87The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing . . . not healing, not curing . . . that is a friend who cares.
—Henri Nouwen
PART II
Peter knew, the instant that Fleischer opened the rusty garage door, that their plan was shot to hell.
There were no printing presses, no crates, no full pallets—nothing but a long stretch of cement floor, swept clean, and empty shelves.
Dammit.
Peter turned to Fleischer, ready to play up his role as a dissatisfied customer, when he discovered that he had a much bigger problem than the relocation of the counterfeiting ring. The muzzle of a gun was digging into his side, barely concealed by the large pocket of Fleischer's trench coat.
"Inside," the man said shortly, grabbing Peter's elbow and steering him towards the empty warehouse.
Peter silently complied, forcing down the desire to flatten the bastard. He couldn't risk blowing his cover just yet—Fleischer was just a lackey, a minor player in a much larger scheme. If Peter could get anything out of him, any information at all about his reputedly ruthless boss . . .
This wasn't just counterfeiting and smuggling; the ring leader was tied to more than one suspicious death.
Peter's team had to know what was going on.
"What are you playing at, Fleischer?" he said coldly, as the man shut the garage door. "I thought we were leaving the guns at home."
Fleisher just barked out a laugh, pulling the gun out of his pocket so that it was clearly visible. He took a couple of steps back, looking Peter up and down. His wide, lipless mouth was screwed up in a smirk, his eyes penetrating, as he said, "Nice try, Agent Burke."
Though he was surprised, Peter also felt a certain measure of relief—no more games now. "I've got SWAT moving in," he said calmly. "You'll never get out of here alive if you shoot me."
Fleischer shrugged. "They won't move in just yet; you're being jammed. Gives us a chance to talk."
Dammit!
"Yeah, let's talk," Peter said cuttingly, trying to buy himself some time to think. "Let's talk about the Canadian currency your boss is forging."
Another short laugh. "My boss?" Fleischer echoed. "You really think anyone would send one of their boys to put the FBI off their trail? Nah, that's a job that can be botched, easy."
Suddenly, all of the unpleasant possibilities that Peter had been contemplating since Fleisher had opened the door solidified into an even more unpleasant reality. Where the hell was his team?
Fleischer was outright grinning now. "That's right, Peter. Can I call you Peter? It's like they say, if you want a job done right . . ."
"You'll never make it out of here alive," Peter said again, and he meant it. "You're surrounded, and my team will know by now that you've tampered with the radio."
"You're right, Peter. Time's running short." Fleischer stepped away from the garage door, his gun still aimed at Peter's chest. He backed up, moving along the wall towards a back exit. His free hand slipped into his other coat pocket, and suddenly Peter knew. He saw the wires running along the wall, glimpsed the charges hidden behind the last row of shelves.
He didn't even hesitate.
Before Fleischer could activate the detonator hidden in the folds of his jacket, Peter was sprinting for the opposite side of the warehouse. There was no time to think as several bullets shot past him, ricocheting off the metal shelves; there was only the door at the far end of the building, only the pounding of his heart and the rush of adrenaline.
He wrenched the door open, slammed it behind him—
The shockwave of the explosion hit.
It was a long moment before Peter could orient himself again; he was on the ground, his whole left side scraped and bruised, and someone was shouting in his ear. "Peter! PETER!"
"Neal?" Peter gasped, almost inaudibly. But no—that couldn't be right. Neal was in the van, wasn't he?
"No!" Neal sounded horrified, breathless. That, more than anything, got Peter's attention, and the world slid back into focus. Neal, on his earpiece. Screams, car alarms, the roar of flames . . . a hole the size of a semi-truck in the side of the warehouse, belching out poisonous black smoke.
Peter staggered to his feet, trying to keep his balance on the broken concrete. Shattered glass was raining down from the windows on the upper stories.
"Answer me, Peter!"
"I'm here, Neal. I'm—"
But Neal talked right over him, sounding frantic. "Come on! PETER!"
"Dammit!" Peter said aloud, realizing that the explosion must have taken out Neal's feed. It was blatantly obvious that his partner was not dealing well with this situation. Peter stumbled forward a few steps towards the alley where the van had been parked.
"Boss!" someone shouted, and Peter turned to see Diana coming towards him from the opposite direction. She ran the last fifty feet. Though her face was smudged with soot, she looked unhurt. "Boss, are you all right?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yeah. You? Jones? Where's Ne—"
Suddenly, there was a horrible creaking and crunching, and the side of the warehouse collapsed in on itself. The second and third floors shuddered and then fell, shaking the ground. A black cloud of dust and smoke rolled over them, and Peter and Diana coughed, turning away.
"Diana!" Peter wheezed, realizing that Neal's voice was gone. "Where's Neal?"
"You get that, Jones?" Diana asked sharply, and then held her hand to her ear, listening hard. Peter started to ask her what was going on, but Diana shook her head, still listening. "Damn!" she suddenly said, startling Peter. "Jones said Neal left the van. He tried to follow him, but the building—"
Peter interrupted her. "Where?" he demanded.
Diana looked at him critically for a moment, as though she was trying to decide whether Peter was up to a search and rescue.
"That wasn't a rhetorical question, Agent Barrigan!" Peter said sharply.
Finally, Diana said, "The west side of the warehouse."
Peter knew that was a lot of ground to cover. "We'll split up," he ordered. "We have to find him, Diana." Peter didn't elaborate, but his thoughts were on another day, another explosion, one in which Neal was fighting him, with everything he had, to get to a person he cared about.
And this time, there was no one to hold him back.
When Peter first saw Neal, standing behind a broken piece of wall, he didn't know what he wanted most: to strangle his partner for causing him so much worry, or to give him a brotherly, one-armed hug, make sure he was all right.
Maybe he could do both at once.
"Neal!" he shouted, picking his way through the rubble. "Neal!"
His friend didn't react, stared straight through him.
"Hey! Neal?" Peter was closer now, close enough to tell that something was wrong. The relief that had swept over him just moments before was quickly being replaced with fear. He closed the remaining distance between them at a run.
"Neal." Peter touched his friend's arm. Neal gave a shuddering gasp, his hands grabbing the lapel of Peter's suit jacket. Peter could feel him shaking.
It was disturbing to see Neal this way, frightened and disoriented.
Peter tried again to get his partner's attention. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"
It was clear that Neal had absolutely no idea what he was saying. Peter grabbed his friend's arms. "Neal? Are you hurt? Come on, buddy, look at me."
Neal's eyes finally met his, and though he didn't answer, it seemed that Peter had gotten his friend's attention. Peter tried to examine his friend for injury. His eyes lingered on the blood on Neal's shirt collar, probably from a head wound. His friend swayed a little, his legs trembling.
Peter was desperately worried now. "Neal, maybe you should sit down."
Neal didn't waste any time following his suggestion, his legs folding under him. Peter crouched down with him, still gripping his arms. Neal's shuddering was worsening, his face pale, almost grey.
"I'm going to get you some help, okay, Neal? Just hang on for a second. I'll be right back." Peter tried to stand up, but Neal prevented him, his grip tightening.
"No," Neal said, his voice so soft that Peter had to strain to hear it. "Don't."
The words very nearly broke Peter's heart. Neal sounded so lost, so frightened. Peter bent back down, saying very gently, "Hey, it's gonna be okay. I'm just going to grab a medic. I think you hit your head."
In fact, Peter knew that Neal had a head wound, could see the blood matting the back of his hair. But there was no reason to scare his friend.
"I don't remember . . ." Neal said uncertainly, his voice trembling, too.
That was it. The medic couldn't wait any longer. "Stay here, Neal," Peter said firmly. "I'll be right back, I promise."
Peter uncurled Neal's fingers and took off at a run back the way he had come, where he knew an ambulance was waiting. "Hey!" he shouted at the first EMT he saw. "I've got a head wound over here!"
A couple of EMTs followed him back to where he had left Neal, carrying a stretcher between them.
Peter nearly had a heart attack when he saw Neal slumped down on the road, eyes closed. He threw himself down beside his friend, grabbing his wrist. "Neal! Neal!"
Neal's eyelids fluttered, and then opened. "You're n-not . . . dead?" he stuttered, the words sounding like a question.
So Peter answered it, after giving the medics a worried glance. "I'm fine, Neal. I got out just in time. Not even a scratch on me."
All right, that was a lie, but he would live. He needed Neal to calm down.
"I t-tried to find you," Neal whispered, sounding distressed. "I thought . . ."
"It's okay, buddy." Peter tried to make his voice sound calm, even though he was worried and—suddenly—murderously angry at Fleischer for this whole disaster. "Is that how you got hurt? Going to look for me?"
Neal's eyes went glassy, unfocused. "I heard the explosion. You were inside, and the plane was on fire—"
Peter was alarmed. "The plane?" he asked, but Neal continued on as though he hadn't heard him.
"—and you were dead. And Kate . . . I couldn't . . . you were in there, Peter."
Dammit, Neal. It seemed that Peter wasn't the only one thinking of that day on the tarmac.
Peter rubbed Neal's shoulder soothingly. "Neal. I'm just fine. And you will be, too, okay?"
Neal's eyes closed. "Okay," he echoed obediently.
The EMTs gently moved Peter aside, rolling Neal onto his side and sliding the stretcher underneath him. They strapped him down to keep him from moving, and then stood up. Peter walked beside his friend as the medics made their way through the destruction.
"Peter?" Neal asked, as they walked, his voice a mere whisper.
Surprised—for he had thought that Neal was unconscious—Peter replied, "Yeah?"
"Don't go. I . . . can't, not Kate again."
Peter's throat was tight with emotion. "This isn't like that, Neal," he said firmly. "I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere, I promise."
And then, as disarmingly as the first time, Neal whispered, "Trust you, Peter."
Peter couldn't think of a response to that, just walked alongside his CI, his partner, his friend, as he was carried out of one hell of a nightmare.
He didn't know if it would be any better when Neal woke up.
Author's Note: Thank you all so much for your reviews. You are fantastic! Please let me know what you thought of this part, as well. Just one more chapter to go.