WC: Better Men - Part 2
White Collar -- Fanfiction
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men - Part 2
Author's notes:
After finishing "Better Men", which was intended as a one-shot, the creative powers that be planted pesky ideas into my head to spin the story further. A h/c epic in four parts was the inevitable result. My sincere apologies to anyone who preferred Part 1 as a stand-alone piece. I swear, it was out of my control ;)
This is part 2 of 4.
Once again, humongous gratitude to my beta nice_disguise for constructive criticism and entertaining margin notes.
Comments, criticism and chocolate are always welcome.
Summary:
To save Elizabeth, Neal is forced into an unholy alliance. Can he outsmart his arch nemesis in a dangerous game of chess or will he pay the ultimate price?
Better Men - Part 2.1
Ka-donk. Ka-donk.
Neal feels the soft jolts as the dark limousine rolls over the seams in the pavement that signify the crossing onto the deck of the Brooklyn Bridge. He has never taken conscious note of this sound before. It was nothing but another subtle detail drowned out by the cacophony of city traffic as he rushed past this point in the backseat of a taxi or in the front seat of Peter’s car. No one is rushing them at this early hour, the drivers of the few cars that pass them still too sleepy and indifferent to sound their horns in disapproval of the limousine’s slow, deliberate pace.
Neal had requested the unhurried ride. The driver had silently nodded from behind the wheel, had thrown an inquisitive glance into the rearview mirror and had pulled away from the curb without asking questions. The driver is a good man this way. Reliable and discreet. Neal wishes he knew his name. He will be his last connection to the world he is about to leave behind.
Neal leans his temple against the cool surface of the tinted, bulletproof window and looks up at the wire cables that bear the bridge’s load and his. He wonders how many wires there are. He should have tallied them on one of the countless occasions he has come this way. It wouldn’t have been difficult, even with his mind drained and idle after a long day at Peter’s office. It wouldn’t have been hard. Not for him. In a different life he could have designed this bridge, in all its artistry and its graceful utility. His mind is good this way. Creative and calculative. The mind of an architect. He and Peter would have been a good team. Caffrey and Burke - Civil engineers. Peter, with his objective, practical head, would have taken Neal’s ambitious, artistic vision and would have shaped and compacted it into the solid limestone and granite towers that anchor the construction. They would have been great together, building this bridge. Caffrey and Burke. Perhaps this sounded better on a business card than a wanted poster after all.
Peter.
Neal won’t allow his mind to delve deeper. Not now. Maybe never. There is too much regret. Regret he can’t admit to. Regret he will never acknowledge, because doing so would mean spending his waking days consumed by it and by its futility.
Never look back.
Ka-donk. Ka-donk. They roll down the ramp of the bridge, past Federal Plaza, then through Chinatown with its deserted early morning sidewalks.
Leave it to Keller to pick a rendezvous site in the dingy darkness of the Lower East Side, with the waterfront at his back and the dripping FDR drive overhead. Keller is theatrical that way, never missing a chance to demonstrate that he feels at home in the murky margins of this city. He flaunts his comfort in places like this like he flaunts his blue-collar accent and clothes as testaments to the pride he has in his modest, tough upbringing. Neal suspects Keller feels superior to him in that respect. But how could he know? How could Keller know about that carefully concealed part of Neal that envies him for embracing the roots that Neal severed a long time ago, when he left his ordinary home behind and tossed his cheap clothes and his unrefined childhood accent into the waste bin of a Greyhound bus as it traveled through a different, muggy summer night like this. Neal pulls a handful of tissues from a dispenser in the back of the limousine. He blots his sticky face and neck. Keller doesn’t need to see him as anything but perfect and perfectly confident.
“We’re almost there,” the driver announces quietly and studies his passenger in the rearview mirror. “Do you need a moment? I can circle the block.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Neal replies. He discards the tissues and takes a long drink from one of the water bottles provided. “I’m ready if you are.”
The driver nods as his eyes linger for another second on the man in the backseat.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get her home safely.” the driver assures. “I’ve never messed up a job.”
Neal briefly meets the driver’s eyes and believes the man. He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders and straightens his back as he turns his attention to the streets and to the featureless shapes waiting in the darkness under the elevated highway up ahead to their left. Three men. Keller leaning against a concrete support at the far right, leisurely dragging on a cigarette. No immediate sign of Elizabeth, but two passenger cars are parked further back.
“That’s them,” he announces. “Get as close as you can but keep your exit clear.”
“I know, sir.” The driver shoots him a quick glance that tells him to focus on his own part of the job and leave the driving to him. The limousine crosses the oncoming traffic lane, pulls off the road and creeps to a halt in the small parking lot with its nose angled toward the road.
“Let me get out first and open the door for you. They’ll want to see that I’m unarmed,” the driver says.
Neal nods. He grabs his satchel and watches the driver unbuckle and step out of the car. From a few yards away, Keller and his crew survey the car and its passenger as the door is opened for him. The guns Neal expects to be pointed at him fail to make an appearance. He climbs out of the seat, silently signals the driver to stay put and channels the puny remains of his confidence into his stiff legs as he takes several steps into Keller’s direction.
“Caffrey! My old and renewed partner in crime!” Keller calmly extinguishes his cigarette butt against the concrete pillar before strolling toward Neal. He meets him at half-distance, his teeth bared in what could be a snarl as much as a smile. The sight and sound of the man makes bile rise in Neal’s throat.
“Cut the pleasantries, Keller,” he growls. He manages to lace his voice with enough threat that the henchmen at the periphery of his vision square their shoulders and inch their fingers underneath the lapels of their jackets. “Where is Elizabeth?”
“Geesh, Caffrey,” Keller snickers, and Neal decides that the grimace in the other man’s face is supposed to be a smirk. “Sounds like someone hasn’t had his Wheaties yet this morning.”
Neal shifts on his feet and stands a little taller. He doesn’t grace the other man by offering a reply. He prays the act of defiance doesn’t look as ridiculous as it feels. Keller studies his face with his frozen perversion of a smile. Neal refuses to break eye contact until Keller relents and barely inclines his head in the direction of the parked cars.
Neal turns to see the rear window of one of the sedans lower. Silenced by a piece of duct tape covering her mouth, Elizabeth stares at him from wide, frantic eyes. Unable to move her arms that are tied behind her back, she furiously kicks the seat in front of her when the tinted window is slowly raised again. Neal’s heart sinks at the sight of her. His foolish shred of hope that Keller may have been bluffing all along, that Elizabeth may have been safe and sound somewhere else is replaced by the sobering understanding that this is real. He closes his eyes for an instant and swallows the bitter truth. Then, as Elizabeth is quickly disappearing from view, Neal raises a comforting hand and nods at her with assurance that belies the pity he feels for Elizabeth-and for himself.
“You brought it?” Keller commands his attention.
“Let her go,” Neal demands.
“After I’ve seen proof.”
Neal inhales in exasperation and reaches to open the clasp of his satchel.
“Be a good sport and give the bag to Timmy over there.” Keller stops him and motions for one of his men to approach them. Neal reluctantly relinquishes the satchel. He has the sneaking suspicion that he won’t get it back. It’s a shame. He’s had it for a long time. His eyes stay on the bag as Timmy, a sausage-fingered, shapeless hunk of muscle with cromagnid features and a receding hairline, is placing the bag on the filthy ground to search it.
“So, Neal,” Keller continues in an irritatingly affable tone. Neal turns his head to find the other man sweeping his eyes up and down his body. “I hardly recognize you without your fancy suit and tie. I suppose you think black’s your color, but you look damn depressing to me.”
“I didn’t know there was a dress code,” Neal replies stone-faced.
Keller clicks his tongue.
“Funny you should mention it, Caffrey. There is.” Neal feels a puzzled frown sneak onto his forehead as Keller signals his second man to approach. Lurch, as Neal instantly christens him, is a tall, hollow-cheeked skeleton with soulless eyes that cut right through Neal as the henchman joins them with a black duffel. He passes the bag to Keller. A moment later a pair of dark blue overalls are pushed against Neal’s chest.
“Change,” Keller orders.
“Right now? You’re kidding?” Neal refuses to accept the piece of clothing. “I didn’t come here to be humiliated. We are partners, remember?”
“And to protect our partnership I need to know that you’re not wired,” Keller presses the overalls harder against him.
“They have detectors for that,” Neal retorts sullenly.
“What can I say, Neal? Call me old-fashioned.” Keller’s smirk is back in place and makes Neal’s fist itch. “Change. Now!”
“I’m not an idiot. I’m not wired.” Neal remains rooted in place, his jaw set, his eyes locked with Keller’s.
“Then this shouldn’t be a problem.” Keller doesn’t budge. “Now stop acting like a blushing virgin. We both know you’re not shy. Change your clothes before I get Ray over here to do it for you. Or perhaps you’d like me to ask your ladyfriend to help. We can arrange that. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about tapping that. This might be your last chance, Caffrey.”
“Don’t talk about her like that.” Neal snarls and envisions Keller’s head snapping to the side the instant his knuckles connect with the man’s chin. Keller’s complacent grin lets him know that his thoughts are spelled out all too clearly across his face. He despises Keller’s talent for bullying him into losing his temper, for proving time after time that underneath that cool, smooth exterior Neal Caffrey is an impulsive hothead. Keller has always had an uncanny ability to pinpoint his weak spots like no one else. No one other than Peter, Neal admits. But, unlike Keller, Peter would never relish in pressing his thumb into a sore spot just to watch Neal go off. Peter doesn’t need this kind of cheap satisfaction. Keller doesn’t deserve it. Neal unclenches his fingers. He takes a step back, leaving the overalls in Keller’s hand.
Neal begins to unbutton his shirtfront. He moves swiftly but without rush as he shrugs out of his shirt and hands it to Keller, who heedlessly discards it onto the ground. Neal grimaces and silently vows to refrain from wearing high-end threads to future meetings with kidnappers. Neal searches his trouser pockets, pulls out his cell phone and a few bills.
“They’re counted,” he remarks and surrenders the cash and the phone before undoing his belt and slipping off his shoes. He steps out of his pants, kicks them over to the side to join the crumpled shirt.
“Socks,” Keller says and doesn’t try to conceal his amusement with the scene unfolding. Neal strips off his socks then stands tall in his black boxer briefs with his palms turned forward in a challenging gesture. He ignores the two henchmen who regard him from their positions off to both sides. He doesn’t think about the trusty limousine driver at his back. He doesn’t let his gaze flit over to the car window that hides his friend’s wife. He stares straight at the man who has started a psychological war Neal refuses to let him win.
“Turn,” Keller commands.
Neal rotates a full turn and feels the gritty pavement under his bare feet. He tries his best to keep his frame relaxed, and his face indifferent. Nothing in his body language will give Keller the pleasure to see his humiliation and anger. Neal wraps those feelings tightly, files them away where he can retrieve them later, when Elizabeth is out of danger. For now he revels in the memory of how good it felt to catch Keller off guard with a swift, dead on target punch back in Raquel’s apartment. The blow had made his fingers hurt and had been worth every second of that pain.
“Satisfied?” Neal asks with his eyebrows raised when he comes face to face with Keller again. “Or do you need to see more?”
“Don’t worry, Caffrey. It’s pretty clear to everyone that there’s nothing to find there.” Keller tosses the overalls at him and upturns the bag in his hand to let a pair of sneakers drop out.
The meathead to Neal’s right snickers like a middle schooler. Lurch’s ability to smile must be confined entirely to the inside. Neal grabs the navy-blue overalls, steps inside and zips up the front. The nametag says Frank. He knew a Frank. He’s hated the name ever since. He shoves his feet into the athletic shoes that are a size too small. He debates whether the shoe size was a conscious choice by Keller and decides that it is safe to err on the side of Matthew Keller being a dirty weasel.
“Look at you, Caffrey,” Keller jeers. “Finally leaving everything white collar behind. How’s it feel to be a free man? And to think that all you needed was a friendly nudge from an old bud to lose that anklet.”
“Are you done?” Neal asks coldly. “’Cause I’d like to get on with our business.”
“Not quite,” Keller replies and that crooked smirk on his face makes Neal instantly wary. “I feel I need to settle a score before we can move forward. You know, clean slate and all.”
Neal’s comprehension of what is inevitably to follow comes a split second too late. The hook to his jaw leaves him stunned and staggering to his left. Through the ringing in his ears he stays present enough to avoid losing his footing. He sways on his feet and blinks the blurry pavement into focus and the back of his hand that is smeared with blood after wiping his lips. The hand is shaking, with adrenaline and with anger at his stupidity to let his attention slide. He stuffs the traitorous hand into his pocket as he straightens up and locks eyes with Keller. He fears the other man can hear his heart hammer in his chest. He swallows the coppery taste in his mouth.
“Are you done?” Unexpectedly, his firm voice defies his rattled composure.
“I am now.” Keller says and looks as if the punch failed to deliver the expected gratification. With a disappointed sigh, he extends a hand to the side and Timmy takes the cue to pass him the small, paper wrapped package he pulled from Neal’s bag. “Is this what I asked you to bring?”
“Of course,” Neal replies and blots at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “Early Vermeer. The painting disappeared from a private collection when the Nazis invaded the Netherlands.”
Neal glances at the oil portrait Keller holds in his hand. More than 350 years old and as beautiful as the day the young artist had conceived it. Keller had wanted proof. Proof that Neal had access to the treasure. Proof that the treasure was still within his grasp. Keller had waited until an hour ago to let him know which of the paintings that he had spotted on the video feed weeks ago he wanted to see. An hour was just enough time to retrieve it from the storage unit. He didn’t want to give Neal time to produce a forgery.
Keller scrutinizes the small painting, then raises it to smell the canvas. Neal wonders if Keller still isn’t convinced that Neal didn’t just paint it in the back of a moving car. Perhaps he just wants to know if it smells like the two million dollars it is worth. Its price tag is the extent of the appreciation the other man will ever have for this masterpiece.
“It’s the real deal, Keller.” Neal says and grows increasingly impatient. “Now let her go.”
“Fair enough.” Keller shrugs and casually spits into the dirt next to Neal’s shoe.
He signals Lurch who makes his way over to the car. The lanky man opens the back door. Leaving her hands bound behind her back, he seizes Elizabeth by the upper arm and none too gently helps her out of her seat. She stumbles in her heeled shoes as he manhandles her over the uneven pavement. Neal can hear her protest from behind the gag. He feels instantly proud of her unbroken spirit and endlessly relieved to see her unharmed. It is difficult to keep his steps below a jog as he hurries to meet her halfway across the parking lot.
“Take your hands off her,” he demands sharply.
Lurch glances over at Keller and releases Elizabeth’s arm.
“Hi, El. Everything will be fine,” Neal says softly. He briefly squeezes her shoulders before passing his hands over her hair and cupping her face. “Are you okay?”
She nods and tries to say something as her eyes look up at him, tired and worried and frustrated.
“Cut her loose!” Neal barks at Lurch without taking his eyes off of Elizabeth.
“Shhh, it’s alright.” His thumbs stroke her cheeks. He gently works his fingers under the corner of the duct tape and slowly peels back the tape. He grimaces in sympathy when the adhesive sticks to her skin. “Sorry. It’ll just be another second.”
Another second until what? The fingers that remove her gag suddenly hesitate. Another second until she unleashes her anger? Until she shouts the disappointment that was carved into each tired line on Peter’s face earlier this night? Is he ready for this? From her?
“Is Peter okay?” The first words out of Elizabeth’s mouth are rushed and breathless and are an endless relief for Neal.
“Peter is fine. He’s waiting at home,” he assures her.
Elizabeth gasps in discomfort when Lurch yanks at the ties around her sore wrists. Her arms are suddenly free to fly around his neck. He wraps his around her back and pulls her against his chest, hesitantly at first, then without restraint. She shakes in his arms and Neal is convinced that this is the only sign of weakness anyone has seen from her all night. This feels good, holding her with the certainty that this will all be worth it in the end. For the first time in hours the feeling of dread that has been turning Neal’s stomach eases.
“It’s almost over, Elizabeth. You did great,” he whispers into her ear then breathes a fleeting kiss against her temple. He gently withdraws from her embrace. She lets him step back but refuses to release him entirely.
“He got you pretty good.” She touches her fingertips to his jaw.
“It’s not that bad.” His attempt at a nonchalant smile is curbed by his swelling lip.
“We’ll put some ice on it when we get home,” she says and he only nods.
“Yes, let’s get you home.” He takes her hand in his and keeps her close as he guides her to the waiting limousine. He tips his head at the driver who opens the door for her. She climbs into the seat and doesn’t let go of Neal’s hand. He won’t budge when she slides over and tries to pull him after her into the car.
“Neal?” There is a flash of confusion in her eyes that turns to undisguised panic when she realizes that he has no intention to come with her.
“It’s alright, Elizabeth.” He squeezes her hand lightly then extracts his fingers from hers.
“You gave him the painting. Now get in!”
“Take care, Elizabeth. And take care of Peter.” Neal smiles at her sadly and nods at the driver. The other man engages the child safety lock and closes the door.
“Damn it, Neal, don’t do this to us! Please!” Neal hears her plead. The door closure rattles from the inside. Neal feels his resolve erode with every passing second.
“Touching. Almost brings tears to my eyes, you know.” Keller appears by his side. He hands Neal two prepaid cell phones. “Two on the speed dial will let your driver reach you after he’s dropped her off. He can toss the phone after that.“
Neal tests the phone before passing it on. The driver pockets the cell and tips his head curtly before sliding behind the wheel and pulling the door closed. The engine springs to life a moment later. Keller raps his knuckles against the roof of the limousine as it slowly pulls away.
Neal watches the vehicle disappear down the empty road and feels lost. He doesn’t mean to flinch when Keller’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
“You’ve never been good at the whole goodbye thing, Caffrey,” Keller says and there is a hint of actual sympathy in his voice. “Why don’t you let an old buddy buy you a cup of coffee while you wait for that call. And then have a treasure to move.”
***
Neal sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees. Through the saggy padding he can feel the support slats dig into the back of his thighs. He hates this couch. His back is stiff and aching after having spent another restless night on it. How many has it been now? Five?
He hates everything about this warehouse. It’s too hot and too humid, for the boxes of priceless art and for him. He doesn’t like being stored. He doesn’t like being relegated to an old living room set pushed into the corner of a warehouse. He doesn’t like using the filthy shower in the custodial closet that smells of sewage. He doesn’t like to be under constant watch of Timmy or Lurch or the other two men he doesn’t care to name.
He hates not knowing where he is.
Keller had made sure of this when he had made him ride in the back of the truck along with the crates they had taken from Mozzie’s storage unit. Neal hadn’t argued. He didn’t want to delay their departure, didn’t want to give Mozzie the opportunity to put two and two together, to walk into the door and into a bullet.
Mozzie. The pangs of guilt the thought of his friend kindles haven’t eased over the last few days. He didn’t have to deceive Mozz. He didn’t have to use his friend’s hysterical concern for Elizabeth to send him on a fool’s errand while he struck a deal with Keller behind Mozzie’s back. He didn’t have to. It just made things easier at the time. Neal couldn’t take a chance. He hadn’t had the fight in him to face Mozzie and Peter that night.
After Mozzie’s treasure was loaded into Keller’s truck, Neal had left a single painting behind in the emptied space. An illustration to Shakespeare’s Julius Ceasar by Delacroix. A 2.5 million dollar apology for an act of betrayal Mozzie would understand but wouldn’t be able to forgive. Neal had told Keller that they owed Mozzie as much. With sweat running down his temples, with his body aching and with his breath quickened from carrying the heavy boxes Neal had stood before Keller, determined not to be denied. His eyes narrow slits, Keller had silently sucked on a cigarette. Finally, he had blown a lungful of second hand smoke into Neal’s defiant face, had donned a pompous grin and let him have his way. Sentimental, Keller had called him. Then he had slammed the door of the trailer shut behind him.
Locked in and alone, Neal had sunken to the floor with his back against the boxes. He had welcomed the darkness and the privacy it offered. It allowed him to acknowledge utter mental and physical exhaustion for the first time in this endless day. It gave him license to wallow in his misery without having to fear Keller’s ridicule or his own self-contempt. With his eyes needlessly closed in the blackness, Neal had listened to the muffled sounds of traffic, had tried to keep a record of the turns made and the distances traveled. The effort had been futile. An hour later, the door unlatched, releasing him into the artificial light of a large brick warehouse that has become his prison.
Neal glances over the chessboard set up on the coffee table. Across from him Keller is leaning forward, studying the board and smiling. Neal knows his opponent will put him in checkmate in six moves. He knew this three moves ago. He knew this the moment Keller had taken his best friend’s wife.
Matthew Keller is certain of his victory. He looks to be enjoying every drawn out minute of it. Maybe this is why he is still alive, Neal wonders. Maybe having him here-out of options and out of free will-is as much of a triumph for Keller as taking the treasure. Keller treats him cordially. He doesn’t let him in on the details of their impending move. For his own good, Keller says. He brings him good food and good books and new clothes, to Neal’s taste, not his. He calls him partner, not prisoner. He keeps him here, another trophy amongst his prized possessions.
Neal looks at the crates stacked and waiting to be shipped out. Pine boxes full of stuff plundered by war criminals, worth billions today despite the innocent blood that was shed for it, or perhaps because of it. This is what he risked everything for? This is why he tore himself up inside over the choice of Mozzie’s friendship or Peter’s? This is what he wanted to build a new life on?
This is what left him with nothing in the end.
Nothing but the certainty that, in the end, he did what was right. For Elizabeth. For Peter. This certainty is what grounds him now, here in this limbo between his past and an uncertain future in the hands of a sociopath.
“What’s the matter, Caffrey?” Across the table Keller finally moves his knight to capture Neal’s bishop. “Head not in the game?”
Neal makes his defensive move on the board and looks up at his opponent’s confident face.
“Why am I still alive?” He asks. “You have what you wanted.”
Keller is momentarily taken aback. Neal doesn’t break eye contact when Keller sits back in his chair and considers his question. For a second, Keller opens his mouth as if to deliver an honest answer, then he closes his lips and smirks. He makes his next move. Four more until check mate.
“You’ve been spending too much time around the Feds, Caffrey,” Keller finally replies. “A word is a word among partners, hell, among old friends.”
Neal bristles. Matthew Keller was never his friend. They were never partners, never equals. Not morally.
“You don’t know the first thing about friendship, Matthew,” he says quietly as his queen maneuvers into retreat on the chessboard. Speaking Keller’s first name has always felt odd to Neal. He never truly understood why. They’ve been acquaintances, even accomplices for a long time. Why was he uncomfortable to acknowledge this familiarity with the simple utterance of a given name? Why was Keller still Keller, when Agent Burke had always been Peter?
“Oh, and you think you do?” Keller’s chuckle is insulting. “Is that what Peter Burke has lead you to believe? That you’re friends?”
Neal feels his face harden.
“You’re a damn fool to believe you were anything but a prisoner, a convict who was more useful kept on a leash than behind bars. You were defeated with your own weapons, Caffrey. They knew prison walls or a tracking anklet couldn’t keep you under control but words could.”
Neal scrutinizes his opponent. What is Keller’s game? Is Neal’s surrender not enough? Does Keller try to chip away at his crumbling foundations? Does he want to pull the threadbare rug out from under his feet by stoking fears Neal thought he had put behind him. Or does Keller simply echo what Mozzie has long tried to make him see?
“It wasn’t like that.” Neal replies and is reasonably confident that his face doesn’t give away his smoldering doubt.
“Are you telling me that you couldn’t have lost that anklet as soon as it was on? Made a run for it?” Keller continues. “Come on, Caffrey, you had the resources.”
“Are we here to play twenty questions? Because for some reason I thought this was a game of chess?”
Keller only grins smugly and Neal feels anger flare up in the pit of his stomach.
“It wasn’t that easy, okay?” Neal finally says, his tone more tetchy than he intents.
“Oh yeah? What did Peter do to make you stay? Threaten you with jail?”
Neal narrows his eyes and bites his tongue. He won’t give Keller the satisfaction to witness his self-control slip further.
“Of course, he did,” Keller continues and leans forward a little. “That man knows every page in your book, Caffrey. He knows that for a guy like you prison wasn’t all birthday cards and Tiffany lamps. He knows that when sweet Neal Caffrey goes to the Big House he’ll sooner or later find himself spooning with a white supremacist from Kansas City who won’t take no for an answer.”
Keller pauses to study his reaction closely. He doesn’t look satisfied with what he sees in Neal’s face.
“Am I right?” Keller challenges. “I bet if I asked around my old buddies who did time with you they’d tell me that there were good times to be had with you, Caffrey. I bet in your first few months in there the infirmary had a bed reserved with your name on it for when the boys took it too far once again. Am I right?”
Neal remains silent and fights the crippling feeling of nausea. It’s the same festering fear that welled up inside of him every time Peter reminded him of the years of unserved prison time that loomed over his head. He had coped with the paralyzing fear by making Peter’s threats an ongoing joke, by challenging the agent to voice that threat one more time, to repeat it over and over until it no longer carried true menace.
“And when the threats no longer worked,” Keller carries on and Neal fears that his thoughts are reflected too clearly in his face, “when you went behind his back regardless, what did Peter Burke do? Did he start talking to you about partnership and trust? Did he treat you like a friend? Did he treat you like family? Did his wife cook you dinner? Did they make you feel like you’re better than the scum his people think we are?”
What had Mozzie called it? Stockholm Syndrome? Neal’s heart is hammering in his chest now. He wants to shake his head vehemently in denial. He doesn’t move. Keller’s lips curl when he briefly lowers his gaze to make his move. Check. Three moves to checkmate.
“Peter is not an idiot. You of all people should know that, Neal.” Keller relaxes back into his chair. “He knows your weaknesses. He knows you get attached to people. To Kate, to Mozzie, to Adler. You can’t help it. It’s quite pathetic, you know. Makes me wonder how you ever amounted to anything as a con man.”
He pauses and Neal takes the opportunity of avoid his scrutiny by moving his king to safety. He hears Keller’s affected sigh.
“But I’m not complaining, Caffrey. If you didn’t have the abandonment issues of a stray puppy, I wouldn’t be sitting here, looking forward to an early retirement.” He gestures widely at the stacked crates. “If it wasn’t for your misplaced conscience, none of us would be here. You and the short guy would be sipping cocktails on some island and Peter would be manning a desk in the bullpen until the blemish in his career is polished away.”
Keller surveys the chessboard again and moves his queen to capture Neal’s. Check. Two moves to go.
“Is this why you stayed, Caffrey? To protect Peter’s career that he built on capturing people like you?”
“Maybe Peter had something to offer,” Neal replies, his tone defensive. “Did you ever consider there was something else to strive for than wealth?”
Keller laughs out loud.
“Yeah, like what?” Keller taunts. “What did he dangle in front of you? A career? Neal Caffrey-International Superagent? Get real, Neal. You’re a highschool dropout with a criminal record two miles long. Did you really believe you had a future beyond your duties as a consultant?”
“There are options,” Neal quietly adds, although those options elude him at the moment. He moves his king yet again. When he looks up Keller is shaking his head with an expression akin to pity.
“I have to give Peter credit. He sure did a number on you, Caffrey. How long did it take him to brainwash you?”
“You don’t know the first thing about Peter,” Neal says from between tight lips.
“I suppose we all need our heroes,” Keller sighs. “Fortunately, most of us grow out of them by the time we’re twelve. But not you, Caffrey. You spent the last two years standing on top of the garage with your bed sheet for a cape, trying to decide if you want to be like your hero or stay true to your nature. And we both know that you can’t fly, Neal.”
With a fingertip Keller slowly pushes his queen across the board.
“Make your move,” he requests.
Neal stares at the board. It will be his last move. Checkmate is inevitable. No more options.
His hand reaches to tip his king and stops mid-air. His eyes wander to Keller and over to the crates.
Maybe this is what he deserved, to spend the rest of his life surrounded by riches but with nothing of value. Without love and without friendship and with his worst enemy as his only confidant. How long would he last until Keller grew bored with him? Was this his sentence? Was he to live out his days as a dog among wolves because he proved incapable of living as a man among men?
He doesn’t know. What he deserves is not for him to decide, even if his younger self would want to convince him otherwise. His younger self from a week, perhaps even a day ago. The only thing Neal knows is that Keller doesn’t deserve to come out the victor through all of this. The treasure doesn’t belong to him. No more so than it belonged to the men who stole it half a century ago. No more so than it was ever truly Mozzie’s or his own.
He can’t let Keller walk away with the spoils of a battle he didn’t fight. He can’t let Keller walk away like this, with him or without him. He has one more trump to play. One more card concealed in his sleeve. He had been saving it. For when, he wasn’t sure.
Neal retracts his hand from above the chessboard.
“You want to know why I stayed?” It sounds like a challenge, rather than a question.
“Enlighten me.” Keller looks bored as he sits back in his chair.
“There’s a manifest.”
“Of what?” Keller’s brow furrows.
“Of that.” Neal tips his head in the direction of the wooden crates.
He has Keller’s full attention.
“There was a manifest on the U-boat,” he continues. “The FBI has it.”
“And you know that how?” Keller sits forward, his eyes narrow slits.
“I’ve seen it. DC Art Crimes came to pick it up. One of their agents dropped the portfolio and I saw a page. There were many more.” Neal pauses, lets his words sink in. “Potentially every item in those boxes will be on the watch lists of the FBI and Interpol. You may be able to move a handful of paintings before things get so hot that none of your fences will want to touch them with a stick. And you know it won’t end there. Sooner or later a buyer or a fence will flip on you.”
Neal watches Keller carefully. He studies every tense line in the other man’s face, waiting for him to snap.
“You want to know why I didn’t take the treasure and leave, Matthew?” Neal repeats calmly. “Because it’s like the Holy Grail in that Indiana Jones movie. It can’t be moved. Can’t be sold. Worthless. All of it.”
“You’re lying,” Keller snarls.
“I can prove it.”
“How?”
“My phone. Do you still have it?”
Without taking his eyes off Neal, Keller signals Lurch to approach from his guard post by the rear entrance.
“Get me Caffrey’s phone,” he orders brusquely. They wait in silence for the tall man to return and hand the cell phone to Keller.
“Check the pictures.”
Neal looks on as Keller opens the phone’s image directory and scrolls through the files. He stops and squints at the image on the small screen.
“There were dozens of sheets,” Neal says. “This is the only one I could snap a picture of.”
He flinches when the phone shatters on the wall behind him. The edge of the coffee table hits his shin as the chessboard and pieces come flying at him. Neal doesn’t dare to move as Keller hovers over him. He doesn’t avoid Keller’s furious eyes. He waits for the first blow to hit. It doesn’t come.
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Keller addresses Lurch. “I’ll be back soon.”
When Keller returns hours later, it is dark outside and Neal has nodded off on the saggy sofa under the watchful eyes of Lurch. The voices that filter into Neal’s sleep-dazed consciousness are gruff and agitated. Neal opens his eyes to find Keller barking orders at his crew before he makes a direct beeline for the couch and his prisoner. Whatever Keller did to verify Neal’s claim of the manifest’s existence, the results of his research did not come out to his liking. He is livid.
Neal’s systems are on full alert immediately. He doesn’t have time to get to his feet before he is hurled up and off the couch by the fists that grab him.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Keller half drags half lifts him away from the sitting area.
“I take it you made some calls?” Neal asks and struggles to keep his legs under him. “Found out that the manife-“
The punch to his stomach doubles him over.
“You set me up!”
“I gave you what you asked for,” Neal grunts between short breaths. “You should’ve asked the right questions.”
Keller yanks him upright by the shirt collar. Neal backs up until the brick wall stops his retreat. Keller moves in on him until their faces are inches apart.
“Is this what Burke and you hashed out? Wait for me to sell? Wait for me to walk into your trap?”
“No!” Neal shakes his head.
If the slap to his face is any indication, it is not the answer Keller wants to hear.
“No!” Neal insists. His hands clutch at Keller’s arms as he tries to free himself from the other man’s grip. “Peter doesn’t know that the art survived the explosion. He suspected. He suspected that I had it, but he didn’t know.”
The hold on his shirt shifts to his throat. Neal’s eyes widen as his air is cut off. He frantically claws at the choking hand. Stars begin to dance around the periphery of his vision and Keller tightens his grip further. Neal closes his eyes to the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. In a last ditch effort to hang on to consciousness, Neal jerks up his knee, hitting Keller where it hurts. He swings his fist in a wild and uncoordinated but ferociously desperate punch that glances Keller’s cheekbone and collides with his nose. The other man stumbles backwards, awkwardly bent at the waist and nursing his bloody nose.
Gasping for air, Neal steps away from the wall. He may not be an expert in hand-to-hand combat, but he knows that being cornered is never a good position to fight from. Neither is being outnumbered, he admits uneasily when Lurch, Timmy and the unnamed third encroach in defense of their rattled boss.
“Not yet.” Keller wipes his nose on his sleeve and keeps his henchmen at bay with a dismissive wave. Neal doesn’t know if he should be grateful for this. Keller’s next hook makes it clear that the man has no intention to be the lesser of two evils. The impact with Neal’s chin sends him stumbling back. A crate collides with the back of his knees. He hears the crate’s bottom scrape on the concrete and the loose lid crashing to the floor. Then wood splinters under Neal’s back as a swift kick to his stomach knocks him off his feet. For an instant the pain of the collision is overshadowed by the horror of witnessing his elbow break through the canvas of a priceless Rembrandt. He scrambles sideways a few inches, gasping for air, his fingers hovering helplessly over the torn edges of the painting.
“Look at yourself, Caffrey.” Keller looms over him. “Still a bleeding heart for an unsellable piece of junk.” He wrenches the unframed, mounted canvas from the pile of shattered crate. He looks at the portrait, a jagged hole gaping in place of the subject’s face. Then the canvas’ support cracks as it is smashed against the edge of another crate. Keller holds the mangled remains of the masterpiece in his hand, the jagged edges of the broken mounting frame jutting from shredded canvas. Neal watches the other man’s frame quiver with rage, his chest rising in heavy breaths. He has never seen Keller like this, his cool almost gone. The man is dangerous on any day. Maneuvered into a tactical dead end he is a ticking time bomb.
“You can still walk away from this,” Neal says, his voice hoarse but his tone level. He doesn’t dare to move, the shattered pieces of the packing crate digging painfully into his back. “Take the gold and jewelry. Melt it. Pay off your goons. Leave the country. And never come back. Because if you do, Matthew, Peter will find you. You don’t know him.”
The roar that originates deep in Keller’s throat comes too late to warn Neal of the fractured Rembrandt that is wielded at him with fury. He hears the fabric of his shirt rip before he feels the splintered edge of the painting tear into in skin. A second swing hits him bluntly across the shoulder. By the time the painting comes down for a rapid third strike, Neal has gained the presence of mind to duck to the side and escape the full force of the crushing impact to his head. Still, the glancing blow to his left brow and temple nearly costs him his consciousness.
Mercifully, the assault stops. His hand clutched to the stinging wound over his eye, Neal blinks Keller’s blurry image back into focus as the man towers over him. The mangled Rembrandt is tossed aside and Neal quietly moans with relief. He swallows the taste of bile in his mouth.
“You shouldn’t have taken her, Keller,” Neal says huskily. His voice sounds odd to him. Too confident. Too unafraid. “When you took Elizabeth you crossed a line you should never have stepped over.”
Keller seizes him by the front of his shirt, lifts his shoulders off the floor.
“And what line did you cross when you stole all this?” Keller replies coolly, not a trace left of the madman from merely a minute ago.
“Let me go and let me find out,” Neal whispers.
“Be careful what you wish for, Caffrey.”
Keller releases his grip, discarding Neal back onto the warehouse floor. Neal watches him warily as Keller straightens out, tugs his jacket back into shape then rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks around the room, at the crates of stolen art and at his men who have drawn closer, temporarily abandoning their posts to gawk at the scene.
“Have at him,” Keller orders calmly without another look at the man on the floor. “Leave him alive. Then pack up the trucks. We have a ship waiting.”
Neal frantically clambers away as two of the henchmen approach him. He briefly manages to get his feet under him before a punch sends him stumbling into the bony frame of Lurch. The minutes that follow are a blur of knuckles and boots and taste of blood and dirty warehouse concrete. The sound of his cries and pleas slowly grow fainter in his ears as he slips into welcomed oblivion. His eyes drift shut with the chilling understanding that the only thing capable of bringing a smile to Lurch’s stony face is to feel another man’s bones break under his fists.
***
Softness.
The surface pressing against his back and legs feels soft. Soft and smooth.
The familiar weight around his left ankle.
Home?
Silence.
Death?
No. Somebody moans.
It’s him.
Pain.
Everywhere.
Hammering in his head. Throbbing in his chest. Dull in his stomach. Excruciating when he tries to move. Blinding when he briefly cracks an eyelid that feels too heavy to lift.
Blinding?
Not the pain. The light.
He tries to concentrate. How hard can it be to simply open a pair of eyes? It’s ridiculous. He chuckles. The searing pain that shoots into his side does the trick. His eyes fly open.
He stares at the white ceiling.
Back to Part 1
On to Part 3
Disclaimer:
All recognizable characters are property of Jeff Eastin and USA Network.
No copyright infringement intended.
Title: Better Men - Part 2
- Rating: PG-13
- Category: Hurt/Comfort, Drama, Friendship, Missing scene/alternate canon
- Warnings: Violence, references to sexual acts but nothing explicit
- Spoilers: Countdown, Various other references
Author's notes:
After finishing "Better Men", which was intended as a one-shot, the creative powers that be planted pesky ideas into my head to spin the story further. A h/c epic in four parts was the inevitable result. My sincere apologies to anyone who preferred Part 1 as a stand-alone piece. I swear, it was out of my control ;)
This is part 2 of 4.
Once again, humongous gratitude to my beta nice_disguise for constructive criticism and entertaining margin notes.
Comments, criticism and chocolate are always welcome.
Summary:
To save Elizabeth, Neal is forced into an unholy alliance. Can he outsmart his arch nemesis in a dangerous game of chess or will he pay the ultimate price?
Better Men - Part 2.1
Ka-donk. Ka-donk.
Neal feels the soft jolts as the dark limousine rolls over the seams in the pavement that signify the crossing onto the deck of the Brooklyn Bridge. He has never taken conscious note of this sound before. It was nothing but another subtle detail drowned out by the cacophony of city traffic as he rushed past this point in the backseat of a taxi or in the front seat of Peter’s car. No one is rushing them at this early hour, the drivers of the few cars that pass them still too sleepy and indifferent to sound their horns in disapproval of the limousine’s slow, deliberate pace.
Neal had requested the unhurried ride. The driver had silently nodded from behind the wheel, had thrown an inquisitive glance into the rearview mirror and had pulled away from the curb without asking questions. The driver is a good man this way. Reliable and discreet. Neal wishes he knew his name. He will be his last connection to the world he is about to leave behind.
Neal leans his temple against the cool surface of the tinted, bulletproof window and looks up at the wire cables that bear the bridge’s load and his. He wonders how many wires there are. He should have tallied them on one of the countless occasions he has come this way. It wouldn’t have been difficult, even with his mind drained and idle after a long day at Peter’s office. It wouldn’t have been hard. Not for him. In a different life he could have designed this bridge, in all its artistry and its graceful utility. His mind is good this way. Creative and calculative. The mind of an architect. He and Peter would have been a good team. Caffrey and Burke - Civil engineers. Peter, with his objective, practical head, would have taken Neal’s ambitious, artistic vision and would have shaped and compacted it into the solid limestone and granite towers that anchor the construction. They would have been great together, building this bridge. Caffrey and Burke. Perhaps this sounded better on a business card than a wanted poster after all.
Peter.
Neal won’t allow his mind to delve deeper. Not now. Maybe never. There is too much regret. Regret he can’t admit to. Regret he will never acknowledge, because doing so would mean spending his waking days consumed by it and by its futility.
Never look back.
Ka-donk. Ka-donk. They roll down the ramp of the bridge, past Federal Plaza, then through Chinatown with its deserted early morning sidewalks.
Leave it to Keller to pick a rendezvous site in the dingy darkness of the Lower East Side, with the waterfront at his back and the dripping FDR drive overhead. Keller is theatrical that way, never missing a chance to demonstrate that he feels at home in the murky margins of this city. He flaunts his comfort in places like this like he flaunts his blue-collar accent and clothes as testaments to the pride he has in his modest, tough upbringing. Neal suspects Keller feels superior to him in that respect. But how could he know? How could Keller know about that carefully concealed part of Neal that envies him for embracing the roots that Neal severed a long time ago, when he left his ordinary home behind and tossed his cheap clothes and his unrefined childhood accent into the waste bin of a Greyhound bus as it traveled through a different, muggy summer night like this. Neal pulls a handful of tissues from a dispenser in the back of the limousine. He blots his sticky face and neck. Keller doesn’t need to see him as anything but perfect and perfectly confident.
“We’re almost there,” the driver announces quietly and studies his passenger in the rearview mirror. “Do you need a moment? I can circle the block.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Neal replies. He discards the tissues and takes a long drink from one of the water bottles provided. “I’m ready if you are.”
The driver nods as his eyes linger for another second on the man in the backseat.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get her home safely.” the driver assures. “I’ve never messed up a job.”
Neal briefly meets the driver’s eyes and believes the man. He takes a deep breath, rolls his shoulders and straightens his back as he turns his attention to the streets and to the featureless shapes waiting in the darkness under the elevated highway up ahead to their left. Three men. Keller leaning against a concrete support at the far right, leisurely dragging on a cigarette. No immediate sign of Elizabeth, but two passenger cars are parked further back.
“That’s them,” he announces. “Get as close as you can but keep your exit clear.”
“I know, sir.” The driver shoots him a quick glance that tells him to focus on his own part of the job and leave the driving to him. The limousine crosses the oncoming traffic lane, pulls off the road and creeps to a halt in the small parking lot with its nose angled toward the road.
“Let me get out first and open the door for you. They’ll want to see that I’m unarmed,” the driver says.
Neal nods. He grabs his satchel and watches the driver unbuckle and step out of the car. From a few yards away, Keller and his crew survey the car and its passenger as the door is opened for him. The guns Neal expects to be pointed at him fail to make an appearance. He climbs out of the seat, silently signals the driver to stay put and channels the puny remains of his confidence into his stiff legs as he takes several steps into Keller’s direction.
“Caffrey! My old and renewed partner in crime!” Keller calmly extinguishes his cigarette butt against the concrete pillar before strolling toward Neal. He meets him at half-distance, his teeth bared in what could be a snarl as much as a smile. The sight and sound of the man makes bile rise in Neal’s throat.
“Cut the pleasantries, Keller,” he growls. He manages to lace his voice with enough threat that the henchmen at the periphery of his vision square their shoulders and inch their fingers underneath the lapels of their jackets. “Where is Elizabeth?”
“Geesh, Caffrey,” Keller snickers, and Neal decides that the grimace in the other man’s face is supposed to be a smirk. “Sounds like someone hasn’t had his Wheaties yet this morning.”
Neal shifts on his feet and stands a little taller. He doesn’t grace the other man by offering a reply. He prays the act of defiance doesn’t look as ridiculous as it feels. Keller studies his face with his frozen perversion of a smile. Neal refuses to break eye contact until Keller relents and barely inclines his head in the direction of the parked cars.
Neal turns to see the rear window of one of the sedans lower. Silenced by a piece of duct tape covering her mouth, Elizabeth stares at him from wide, frantic eyes. Unable to move her arms that are tied behind her back, she furiously kicks the seat in front of her when the tinted window is slowly raised again. Neal’s heart sinks at the sight of her. His foolish shred of hope that Keller may have been bluffing all along, that Elizabeth may have been safe and sound somewhere else is replaced by the sobering understanding that this is real. He closes his eyes for an instant and swallows the bitter truth. Then, as Elizabeth is quickly disappearing from view, Neal raises a comforting hand and nods at her with assurance that belies the pity he feels for Elizabeth-and for himself.
“You brought it?” Keller commands his attention.
“Let her go,” Neal demands.
“After I’ve seen proof.”
Neal inhales in exasperation and reaches to open the clasp of his satchel.
“Be a good sport and give the bag to Timmy over there.” Keller stops him and motions for one of his men to approach them. Neal reluctantly relinquishes the satchel. He has the sneaking suspicion that he won’t get it back. It’s a shame. He’s had it for a long time. His eyes stay on the bag as Timmy, a sausage-fingered, shapeless hunk of muscle with cromagnid features and a receding hairline, is placing the bag on the filthy ground to search it.
“So, Neal,” Keller continues in an irritatingly affable tone. Neal turns his head to find the other man sweeping his eyes up and down his body. “I hardly recognize you without your fancy suit and tie. I suppose you think black’s your color, but you look damn depressing to me.”
“I didn’t know there was a dress code,” Neal replies stone-faced.
Keller clicks his tongue.
“Funny you should mention it, Caffrey. There is.” Neal feels a puzzled frown sneak onto his forehead as Keller signals his second man to approach. Lurch, as Neal instantly christens him, is a tall, hollow-cheeked skeleton with soulless eyes that cut right through Neal as the henchman joins them with a black duffel. He passes the bag to Keller. A moment later a pair of dark blue overalls are pushed against Neal’s chest.
“Change,” Keller orders.
“Right now? You’re kidding?” Neal refuses to accept the piece of clothing. “I didn’t come here to be humiliated. We are partners, remember?”
“And to protect our partnership I need to know that you’re not wired,” Keller presses the overalls harder against him.
“They have detectors for that,” Neal retorts sullenly.
“What can I say, Neal? Call me old-fashioned.” Keller’s smirk is back in place and makes Neal’s fist itch. “Change. Now!”
“I’m not an idiot. I’m not wired.” Neal remains rooted in place, his jaw set, his eyes locked with Keller’s.
“Then this shouldn’t be a problem.” Keller doesn’t budge. “Now stop acting like a blushing virgin. We both know you’re not shy. Change your clothes before I get Ray over here to do it for you. Or perhaps you’d like me to ask your ladyfriend to help. We can arrange that. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about tapping that. This might be your last chance, Caffrey.”
“Don’t talk about her like that.” Neal snarls and envisions Keller’s head snapping to the side the instant his knuckles connect with the man’s chin. Keller’s complacent grin lets him know that his thoughts are spelled out all too clearly across his face. He despises Keller’s talent for bullying him into losing his temper, for proving time after time that underneath that cool, smooth exterior Neal Caffrey is an impulsive hothead. Keller has always had an uncanny ability to pinpoint his weak spots like no one else. No one other than Peter, Neal admits. But, unlike Keller, Peter would never relish in pressing his thumb into a sore spot just to watch Neal go off. Peter doesn’t need this kind of cheap satisfaction. Keller doesn’t deserve it. Neal unclenches his fingers. He takes a step back, leaving the overalls in Keller’s hand.
Neal begins to unbutton his shirtfront. He moves swiftly but without rush as he shrugs out of his shirt and hands it to Keller, who heedlessly discards it onto the ground. Neal grimaces and silently vows to refrain from wearing high-end threads to future meetings with kidnappers. Neal searches his trouser pockets, pulls out his cell phone and a few bills.
“They’re counted,” he remarks and surrenders the cash and the phone before undoing his belt and slipping off his shoes. He steps out of his pants, kicks them over to the side to join the crumpled shirt.
“Socks,” Keller says and doesn’t try to conceal his amusement with the scene unfolding. Neal strips off his socks then stands tall in his black boxer briefs with his palms turned forward in a challenging gesture. He ignores the two henchmen who regard him from their positions off to both sides. He doesn’t think about the trusty limousine driver at his back. He doesn’t let his gaze flit over to the car window that hides his friend’s wife. He stares straight at the man who has started a psychological war Neal refuses to let him win.
“Turn,” Keller commands.
Neal rotates a full turn and feels the gritty pavement under his bare feet. He tries his best to keep his frame relaxed, and his face indifferent. Nothing in his body language will give Keller the pleasure to see his humiliation and anger. Neal wraps those feelings tightly, files them away where he can retrieve them later, when Elizabeth is out of danger. For now he revels in the memory of how good it felt to catch Keller off guard with a swift, dead on target punch back in Raquel’s apartment. The blow had made his fingers hurt and had been worth every second of that pain.
“Satisfied?” Neal asks with his eyebrows raised when he comes face to face with Keller again. “Or do you need to see more?”
“Don’t worry, Caffrey. It’s pretty clear to everyone that there’s nothing to find there.” Keller tosses the overalls at him and upturns the bag in his hand to let a pair of sneakers drop out.
The meathead to Neal’s right snickers like a middle schooler. Lurch’s ability to smile must be confined entirely to the inside. Neal grabs the navy-blue overalls, steps inside and zips up the front. The nametag says Frank. He knew a Frank. He’s hated the name ever since. He shoves his feet into the athletic shoes that are a size too small. He debates whether the shoe size was a conscious choice by Keller and decides that it is safe to err on the side of Matthew Keller being a dirty weasel.
“Look at you, Caffrey,” Keller jeers. “Finally leaving everything white collar behind. How’s it feel to be a free man? And to think that all you needed was a friendly nudge from an old bud to lose that anklet.”
“Are you done?” Neal asks coldly. “’Cause I’d like to get on with our business.”
“Not quite,” Keller replies and that crooked smirk on his face makes Neal instantly wary. “I feel I need to settle a score before we can move forward. You know, clean slate and all.”
Neal’s comprehension of what is inevitably to follow comes a split second too late. The hook to his jaw leaves him stunned and staggering to his left. Through the ringing in his ears he stays present enough to avoid losing his footing. He sways on his feet and blinks the blurry pavement into focus and the back of his hand that is smeared with blood after wiping his lips. The hand is shaking, with adrenaline and with anger at his stupidity to let his attention slide. He stuffs the traitorous hand into his pocket as he straightens up and locks eyes with Keller. He fears the other man can hear his heart hammer in his chest. He swallows the coppery taste in his mouth.
“Are you done?” Unexpectedly, his firm voice defies his rattled composure.
“I am now.” Keller says and looks as if the punch failed to deliver the expected gratification. With a disappointed sigh, he extends a hand to the side and Timmy takes the cue to pass him the small, paper wrapped package he pulled from Neal’s bag. “Is this what I asked you to bring?”
“Of course,” Neal replies and blots at the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. “Early Vermeer. The painting disappeared from a private collection when the Nazis invaded the Netherlands.”
Neal glances at the oil portrait Keller holds in his hand. More than 350 years old and as beautiful as the day the young artist had conceived it. Keller had wanted proof. Proof that Neal had access to the treasure. Proof that the treasure was still within his grasp. Keller had waited until an hour ago to let him know which of the paintings that he had spotted on the video feed weeks ago he wanted to see. An hour was just enough time to retrieve it from the storage unit. He didn’t want to give Neal time to produce a forgery.
Keller scrutinizes the small painting, then raises it to smell the canvas. Neal wonders if Keller still isn’t convinced that Neal didn’t just paint it in the back of a moving car. Perhaps he just wants to know if it smells like the two million dollars it is worth. Its price tag is the extent of the appreciation the other man will ever have for this masterpiece.
“It’s the real deal, Keller.” Neal says and grows increasingly impatient. “Now let her go.”
“Fair enough.” Keller shrugs and casually spits into the dirt next to Neal’s shoe.
He signals Lurch who makes his way over to the car. The lanky man opens the back door. Leaving her hands bound behind her back, he seizes Elizabeth by the upper arm and none too gently helps her out of her seat. She stumbles in her heeled shoes as he manhandles her over the uneven pavement. Neal can hear her protest from behind the gag. He feels instantly proud of her unbroken spirit and endlessly relieved to see her unharmed. It is difficult to keep his steps below a jog as he hurries to meet her halfway across the parking lot.
“Take your hands off her,” he demands sharply.
Lurch glances over at Keller and releases Elizabeth’s arm.
“Hi, El. Everything will be fine,” Neal says softly. He briefly squeezes her shoulders before passing his hands over her hair and cupping her face. “Are you okay?”
She nods and tries to say something as her eyes look up at him, tired and worried and frustrated.
“Cut her loose!” Neal barks at Lurch without taking his eyes off of Elizabeth.
“Shhh, it’s alright.” His thumbs stroke her cheeks. He gently works his fingers under the corner of the duct tape and slowly peels back the tape. He grimaces in sympathy when the adhesive sticks to her skin. “Sorry. It’ll just be another second.”
Another second until what? The fingers that remove her gag suddenly hesitate. Another second until she unleashes her anger? Until she shouts the disappointment that was carved into each tired line on Peter’s face earlier this night? Is he ready for this? From her?
“Is Peter okay?” The first words out of Elizabeth’s mouth are rushed and breathless and are an endless relief for Neal.
“Peter is fine. He’s waiting at home,” he assures her.
Elizabeth gasps in discomfort when Lurch yanks at the ties around her sore wrists. Her arms are suddenly free to fly around his neck. He wraps his around her back and pulls her against his chest, hesitantly at first, then without restraint. She shakes in his arms and Neal is convinced that this is the only sign of weakness anyone has seen from her all night. This feels good, holding her with the certainty that this will all be worth it in the end. For the first time in hours the feeling of dread that has been turning Neal’s stomach eases.
“It’s almost over, Elizabeth. You did great,” he whispers into her ear then breathes a fleeting kiss against her temple. He gently withdraws from her embrace. She lets him step back but refuses to release him entirely.
“He got you pretty good.” She touches her fingertips to his jaw.
“It’s not that bad.” His attempt at a nonchalant smile is curbed by his swelling lip.
“We’ll put some ice on it when we get home,” she says and he only nods.
“Yes, let’s get you home.” He takes her hand in his and keeps her close as he guides her to the waiting limousine. He tips his head at the driver who opens the door for her. She climbs into the seat and doesn’t let go of Neal’s hand. He won’t budge when she slides over and tries to pull him after her into the car.
“Neal?” There is a flash of confusion in her eyes that turns to undisguised panic when she realizes that he has no intention to come with her.
“It’s alright, Elizabeth.” He squeezes her hand lightly then extracts his fingers from hers.
“You gave him the painting. Now get in!”
“Take care, Elizabeth. And take care of Peter.” Neal smiles at her sadly and nods at the driver. The other man engages the child safety lock and closes the door.
“Damn it, Neal, don’t do this to us! Please!” Neal hears her plead. The door closure rattles from the inside. Neal feels his resolve erode with every passing second.
“Touching. Almost brings tears to my eyes, you know.” Keller appears by his side. He hands Neal two prepaid cell phones. “Two on the speed dial will let your driver reach you after he’s dropped her off. He can toss the phone after that.“
Neal tests the phone before passing it on. The driver pockets the cell and tips his head curtly before sliding behind the wheel and pulling the door closed. The engine springs to life a moment later. Keller raps his knuckles against the roof of the limousine as it slowly pulls away.
Neal watches the vehicle disappear down the empty road and feels lost. He doesn’t mean to flinch when Keller’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder.
“You’ve never been good at the whole goodbye thing, Caffrey,” Keller says and there is a hint of actual sympathy in his voice. “Why don’t you let an old buddy buy you a cup of coffee while you wait for that call. And then have a treasure to move.”
***
Neal sits forward, rests his elbows on his knees. Through the saggy padding he can feel the support slats dig into the back of his thighs. He hates this couch. His back is stiff and aching after having spent another restless night on it. How many has it been now? Five?
He hates everything about this warehouse. It’s too hot and too humid, for the boxes of priceless art and for him. He doesn’t like being stored. He doesn’t like being relegated to an old living room set pushed into the corner of a warehouse. He doesn’t like using the filthy shower in the custodial closet that smells of sewage. He doesn’t like to be under constant watch of Timmy or Lurch or the other two men he doesn’t care to name.
He hates not knowing where he is.
Keller had made sure of this when he had made him ride in the back of the truck along with the crates they had taken from Mozzie’s storage unit. Neal hadn’t argued. He didn’t want to delay their departure, didn’t want to give Mozzie the opportunity to put two and two together, to walk into the door and into a bullet.
Mozzie. The pangs of guilt the thought of his friend kindles haven’t eased over the last few days. He didn’t have to deceive Mozz. He didn’t have to use his friend’s hysterical concern for Elizabeth to send him on a fool’s errand while he struck a deal with Keller behind Mozzie’s back. He didn’t have to. It just made things easier at the time. Neal couldn’t take a chance. He hadn’t had the fight in him to face Mozzie and Peter that night.
After Mozzie’s treasure was loaded into Keller’s truck, Neal had left a single painting behind in the emptied space. An illustration to Shakespeare’s Julius Ceasar by Delacroix. A 2.5 million dollar apology for an act of betrayal Mozzie would understand but wouldn’t be able to forgive. Neal had told Keller that they owed Mozzie as much. With sweat running down his temples, with his body aching and with his breath quickened from carrying the heavy boxes Neal had stood before Keller, determined not to be denied. His eyes narrow slits, Keller had silently sucked on a cigarette. Finally, he had blown a lungful of second hand smoke into Neal’s defiant face, had donned a pompous grin and let him have his way. Sentimental, Keller had called him. Then he had slammed the door of the trailer shut behind him.
Locked in and alone, Neal had sunken to the floor with his back against the boxes. He had welcomed the darkness and the privacy it offered. It allowed him to acknowledge utter mental and physical exhaustion for the first time in this endless day. It gave him license to wallow in his misery without having to fear Keller’s ridicule or his own self-contempt. With his eyes needlessly closed in the blackness, Neal had listened to the muffled sounds of traffic, had tried to keep a record of the turns made and the distances traveled. The effort had been futile. An hour later, the door unlatched, releasing him into the artificial light of a large brick warehouse that has become his prison.
Neal glances over the chessboard set up on the coffee table. Across from him Keller is leaning forward, studying the board and smiling. Neal knows his opponent will put him in checkmate in six moves. He knew this three moves ago. He knew this the moment Keller had taken his best friend’s wife.
Matthew Keller is certain of his victory. He looks to be enjoying every drawn out minute of it. Maybe this is why he is still alive, Neal wonders. Maybe having him here-out of options and out of free will-is as much of a triumph for Keller as taking the treasure. Keller treats him cordially. He doesn’t let him in on the details of their impending move. For his own good, Keller says. He brings him good food and good books and new clothes, to Neal’s taste, not his. He calls him partner, not prisoner. He keeps him here, another trophy amongst his prized possessions.
Neal looks at the crates stacked and waiting to be shipped out. Pine boxes full of stuff plundered by war criminals, worth billions today despite the innocent blood that was shed for it, or perhaps because of it. This is what he risked everything for? This is why he tore himself up inside over the choice of Mozzie’s friendship or Peter’s? This is what he wanted to build a new life on?
This is what left him with nothing in the end.
Nothing but the certainty that, in the end, he did what was right. For Elizabeth. For Peter. This certainty is what grounds him now, here in this limbo between his past and an uncertain future in the hands of a sociopath.
“What’s the matter, Caffrey?” Across the table Keller finally moves his knight to capture Neal’s bishop. “Head not in the game?”
Neal makes his defensive move on the board and looks up at his opponent’s confident face.
“Why am I still alive?” He asks. “You have what you wanted.”
Keller is momentarily taken aback. Neal doesn’t break eye contact when Keller sits back in his chair and considers his question. For a second, Keller opens his mouth as if to deliver an honest answer, then he closes his lips and smirks. He makes his next move. Four more until check mate.
“You’ve been spending too much time around the Feds, Caffrey,” Keller finally replies. “A word is a word among partners, hell, among old friends.”
Neal bristles. Matthew Keller was never his friend. They were never partners, never equals. Not morally.
“You don’t know the first thing about friendship, Matthew,” he says quietly as his queen maneuvers into retreat on the chessboard. Speaking Keller’s first name has always felt odd to Neal. He never truly understood why. They’ve been acquaintances, even accomplices for a long time. Why was he uncomfortable to acknowledge this familiarity with the simple utterance of a given name? Why was Keller still Keller, when Agent Burke had always been Peter?
“Oh, and you think you do?” Keller’s chuckle is insulting. “Is that what Peter Burke has lead you to believe? That you’re friends?”
Neal feels his face harden.
“You’re a damn fool to believe you were anything but a prisoner, a convict who was more useful kept on a leash than behind bars. You were defeated with your own weapons, Caffrey. They knew prison walls or a tracking anklet couldn’t keep you under control but words could.”
Neal scrutinizes his opponent. What is Keller’s game? Is Neal’s surrender not enough? Does Keller try to chip away at his crumbling foundations? Does he want to pull the threadbare rug out from under his feet by stoking fears Neal thought he had put behind him. Or does Keller simply echo what Mozzie has long tried to make him see?
“It wasn’t like that.” Neal replies and is reasonably confident that his face doesn’t give away his smoldering doubt.
“Are you telling me that you couldn’t have lost that anklet as soon as it was on? Made a run for it?” Keller continues. “Come on, Caffrey, you had the resources.”
“Are we here to play twenty questions? Because for some reason I thought this was a game of chess?”
Keller only grins smugly and Neal feels anger flare up in the pit of his stomach.
“It wasn’t that easy, okay?” Neal finally says, his tone more tetchy than he intents.
“Oh yeah? What did Peter do to make you stay? Threaten you with jail?”
Neal narrows his eyes and bites his tongue. He won’t give Keller the satisfaction to witness his self-control slip further.
“Of course, he did,” Keller continues and leans forward a little. “That man knows every page in your book, Caffrey. He knows that for a guy like you prison wasn’t all birthday cards and Tiffany lamps. He knows that when sweet Neal Caffrey goes to the Big House he’ll sooner or later find himself spooning with a white supremacist from Kansas City who won’t take no for an answer.”
Keller pauses to study his reaction closely. He doesn’t look satisfied with what he sees in Neal’s face.
“Am I right?” Keller challenges. “I bet if I asked around my old buddies who did time with you they’d tell me that there were good times to be had with you, Caffrey. I bet in your first few months in there the infirmary had a bed reserved with your name on it for when the boys took it too far once again. Am I right?”
Neal remains silent and fights the crippling feeling of nausea. It’s the same festering fear that welled up inside of him every time Peter reminded him of the years of unserved prison time that loomed over his head. He had coped with the paralyzing fear by making Peter’s threats an ongoing joke, by challenging the agent to voice that threat one more time, to repeat it over and over until it no longer carried true menace.
“And when the threats no longer worked,” Keller carries on and Neal fears that his thoughts are reflected too clearly in his face, “when you went behind his back regardless, what did Peter Burke do? Did he start talking to you about partnership and trust? Did he treat you like a friend? Did he treat you like family? Did his wife cook you dinner? Did they make you feel like you’re better than the scum his people think we are?”
What had Mozzie called it? Stockholm Syndrome? Neal’s heart is hammering in his chest now. He wants to shake his head vehemently in denial. He doesn’t move. Keller’s lips curl when he briefly lowers his gaze to make his move. Check. Three moves to checkmate.
“Peter is not an idiot. You of all people should know that, Neal.” Keller relaxes back into his chair. “He knows your weaknesses. He knows you get attached to people. To Kate, to Mozzie, to Adler. You can’t help it. It’s quite pathetic, you know. Makes me wonder how you ever amounted to anything as a con man.”
He pauses and Neal takes the opportunity of avoid his scrutiny by moving his king to safety. He hears Keller’s affected sigh.
“But I’m not complaining, Caffrey. If you didn’t have the abandonment issues of a stray puppy, I wouldn’t be sitting here, looking forward to an early retirement.” He gestures widely at the stacked crates. “If it wasn’t for your misplaced conscience, none of us would be here. You and the short guy would be sipping cocktails on some island and Peter would be manning a desk in the bullpen until the blemish in his career is polished away.”
Keller surveys the chessboard again and moves his queen to capture Neal’s. Check. Two moves to go.
“Is this why you stayed, Caffrey? To protect Peter’s career that he built on capturing people like you?”
“Maybe Peter had something to offer,” Neal replies, his tone defensive. “Did you ever consider there was something else to strive for than wealth?”
Keller laughs out loud.
“Yeah, like what?” Keller taunts. “What did he dangle in front of you? A career? Neal Caffrey-International Superagent? Get real, Neal. You’re a highschool dropout with a criminal record two miles long. Did you really believe you had a future beyond your duties as a consultant?”
“There are options,” Neal quietly adds, although those options elude him at the moment. He moves his king yet again. When he looks up Keller is shaking his head with an expression akin to pity.
“I have to give Peter credit. He sure did a number on you, Caffrey. How long did it take him to brainwash you?”
“You don’t know the first thing about Peter,” Neal says from between tight lips.
“I suppose we all need our heroes,” Keller sighs. “Fortunately, most of us grow out of them by the time we’re twelve. But not you, Caffrey. You spent the last two years standing on top of the garage with your bed sheet for a cape, trying to decide if you want to be like your hero or stay true to your nature. And we both know that you can’t fly, Neal.”
With a fingertip Keller slowly pushes his queen across the board.
“Make your move,” he requests.
Neal stares at the board. It will be his last move. Checkmate is inevitable. No more options.
His hand reaches to tip his king and stops mid-air. His eyes wander to Keller and over to the crates.
Maybe this is what he deserved, to spend the rest of his life surrounded by riches but with nothing of value. Without love and without friendship and with his worst enemy as his only confidant. How long would he last until Keller grew bored with him? Was this his sentence? Was he to live out his days as a dog among wolves because he proved incapable of living as a man among men?
He doesn’t know. What he deserves is not for him to decide, even if his younger self would want to convince him otherwise. His younger self from a week, perhaps even a day ago. The only thing Neal knows is that Keller doesn’t deserve to come out the victor through all of this. The treasure doesn’t belong to him. No more so than it belonged to the men who stole it half a century ago. No more so than it was ever truly Mozzie’s or his own.
He can’t let Keller walk away with the spoils of a battle he didn’t fight. He can’t let Keller walk away like this, with him or without him. He has one more trump to play. One more card concealed in his sleeve. He had been saving it. For when, he wasn’t sure.
Neal retracts his hand from above the chessboard.
“You want to know why I stayed?” It sounds like a challenge, rather than a question.
“Enlighten me.” Keller looks bored as he sits back in his chair.
“There’s a manifest.”
“Of what?” Keller’s brow furrows.
“Of that.” Neal tips his head in the direction of the wooden crates.
He has Keller’s full attention.
“There was a manifest on the U-boat,” he continues. “The FBI has it.”
“And you know that how?” Keller sits forward, his eyes narrow slits.
“I’ve seen it. DC Art Crimes came to pick it up. One of their agents dropped the portfolio and I saw a page. There were many more.” Neal pauses, lets his words sink in. “Potentially every item in those boxes will be on the watch lists of the FBI and Interpol. You may be able to move a handful of paintings before things get so hot that none of your fences will want to touch them with a stick. And you know it won’t end there. Sooner or later a buyer or a fence will flip on you.”
Neal watches Keller carefully. He studies every tense line in the other man’s face, waiting for him to snap.
“You want to know why I didn’t take the treasure and leave, Matthew?” Neal repeats calmly. “Because it’s like the Holy Grail in that Indiana Jones movie. It can’t be moved. Can’t be sold. Worthless. All of it.”
“You’re lying,” Keller snarls.
“I can prove it.”
“How?”
“My phone. Do you still have it?”
Without taking his eyes off Neal, Keller signals Lurch to approach from his guard post by the rear entrance.
“Get me Caffrey’s phone,” he orders brusquely. They wait in silence for the tall man to return and hand the cell phone to Keller.
“Check the pictures.”
Neal looks on as Keller opens the phone’s image directory and scrolls through the files. He stops and squints at the image on the small screen.
“There were dozens of sheets,” Neal says. “This is the only one I could snap a picture of.”
He flinches when the phone shatters on the wall behind him. The edge of the coffee table hits his shin as the chessboard and pieces come flying at him. Neal doesn’t dare to move as Keller hovers over him. He doesn’t avoid Keller’s furious eyes. He waits for the first blow to hit. It doesn’t come.
“Don’t let him out of your sight,” Keller addresses Lurch. “I’ll be back soon.”
When Keller returns hours later, it is dark outside and Neal has nodded off on the saggy sofa under the watchful eyes of Lurch. The voices that filter into Neal’s sleep-dazed consciousness are gruff and agitated. Neal opens his eyes to find Keller barking orders at his crew before he makes a direct beeline for the couch and his prisoner. Whatever Keller did to verify Neal’s claim of the manifest’s existence, the results of his research did not come out to his liking. He is livid.
Neal’s systems are on full alert immediately. He doesn’t have time to get to his feet before he is hurled up and off the couch by the fists that grab him.
“You son-of-a-bitch!” Keller half drags half lifts him away from the sitting area.
“I take it you made some calls?” Neal asks and struggles to keep his legs under him. “Found out that the manife-“
The punch to his stomach doubles him over.
“You set me up!”
“I gave you what you asked for,” Neal grunts between short breaths. “You should’ve asked the right questions.”
Keller yanks him upright by the shirt collar. Neal backs up until the brick wall stops his retreat. Keller moves in on him until their faces are inches apart.
“Is this what Burke and you hashed out? Wait for me to sell? Wait for me to walk into your trap?”
“No!” Neal shakes his head.
If the slap to his face is any indication, it is not the answer Keller wants to hear.
“No!” Neal insists. His hands clutch at Keller’s arms as he tries to free himself from the other man’s grip. “Peter doesn’t know that the art survived the explosion. He suspected. He suspected that I had it, but he didn’t know.”
The hold on his shirt shifts to his throat. Neal’s eyes widen as his air is cut off. He frantically claws at the choking hand. Stars begin to dance around the periphery of his vision and Keller tightens his grip further. Neal closes his eyes to the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. In a last ditch effort to hang on to consciousness, Neal jerks up his knee, hitting Keller where it hurts. He swings his fist in a wild and uncoordinated but ferociously desperate punch that glances Keller’s cheekbone and collides with his nose. The other man stumbles backwards, awkwardly bent at the waist and nursing his bloody nose.
Gasping for air, Neal steps away from the wall. He may not be an expert in hand-to-hand combat, but he knows that being cornered is never a good position to fight from. Neither is being outnumbered, he admits uneasily when Lurch, Timmy and the unnamed third encroach in defense of their rattled boss.
“Not yet.” Keller wipes his nose on his sleeve and keeps his henchmen at bay with a dismissive wave. Neal doesn’t know if he should be grateful for this. Keller’s next hook makes it clear that the man has no intention to be the lesser of two evils. The impact with Neal’s chin sends him stumbling back. A crate collides with the back of his knees. He hears the crate’s bottom scrape on the concrete and the loose lid crashing to the floor. Then wood splinters under Neal’s back as a swift kick to his stomach knocks him off his feet. For an instant the pain of the collision is overshadowed by the horror of witnessing his elbow break through the canvas of a priceless Rembrandt. He scrambles sideways a few inches, gasping for air, his fingers hovering helplessly over the torn edges of the painting.
“Look at yourself, Caffrey.” Keller looms over him. “Still a bleeding heart for an unsellable piece of junk.” He wrenches the unframed, mounted canvas from the pile of shattered crate. He looks at the portrait, a jagged hole gaping in place of the subject’s face. Then the canvas’ support cracks as it is smashed against the edge of another crate. Keller holds the mangled remains of the masterpiece in his hand, the jagged edges of the broken mounting frame jutting from shredded canvas. Neal watches the other man’s frame quiver with rage, his chest rising in heavy breaths. He has never seen Keller like this, his cool almost gone. The man is dangerous on any day. Maneuvered into a tactical dead end he is a ticking time bomb.
“You can still walk away from this,” Neal says, his voice hoarse but his tone level. He doesn’t dare to move, the shattered pieces of the packing crate digging painfully into his back. “Take the gold and jewelry. Melt it. Pay off your goons. Leave the country. And never come back. Because if you do, Matthew, Peter will find you. You don’t know him.”
The roar that originates deep in Keller’s throat comes too late to warn Neal of the fractured Rembrandt that is wielded at him with fury. He hears the fabric of his shirt rip before he feels the splintered edge of the painting tear into in skin. A second swing hits him bluntly across the shoulder. By the time the painting comes down for a rapid third strike, Neal has gained the presence of mind to duck to the side and escape the full force of the crushing impact to his head. Still, the glancing blow to his left brow and temple nearly costs him his consciousness.
Mercifully, the assault stops. His hand clutched to the stinging wound over his eye, Neal blinks Keller’s blurry image back into focus as the man towers over him. The mangled Rembrandt is tossed aside and Neal quietly moans with relief. He swallows the taste of bile in his mouth.
“You shouldn’t have taken her, Keller,” Neal says huskily. His voice sounds odd to him. Too confident. Too unafraid. “When you took Elizabeth you crossed a line you should never have stepped over.”
Keller seizes him by the front of his shirt, lifts his shoulders off the floor.
“And what line did you cross when you stole all this?” Keller replies coolly, not a trace left of the madman from merely a minute ago.
“Let me go and let me find out,” Neal whispers.
“Be careful what you wish for, Caffrey.”
Keller releases his grip, discarding Neal back onto the warehouse floor. Neal watches him warily as Keller straightens out, tugs his jacket back into shape then rakes his fingers through his hair. He looks around the room, at the crates of stolen art and at his men who have drawn closer, temporarily abandoning their posts to gawk at the scene.
“Have at him,” Keller orders calmly without another look at the man on the floor. “Leave him alive. Then pack up the trucks. We have a ship waiting.”
Neal frantically clambers away as two of the henchmen approach him. He briefly manages to get his feet under him before a punch sends him stumbling into the bony frame of Lurch. The minutes that follow are a blur of knuckles and boots and taste of blood and dirty warehouse concrete. The sound of his cries and pleas slowly grow fainter in his ears as he slips into welcomed oblivion. His eyes drift shut with the chilling understanding that the only thing capable of bringing a smile to Lurch’s stony face is to feel another man’s bones break under his fists.
***
Softness.
The surface pressing against his back and legs feels soft. Soft and smooth.
The familiar weight around his left ankle.
Home?
Silence.
Death?
No. Somebody moans.
It’s him.
Pain.
Everywhere.
Hammering in his head. Throbbing in his chest. Dull in his stomach. Excruciating when he tries to move. Blinding when he briefly cracks an eyelid that feels too heavy to lift.
Blinding?
Not the pain. The light.
He tries to concentrate. How hard can it be to simply open a pair of eyes? It’s ridiculous. He chuckles. The searing pain that shoots into his side does the trick. His eyes fly open.
He stares at the white ceiling.
Back to Part 1
On to Part 3