Meant To Be Sacrificed

"Every step in life is merely part of a game. Every piece is necessary, but if you do not know how to control the game, then you become one of the pieces that are meant to be sacrificed."
― Lionel Suggs

SUMMARY: Rachel's on the loose; what's next? Immediate follow-on to 5x12, "Taking Stock." No spoilers for the season finale, though (not even for the promo). Just having some fun with what could have happened next.

Written BEFORE the Season 5 finale, will be irrelevant after the Season 5 finale, I know. So sue me… ;-)

I don't own White Collar or these wonderful characters. Just taking them out for a spin.

Strong language, violence, suggestive themes.

Night had passed into morning. The initial shock of Rebecca's escape had faded somewhat, though inwardly Peter was still reeling from the news, and he knew Neal was too. Neal hid it pretty well, but Peter recognized the tiny tell-tale signs of anxiety in his voice, his face, his posture.

The fugitive hunt was in full swing, the Marshals were involved, and Peter had all available agents running down leads. Everything possible was being done, but the truth was that they had a long way to go before making any actual progress. Rebecca had gone to ground and seemed to have vanished. And with her particular skill set, Peter knew, she wasn't going to be easy to find.

In that way, she was very much like Neal.

As for Neal—well, most people in his position would have been understandably freaked out at the personal danger posed by their semi-obsessive ex-lover being at large. But Neal's primary concern was that he hadn't been able to reach Mozzie. As the hours had worn on, he'd obliquely floated the idea of going out to look for him—an idea Peter shot down without a second thought.

The two of them had ducked into Peter's office temporarily, so the whole office wouldn't be witness to their bickering.

Like they all don't know what's going on anyway, Peter thought with a sigh.

"Consider yourself in protective custody until she's recaptured," he barked, giving Neal his sternest glare. Peter was sitting behind his desk, but Neal was pacing nervously on the other side, too keyed-up and restless to sit.

"Fine," Neal retorted, running a hand through his hair; the gesture betrayed a world of frustration. "Then send a team with me."

Peter shook his head. "No. I can't protect you out there."

"But—"

"Save your breath, Neal. You're staying right here. In this office. In fact, you don't leave my sight."

"Oh, really. What if I have to go to bathroom?" Neal asked crossly.

"You ask permission and someone goes with you."

Neal looked thoroughly disgusted, but Peter paid him no heed. "And so help me, you better stop arguing, or you're only going to make things worse."

Neal threw a defiant glance Peter's way. "What, are you going to handcuff me to a chair?"

"Of course not," Peter said, in his best do I really have to spell this out for you voice, before delivering the coup de grace. "If it comes to that, I'll use zip ties. Because you are, after all, you."

"Funny man." Neal didn't look like he appreciated the joke, though.

"I'm dead serious," Peter snapped. "If I have to lock you down to keep you from slipping away when no one's looking, I will."

The rebellious glower on Neal's face was not encouraging. He opened his mouth, no doubt to protest again—and Peter was wondering uneasily if he actually had any zip ties handy—but before he could speak, Peter's phone rang.

He checked the display; it wasn't a number he recognized. "Burke."

"Hello, Peter."

He felt his heart drop in his chest, turned sharply to look at Neal. "Rebecca." The latent anger on Neal's face quickly turned to shock.

"Actually, it's Rachel, you know. But if you're more comfortable with Rebecca, that's fine. I'm sure this is a lot for you to take in." Her voice was filled with faux kindness, but quickly turned hard. "And I hope you realize that you're not going to locate me via this conversation, so don't waste my time putting one of your probies on the case."

Peter had already bolted up out of his chair, about to walk out of his office to get Jones involved, but he stopped. Neal, for his part, hadn't moved. He was still standing there, staring blankly at Peter, his face pale.

"And I would have thought, after our last conversation, that you might be staying away from windows," she added, her voice teasing. "You know, just in case."

Involuntarily, Peter half-turned to the glass wall behind him that overlooked the city. Shit. Was she really watching them, right now? He knew that she could be, that she was more than capable. She knew all about the FBI offices, after all. They were surrounded by countless buildings that would provide an ideal vantage point. With the lights on, they would be clearly silhouetted to anyone looking in, a perfect, easy target . . . .

"What?" Neal demanded, recovering a bit. His brows drew together in a frown, eyes darting from Peter's face to the window and back. A second later, comprehension dawned, but Peter already had Neal by the arm, pushing him out of the office, instinctively keeping his body between Neal and the windows that made them vulnerable.

Even though he was probably the vulnerable one, Peter thought.

She was whispering in his ear now, and laughing as she mockingly quoted his own words back to him. "Do you feel safe now, Peter? In control of your environment?"

Keeping a hand on Neal's shoulder, Peter hustled him down the stairs and out into the bullpen. He was pleased to see Neal gesturing to Jones and explaining the situation in low tones, so that Jones could start trying to locate Rachel using the phone she was on. It might not work, but it had to be tried. Jones' eyes went wide, but he didn't ask questions—just swore under his breath, nodded and got to work.

"Peter? Have I shocked you into speechlessness?"

Finding his voice again, Peter snapped, "We're going to find you."

"Keep telling yourself that," she advised, a playful note in her voice. "Maybe it'll make you feel better about letting a murderer escape. As for me, well, let's just say I'm not particularly worried."

"What do you want?"

"Why don't you ask Neal?" she suggested amiably. "I know he's there. Your clever, clever CI. I imagine he could tell you."

Peter brought his gaze over to Neal, who looked back at him, face creased with worry. "What? What's she saying?" He held out a hand. "Give me the phone."

Peter shook his head.

She sighed in his ear. "Enough. Put me on speaker."

The eyes of everyone in the bullpen were on them. With his free hand, Peter pointed in the direction of the hallway; Neal followed his lead. "I thought you would have called Neal directly," he said, playing for time as they walked.

"And I thought I told you to put me on speaker." There was an imperious edge to her voice now.

When they were in the narrow hallway outside the office, with a modicum of privacy, Peter pushed the button. "You are now."

"To answer your question, I thought maybe I should cut out the middleman," she replied. "Since you're really the one in charge. Turns out Neal isn't so independent after all."

He watched Neal's expression change, watched his mouth tighten with anger.

"Hello, Neal." The instant change in her voice filled Peter with revulsion. With Peter, she'd been peremptory, commanding. But when addressing Neal, she sounded like a different person. She sounded excited. Breathless. Seductive.

"What do you want?" Neal repeated, his voice very even. His face was an expressionless mask.

"So you can speak for yourself," Rachel said. She let out a girlish little laugh. "It's good to hear your voice again, Neal. You have no idea what it still does to me."

"I can't say the same," Neal shot back.

"Neal, Neal. You need to stop lying to yourself." She paused. "Well, we'll work on that."

"The hell we will," Neal spat. He took a deep breath and spoke slowly. "What. Do. You. Want."

Rachel sighed. "Your confidence is misplaced, Neal, and we really do have to address it, but that can be saved for later. You know what I want."

Neal's eyes met Peter's, grim and resigned. "The diamond."

Goddamnit, Peter thought. He realized that he hadn't gotten nearly enough information from Neal about that damned diamond. And he had a sinking feeling that now it was going to be too late.

"Such a smart boy," she said, the words laced with sarcasm. "That's why you keep him around, isn't it, Agent Burke? I told you he'd know, because—"

"Is there a point here?" Neal cut in.

"Oh, I always have a point, Neal. I think you know that by now. Except that as smart as you are, you're never quite clever enough to figure it out in time."

"Yeah, right," Neal said dismissively. "You'll have to spell it out for me, then."

"I guess so," she said, sounding disappointed, before her voice brightened. "It has the virtue of simplicity. You're going to help me find the diamond."

Neal laughed, though it was utterly devoid of humor. "You are pathetic."

"Pathetic?" she echoed.

"Yes. This fantasy you have—that I would ever help you, that there's anything between us. It's pathetic. I've seen twelve-year-old girls with a firmer grasp on reality than what you've got."

Rachel chuckled. If she felt insulted, it wasn't showing. "You would assume it's all about you, of course. Is that your way of saying you're not going to help me?"

"You don't miss a trick, do you," Neal retorted sarcastically.

"And you've missed a big one, Neal. You will help me. You're going to do whatever I want you to do. Without question."

"And why would I do that?" Neal demanded. Frowning, he pulled his own phone out of his pocket and began to text.

"Because of Agent Groitzner, of course," she replied.

Peter's gaze narrowed. "Agent—who?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Neal had frozen, the phone still in his hand but now forgotten. Peter could see him mouthing a curse. Neal had been pale before, but now he was chalk-white, all color gone from his face.

"Oh, dear," Rachel said with mock dismay. "I've gone and let the cat out of the bag, haven't I? I see you haven't shared this part with Peter."

The look of dread on Neal's face made Peter's heart clench in his chest. Neal opened his mouth to speak, but Rachel beat him to it."

"Are you going to tell Peter who Agent Groitzner is, Neal? Or shall I?" she asked sweetly.

"It's Mozzie," Neal murmured in an aside to Peter. Peter knew his own surprise was showing on his face.

"Did you hear that, Peter?" she asked. "Can you believe that they actually tried to convince me that that little . . . whack job was an FBI agent?"

Peter glanced at Neal; he shook his head in a not now gesture.

"What's Mozzie got to do with this?" Neal demanded.

"Oh, everything," Rachel responded. "Since we happened to cross paths just now. And since I know that he's got the Codex in his head. Normally I don't have much use for him, but now . . . ."

Neal took in a breath. It was very close to a gasp, and Peter could sense the panic underneath the surface. "If you hurt him—"

"Threats from someone in your position are a massive waste of time," she commented. "Especially since Mozzie's time is really quite limited. Yours, too. "

"You don't—"

"Shut up, Neal. Time to stop talking and start listening. Assuming you want to see your partner in crime again. "

"I'm listening," Neal said.

"If we're going to do this, Neal, it's got to be just us. No FBI chaperone. Did you hear that, Agent Burke? If I see you—at all—you won't see everyone's favorite conspiracy freak ever again. And no tracker. Take it off."

Peter spoke up. "I can't do that."

"Of course, you can. You do it quite frequently. Why don't you run off like a good little FBI agent and get the key."

Peter hesitated.

"Peter," her voice turned icy, "time is of the essence. Neal's only got three minutes before the fun starts, or dear little Mozzie suffers."

With one last look at Neal, Peter handed him the phone and bolted back toward the office.

"He's getting it, okay?" Neal said.

"Well, I would hope so. So we have a little time to kill until he gets back." She was quiet for a moment and then giggled. "So . . . I guess I won't have to worry about what to call myself in the cafeteria line, after all?"

"I wouldn't bet on that," Neal responded automatically, pacing in the small hallway and trying to think, think about what the hell to do, how he could get the upper hand.

"I would," she said. "Though you might be in that position soon. How many crimes have you committed in the past few months, Neal? Have you ever stopped to count? I wonder what Peter would do if he knew, for example, that you destroyed evidence so that Curtis Hagen could go free."

Neal swallowed. "I guess you took care of that for me. You know, when you shot him."

"You really think just because Hagen's dead, that Peter wouldn't care that you freed him?" He could hear the smile in her voice. "Do you actually believe this stuff, or are you just trying to make me think you do?"

He could see Peter racing down the hallway toward him, and Neal changed the subject quickly. "You said I have three minutes. To do what?"

Peter had the key to the tracker in his hand, but he looked hesitant. Neal shot a pointed glare his way and nodded at him to insert the key, turning to make it easier for Peter to reach his ankle.

"To come outside and play. Three minutes from right now, Neal. That's how long you have to be on the sidewalk outside the FBI building so we can get started."

Neal looked at Peter, a little wild-eyed, mouthing, What are you waiting for? Peter looked at him for another few seconds and finally bent down awkwardly to unlock the anklet. He lost his balance for a moment, grabbing on to Neal's leg momentarily to steady himself. After a few long seconds of Peter fumbling with the key, the anklet was off and he was back up at eye level with Neal, tracker in hand, and shaking his head vigorously.

Neal, of course, was paying him no mind.

"I'm on the twenty-first floor," Neal said; Peter admired the calm way he spoke into the phone. "That's not enough time."

"I guess you'll have to run, then," she remarked. "But before you do-Agent Burke, are you still there?"

"Yes," Peter ground out. "You're not going to get away with this."

"Do you have any more clichés you'd like to share?" she inquired pleasantly. "I mean, if you want to waste all of Neal's time, I don't mind."

Her tone turned dangerous. "I'm warning you now, Burke. Don't follow Neal. Don't send anyone else to follow him. I'll know and the consequences will be severe. No trackers, no listening devices—of any kind. Because I will look for them and I will find them. And you won't like what I do if that happens. Do you understand?"

"No. We're not doing this," Peter said, looking straight at Neal, the words addressed as much to him as to her.

"Of course we are. Well, not you," she amended. "You and all of your agents are going to stay right where you are. Neal and I, on the other hand, have business to conduct."

"Peter, there's no time," Neal said urgently. Peter put a hand on his arm; Neal glanced down at it and frowned as he brought his gaze back up to Peter's face.

"Yes, Peter, listen to him. For once." She paused and when she spoke again, it was thoughtful. "Or would you rather I kill the little bastard?"

Peter couldn't help himself. "Go to hell."

Rachel laughed.

"You won't kill him," Neal said. "You need him."

"Maybe not," she suggested slyly. "Maybe all Mozzie needed was the proper . . . encouragement to tell me everything. In which case I don't need him anymore."

"If you want me, you damn well better have him. I'm coming," Neal said, shaking Peter off and giving him an imploring look. To Peter he said, "I have to go. Don't follow me. I can handle this." He rushed out to the elevator lobby, but Peter was right behind him.

"Neal, you can't—" Peter was close, so close to him, and for a minute, Neal thought the agent really was going to grab him and not let him go.

"Peter," she interjected, "how 'bout this: anyone who steps foot outside the building with Neal will get his or her head blown off. Will that be enough incentive for you to stay put?"

Their eyes met and Neal shook his head grimly as he jabbed the elevator call button. "Jesus, Rachel, no. Nobody needs to get hurt. I'll be alone. You have my word."

"Oh, now I feel much better," she deadpanned. "A habitual liar has given me his word."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, it's the best you're gonna get."

"This banter is fun, Neal, truly, but we're almost down to two minutes. And counting." She was cooing into the phone.

Peter mouthed at Neal—no, no.

"There's no time, Peter, dammit." Neal looked up at the floor indicators over the elevators and swore. "I'm okay. If you try to follow me, I'll lose you, I swear to God. I'll do whatever I have to. Stay here."

No elevator had arrived. Neal ran to the stairs and that was the last Peter saw of him.

"Is Peter gone?" She was practically whispering. "Are we alone now, Neal? Just the two of us?"

"Yes."

"Just the way I like it. Take me off speaker but keep talking," she commanded. "Where are you?"

"On the stairs." The echo of his feet hitting the stairs as he ran down was surprisingly loud.

"You do sound a little out of breath," she chuckled. "I guess you're telling the truth for once. Count the floors down for me."

"What the hell for?" He reached eighteen, and rounded the corner to make his way down to seventeen.

"Because I want to hear your voice, of course. I want it to feel like I'm right there with you, Neal."

Jesus Christ. "Fine. Sixteen."

"You're only at sixteen?" She sounded worried. "You'd better pick up the pace."

"And if I don't?" His foot slipped and he had to grab for the railing. "Fifteen." He transferred the phone to his left hand. He was going to need his right hand free to hold on the next time he slipped.

"Hmm," she pondered, "good question."

"Fourteen."

"Let's just say that whatever happens . . . well, Mozzie will regret it."

There was a little silence. Neal tried not to think about what she might do, tried to concentrate on moving as fast as he could. "Neal?"

"Twelve."

Her voice was reproachful. "You missed one."

"I didn't want to interrupt you," he gasped. "Eleven."

"I'll forgive it this time, since you were being polite," she said. "But don't do it again."

"Ten."

"My, but that's a lot of floors to go. And you've only got a minute, Neal. Maybe you could push it a little more. For Mozzie."

"Nine."

He was taking the stairs two and three at a time now, jumping more than running, using his arm to launch himself into the air to cover more ground. His ankles were starting to ache from the force of his landings. At eight, he slipped and fell awkwardly to the side, grabbing for the railing again and narrowly avoiding a twisted ankle that would have been disaster.

"Eight," he mumbled, his pulse loud in his ears. At this pace, a twisted ankle would be the least of his problems. He'd be lucky not to break his neck.

"You know, Neal, when we were . . . together," she let out a suggestive little laugh that made his skin crawl, "you seemed to have pretty fair stamina."

"Seven."

"But hearing the way you're sucking wind now—I think you'd better—"

"Six."

"—consider adding some cardio to the old workout routine," she teased.

"I'll . . . remember that . . . five," he managed. Then, a few seconds later, "Four."

Three and two passed in a blur. Here on the lower floors, there were other people on the stairs and he lost precious time trying to avoid bowling them over. He got a few glares and after one particularly close call, a man shouted, "Hey, watch it, buddy," as Neal flew by.

Then he was in the lobby, fighting through a crowd and out on the sidewalk.

"I'm here," he gasped, trying to get his breath back. "I'm out." He bent at the waist, right hand on his knee and left hand still holding the phone.

"So you are. With five seconds to spare.' Her voice dropped an octave. "I like seeing you this motivated, Neal."

Neal didn't say anything. Mainly because he couldn't. His chest felt near to bursting and sweat was dripping down his face. He wiped it away, taking deep breaths.

"Get away from the building and hike up those pant legs. Show me the tracker's gone."

He started walking and pulled up the fabric on his left leg. "Satisfied?"

"Not quite. Other leg."

He realized, worriedly, that his every move was being watched, and looked around. Was she nearby? He scanned the crowd but didn't see her. Of course, she could be wearing a disguise, probably was wearing a disguise . . . .

"Next, you're going to throw this phone away—along with yours— and pick up the one under the newspaper. It's next to the trash can on your left."

He ditched Peter's phone, but left his own where it was—in his pocket. Under the newspaper, as promised, was another phone which rang almost as soon as he picked it up. He flipped it open.

""There you are," she said. "I told you to get rid of your phone too, Neal."

He didn't react right away.

"Or if you'd rather refuse, this is goodbye. For us . . . and Mozzie."

"All right, all right," he retorted, taking out his phone and throwing it into the garbage can.

There was a pause before she spoke again. "Now go to your right. Quickly. Oh, while you're doing that, lose your watch."

Automatically, Neal extended his arm and took a look at it. "My watch? I like this watch."

"Too bad. It's a great place to hide a GPS."

"I don't have any—"

"I know all about the tech the FBI uses for tracking and listening, and I'm not taking any chances. Your tie clip, too. Take it off."

He hesitated. When she spoke again, her voice was ominous. "Don't test me, Neal. Surely you've figured out by now that I have eyes on you and I expect you to follow orders. I know how hard that is for you, but for Mozzie's sake, you really need to try."

Neal acquiesced, unhooking his watch and tie clip and throwing them in the trash.

There was another pause, long enough to make him wonder if someone else was watching him and relaying his actions to her. Or maybe he was on camera and she was watching a relay with some kind of delay. One of those was likely, he decided. Safer for her to stay hidden. Again he looked around, wondering how he was being watched.

"Very good. At the end of the block, make a right and keep going." He did as she commanded. "You might want to speed it up; time's ticking."

He started running then, for several blocks, following her instructions to turn right here and left there, a zigzag path which had no rhyme or reason that he could see. Except to take him further and further away from the FBI building—and possibly to get him that cardio workout she'd mentioned earlier. She kept telling him to go faster and he had no choice but to comply. Somewhere along the way he'd picked up some kind of pebble or rock in his shoe. It was annoying, but he didn't dare waste time stopping and taking his shoe off to find it. No sense giving her the idea to make him run the streets of New York barefoot. He wouldn't put it past her.

"You're doing well, Neal. I think you've earned a little reward. Stop at the next corner."

He did, taking the opportunity to gulp in desperately-needed air and trying to ignore the growing pain in his feet. Italian loafers were not designed for running on concrete, and his feet were paying the price.

"Take off your tie."

"Okay," he panted, chest still heaving, "now this is getting ridiculous."

She didn't acknowledge the comment. "Toss your tie into the trash. Your jacket, too, while you're at it."

Sighing, Neal did as he was told. Another one of Byron's suits ruined. He noticed a few curious glances from passersby as he removed the articles of clothing. But this was New York, so no one made a fuss. He probably could have stripped down to his skivvies, and jaded city dwellers would have kept on walking by.

Before discarding his jacket, he'd taken his wallet and lock picks out and shoved them into his pants pocket. But a few seconds later, she called him on it, using a tone an adult might use when scolding a five-year-old. "Neal, now, you know you can't keep those."

"It's my wallet, for Christ's sake." No need to call attention to his picks.

"The lies are getting really tiresome. It's your wallet and your lock picks, and you don't get to keep them."

He threw them into the trash receptacle, trying to be unobtrusive. "If I'm a victim of identity theft," he muttered, "I'm gonna know who to blame."

Her laughter was loud in his ears. "I think identity theft will be the least of your worries. If it makes you feel any better."

It didn't. It definitely didn't.

"Time to get moving again, Neal."

He proceeded for several more blocks; she'd gone quiet, but not for long.

"Let's see," she said, sounding contemplative as he continued to run, because she hadn't told him to stop. "What else? Oh. Cufflinks. Off with'em."

He stopped so he could comply, sighing. "You want me to take my shirt off, too?"

"Goodness, Neal. Are you flirting with me?" She chuckled. "No, you can keep the shirt on. For now, that is."

Neal's stomach started to churn as he obeyed.

"Turn out your pockets," she ordered. "Show that they're empty."

He did and they were. He wiped more sweat from his forehead.

"Getting tired?" she asked. "You'd better get moving again. It won't be long now."

It felt pretty long to him—in his present state of exhaustion, the six blocks she made him run felt more like six miles. He was starting to feel a little light-headed when she spoke again.

"When you get to the next corner, stand and wait."

He made it to the corner and bent over again, trying to get his breath. That was when a black car pulled up next to him, windows tinted dark. Straightening up, Neal glanced at it, showing no sign of the fear he felt.

Things were about to get real.

"Open the back door and get in."

He'd fully expected her to be in the vehicle, but she wasn't. There were two men in the car—the driver and one in the back seat who had a gun—but Rachel was nowhere to be seen.

"Where are you?" he said into the phone as the guy in the back—who was massive, he looked like he barely fit in the car, for God's sake—gestured with the gun in his right hand to a black hood that lay on the seat.

"Waiting for you, of course," she answered. "Final destination time, Neal."

Well, that had a disturbing ring to it.

"Put the hood on and lie down," she continued. "Enjoy the ride."

The phone went dead and Neal looked up to see the barrel of a Glock inches from his head. With difficulty, he ignored the gun and pulled his gaze up to the man's acne-scarred face. "Have you tried ProActiv? And how big was your head before the steroids?"

Shockingly, the man was unamused. He flicked the gun up and into Neal's forehead, not hard, but enough to stun him and open up a cut that began to trickle blood.

"Put it on, asshole."

Neal put on the hood and then had the pleasure of being shoved face first into a leather seat that smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and sweat. Or maybe it was the hood that smelled. Whichever, it was enough to make him gag. He breathed through his mouth to try and cut the smell. Quickly and efficiently, the man began to pat Neal down.

"Don't move," he said, just as Neal tried to turn his head to the side to get air. The man slammed what was probably the gun into the back of Neal's skull. Again, not hard enough to knock him out, just hard enough to make him hurt like hell –and to make everything get a little bit hazy. The pain made his eyes water as the car sped off.

He remained very still throughout the ride, as ordered. He couldn't afford to provoke his armed guard any more than necessary.

Better to save his energy for what lay ahead.

His head was bleeding, not much he didn't think, but enough to make the fabric—and his hair—stick to his forehead.

Neal tried to memorize the turns they'd made, to try to puzzle out where they were going—a direction, at least—but he had a feeling they'd driven in circles to confuse him, and he'd quickly lost track. Concentrating was harder than it should have been and he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Tasks, really. He'd need to be sharp if he was going to successfully deal with Rachel, find the diamond, get Mozzie back, and keep her from getting away.

Now that he thought of it, it sounded like a hell of a lot. Especially when he was on his own. But he didn't let his mind wander too far down that path. Doubt was the enemy of success; Neal knew better than to let it take hold.

He could do this; he'd figure something out. He had to. Mozzie was counting on him. And Peter would—

Peter. The thought was sharp and almost painful. What was he doing? How pissed would he be that Neal had run out the way he did? And would it matter?

After all, if Neal didn't get himself out of this mess, Peter's wrath wouldn't be an issue.

No, he told himself sternly. Don't think about that.

Peter would understand, in the end. He pretty much always did. Peter would grumble about Neal's propensity to take risks, his disregard of what Peter wanted, but none of it would last. Peter was good that way.

His sense of time was strangely messed up—the blow to the head might have done a little more damage than he'd first thought. But it couldn't have been more than a half hour, he decided, until they arrived at their destination. Wherever that was. The car screeched to a stop, sharply enough that he bounced off the seat he was lying on.

Judging by the noise levels, they were still in the city, but a quieter, more deserted part of it. Fewer traffic sounds, no voices. And the men who'd taken him apparently weren't worried about anyone reporting an abduction, because they made no effort at subterfuge. He was dragged out of the car with the hood still on his head. Neal could feel rough pavement under his feet—it felt like a street or a sidewalk. They were still outside, then. Muscle-man had a iron grip on his arm that was probably going to leave an ugly bruise.

Not that bruises were that big of a deal, in the grand scheme of things, he reminded himself.

He was brought back to the moment by the goon wrenching his arm to keep him moving. Neal suppressed a hiss of pain. Objectively, he knew his arm wasn't being ripped out of its socket.

It just felt that way.

There was a little pause and a grating sound—a door opening, he thought. He was forced to keep walking; the surface under his feet was smooth, now— probably concrete or linoleum. Now they must be inside. He was pulled up a long flight of stairs, stumbling as he tried to keep up without tripping. Then he was marched in a straight line and forced to stop. He heard the sound of a heavy door opening and was pushed forward.

"Come on in, Neal."

The hood was unceremoniously yanked off his head and he grunted as it pulled painfully at the cut on his forehead and his hair, now matted with blood. He was shoved from behind, sprawling forward and only just managing to avoid falling flat on his face.

Regaining his balance, he blinked furiously as his eyes adjusted to the sudden change from dark to light. The room was a large space, at least thirty yards long and mostly bare, except for what looked like old machinery and furniture around the edges. It looked and felt like a warehouse. There were a few dirty windows that seemed to have an obstructed view of more warehouses. The windows, coupled with a few dim fluorescent lights, weren't nearly enough to light the cavernous space, but it was easy to pick out his nemesis standing in the middle of the room.

Rachel stood maybe twenty feet away, next to a chair and looking completely relaxed, with a broad smile on her face. A bag lay on the floor next to her. In her right hand, Rachel held a gun with a silencer; it looked like the same one she'd had the other night. She tapped it against her thigh. As she had been the other night, she was clad in black leather, looking every bit the femme fatale.

"I see somebody misbehaved on the ride over," she said, nodding in the direction of his bleeding head. "I have to say, that does not bode well for you."

"Anyway, we can finally get started." Something in her tone sent a shiver down his spine. "I won't bite, Neal. Come closer."

"That's far enough," she directed when he'd taken a few steps toward her. Neal halted, watching as she pointed the gun at him, feeling himself tense involuntarily at the sight.

"Where's Mozzie?"

She ignored the question. "We have ground rules to discuss."

"Where is Mozzie?" he repeated, more forcefully this time.

"We're not discussing that right now," she said pedantically, like a teacher lecturing a slow student. "We're discussing ground rules. Can the ever-so-clever Neal Caffrey guess what they are?"

He stared at her, watching as her grin grew wider. "I'm guessing the main one is that I have to do what you say," Neal managed.

"Yes, exactly. You don't so much as move unless I give you permission. Even if you manage to overpower me—and trust me, you won't—it will do you no good. My associates are outside, and poor Mozzie's in quite the precarious position."

Neal felt his anger rising, tried to push it down. "You've hurt him."

She tilted her head to the side, considering it. "Hmm. That depends on how you define hurt. Are we talking blood, or broken bones, or—"

Neal shook his head. "You are one twisted bitch."

The smile on her face had progressed to blinding. "Why, thank you, Neal." Then her eyes widened in pretend confusion. "Wait. Was that supposed to be an insult? "

"For any normal person, it would be."

She waved a dismissive hand. "Enough digressing. As I was saying, Mozzie is in a most difficult spot. You won't find him, I promise you that. And I'll happily take his location to the grave if necessary."

Neal concentrated on keeping his expression perfectly calm, on not giving her the reaction he knew she wanted, would delight in. "The part about you in a grave, now that I can get on board with," he countered.

Ignoring the comment, Rachel studied him, a sly grin spreading over her face. "It would destroy you, wouldn't it? As I said the other day, I knew what killing Peter would do to you. But losing Mozzie would be just as bad. As we move forward here together, you'd do well to keep that in mind."

He stared at her and thought how much he'd like to put his hands around her neck and squeeze until her goddamned face turned blue. But you can't, you can't. You need her to find Mozzie . . . .

"Soooo," she said, her manner teasing now. "Are you going to be a good boy, Neal?"

It was hard to talk when your teeth were gritted. "Yes."

"You'll do as you're told?"

"Yes."

"Excellent," she said approvingly. "Let's see if you really mean it. Turn around and put your arms out at your sides. Look straight ahead."

He complied. Facing away from her now, he strained to listen and hear what she was doing. He assumed that, as promised, she was going to search him.

"Your goons already patted me down, you know."

"Yeah, but I'm a hands-on kind of girl, Neal. Especially where you're concerned."

With nothing else he could do, Neal stood there waiting, breathing slowly and evenly. Rachel came up behind him, and even though he knew what was coming, he couldn't stop himself from jumping, just a little, when she whispered in his ear, unexpectedly close enough that he could feel the heat of her breath on his skin. She laughed, clearly enjoying his startled reaction.

"Despite what you said earlier, I'm having quite the effect on you, aren't I?" He felt her touch on his neck and stiffened involuntarily. "Your pulse is racing," she observed, voice dripping with amusement.

"Yeah, that'll happen when someone runs twenty blocks," he said caustically. "Don't flatter yourself."

Now she was running her hand down the back of his neck, her nails scraping his skin painfully. He fought the urge to flinch. "You've got goose bumps too. How sweet. Are you wearing a wire, Neal?"

"Of course not."

"Let's verify that. Take your shirt off."

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Neal couldn't help rolling his eyes, knowing she couldn't see. "You, uh, do understand," he scoffed as he began to unbutton his shirt, "that nobody uses wires anymore."

She laughed, but there was something chilling in it. "You caught me. Maybe I'm just looking for an excuse to make you undress."

That was exactly what he'd been thinking, of course. Thought not really wanting to think about.

He removed the shirt and held it behind his back so she could take it from him. She examined it and then tossed it away.

"Remember—don't move, Neal."

He registered the sound of her retreating footsteps as she moved back, away from him. He stood there, unmoving, jaw clenched in frustration as he waited for her to tell him what to do. He could hear the sound of a zipper—she must be opening the bag on the floor. It might have been his chance to go at her, to gain the upper hand, but he resisted the temptation. Every inch of him, every bit of him ached with the desire to do something, but he knew his only option right now was to do what she wanted.

"Sit down."

He turned to see her indicating the metal chair in the center of the room. Standing off to the side, she was holding something in her hand, but he couldn't see what it was.

As directed, he walked over to the chair and sat down.

"Hands behind you."

He groaned inwardly. It had probably been too much to hope for that she wouldn't restrain him—but he'd hoped for it nonetheless. His heart sank even further when he felt his wrists encircled by zip ties that were then looped around the back of the chair as well. No chance of picking those.

She knew him as well as Peter did, damnit.

"You don't have to do that," he assured her, trying to keep his voice light.

"Oh, but I do," she replied, pulling the ties taut and leaning around to watch the pain flicker across his face as the bonds bit into his wrists. She smiled brightly at the sight. "Too tight? No such thing where you're concerned. And I know better than to use handcuffs on you."

"You don't have to use anything on me. You have Mozzie, you're in control. I'm not going anywhere."

"I'm glad you understand your position," she observed, "but you're a slippery one, all the same. And from this point on, you might find the temptation to . . . move around a little too hard to resist."

He wanted to ask why, but decided against it. He was going to find out soon enough.

And he was pretty sure he knew, anyway.

She knelt down to retrieve something from her bag; it was a scanner, but the investigation was a cursory one. She seemed to have let her guard down now that he was tied to the chair. It wasn't like he had much of anything left that could hide a tracking device, anyway. She'd stripped him of pretty much every possibility.

"Well, now that that's over, it's pleasure before business, I say," Rachel declared. She walked behind him and began to rub his shoulders. "You need to loosen up, Neal. Relax and this'll be much more fun."

"Somehow I doubt it."

Rachel withdrew her hands and began to circle him. She stopped behind him once again to run her hands over the zip ties around his wrists.

"I like this, Neal. Last time we met, I was the one in restraints. It's always satisfying to turn the tables, isn't it?"

"I'm sure it's a thrill," he muttered.

She came back in front of him, staring down at him for a moment before leaning in close, inches away from his face. He met her gaze steadily, without blinking. She reached out to peel the blood-soaked hair away from his forehead; he couldn't help grunting and jerking away in a futile attempt to avoid her touch.

"That looks painful,' she observed. "I did tell you circumstances can change, but I don't think you believed me. Do you believe me now, Neal?"

"Yes, circumstances have changed," he said dryly, raising his eyebrows for emphasis. "Got it."

"Then again, maybe you don't mind. After all, Peter has you permanently chained and you seem quite content."

He snorted. "If you really think that, then you don't know me nearly as well as you think you do."

"What will you do when Peter leaves?"

His sharp glance gave him away; he was surprised that she knew.

"You know, at some point, Neal, you're going to stop underestimating me," she said impatiently. "I would have thought your current vulnerable state would have made that plain . . . . Anyway, I know all about Peter deserting you. It must hurt, to know that he can't leave for Washington fast enough."

"Peter is—it's a great opportunity for him," he said flatly. Neal had plenty of strong feelings about Peter's abrupt, imminent departure. But however he felt now about Peter, they had way too much history for Neal to commiserate with a murderer about Peter's perceived mistreatment of him.

"Fine, fine," she said, pity in her voice. "Sensitive topic, I get it. People do have a habit of kicking you to the curb, don't they? Or dying on you. Or kicking you to the curb and dying on you. Like Kate."

It was an old pain, but a familiar one and none the less excruciating even though the wound was anything but fresh. Don't let her get to you, he chanted to himself. Don't.

Rachel paused to reflect for a moment. "I don't really care about Burke's career, anyway. I'm just curious as to what your next move is. Whether you'll just meekly become someone else's pet once Burke drops the leash."

"I'll be sure to write you in prison and let you know."

She smiled, but it was more like a baring of teeth. Not answering, she walked to the clutter of furniture in the corner, returning a minute later with a chair that she set down with the back facing him. She straddled it, leaning against the high back and surveying him. Neal met her gaze steadily.

"While we're on the topic of your various relationship failures . . . it must have galled you so much," she remarked, "when you realized how I'd played you. How did it make you feel?"

"We're playing psychiatrist now?" he shot back. At her warning look, he said, "What you did, very few people could have managed." It was as much of a compliment as he was willing to give her.

"I know!" she burst out, glowing with genuine pride and in that instant, he saw just a hint of Rebecca, of that charming, unbridled enthusiasm that he'd fallen in love with. Which he now knew had never existed at all. The thought made bile rise in his throat; he swallowed it down with difficulty.

"I thought I'd overplayed it, though," she went on, warming to her topic. "I was sloppy. First there was my slip-up with the wine—when I said I thought I'd been to that very same vineyard? That was a huge mistake; Rebecca was supposed to be a wine novice." She eyed him fondly. "Oh, you should have noticed. But poor Neal, you were too far gone by then to even see it."

She stared past him, a dreamy look on her face. "But the big one was when you made your dramatic confession. You know, all about your horrible, criminal past. Later, after you'd fallen asleep, I lay there, staring at the ceiling convinced I'd handled it all wrong. Thinking you'd wake up the next morning thinking about how suspicious it was."

Rachel reached out, toying with his nipple. He focused on breathing and not reacting.

"Sweet, innocent, pure-as-the-driven snow Rebecca should have been horrified. Her white-knight FBI agent actually a convicted felon? Who'd been conning her for weeks? She should have taken some time to think it over, at least, before throwing herself into your arms."

She let out a low menacing laugh that made his blood run cold.

"Rebecca should have been appalled. But practical, professional Rachel thought it was about time we fucked. Thought it was long overdue, actually. There comes a time in every relationship when you either fuck or get off the pot, you know? And my calculation was that the moment had arrived. I knew you wanted it—my God, you were practically begging for it. You hadn't been with a woman since Sara wised up and dumped you, and that was ages ago. So I figured: Time to let him screw me, so I can reel him in even further. I'll have him well and truly caught, and he won't even realize he's on the hook."

She shrugged. "Plus, I thought I'd denied myself long enough. Truth to tell, I'd been wanting to jump your bones for months. Purely from a research perspective, you understand: I wanted to know if you were as good in bed as the stories said. So, I shoved Rebecca aside and took over."

There was something deeply unsettling, Neal thought, about the way she talked about Rebecca in the third person, without hesitation. Like it had been someone else entirely.

And about hearing her talk so dispassionately about the first time they'd made love . . . not to mention being reminded of how long she'd been surveilling him, studying him, cataloguing his every move. All leading to this moment, when he was at her mercy. Helpless.

It made him feel sick—and defeated. All of it. And as much as he'd tried to keep his expression impassive, he must have failed because Rachel was looking at him again and rolling her eyes. "Oh, I forgot. You're such a goddamned romantic." Her contempt was undisguised. "Does it offend you to hear me talk so brazenly about our first fuck?"

"Actually, it makes me feel better to know it didn't mean anything to you," he retorted. "I think I'd be even more disgusted if it had."

Her eyes narrowed. "Disgusted, huh?" She began to knead his nipple, then, massaging it and grinning as it hardened. "This doesn't look like disgust to me, Neal." She twisted the flesh viciously and he gasped.

"You really are tense, Neal. I'd like you a little more relaxed for the main event. Don't worry, I've got it covered."

She proceeded over to the bag on the floor. Searching around inside it, she produced a bottle of wine. Then she dragged a small, rickety table over, leaving it next to the chair where he sat. "It's been a long day, Neal, and you've had quite a workout. You must be thirsty."

He looked at the bottle warily and shook his head. "Not really."

"Oh. Well, that's going to make this a lot harder, then. For you. Myself, I think I'm going to enjoy the hell out of it."

"I see it's been opened," he said, trying to deflect and nodding in the direction of the bottle. "What's in there?"

"Wine. For heaven's sake, I'm not going to poison you," she snapped. "What happened to that whip-smart mind of yours? I've got you tied to a chair, what on earth would be the point?"

"I don't pretend to know what your thought processes are."

"My, my. Come on down from your high horse, Neal. We're both amoral criminals, which means you know exactly how I think. You like to pretend you're better than me, but that's splitting hairs. Now drink."

He pressed his lips together mutinously and she sighed.

"Fine. We'll do it the hard way."

With one hand, she grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head back savagely, forcing his lips apart. With her other hand, she poured wine into his open mouth, then, in a flash, she'd set the bottle down and used both hands to simultaneously squeeze his nostrils shut and his mouth closed.

It took only a few brief seconds for him to realize that this was a game he couldn't hope to win. Unless he wanted to suffocate. Lack of air had a way of making everything so very clear, so very fast.

Neal held out as long as he could before admitting defeat and swallowing the liquid that was blocking his airway. She released her hold on him and he coughed and spluttered, gasping for breath.

"Did you enjoy that?" she inquired.

"Fantastic," he mumbled.

"Then let's do it again," she said eagerly and this time she didn't even give him time to refuse (he'd been considering giving in). She repeated the maneuver: pulling his head cruelly back as far as it could go, pouring the wine down his throat, and clamping his nose and mouth closed until he swallowed. This time, though, she didn't let go afterward. Instead, she denied him air until he started to see spots before his eyes and began writhing frantically to escape her grasp. She was strong though, and he was tied too tightly to move very much. The world was starting to go gray. He heard himself making little muffled pleading sounds, and he hated that he was doing that, but he couldn't make himself stop.

Just when he thought he was going to pass out, she removed her hand from his nose. He snorted in air, loud and indelicate in the silence of the room, as she watched serenely.

A few seconds later she released his mouth and stepped back. He gulped in air and tried to calm his racing heart. A pain shot through his chest and for a moment, he wondered, wildly, if he might actually be having a heart attack.

Eventually the pain in his chest subsided and his mind felt sharper. When he'd recovered (it took a few minutes; she stood there patiently, observing him in a way that made him feel uncomfortably like a lab rat in some kind of experiment), he managed, "You weren't kidding about being a wine novice. That stuff is horrible."

Incongruously, an admiring smile lit up her face and again he was reminded of Rebecca and how he'd described her to Peter: She looks at me the way Elizabeth looks at you.

He tried to push the memory away. Honestly, it wasn't so much a memory as it was a goddamned open wound on his psyche, a wound Rachel was pouring more salt into every minute.

Sometimes, like now, when she wasn't even trying.

"Oh, Neal." Now she actually sounded sad. "In spite of everything, I'm going to miss you when this is all over."

He licked his lips. "Yeah, when's that going to happen, by the way?"

"Nothing's going to happen until you drink some more," she told him. "Are you thirsty yet?"

Neal nodded silently. He didn't want to give her the satisfaction of hearing him say yes. Not being able to breathe had terrified him more than he wanted to admit, and he was powerless to do anything to stop it—except to give her what she wanted. He didn't want to experience the harrowing feeling of being asphyxiated again. She held the bottle up, looking smug.

"No wine glasses? Not very romantic," he said.

"We're getting to the romantic part," she retorted, smiling wickedly. She brought up her other hand and caressed his lips, parting them with her finger.

Rachel forced most of the wine down his throat, but she took her time now, making sure he drank it and that little was spilled. Then she set the bottle aside and turned her chair around so it was facing him. She pulled it close and seated herself, watching him intently.

"How are you feeling, Neal?"

"Really sorry that you have such lousy taste in wine." He paused. "Also tired."

"Oh, don't worry, I'll take care of that," she said, and he could feel a knot of apprehension tighten in his chest. Yet at the same time, he was beginning to feel buzzed, a kind of pleasant looseness enveloping him. Dimly he realized that he shouldn't feel that way; he was an experienced wine drinker, and he hadn't had that much.

"You put something in there," he accused, cutting a glance at the bottle sitting on the table.

"Well, yes. But nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart," she said, and the term of endearment, tossed off so casually, sent a tremor of fear through him. "I needed you to be a tad more . . . pliable, so I added a little something."

" 'N here I thought you needed me to get you the diamond."

"Oh, I do. But I wanted to give you a parting gift first. Something to remember me by," she said, smiling at him flirtatiously and trailing her fingers down his bare chest. He watched his muscles tighten in response to her touch, helpless to prevent it.

"One of the . . . unfortunate things about sweet little Rebecca is that she couldn't be too aggressive in bed. I really had to restrain myself with you to avoid giving away the game." She began to play with his nipples again, teasing and caressing. "Look at me, Neal."

He obeyed and was taken aback by the hungry look in her eyes. "Do you like being tied up, Neal?"

He tried to laugh, but it didn't sound right. "Not with my history."

"How about Kate? Or Alex? Or Sara? Did you tie them up?"

His first instinct was to refuse to answer, but she was already beginning to twist his flesh painfully. "No."

"I like seeing you tied up, Neal. Unable to refuse."

She ran her hands down his chest, sliding her hand down further and beginning to stroke him.

"No," he said. "No. I don't want this."

"Oh, I beg to differ," she said, a mischievous smile on her face as she glanced down, where her hand was now caressing him harder. He could feel himself responding and cursed his lack of control. "But we'll slow down, then, okay? Give you a little more time for my concoction to take effect." She leaned back.

Which meant that when the door slammed open and the shouts rang out (Freeze, FBI!), she nearly toppled over in her chair.

Between the wine and whatever she'd drugged him with and the shock of the FBI bursting in en masse, Neal found it all very hard to process. One minute Rachel was there, threatening his modesty (so to speak), and then the next minute, somehow, unbelievably, Peter was there, shoving her away, handing her over to other agents before returning to Neal.

"Are you okay?" Peter asked. voice tight with an emotion Neal couldn't immediately identify. But the agent didn't wait for an answer. He stepped behind and Neal realized he was working on the zip ties with a knife. "Just hold on. I'll have these off in a minute."

It took a lot less than that for Peter to slice through the ties and free him. Probably only a few seconds, in fact. Neal's arms fell loosely to his sides; he hadn't even realized that they were numb until that moment. With difficulty, he dragged his hands up to his lap, rubbing his wrists absently (some marks, he noted, but nothing too bad) and stared at Peter, trying to satisfy himself that Peter was real and not some figment of his semi-drugged imagination.

"Are you okay?" Peter repeated. He had bent down directly in front of Neal and staring into his eyes. He looked worried.

Hadn't he already answered that question? Apparently not.

"Huh? Yeah," Neal said.

His mind was working too slowly, but he had one coherent—and critical thought.

"You—you knew we were here, somehow," Neal said. "Right?"

Peter nodded. "Right." He was about to explain, but Neal, still stunned, didn't let him.

"But Mozzie . . ."

" . . . is right here," Peter said, as Mozzie appeared in view, flanked by Jones and Diana.

"Mozz!" Neal looked over his shoulder and then jumped up, feeling strangely wobbly. He tottered over to Mozzie, conscious of Peter moving right with him, and scanned his friend for injuries. Other than the fact that his glasses were missing, he looked the same as always. "Are you okay?"

"None the worse for the wear," Mozzie pronounced. "Well, except for my broken glasses. Too bad you can't say the same."

Neal blinked at him. "What?"

"Your head," Peter cut in, gesturing at Neal's battered forehead. He was still standing abnormally close to Neal, like he was afraid Neal might topple over at any moment.

"Oh, right. Forgot about that." It was true; he'd completely forgotten that he had a bleeding head wound, which was really weird.

So there was at least one advantage to having guzzled a bottle of crappy, spiked wine after all . . . .

"How did that happen?" Peter asked. Neal recognized the signs of Peter being extra-patient - the careful enunciation, the extra fraction of a second in between each word.

Had he been thinking more clearly, he might have concocted a story that would generate some sympathy from Peter. Sadly, he wasn't up for that. "I mouthed off," Neal admitted, a rueful expression on his face.

"Ah," Peter said. But he didn't follow up with the comeback Neal had thought he might, about how predictable that was, or whatever. Apparently it was too soon to joke about any of this, because Peter just pressed his lips together grimly and said, "Anything else?"

"Not really. I mean, nothing beyond nearly being, uh, taken advantage of," Neal said slowly. "And she gave me wine that had something in it, so I'm feeling a little . . . loopy."

Peter actually looked embarrassed—a very rare thing. "Yeah, um, sorry about that. We had to get the team in place, establish the perimeter, do a silent search, and make sure we had Mozzie safe. It took more time than I wanted it to."

"'S okay," Neal assured him, flapping a hand in the air to emphasize how little this concerned him. Peter tended to worry when he really shouldn't, and this seemed to be one of those times.

"No," Peter said, still looking discomfited. "I'm sorry we couldn't get in sooner. Sorry you had to . . . go through that."

"I said it's fine, Peter." Suddenly he felt exhausted, like the adrenaline that had been keeping him sharp had disappeared in an instant. "You came and that's all that matters."

Peter still didn't look satisfied.

"How did you know that Mozzie was here?" Neal turned to his friend. "You were here, right?"

Mozzie nodded. "Downstairs."

Peter took over the explanation. "We did a thermal scan of the building and counted one extra person, beyond Rachel, her two goons, and you. I took a gamble that she'd want to keep Mozzie close, and it paid off."

Their quarry was being cuffed and Mirandized just a few feet away, but obviously listening to every word they said.

Neal turned to her, recovering a bit of composure. "You know, Rachel," he said, all solicitousness as the agents were preparing to march her out, "guess you have a cafeteria line in your future after all."

Her face betrayed no emotion whatsoever; it might have been less unsettling, he thought, if she'd glared at him.

"Speakin' of that, I noticed you seem to have an affinity the letter 'R,'" he continued equably. "If you want to try something new, how do you feel about Renee? Or if you're going a little more exotic, maybe River . . . nah, you don't look like a River."

Okay, now she looked mildly annoyed. Well, that was something.

"Maybe Roxanne?" he continued. "You know, turn on the red light. Goes with your red hair. Oh, wait. Your hair isn't really red. Forget I said anything." He managed a repentant smile for her, enjoying the knowledge that underneath that cool exterior, she must be seething.

"Are you finished?" she inquired.

"Not really. I could go on all day," he said. "But you are. Finished, I mean."

That made her smile in a way he'd probably find unnerving when he thought back on it later. "We'll see. Feel free to cherish the moment, but remember what I said before, Neal." She eyed him loftily, gave a significant glance at the cuffs that encircled her wrists and brought her eyes up to bore into his. "Circumstances can change."

And that was her parting shot. A moment later, Jones and Diana were marching her out. The three of them watched her go.

"Well, that was . . . ominous," Neal muttered, with a shaky laugh. Given that she'd escaped (and he himself had escaped) and Keller had escaped, he knew he should be worried about whether any prison could hold her. But he just couldn't summon the energy at the moment.

Maybe later.

He turned back to Peter, whose face was filled with quiet fury as he stared out the door where Rachel had just exited.

"Peter. Hey, Peter, forget about her. How'dja find us?" Neal had been wracking his brain on this topic with no success. Had Peter gotten an agent into the lobby to follow him? Neal wouldn't have put it past him. But how had they managed to keep up once he'd been forced into the car?

Peter focused on him, and now there was an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. "Isn't this where I remind you that I've gotten really good at tracking you down? And then you marvel at my uncanny ability to locate you under virtually any circumstances?"

Neal scoffed. "If you don't count the first four years, sure." Mozzie, standing off to the side was nodding vigorous approval.

"Fair enough. Well, I slipped one of the new earwigs into your shoe when I took your anklet off. The latest model comes equipped with GPS and a mic," Peter explained, looking quite pleased with himself.

Neal's eyes widened appreciatively. "Wow. Impressive thinking under pressure, Peter." He stopped to think for a moment. "At the time, I did wonder why you rushed off to get the key to the tracker. You usually have it on you."

Peter nodded. "I did have it on me. I only left so I could grab the earwig."

"Without bothering to tell me," Neal said, raising an eyebrow and injecting a mild note of accusation in his voice.

"She was listening!" Peter protested.

"You could have showed it to me. You could have—oh, I don't know, written a note," Neal pointed out.

"You guys do have the nonverbal communication thing down, Suit," Mozzie interjected, taking Neal's side as always.

Peter shook his head. "You said it yourself: there was no time. And I decided it was too much of a risk. All of it was a risk, obviously. But I was afraid you'd put up a fight and she'd find out. This way, I was hoping that, even if she did find it, maybe it would go better if you didn't know it was there."

"If she believed I didn't know it was there," Neal corrected.

"Yeah," Peter admitted. "Moot point now, though, fortunately."

Only then did it hit Neal that since the device Peter had hidden in his shoe transmitted audio, Peter—and likely the entire FBI team—had heard everything. Shit. Neal tried to remember what incriminating (or at the very least, embarrassing) items they might have heard, but none of it seemed that important.

Later, it probably would. But not now. Now, he was finding it hard to care. Mozzie was safe, Peter was here, and nothing else was worth thinking about, really.

Peter must have thought Neal was still annoyed, because he quickly tried to change the subject. "Here. Maybe this will help smooth things over." He dug into his pocket and handed Neal his wallet and picks.

"Wow, you found these! You were really paying attention, weren't you?" Neal asked, surprised and pleased.

"With you, I have to pay attention at all times," Peter answered, a little grin stealing across his face. "We tracked you every step of the way."

"So I won't be a victim of identity theft, after all." Neal examined the wallet—it seemed intact—and put it and his lock picks away. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. Thank Blake. He was the one who rooted through the garbage to find them."

Neal nodded. "Next time I see him." He thought for a moment. "He didn't find the tie clip or the cufflinks, did he?"

Peter gave him a stern look. "He may be a probie, but there are limits to how much scut work I'll ask him to do."

"Right, right," Neal mumbled.

"So," Peter said, glancing from Neal to Mozzie and back to his consultant, "first things first. Both of you are going to get checked out. EMTs are waiting."

That sounded pretty good to Neal. Actually, right now, anything that involved him lying down sounded like heaven.

"But when that's over . . . " Peter's voice trailed off.

Neal and Mozzie exchanged a surreptitious, uncomfortable glance.

"When that's over," Peter resumed, "we need to talk about this diamond."

"What diamond?" Mozzie shot back.

Neal rubbed his forehead wearily. "Yeah, it's a little late for denials, Mozz."

"It's never too late for denials," Mozzie insisted.

"Nothing like a good old-fashioned treasure hunt," Peter said, eyes alight with excitement. "After you both get fixed up, of course. We've got a bus right outside." Warily, he eyed Neal. "Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk," Neal said petulantly.

He could, too. Not very well, but he could.

Neal had to admit, though, if only to himself, that the walking was a lot easier with Peter's steadying hand on his arm. He shot a grateful look at Peter, who nodded back and smiled.

Neither of them needed to say a word. They really did have the nonverbal thing down pat.

FIN

Since I am a charter member of the World's Slowest Writers Club, I've never written anything this fast before—but this came together very late and I really wanted to post it before the Season 5 finale. As a result, please accept my apologies for what are probably numerous mistakes. Please feel free to point them out in comments so I can fix them. Would love to hear what you thought. Did it work for you?

Thank you for reading!