Chapter 2

Chuck tried not to sneak glances at his old friend but it was difficult. He hadn't thought he would ever see Bryce again, not after the Ring agents shot him and then dragged his body out of the Intersect room all those years ago.

It didn't help that he had a frustrated and miserable expression on his face as he stared out the window.

"Something wrong?" Chuck asked, risking another glance.

"Eyes on the road," Bryce warned him in a flat voice that didn't seem to match his usually good-natured friend.

"Sorry!" Chuck turned back to the road and back to his musings about what was worrying his friend. "You're not mad that I'm here are you?" he asked.

"What?"

"I mean, obviously I wasn't supposed to know that you were alive so you're mad that I found out."

"No," Bryce responded in a strong tone. He lifted his head from where it was resting on the window and turned to him in surprise. "I wasn't allowed to contact you, that's all. Do you really think I'd be mad seeing you again?"

Chuck tapped his fingers on the steering wheel apprehensively. Bryce caught on quick.

"You did!" he said in an offended tone, "I can't believe you. We were friends so why do you-" he stopped, suddenly aware that it wasn't just Chuck he was scolding.

Why do you always assume the worst of me? He wanted to say that to Peter. To his handler and, somehow, friend. Neal wasn't a bad guy and his tenancy to break the law actually stemmed from Bryce's skills and methods while working for the CIA.

He sighed and placed his head back on the window.

"I'm sorry," Chuck said in a completely honest tone. Bryce closed his eyes as the words washed over him. They were calming in a way that he hadn't felt in years.

"It's okay," he responded, feeling tired. He didn't think he was up to playing the perfect conman in front of Chuck. Chuck was one of those people who wouldn't be fooled by it. "So, what's this case about anyway?"

"'Case'?" Chuck questioned with a smile. Bryce glared at him.

"Mission," he corrected.

"Of course," Chuck said, still smiling as he described the mission/case, "Amber Blackman is a cryptanalysis with the NSA, she specialises in decoding hidden communique. She goes by the pseudonym Black Joy."

"I've heard about her," Bryce responded, "she's supposed to be one of the best."

Chuck paused a moment before responding.

"Yeah."

"What?" Bryce questioned, glaring at him again. He could sense that Chuck was keeping something from him. For all his experience with lies and lying since entering the spy life, Chuck couldn't lie when he didn't see a reason for it; he only lied in order to protect people.

"When Casey shot you," Chuck said hesitantly, "your stuff was sent to her to examine. General Beckman insisted on it. At the time, she insisted on it because she wanted to know who you were working with."

"And now?" Bryce questioned. He wasn't too worried about it as he didn't really have anything of worth to hide.

"Well, Amber Blackman theorised that your painting held a secret."

"My painting?" Bryce repeated in a deadpan tone, wondering which painting it was. He had made many paintings over the years, although most were painted over later and none, except a few forgeries, were sold.

"That's what Beckman said," Chuck mused, "but I haven't seen it yet."

Bryce snorted. If 'his' painting had been stolen, then Chuck probably wouldn't get to see it.

Amber Blackman's apartment was old, brick and musty. It was on the fourth floor of the building and number 46 in a long line of faded and ugly citron green doors. Neal tried not to shudder as he walked around this place. He had spent his time in a few hell-holes but, at least he was guaranteed an eventually exit. He couldn't imagine living somewhere like this for years.

"I can't believe someone living here owns a painting worth a federal investigation," Neal sighed.

"Be nice," Chuck warned. He recalled how critical Bryce could be able some people's living arrangements. During his time at Stanford, Chuck himself had been scolded by Bryce many an occasion for not keeping their room clean and for leaving things on the floor.

"You sure Black Joy lives here?" Neal questioned, plastering a smile to his face and shoving his curled up hands into his pockets.

Chuck glanced over at his friend, a man deep in an undercover role, and wondered if Bryce knew how to turn Neal off. After many years, Sarah was more comfortable with Sarah and he wondered if Bryce was getting comfortable as Neal.

"This is the location the CIA has," Chuck responded, knocking on the door.

"Who is it?" a strong female voice demanded to know.

Chuck glanced back to Neal for a moment wondering, hoping?, whether he would take over. Neal just nodded at him to answer the woman.

"Charles Carmichael," he responded.

"And your friend?"

Neal raised an eyebrow, wondering how she knew there were two people outside. He was certain he was standing so that he wasn't visible from the peep-hole.

"Neal Caffrey," he responded, "consultant for the FBI."

Amber opened the door. She appeared to be around their age, even if she was dressed in slightly older fashion.

"Please, come in," she said, tugging at the sleeves of the pink cardigan she was wearing. Her blond hair was frazzled and tied up in a messy ponytail. Her thick-rimmed brown glasses barely hid the fact that she looked like she hadn't slept in days.

Her apartment was spacious, if only because there didn't appear to be much in it. Aside from the standards which came with an apartment like this, she had a desk covered in papers and notes and a large cork-board attached to the wall.

"Okay," Chuck said. While he was used to spies living light, he didn't really know where to start. He had expected Sarah to be with him at this point. "Uh, how about you talk us through what happened?"

Neal smirked and Amber nodded.

"I, uh, I brought the painting here to look at overnight," she explained, "I placed it on my table and was about to get to work when there was a knock at the door." She moved towards the door, acting out her movements from that night. The wall for the kitchenette and the entrance kept the desk out of view from the door and vice versa. "It was a mistaken delivery man, he had the right apartment number but the wrong apartment building. After coming back in after helping him, I found the painting gone." She threw her hands up in the air. "I don't understand how they did it! I was standing at the door the whole time!"

"There aren't any other ways in?" Chuck asked, looking around.

Amber shook her head while Neal walked towards the desk.

"Chuck, help me with this," he said, pushing the desk away from the window. Chuck nodded and grabbed the other end.

Neal nodded to indicate when they could let go, pulled on a pair of black gloves and then opened the window. It went up on the inside and the outside was covered with standard iron window bars.

But, as soon as he let go, the window dropped.

"The latch is broken," Amber informed them as she fiddled with her phone. "It won't stay up unless you stick something under it."

"Did you have it open the night of the theft?" Neal asked. Amber shook her head.

"What's wrong?" Chuck asked, seeing the contemplative look cross Neal's face.

"The latch is broken," Neal repeated in a lecturing tone, "this means it won't stay up but, with this kind of latch, also means that it can't be locked properly. So someone could push it open from the outside."

"That's not possible," Amber said defensively, "there are bars on the window!"

"And a fire escape outside," Neal pointed out, "it's old but still functional."

"Neal," Chuck said in a warning tone. Unlike Peter's it was more a whine than a demand.

"Building inspectors don't know about it, got it," Neal responded in a sigh, "but that doesn't mean other people haven't noticed." With that said, he opened the window again and held it with one hand as he pushed at the bars with the other. They fell off with a clang against the old metal fire escape stairs outside.

Amber's mouth dropped open.

"You'll notice how I didn't open the window all the way," he said, letting it drop closed. "Allowing me to bypass that little trigger you've set at the top of the window. My guess is that it's only trigged if a whole person tries to pass through, because to do so they'll need to open the window the whole way, but not if a hand or arm passed through. Which is all they need in order to take a painting off your desk."

"I, I like to open it sometimes," Amber stammered in shock, her voice high. She was only just realising that the system she set up to protect her work had fatal weaknesses. "I put a book there to hold it open and let the breeze and the sounds of the city outside in while I work."

"It's okay," Chuck said in a comforting tone, "you couldn't have known."

Amber shook her head and rubber her palm into her forehead. While Chuck tried to be reassuring; Amber was worried about how this was going to affect her job, Neal called Jones and asked for an evidence crew to check out the window.