Disclaimer: I do not have anything to do with the creation of White Collar. Thank you China Shop, for the detailed, thoughtful beta.

Neal knew the moment his cover was blown. He knew from tiny tells that the buzzing cell phone surprised Mencia, and from even more subtle ones that the unexpected message boded ill for one Nick Halden, prospective purcheser of illicit antiquities. He'd placed the bug in the boat's wheelhouse – that would have to do. He needed to escape.

He set down his champagne glass, but couldn't go anywhere near the short ramp to the muddy shore or near the sides of the boat – not with Mencia so obviously pretending not to watch him. He wandered belowdeck instead, as if looking for the head, letting the small celebration continue without him. Now that he'd placed the bug, he had no comm to Peter and the surveillance van. He considered trying a phone call, but his every instinct yelled that he had very little time. He had utter faith in those instincts. Besides, any second now, someone would notice that the gold Inca statuette had just vanished from its place of honor at the party. He'd have to save himself.

Peter was uneasy. They'd been forced to park the surveillance van where the pavement ended in a warehouse district, but the "yacht" where Neal had been invited to view the item was hundreds of yards away across sloping ice and mud. The winter night was bitterly cold and dark and the yacht – actually a commercial fishing boat of uncertain license - was tenuously moored along a piece of Jersey shoreline so steep and treacherous that no shipping company had attempted to build docks there. The lights of the greater New York City area twinkled beyond inky water, and farther out yet, felt but not seen, the ocean offered escape to the thieves on the boat. Neal had ingratiated himself with this particular bunch of antiquities dealers for a week with no reason to suspect any trouble, but if Peter could have, he would have ordered Neal to find an excuse to skip the party when he saw its location. Neal was too accustomed to working without a net, by himself, to give much thought to his backup's problems.

Peter sat in the drafty van listening with Jones to the thieves toasting their good fortune and reflected that at least Neal still wore the anklet. It had occurred to Peter that a Marshal's tracking anklet could serve as a credential to this flavor of criminal. So Nick Halden had a conviction for possessing stolen property, big deal. Who didn't? Clearly he was a minimum security parolee on a wide radius, so the Feds must not be too concerned about him. Neal offered no objection to the arrangement, and Peter suspected that he'd thought of that before and just failed to bring it up.

He envied Neal having some warmth on the boat; even when he and Jones ran the engine briefly, the van didn't warm up enough for them to take off their coats. Their hands were freezing, so they wore gloves and removed them when they had to manipulate equipment. Thank God for thermos coffee.

Peter sat up and glanced at Jones when he heard, "What are you doing, man?" from one of Mencia's gang. His tone of voice indicated that he wasn't referring to how the canapés were being laid out. A second later came Mencia's voice. "Tommy! Start the engines. Get us out on the water. Do it now."

At Peter's nod, Jones picked up his radio and notified Port Authority. Peter threw on his hat, but both men froze as more orders by Mencia came across the radio. "Where's Halden? Get his ass up here. It's a setup." Peter's heart constricted. This wasn't expected to be a take-down, so he and Jones had no backup in place besides the Port Authority, and they weren't exactly in the area. "Fucking Christ's dick," Mencia screamed, "where's the statuette?"

"Neal, what have you done?" Peter muttered - not for the first time - as he and Jones pelted out of the van and raced for the dark shore. An arctic wind knifed through him in seconds, piercing his fear and urgency. Shit, that was cold. He worked a glove free as he ran so he could draw his weapon and every second his bare knuckles were exposed was agony. Their footing on the frozen, sloping mud was treacherous, and Peter hoped fervently he wouldn't have to catch himself with his ungloved hand. The final drop to the water was an icy thirty foot mudslide. He could see Mencia's boat, a shadow against the surface reflections on the water, its huge winches bent up in the stern like a grasshopper's knees. It was pulling away from shore.

Neal found no exit, no window, no porthole in the confined area below decks, but he found the bilge ballast compartment stinking of fish and knew it would have a series of watertight traps leading to the water outside. He couldn't have said how he knew it – he didn't question his certainty any more than he wasted time wondering how his cover had been blown. Sometimes it happened.

The engines of the boat roared to life and he coughed as a cloud of diesel smoke rolled through the compartment. He heard the shouting, and, deeply regretting the warm wool coat he'd left on deck, he lowered himself waist deep in the water. The cold was brutal. Despite the pounding of feet on the stair, he had to pause while he gasped involuntarily. The boat lurched forward. He spotted an orange life jacket discarded within reach as well as a heavy steel tool he didn't recognize, and snatched them both. He got his breathing under control and, wincing in anticipation, ducked in. The shocking cold disoriented him, but his flailing helped batter through the barriers he needed to cross, and, only barely aware of what he was doing, Neal fought free of the boat and into the Upper Bay.

Peter and Jones stood panting on the shore, helpless to do anything about the departing boat. Jones pointed, spotting what took Peter a few moments more to see. "There, do you see that? Is that a life jacket?" He yelled to be heard over the wind.

"I think so," Peter said. The swatch of color floated just beyond the departing boat, giving Peter a moment of hope.

"Think that's Caffrey?" Jones asked.

"Maybe," Peter replied. "I need you back at the van. Call McAlister at Port Authority, then call the Coast Guard. They need to stop that boat. Then bring up Neal's tracking data and tell me where he is. If he's in this water –" Peter looked down at the black waves at his feet. "We're gonna need help. Can you get back up that slope?"

They both looked at the thirty foot rise they'd slid down, and above them, beyond it, the unlit shapes of warehouses. "I'll manage," Jones said.

Before Peter could say any more, gunshots rang out from the boat, pummeling the water near the orange splash of a life vest. Both men jumped and Jones reached for his gun. "No," Peter said. "Get back to the van. I need you there."

Jones headed for the slope and Peter drew his own gun and ran along the shore. When he was sure he was well away from Jones, he yelled, "FBI," for form's sake and began firing at the boat. Consternation aboard, and then shots were fired back at him. He put his back flat against the muddy slope behind him, grateful that he'd drawn their gunshots away from Neal. He didn't shoot again right away; they would see his muzzle flash, and he had no cover. When they paused in their firing, he ran along the shore, trying to catch up. They had cut their engines and were idling in the area of the life jacket. Before Peter could find any cover, the engines started up again and the boat moved briskly out into the Bay, far beyond his reach or vision. The orange splash was gone, too.

"Jones, talk to me. Are you at the van?"

"I'm here, Peter," Jones sounded out of breath "Port Authority will try to catch them at the Verrazano Bridge. I've got Caffrey's data up ..."

"Yeah? Is he on the boat?" Peter had been standing still too long. That vicious wind was about to freeze him into an ice sculpture. His heart already felt like ice. Where was Neal?