "Having an alarm gives anyone wishing to steal the cookie something else to worry about."
"Now why would anyone want to steal a biscuit?" Neal said, voice muffled by Katrina's lemon-scented hair. His lips twisted in a slow smile. "It's only worth a million dollars to the right buyer."
The chef with the orange, soup stained elbow ran into the main dining hall. His frantic eyes locked on Peter's and he made wild gestures with his hands, silently mouthing something across the room. Peter hurried over to the excited man.
"What's the problem, Chef Lanyon?" He asked. Despite his earlier doubts, the presence of the jabbering cook was starting to put his mind at rest. This had to be good news.
"The boy!" Lanyon hissed. "You know that kid with the brown hair and the easy smile? The kid in the photo you showed us?"
"Neal Caffrey?" Peter asked. He was struggling to contain the broad grin growing inside him. He had been right from the start! Neal was going to steal the cookie! Feeling like the weight of the sky had been lifted from his shoulders, Peter rummaged in his suit pocket and yanked out a photo.
"Yes, yes, that's him!" Lanyon nodded enthusiastically. "I saw that kid not five minutes ago. I was so amazed I nearly knocked over the soup. He's with the Princess Katrina. I think they're a couple."
"That doesn't surprise me." Peter said grimly. Neal was like a magnet for the teenage girls of planet earth. He should have guessed that the princess would be Neal's 'way in'. "Where are they now?" He asked the quivering Lanyon.
"Kitchen." Came the short reply. "They're looking at the cookie, just… staring at it."
"I'll get him." Peter nodded once to Lanyon and sprinted off to the kitchens, pressing a hand to his ear and spitting orders into his microphone. "Jones – I've found the kid. Secure the perimeter. He is not getting away this time. Diana, with me. Wesley, check the cookie. And nobody startle the public!" His head filled with mumbled responses as his commands were relayed, but he barely had time to focus on them. He was running though spotless corridors, nearing the kitchen where Neal had been seen last. Waiters and chefs jogged the opposite way. They were fleeing the kitchen. Peter had to concentrate all his energies on fighting the crowd and pushing his way up to where the cookie was kept. Neal had obviously done something to make the staff leave. Peter knew he wasn't going to like what it was.
Neal kissed Katrina briefly. "I'm sorry." He whispered, mouth centimetres from her ear. Then he reached into his pocket and, very calmly, sprayed her in the face with a Government Issue anaesthetic. She was out cold within seconds. He caught her soft form in his arms and gently lowered her sleeping body to the floor.
"What the-" One of the guards had noticed Katrina's lack of consciousness. Before he had time to react, Neal whipped out a bright red canister from his trouser pocket.
"Run." He suggested. Then he threw the canister to the floor. The world went crazy. The red cylinder exploded with a bang and smoke - thick and purple - billowed out from both ends, coiling around his legs. Very quickly, the room was engulfed. Nobody could see a thing. Screams erupted all around him. Neal ducked behind a door, dragging the body of Katrina with him as waiters and chefs stampeded for the exit. He focused on breathing clearly.
Five minutes later the room was empty. The smoke grew heavy, sinking towards the floor so that it trailed around Neal's ankles. He was alone with the unconscious princess and one of her red coated guards. It was the same guard who had told Neal about the security alarm, the one with the hair that frizzed in the heat of the kitchen.
"Freeze!" The guard shouted. "You're under arrest!" There was a beat of stunned silence. Then both Neal and the guard roared with laughter.
"Funny joke, Moz." Neal said sarcastically. He walked over to the guard and yanked off the wig, revealing his balding, teenage friend. "You actually had me for a second there. This whole place is crawling with feds – I guess I'm a little on edge."
"Sorry." Mozzie pulled off his red coat, letting the garment drop to the floor. "I just couldn't resist. And you're face – hilarious."
"Well, I'm glad you found it amusing." Neal said dryly. He shrugged off his own golden waistcoat and folded it deftly in two. "Is everything ready?"
"Yup." Mozzie strolled over and examined the monster cookie. Alarms were beginning to wail somewhere in the restaurant. Neither Neal nor Mozzie paid that the least attention. Everything was going to plan. "The truck's downstairs." Mozzie said. "It's ready to take the cookie and deliver the whole thing to that local orphanage."
"Good." Neal smiled. "I think the kids there are gonna love it." He stooped down and broke off a fist sized chunk of biscuit. "Mmmmm! Nice cookie." Mozzie gazed down at it wistfully.
"Are you sure you don't want to sell it? It could make us rich."
"We're rich enough." Neal rose gracefully to his feet, his mind automatically spinning back to the vault in New York where he kept all his treasures – the paintings, the stolen jewels and (his most recent acquirement) the microchip Datum 815. No, the pair of them didn't need any more money. They had reached the point where they were committing crimes for the fun of it. Everyone knew that a con was a rush. He and Moz were well and truly addicted, so Neal figured that if they were going to break the law, then they might as well do it for the good of others. Hence stealing the world's biggest cookie and donating it to charity.
"Come on, Moz." He said. "Let's get this bulky biscuit loaded."
"Bulky biscuit." Mozzie chuckled. "I like it. Nice use of plosive alliteration. But I prefer colossal cookie myself."
"What about wonderful wafer?"Neal laughed, getting warmed up now. "Or delectable desert?" Mozzie started giggling too.
"Oh! I've got one. How's commendable cracker-"
His words fell away as a terrific boom ripped through the kitchen. Mozzie jumped and Neal flinched like a cat caught in the headlights as the door crashed open and a man, silhouetted in purple smoke, stormed in.
"Oh, that's just what we need." Mozzie sighed. "That's a fed, isn't it?"
"Special Agent Peter Burke." Neal confirmed tiredly.
"Is that…bad?"
"Yes." Neal answered. "I hate to say it, but… we're in trouble."
Peter stood in the doorframe, scanning the smoke filled kitchen, keen eyes searching for a flicker of life. Nothing. The place was empty. Coughing on the acrid smoke, he covered his mouth with one hand and stepped into the kitchen. Edging forwards, he started to search the room. Pans filled with sauces and vegetables gurgled on numerous stoves. Something was burning in an oven. The fire alarm blinked ominously, as though annoyed by the thick smoke. Neal had obviously disabled it. Peter was glad. Alarms were sounding throughout the building; he wasn't sure if he could handle one more. His nerves were already frayed. He could see the cookie in a corner of the room, bigger than any cookie he had ever seen. But where was Neal? Where was the princess? He had definitely been here – the smoke catching in Peter's throat was no doubt the kid's work. Grudging admiration for Neal's intelligence and daring rose in Peter's soul. He mercilessly crushed the feeling down.
Picking up a wooden spoon to use as a weapon (he didn't like the thought of pulling his gun on a teenager) Peter padded through the maze of ovens and worktops. Something about the silent kitchen made him nervous – in his mind, kitchens were always bustling, noisy places, full of life and vigour. This one was dead. Cold sweat broke out on his palms. Peter forced himself to keep it together. He was a federal agent for God's sake; he couldn't allow himself to be spooked.
Peter turned a corner. His breath caught in his throat. His heart jumped, hammering against his ribcage. There, lying on the floor in a pool of blood was Neal Caffrey. His eyes were glazed, his limbs limp, his face horrifically pale. Blood was congealing around his head like an ungodly halo. The boy was dying. Or dead.
Peter staggered back, nearly falling. A scream rose in his throat. He couldn't cope with the sight before him. He didn't know what had happened, or why. All he knew was that he had to get away. Gasping like a fish out of water, he stumbled out of the kitchen, out, out, out. Away from the sight. Away from Neal. . Out. Nearly fainting, half-blind, he staggered out of the room.
One year later.
Peter thrust open the door and entered the hotel room where Neal was being kept prisoner. He was met with a hideous sight. The bullets he had fired at the door to break the lock had pierced the wood and entered the suite. Many had embedded themselves in Keller and the big man lay moaning on the floor. Peter wasn't sure if he should be thankful or not that the bullets had missed Keller's body and had instead hit his arms and lower legs. Keller would live, and though Peter didn't want to have to live with the guilt of murder, he also wasn't comfortable with Keller being alive after what he did to Neal.
For the first time since he had entered the room, Peter allowed his eyes to fall on his foster son. Neal was also sprawled on the floor, but he seemed to be uninured by Peter's bullets. He was lying awfully close to Keller – the bulky man's blood was spreading around Neal's head and sticking in his hair. Peter was suddenly reminded of that time a year ago when he had caught Neal trying to steal the world's biggest biscuit. Neal had tricked Peter into thinking he was dead using tomato sauce and gravy to emulate blood. The sight of Neal lying in a pool of blood back then had caused Peter to run away and get help. But now something had changed. Call it what you will – a father's instinct, perhaps – but for whatever reason, this time when he saw Neal hurt Peter didn't recoil. He ran to his foster son's side without a moment's hesitation.
"Neal?" He shouted. His ears were still ringing from the gunfire. "Neal, are you alright?" Neal groaned in response. Somewhere in the distance, sirens were screaming. The cavalry were on the way. The plan Peter and Mozzie had come up with to rescue Neal had been simple – Peter would go in alone, without the FBI, and he would take Keller down. Keller would never see that coming. The rest of the division would be close to behind to act as backup, led by Jones. Jones was always loyal to Peter, even though Peter had been put on leave. As usual when there were feds involved, Mozzie would be watching from the side-lines. "Neal?" Peter repeated, voice bordering frantic. "It's ok. Everything's going to be alright. Help is on the way."
Neal stared up at Peter's worried face. Warm liquid was pooling round his ears. Blood. Keller's blood. With a jolt, Neal tried to sit up, but found that that was physically impossible. When Peter had blown the door open, a chunk of wood had struck him on the head. The world was gloriously fuzzy as a result. Peter's face swung in and out of view, a crazy fairground ride. But despite the pain, Neal mustered up a smile. Keller had been defeated. Peter had found him. He was safe.
"Come on, kid. Let's go home." Peter helped Neal to his feet and together they staggered out of the room. A swarm of paramedics bustled past them, followed by Jones and a heavily armoured SWAT team. Jones saluted Peter as they past. Peter nodded sagely in return and they left them to it – securing the hotel room, tending to Keller, photographing the monstrous cage Neal had been kept in. They exited the hotel and Neal shuddered with relief. His legs buckled from under him. He was free! The last thing Neal saw before blacking out was Mozzie, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, a huge smile blanketing his face.
Then he collapsed into Peter's arms.
Hey people :D Hope you enjoyed this chapter and I would love to hear your comments! :)