Peter flicked the safety off his gun and aimed it right at Neal. The kid was running as fast as his long legs could carry him, bounding down the steps like a rabbit, backpack swinging crazily off one shoulder. He squinted down the barrel, aiming carefully. It was a perfect shot – the kind of opportunity every agent dreamed about during target practice. Nobody nearby to get in the way. A clear shot of the criminal's leg. One press of the trigger and Neal would go down, a bullet in his thigh but otherwise unhurt, and Peter would be able to wrestle the stolen painting off of him.

It was now or never. Neal was getting away.

Peter stood there with the gun raised for a second longer, then slowly lowered his arm. He simply couldn't do it, and he supposed a part of him had always known that. Neal was his son. He couldn't shoot his son – even if the son in question was fleeing a crime scene with a stolen masterpiece.

He clawed angrily at his throat, loosening his tie with a savage twist. Two security guards from the museum hurried up to him, faces damp with nervous sweat.

"Sir! The suspect is Neal Caffrey, he's on foot with a Raphael-"

"Goddammit, I know, I know." Peter huffed impatiently. "Get him. I'll be right behind you." He started off at a sprint towards his mint green Volvo, jabbing speed dial at the same time. "Diana, I need a team down at the museum right now. Yes, the museum Neal was at! Yes, there's been a robbery, Diana… Just do it. I'm going after Neal." He hung up and slammed the door of his car before carefully backing out onto the busy street. With a flick of his thumb, he had the sirens on and the attachable lights flashing red and blue. Peter was just about to go tearing off after Neal when Mr Harris, Neal's teacher, appeared at the window.

"Agent Burke?"

"What?" Peter snapped, conscious that he was parked in the middle of the road. "I'm a little busy here, sir."

"We've lost Neal. I thought I should tell you seeing as you're his legal guardian… he missed registration. No one's seen him since the alarm went off."

"And don't you think that that's a little suspicious?" Peter snarled at the teacher, feeling his patience drain away. "You didn't lose Neal; Neal lost you. He's an art thief, for crying out loud! And he's done a runner." He didn't wait for the reply. With a wrench of the wheel, he sent the Volvo hurtling into oncoming traffic and disappeared down the road, following Neal south.

Neal skidded around a corner and stepped into a doorway, grateful for the rest bit. Though he tried to keep himself in shape, all this running coupled with the heavy backpack was beginning to weigh on him. He sat down heavily on a step and rummaged in his backpack for his pencil case, finding it almost instantly. His anxious fingers sifted through pens and pencils, highlighters and glue sticks before he finally found what he was looking for, his pair of scissors. Neal set to work slicing off the anklet, glancing up every once in a while for signs of pursuit. The busy streets of New York were working to his advantage: nobody could see him through the thicket of people.

But it was only a matter of time. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a group of security guards walking briskly through the crowd on either side of the road. They would be level with him in a couple of minutes. Three minutes more and the police would get involved. Another two minutes after that and he would have the FBI on his hands. Things were definitely heating up.

"Come on…" he muttered, working the rubbishy scissors through the plastic. Cutting off the anklet would raise an alarm somewhere in the bureau, but at the moment he wasn't all that bothered. Peter was already after him – along with half of New York's law enforcement.

The anklet finally came off with a snap and he grinned broadly, holding up the two separate pieces. The green light flickered into a moody red. Neal got up from the step, heaved his backpack onto his shoulders and started walking again. The broken tracking anklet went in a nearby bin.

If all went to plan, he would never be wearing one again.

Peter drove down the main road, scanning the pavement for any sign of Neal. He couldn't have gotten very far on foot – he had only had a five minute head start. Peter's phone buzzed in his pocket. He didn't need to look at it to know that it was the standard text alert from the marshals. Neal's tracking anklet had failed. It was the most logical thing for Neal to do, get rid of the one thing that allowed him to be followed.

The thought made Peter pause. He was already a half mile from the museum, but if Neal had stopped to take off his anklet… He slammed on the brakes, sending the car spinning around in a dizzying U-turn. Neal had tricked them. Whilst he, the police and the security guards were searching the surrounding area around the museum hoping to catch Neal fleeing the scene, Neal hadn't actually left. He was still outside the museum, probably right around the corner, blending in with the crowds and waiting for the security guards to overtake him. If he kept his head down, the guards would miss him completely and he would have a bit of leeway to do whatever he pleased whilst the guards fanned out, getting further and further away from the museum.

A ridiculous plan. But a daring one. And one that might, actually, work.

By this point, Peter was already halfway back to the museum, where he had started. He passed a few police cars speeding off in the opposite direction to set up road blocks. Idiots. You couldn't catch someone like Neal using road blocks and wanted posters. You caught Neal by thinking like he did, doing what he would do.

Peter idled in front of the museum for a few seconds, scanning the front steps for any sign of Neal and breathing in exhaust fumes. Satisfied that Neal hadn't doubled back and joined the school party, he drove off round the corner. Neal had to be around here somewhere, perhaps on the pavement with all the commuters and shoppers, perhaps sitting in a coffee shop sipping a brew. He wouldn't put it past him. The kid had once stopped for a cup of tea and a cake in the middle of a robbery just last year. Peter and the team had watched incredulously a week later during investigation as Neal had happily enjoyed the snack whilst police cars sped past outside. Even though he doubted he would try the same trick twice, Peter still stared in through the windows of the nearest Starbucks.

And that was when he saw him.

Neal was walking briskly down the road, weaving in and out of commuters and tourists, his backpack clutched tightly in both hands. Peter supposed that even pickpockets feared pickpockets. For a brief moment, he wondered what he should do. Stop the car and arrest Neal right now? For some reason, the idea didn't sit well with him. No, he thought, it would be better to follow him. See where he's going on a Thursday afternoon with a stolen masterpiece. He knew it was crazy. He knew he was breaking all the rules in the book. Neal was a massive flight risk. This might be the one chance he had to bring Neal in.

But… the kid had lived under his roof for very nearly six months now. He had seemed perfectly happy. It appeared that he had reformed and left his criminal past behind him. So what was he doing stealing a painting on a school trip? And why had he set off the alarm? Peter knew that Neal was perfectly capable of stealing without tipping off museum security. This had to be the noisiest robbery in the history of cat burglary. Neal had to be planning something. There had to be a reason why he would do something like this. Peter was going to find out what it was.

Slipping into second gear, Peter joined a queue for the traffic lights and crawled along after Neal, who was making good time on foot. He was going to see how this played out.

Neal kept his head down as he skirted around the stream of people on the pavement, trying to be inconspicuous. He was nearly at the drop off point. Once he got to the chosen meeting place, a modern looking library, he would hand Keller the Raphael and the microchip. In return, the death threats would be lifted off both Mozzie and Alex. He could feel the microchip itching against his ankle. He had it stuffed securely in his sock, ready to give to Keller. The chip was his greatest achievement. With so many people counting on it – Alex for her life, him for his freedom, Peter for his job – it was going to be a very weird feeling giving it up. But he didn't exactly have a choice.

He picked up the pace: walking with the jaunty swing of his arms and gentle bend of the knees he had spent years perfecting. The art of blending into a crowd of people depended on how confident you looked when walking. If you walked with purpose, people generally left you to get on with it.

The library was just around the corner. Smiling, Neal ran his hands through his hair to smooth it down – a fruitless effort – before bounding up the steps and entering the murky hush of the book temple. Shelves of stacked books rose higher than his head, interspaced with tables, computers and green lamps ornamented with gold. The air smelt of ink and old parchment. Dust motes swirled in a shaft of sunlight and as he stepped across the threshold, the noise of the city seemed to fade into silence. Neal padded over to an elderly librarian and put his elbows up on the desk.

"Could you please tell me where I might find the section on Galileo Galilei?"

"Of course, young man." The wrinkled bibliophile creaked to his feet, gnarled fingers gripping a walking cane as though his life depended on it. "This way, if you please…" Neal followed patiently as the man hobbled out from behind his desk and made his slow, trembling way through the library, stopping finally in front of a bookcase right at the back of the room. "There you go, laddie."

"Thank you. I hope your granddaughter does well in her exams." The librarian did a double take, as though wondering how he had known about his granddaughter. But then the light of realisation seeped into his eyes.

"Ah. Clever boy! You saw the photograph of her I had on my desk." Neal nodded once in reply. He had also dated this man's granddaughter a couple of years back, but he didn't think that this was the right time to say.

"Thank you, sir," he said again, and the man bustled back to his desk on screeching joints, chuckling softly to himself.

When he was well out of earshot, Neal glanced around to check that he was truly alone in the Galileo section. Apparently, nobody seemed interested in the ancient scientist who had suffered years of house arrest after taking on the Vatican back in the 14th century. This suited Neal just fine. He slid the backpack off his shoulders and prowled around the back of the bookcase.

"Good afternoon, Mr Keller." Keller turned around and smiled, his dark and oiled hair catching the light greasily.

"Neal! Good to see you. Now, let's get down to business…"

Peter had followed Neal all the way to a library downtown, much to his befuddlement. Why had Neal come here? The best he could come up with was that Neal was doing a drop. He was going to fence the painting and get rid of it, which was probably a wise move. It was a lot easier to hide money than hide a stolen masterpiece when you were living with a federal agent.

If Neal was getting rid of the painting, then that meant that this was the end of the line. He had followed Neal and found out what he was planning. It was time to call in the cavalry. Peter Burke dialled and pressed his phone to his ear.

"Jones. I need a unit down here ASAP. Neal's in a library… Yes, be a dear and send the SWAT team."

"Did you know that Galileo was a suspected Illuminatus?" Keller was running his finger down the spine of the nearest book, a complete history of the modern day telescope. Neal watched him carefully.

"Yes, I knew that. He wasn't the only scientist to be part of a secret brotherhood. Although in those days, the Illuminati didn't have the satanic connections they do today. They were men of science and reasoning."

"You know your history." Keller's lips cracked into a humourless smile, "Good for you, kid."

"Can we get this moving please?" Neal wasn't in the mood to talk to his archenemy. He had risked everything to steal this painting – his relationship with Sara, his new family, even his most precious possession: the microchip. The quicker this was over, the better.

"Bit touchy, are we? Please tell me you're not in one of those god awful grumps; I can't stand it when teenagers get all stroppy-"

"Here." Neal shoved the Raphael, which was professionally rolled inside the container, into Keller's hands. "That's for Mozzie. Is the hit off?"

Keller opened the top of the container and peered inside. There was a painful silence whilst he examined it.

"You know, the museum writes a code on the backs of each of their masterpieces in temporary ink. The code changes daily."

"And?"

"The code is here. This is the real painting."

Neal rolled his eyes. "I could have told you that for free. I stole it ten minutes ago."

"You're a forger," said Keller, not taking his eyes off the Raphael. Neal shrugged off the accusation, not even bothering to deny something that was such a fundamental part of his personality.

"This is Mozzie's life we're talking about. I'm not going to gamble with it. So are you satisfied?" Keller looked at him curiously for a moment.

"Yes. I'm satisfied. Your friend is safe; the kill order is off."

"Good. And now this-" He reached down into his sock and pulled out the microchip, "Is for Alex. If I give you this chip, will you call the kill order off her, too?" Keller stared at him, eyes popping.

"I don't have a kill order out on Alex Hunter."

"But then… why did she say you would murder her if she didn't get the microchip?" Neal felt like the world was spinning out of control. Keller started laughing, a low, rasping chuckle.

"Oh, I love it! The con man got conned! She tricked you, kid. She wanted the chip for herself." The laughter died as quickly as it had started. "But if you want me to have the chip…"

He lunged at Neal, aiming straight for the throat, and pinned him against a bookcase. The shelving swayed and collapsed, toppling over backwards. Neal yelled, trying to twist free of Keller's grip as the structure he was leaning on fell. People in other sections of the library screamed, craning their necks to see what was going on. They landed in a heap, clawing at each other, kicking and choking as books fell like meteors around their twisting forms. Keller still had his hands around Neal's neck; he could feel the life draining out of him. With a final burst of energy, Neal tucked the microchip into his pocket.

And then hands were there, pulling Keller off of him. The elderly librarian was whacking Keller with his cane, a woman was helping Neal to his feet.

"Are you ok, my lovely?" Neal stood, panting. There was a cut on his cheek from where a falling book about the solar system had struck him. He could still feel the ghost of Keller's hands around his throat.

"Yeah… yeah, I'm fine."

But he wasn't fine. Alex had betrayed him. She had known that he needed the chip for his freedom and that Peter needed it for his job. But she had tried to trick him anyway. And there was still the matter of Keller, who was standing right in front of him, still trying to break free from the librarian and rob him of the microchip.

He had to get away.

"'Scuse me, sorry, I have to go," He tried to push free from the crowd of helpful onlookers wishing to help him, but they seemed to consist mainly of elderly ladies and they weren't too keen on the idea of letting him leave.

"No, dearie, you need medical attention!"

"Stay here," another one crooned, "I'm calling the police! That man tried to attack you!"

"NO!" Neal shouted, frustrated, "honestly, the last thing I need right now if for you to call the police-"

But he never got to finish the sentence. At that moment, the lights in the library went out. A breath of cold air from the street outside whistled through the shelves, ruffling the pages of the fallen books. Neal blinked, trying to see in the sudden darkness. He had a very, very bad feeling about this.

He felt something round and hard land at his feet. Oh no.

"GET DOWN!" he shouted at the old ladies rumbling around him in a panic, "Get down!" he turned on his heel and started to sprint in the opposite direction, but he was too late, far too late. The hard, round object at his feet exploded with a burst of white light and he fell over, completely blinded. He heard doors slamming open and feet tramping from all directions. He sensed the old ladies, now complaining loudly that they couldn't see a thing, being led away to safety.

"You're under arrest, Caffrey." Slowly, Neal felt his vision retuning. Jones was standing over him, offering a hand up. With a sigh, Neal took it.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked as Jones cuffed his hands behind his back. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the SWAT team arresting Keller as well. He blinked, hard. "I still can't see properly. That light… ball thing…"

"Sorry about that," said Jones affably. "We call it the 'photobomb'."

And, despite everything, Neal had to laugh.

Hey everyone, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I would love to hear what you thought of it, so please drop me a review! :)