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elrhiarhodanTitle: The Next Six Days – Part One of Two
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elrhiarhodan
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: R (For Violence)
Characters/Pairings: Mozzie, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Kyle Collins, Henry Dobbs, OMC, OFC
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to torture, rape, electrocution, attempted murder. On-camera violence. Medical procedures.
Word Count: ~16,700
Beta Credit:coffeethyme4me (And to jrosemary for cheerleading and just being awesome credit, too)
Summary: Completely A/U from the start of S4.02 - Most Wanted (Henry Dobbs is no one special). The “Comfort” sequel to the “Hurt” in Six Hours to Freedom. What happens after Neal is rescued - Peter calls in an old favor to save Neal’s life, to keep them safe, and to get them home. Moz is a badass to end all badasses, except that Reese Hughes is also seriously badass. So are Jones and Diana.
__________________
Day One
Mozzie pushed Henry Dobbs up the stairs, his rage giving him strength. Each time Dobbs stumbled, Moz kicked him. He didn’t care where the blows landed, and from the squeal of pain, he was certain that he got him in the balls at least once.
Seeing Neal battered and bloody and struggling for each breath stripped the veneer of civility off him. Violence wasn’t usually ever a tool he liked using, but there were always exceptions. By the time they made it back to the house, Moz had left several more marks on their erstwhile protector.
“Your security room, and don’t think of trying anything.” He shoved the muzzle of his gun into the small of Dobbs’ back. “Ever hear of the Dentist of Detroit?”
“Yeah.” Dobbs’ reply was barely audible.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yeah, yeah – of course I’ve heard of the Dentist.”
“Well, guess what, you’ve just made your first appointment. You need an extraction, and I’m all out of Novocain.”
Dobbs was frozen and Moz actually enjoyed the fear on his face. “You double crossed us, you piece of shit, and now you’re going to pay for it.” Moz raised his hand, as if to pistol whip him. “Your security room and the tapes you made of Collins – NOW.”
Dobbs flinched and held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Just don’t hurt me.”
Typical coward. Moz poked the gun in the man’s back and followed him. They stopped at a locked door. Moz screwed the muzzle into Dobbs’ side as he reached into his pocket for the keys. The room was empty, but there was a bank of monitors, all but one focused on the exterior of the house. That monitor showed the cell where Collins had –
Moz couldn’t finish the thought. He saw what the bastard did to Neal, and he was going to pay for it, hopefully with his life.
There was a state of the art video recording deck and a pile of DVDs. “You like to watch, Henry?” Dobbs didn’t answer and Moz backhanded him across the face, his rings tearing strips of skin off. “I asked, do you like to watch?”
“Yes.” Dobbs moaned through the blood pouring out of his mouth.
The discs were labeled with location, dates and times. There were four marked “Basement Cell” and today’s date. Moz ran each of them. When he got to the third disc, Neal, battered almost beyond recognition, was hanging from his arms, feet twisted as if he couldn’t stand. Next to him was a car battery, a pair of jumper cables, and a bucket of water with metal rods in it.
There were times in Moz’s life when rage colored his world with blood. It happened when he discovered Hale’s body, again when he received Neal’s message that Keller had taken Elizabeth. He controlled himself then.
This time was not the same. This time, he just let go.
By time Moz was finished, Henry Dobbs was a bleeding mess on the marble floor. He was still alive and he’d probably stay that way if someone got to him in time. Pity that he locked the door behind him.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Peter counted the minutes until Mozzie returned. He cradled Neal gently in his arms, afraid that even the slightest movement would cause him pain.
Collins was on the concrete floor outside of the cell, but Peter wasn’t worried about him. He had cuffed the man (he refused to think of the sadistic bastard as a fellow agent) after knocking him out. Moz had procured as second set of cuffs and put them on Collins’ feet, trussing him like a Thanksgiving turkey, his dick still hanging out.
Neal moaned and shifted in his arms. Peter tried to quiet him. “Shh, I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” Neal seemed to take comfort in Peter’s voice, so he kept talking. Nonsense stuff, about how everyone missed him and wanted him home where he belonged.
“June’s got your room draped in dust covers. Once we fix everything, you’ll be able to step right back into your life. It will be like you just went on vacation.”
Neal was, to Peter’s surprise, conscious. “Yeah, it was a nice vacation, until this morning.” He wheezed.
“I’m so sorry – if I hadn’t tried to find you, this never would have happened. If I hadn’t called in Kramer … ”
Peter tried not to wince as Neal’s fingers dug into him. “That doesn’t matter. You got here in time. That’s what counts, you’ll always find me.”
“In time? Collins was a few seconds from putting a bullet in you. He tortured you.”
“Shh, it’s okay. I’ll survive.” Neal coughed and struggled to breath; Peter wasn’t so sure about Neal’s optimism.
“Stop trying to comfort me – it’s my job to take care of you.” He held Neal on his lap, uncomfortably reminded of the Pietà and wondered where the hell Mozzie was.
“Are you okay, would it be easier to sit?”
“No, this is fine, if you don’t mind.” Neal rested his head against Peter’s shoulder, smearing the shirt with blood, his hands gripping his arm, holding on to him with a terrible strength. “Hey, sorry.”
“It’ll wash out, don’t worry.” Even if it didn’t, Peter would never wear this shirt again.
There was a clatter and an ooof, the sound of someone being kicked. Mozzie was back. It seemed that he couldn’t help himself as he walked by Collins. Peter didn’t blame him.
“I’ve got them, now what?”
“You are sure they’re the right discs?”
“I’ve checked them, Suit. Believe me, they are the right discs.”
Peter sensed Mozzie’s rage and feared the worst. “What about Dobbs?”
“He won’t be bothering us for a while.”
And the all-important question: “How are we going to get out of here and get Neal to a hospital?”
Moz grimaced. “That’s going to be a problem – Dobbs undoubtedly has fingers in that pie, too. Neal won’t be safe in a local facility for long.”
Peter figured as much. “Let’s worry about that later, Neal needs medical treatment now.”
“Hey, Moz.” Neal tried to sit up.
Moz all but fell to his knees. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve had better days, my friend.”
“Listen, if I call Maya, do you think she’ll help?”
“NO!” Neal struggled and Peter held him tight, he was going to fall.
“Why? Don’t you trust her?”
“No – don’t want her involved; don’t want her in the middle of this. If it gets back to Dobbs that she helped us…”
Peter interrupted. “We need to get you out of here, now. As inconspicuously as possible.” It took a little effort, but he stood up and put Neal into the chair. Neal whimpered, and Peter closed his eyes against the heartbreak. Neal’s shirt had been tossed in the corner, as were his shoes. His pants – cut down the back and stained with blood and semen– were unsalvageable, but were evidence. He asked Moz to take them.
“Here.” Moz thrust something at him, a pair of swim trunks. Peter didn’t ask how he got them; he didn’t think he wanted to know. Between the two of them, they got Neal dressed. And Peter noticed something, something that just might save Neal. Time for that later – they needed to get out of here before Dobbs set his bodyguards on them.
“Can you walk?” The soles of Neal’s feet were bloody, covered in burn marks and blisters. He had stifled a scream when they slipped his shoes on.
“I’ll have to.”
Peter thought, of all the moments when he had seen Neal rise above circumstance, this was the one he’d remember forever. The climb up the stairs was slow. Neal’s broken ribs and nose made it difficult to for him to breathe. Moz and Peter supported Neal as much as they could, until Peter swept him up in his arms, carrying him up the last dozen steps. There was almost no place on his torso that wasn’t bruised or beaten or whipped.
It had been a long time since Peter believed in a benevolent god, but just maybe someone was watching out for them; they made it to the garage in the back of the mansion without being seen. There were a half-dozen vehicles and Peter carefully laid Neal on the back seat of a road-worn SUV. Moz pulled out the GPS and hot wired it. As soon as they cleared the front gate, Neal reached the end of his resources and passed out.
“Where to?” Peter asked.
“My villa.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
During the seemingly endless ride to Mozzie’s villa, Peter debated with him about contacting Maya. Moz was worried that someone – Dobbs or Collins – would have her tailed. In the end, Peter reluctantly agreed with him.
But that didn’t solve the problem of Neal’s urgent need for medical attention. He held Neal carefully, trying to give him whatever comfort he could. But Neal was shivering, probably going into shock from the trauma. As soon as they arrived, Moz him helped carry Neal into a bedroom. They piled on whatever blankets they could find to keep him warm.
Moz paced the length of the room. “I’ve got to get rid of that truck and get some medical supplies. You need to figure out how to get Neal out of here.”
Peter nodded. “I think I have an idea. Just watch your back.”
Moz nodded. “You’ll know if there’s trouble, Suit.” He handed Peter a set of keys. “If you have to get out of here quickly, take care of Neal, don’t worry about me.”
Peter nodded back; getting Neal to safety was the most important thing of all.
Moz left and Peter pulled out his cell phone. He needed to contact an old friend, to call in an old favor. He hoped that the telephone number was still in service. It did ring through, someone picked up, and Peter completed the security protocols he memorized a decade ago. The clicks on the line told him nothing; he monitored the length of the call on his watch and wondered if the delay was to give them time to triangulate his location.
“Peter Burke, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Peter sighed in relief. “Ze’ev, you old wolf, how are you?”
“I’ve been better, but I’ve been worse too. And you?”
“Could say the same.”
“Now, I don’t think you’re calling me here for the simple joy of hearing my voice. As you Americans say, ‘What gives’?”
Peter was blunt, he had no choice. “I have to call in that favor. And by the time we’re done, I’ll probably end up owing you in return.”
“Hmm – don’t know if that’s possible, Peter. Tell me what you need.”
“I need medical care and legal sanctuary for a friend.” He didn’t say anything else, hoping that Ze’ev could read between the lines.
“Does it have anything to do with why you’re in Cape Verde?” Ze’ev asked, confirming Peter’s suspicions that his call was traced. “And why can’t your vaunted Federal Bureau of Investigations give you assistance?”
“Because my trip is not sanctioned and the damage was done by a fellow agent.”
Ze’ev was, thankfully, perceptive. “Ah. I see.
“My friend was – ” Peter took a deep breath - it was hard to say. “Tortured. He’s badly injured and is going to need care beyond what can be provided here. And he won’t be able to withstand public air transportation. Can you help?”
The silence at the other end was nerve-wracking. Finally Ze’ev replied. “Let’s make this clear. Are you invoking the Law of Return on your friend’s behalf?”
Peter swallowed. This was going against everything he believed was right and good and proper. “Yes.”
“And you have proof that your friend has that right?”
“He’s circumcised.”
Ze’ev snorted in wry amusement. “Well, that’s step one. What about a birth certificate, a letter from a rabbi?”
“Under the circumstances that might be difficult.” And yet, Peter thought that Mozzie could probably produce the appropriate documentation without too much effort. “My friend isn’t going to permanently emigrate. He just needs medical care and sanctuary until his legal situation is resolved.”
“Ah – I take it that you mean he needs sanctuary from the U.S. government? The Law of Return is not absolute, my friend. We don’t shelter murderers. We turned away Meyer Lansky, despite his millions.”
“My friend hasn’t murdered anyone. He’s in a difficult situation that’s mostly my fault. We are working on resolving it, but we need some time.” It was a pity that the treasure was back in Russia. A piece or two might have gone a long way in buying what was needed.
”Peter – I owe you more than my life is worth – and I would do anything to accommodate you and your friend, but trust me, invoking the Law of Return is not in your friend’s best interests. The political climate here is difficult, to put it delicately. Your friend is the target of a fugitive warrant, right? I can’t guarantee that my government wouldn’t happily turn him over to your people if it would buy them some goodwill.”
Peter knew this plan was a long shot, but he hadn’t expected it to crash quite so readily. “Can you help at all?” He knew he was begging.
“You said you needed medical help and a safe place, right? How safe are you now?”
Mozzie’s villa – unlike Neal’s – was on a hilltop, deep in the forest. It had a fortress quality to it, akin to some of the little guy’s safe houses back in New York. It also had the advantage of secrecy. Collins didn’t know about Moz, and he doubted that Dobbs would be willing to identify Moz – or more accurately – the Dentist of Detroit. “We’re secure, but I don’t know how long we’ll remain that way.”
“What if I could send you what you need? Doctors, medical supplies, some security, transportation back to America when you need it? Everything under the radar. Would that buy you the time you needed?”
“You could do that? You would do that?”
“My son is alive and well and has given me three beautiful grandchildren because Peter Burke was a mensch. This is the very least I can do. Tell me what you’ll need.”
Peter gave his friend a rundown of Neal’s injuries, his voice breaking as he described the results of Collins’ torture.
“How is his breathing?”
“Labored.”
“Can you tell me, is his belly hard?”
“When did you become a doctor?” Peter commented and went to check. Neal moaned as Peter palped the area. It felt hard, tense, and there was bruising from his hips to his collarbone.
“I was a field medic once, actually thought about becoming a doctor.”
“Instead, you became a spook and your kid became the doctor. And yes, his belly’s hard and tender. Swollen too.”
“Not good – he may be bleeding internally. I’m sending a surgical team. What time is it there?”
“About six PM.”
“You’ve got a long night ahead of you. I’ll have medical and security teams in the air within the hour. I have your coordinates – they’ll be on the ground and at your location by three AM.”
Peter wondered if Moz would throw a fit when Israeli mercenaries showed up at the gate. Probably not, if they were accompanied by surgeons with instructions to keep Neal alive. “Ze’ev, thank you.”
“Next time, Peter – ask me for something difficult.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Moz thought long and hard about where to dump the truck. He could ditch it in the jungle, let the trees take it, but that presented an interesting problem – he’d be stuck too. And getting Neal medical supplies was priority. He could leave it some place in town, someplace conspicuous, as if he were thumbing his nose at Dobbs and Collins. It would be convenient for picking up the pharmaceuticals, but he would still need to get back to his mountain retreat.
The third alternative was the most dangerous one. Neal had a car, flashy and good-looking but rarely used. Moz figured that he could leave the truck in town, get the supplies, and walk to Neal’s villa – about ten minutes away. The risk was that Dobbs or Collins could be sitting on the house, just waiting for Neal and Peter to show up. But Moz wasn’t a man who shied away from risk. He was, after all, Neal’s friend.
Mind made up, he parked on the outskirts of the market area. The daytime vendors had long closed up, but his friend Hector was hanging around. The boy’s eyes widened when he spotted Moz.
“You okay? I heard that Senhor Maine was in bad trouble.”
Moz didn’t bother to reassure Hector. He may have been only eight, but he wasn’t sheltered from the harshness of life. “He needs some help.” Moz handed the boy money. “Can you go to the farmácia and get me bandages?”
Hector took the money and ran off. Moz went into the town’s other drug store – which wasn’t quite a store, per se. Shortly after arriving on the island, Moz had ingratiated himself with a local medical practitioner. Like him, Samuels was an ex pat, probably on the run from the law. The man had some unpleasant habits and wasn’t particular about cleanliness. Moz wouldn’t bring him to his villa to treat Neal, but he’d get the rest of what he needed from him.
It took a lot of bargaining and a little more arm-twisting, but Moz walked out with a bottle of Vicodin, a bottle of Erythromycin, some topical antibiotics and lidocaine to help with the pain. He met up with Hector on their accustomed street corner. The boy handed him the bandages and left, knowing that he shouldn’t be seen with him right now.
The streets that evening were typically busy – tourists and locals mingling – the sounds of the good life pouring out of the local bars and restaurants. Moz ignored them all, keeping a careful lookout for Dobbs’ men, or worse – Mad Dog Collins. There was no sign of any local trouble and he made his way back to Neal’s villa. The grounds were disturbed – broken shrubbery, windows broken, lights left on – Collins had been here. But was he gone?
Moz picked his way up the drive – the place looked deserted – but Collins was FBI and Moz had learned not to underestimate the Suits – especially the kind that like to rape and torture people. He watched the house, wishing for at least one piece of Russian military surplus – maybe an infrared scope or a hand-held missile launcher. After a sweat-soaked hour watching for any movement, Moz scurried over to the garage. He listened carefully before picking the lock. Neal’s little black BMW convertible was there waiting for him, keys in the ignition. Every instinct screamed at him to race out of there, to burn rubber, but he took it slowly. A fast car on this road would bring unnecessary attention.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal hovered between comatose and consciousness. Pain from the whipping made it uncomfortable to lie on his back, but the broken ribs and swollen nose meant he couldn’t rest on his stomach or side.
Peter did his best to make Neal comfortable. Cold compresses applied on his face to reduce the swelling, keeping the sheet away from his blistered feet. Too little to really make a difference. He watched the time slowly slip by, listening to Neal’s labored breathing. As bad as they were, the injuries to his back and feet seemed relatively minor compared to the potential internal bleeding and the risk of shock.
He piled blankets across Neal’s torso to prevent that, but if something was ruptured inside, there was little he could do. Peter had never felt this helpless – not even when Keller had taken Elizabeth. Then, he could do something – he could bring his skills, the power of the FBI, the force of law to bear. This was a simple waiting game.
Neal stirred and moaned, and all Peter could do was carefully stroke his forehead – one of the few unbruised places on his face. The touch soothed Neal, and he relaxed until Peter removed his hand, then he shifted restlessly and opened his eyes.
“Peter?”
“Hey there.” Peter smiled but it felt like he was tearing part of his face off.
“I have to tell you something…”
“Shh – just take it easy.”
Neal struggled and pulled an arm out from under the covers. “Peter, no – you have to listen to me.” He sounded so terribly desperate.
Peter was afraid that his friend was going to confess to some heinous crime, something that Peter would have to arrest him for later. “Whatever it is, it’s not important.”
“It is, please. You have to listen to me.”
“Okay, okay.” He took Neal’s hand, rubbing a gentle finger across the bruised and raw skin on his wrists. Something else to take out of Collins’ hide.
“Remember the night after we took down Van Horn, when you called me?”
Peter knew exactly the night Neal that was talking about. “Yeah – we talked. Sara had just broken up with you. You were upset but were trying to hide it. We were so broken – but I couldn’t let you suffer alone.”
Neal swallowed and a flash of pain crossed his face. He licked his lips and Peter started to get up, to get him some ice chips, but Neal clung to his hand. “No – don’t go. Let me finish, before I can’t.”
“Neal – it’s not important.” Peter repeated.
“No – it is. You have to know. I can’t die with this on my soul.”
“You’re not going to die, Neal. You hear me? You understand, I’m not going to let you die.” The words, like the terror in his soul, were icy, angry.
“You may not be able to stop the inevitable.”
Peter didn’t, couldn’t answer.
Neal licked his lips again and struggled to take a deep breath. “That night – when you called – I wasn’t in my apartment. I was … I was at your house. In your house. I broke into your house – You were out in the surveillance van, Moz arranged to take Elizabeth out – and I broke in.”
Peter closed his eyes and sighed. “You were after the u-boat manifest.”
“I’m sorry. I was sorry when I did it. I lied to you, I lied to Mozzie. I lied to everyone. I deserve this.”
“NO!” Peter’s denial was explosive. “Never – you never deserved this.”
“I – ”
Peter took a deep breath, and another. “Maybe under different circumstances I’d be terribly angry with you. But we both messed up. And you didn’t run – at least not because of the treasure. There’s nothing to forgive.” He leaned over and carefully wiped away Neal’s tears.
“Thank you, Peter. I didn’t want to die with that on my conscience. Of all the bad things I’ve done, I think that was the worst. I betrayed your trust.”
“And I betrayed yours when I accused you. I compounded it when I called in Kramer. So maybe we’re even?”
Neal closed his eyes and his lips twitched in a smile. “Okay. I’m tired now. Gonna take a nap, ‘kay?”
“Rest. I’ll watch over you.”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Moz was thankful that the villa was quiet when he got back. Peter was sitting with Neal, holding his hand, and something in him ached.
When Neal told him about his deal with the Suits two years – a lifetime – ago, he never expected Neal to make it past the first month. The only thing that stood between his friend and skipping out was the cost of a set of wire cutters. But Neal didn’t run, not when he had the chance, not for the best of reasons – not even when he thought the Suit had betrayed him. Moz didn’t count the time he got close enough to get on an airplane – because Neal had, after all, turned back.
He knew, he always knew that Neal wasn’t going to leave with him. Despite the plans, the promise of unlimited wealth, the life of luxury, Neal was too firmly fixed on recreating the life he wanted as a child. If he couldn’t be a cop, he’d become the next best thing.
When Neal called him, told him he had to run, his heart sang for joy – Neal was finally, firmly in his camp again. No more Suits, no more pretenses, just the dream. It took less than a week to realize that Neal really didn’t share the dream. He’d always long for New York, for the life he left behind. He’d long for the Suits, for The Suit.
For Peter.
Moz didn’t quite know what to make of their relationship anymore. Originally, he was certain it was one of mutual use. Peter used Neal’s wits, his connections, his smarts to put others of his kind behind bars, and Neal used Peter keep himself out of prison, to help him find Kate. But by the time he actually met Peter, he wasn’t so sure. People who were just using each other didn’t share that level of respect.
It was clear that they were friends, that Neal liked the Suit; he liked the Suit’s life, his intelligence, his decency. Moz could see why – had Neal actually been who he thought he was, he could have been another version of the Suit.
All well and good, but that wasn’t quite it. There was something more to their relationship, and watching their reunion on top of that tower, watching them now, Moz knew what it was. They were David and Jonathan; they loved each other – as friends, as brothers. Maybe someday, or maybe in another universe, they’d be lovers, too. But he didn’t see that here – or at least not yet.
He should have been jealous – or at least more jealous. He had parts of Neal that the Suit could never claim, but looking at them now, listening to Peter absolve Neal, taking on the blame for this terrible debacle, it was clear that Peter was always going to hold the best parts of Neal close to his heart.
As well he should.
He waited as Peter pressed a soft kiss on Neal’s brow, he waited long enough so that Peter wouldn’t think he had been eavesdropping. “Suit? How’s he doing?”
Peter turned around as he approached, and Moz was shocked at how much the other man had aged – in just a day.
“He’s in pain, and I think he’s bleeding inside.”
He put the medical supplies on the bedside table and they started working on Neal. “So, what are we going to do? Do we risk a hospital?”
“No – I called in a favor, a huge one.”
Moz was both impressed and incredulous as Peter explained his plan.
“Let me get this straight. In a few hours, a medical team specializing in battlefield trauma and a troop of IDF-trained mercenaries are going to land, secure transport and drive up here. They’ll operate on Neal, if necessary, and keep Collins out, keep Dobbs out, and once it’s safe to bring Neal home, they’ll provide transport back to the States?”
Peter nodded, a grim smile on his lips. “That about sums it up.”
“You have better contacts than I do. But one question. How do we make sure it’s safe for Neal to go home?”
“That’s going to be your job, Moz. You’ll have to take those discs back to New York and show them to Hughes. You’re going to have to leverage them to get Neal’s deal back, or something better. It was what Neal was planning – except he never expected Collins to take it so far. Can you do that?”
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Neal knew that Peter and Moz thought he had passed out, but he hadn’t. He was just resting. Of course Peter was going to fix this – although the thought of someone operating on him in Mozzie’s kitchen was a little terrifying.
He stifled a gasp of pain as Peter applied something to the soles of his feet. Whatever it was, it worked. The aching burn evaporated into numbness. They lifted him up and did the same thing to his back. The relief was spectacular.
He wanted to interrupt them, to ask for something so embarrassing, so intimate, but he couldn’t. Maybe when the doctors came. He could still feel Collins’ slime on him, he wanted to be clean. He didn’t want to die with that on him.
But Neal didn’t, couldn’t ask his friends for that. They had already done so much.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Day Two
About one AM, Peter got the call from Ze’ev that the team was on the ground in Praia, and that they had secured transport. They would be at Moz’s villa within the hour. He watched the road, leaving Moz and Neal for a few moments of privacy. Three large black SUVs rolled up to the gate, and not for the first time, Peter wished he had a gun.
A man in his early thirties jumped out of the lead vehicle, a silhouette against the headlights.
“Is that you, Special Agent Peter Burke, of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
To his great relief, Peter recognized the voice. “Dr. Eli Yahalom, shalom.” He opened the gates, and stepped aside. The trucks rumbled through and people spilled out. The security team in the first vehicle didn’t bother to acknowledge anyone; they just set up a perimeter. The group from the second was unloading cases of what Peter hoped was medical equipment.
Eli approached, hand outstretched and Peter took it gratefully. “Thank you.”
“No, no thanks are necessary. Take us to the patient, we’ll talk later.”
The medics trailed them into the house and Eli shouted out orders in Hebrew before turning back to Peter. “The best place to set up an operating theater will be the kitchen, where is it?”
Peter swallowed and nodded before giving them directions. Half the team peeled off, presumably to prep the space and Peter took Eli and the rest into the bedroom.
Moz stood up, ready to defend Neal against any danger.
Peter told him, “It’s okay – Eli’s an old friend.”
Moz didn’t look convinced, but before Peter could explain, Eli jumped in. “Agent Peter Burke saved my life many years ago – I was young and stupid and I should have gone to prison or worse.” Eli paused and pulled the blankets off of Neal.
He kept talking as he pulled on gloves and conducted the examination. “When I was an intern, I got swept up in a fake pill racket with some pretty terrible people, but Peter…” Eli paused as he felt Neal’s stomach, a worried look replacing the eager friendliness. “Excuse me.” The story stopped short as he put on his stethoscope to listen.
Peter caught Moz’s eye and they both stepped away from the bed, letting the doctor and his team work on Neal. Eli called out more orders, and a portable x-ray machine was rolled in. They watched and waited, and Peter thought that things were much worse than they seemed, since the instructions, mostly in Hebrew, were flying fast. When a stretcher appeared, the worst was confirmed.
Eli stripped off his gloves and approached them. “Your friend has sustained quite a beating.”
Moz was still a little hostile. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”
Peter shushed him but Eli didn’t blink. “He’s got a slow bleed from his spleen and there are several broken ribs. I think his kidneys will be all right, though. I’m concerned about operating, given the state of his air intake. We’ll intubate, but there’s a risk.”
“And if you don’t operate?”
“I think Neal’s spleen could rupture and then he will bleed to death in short order.”
Peter looked at Moz – they both needed to made this decision. Moz asked the smart questions. “What are the risks if you do operate here? Do you have the right equipment? How long will it be before Neal can travel?”
Eli looked at Peter first before answering. He didn’t have anything to add.
“Well, there is always the risk of infection, but that can be managed. We have the equipment needed for the operation – which we’ll be able to do laparoscopically – and for post operative care. If there are complications from the lung problems, Neal will be kept intubated and sedated. He can fly on private transport in about three days, barring complications. Any other questions?”
Moz pulled him to one side. “You trust him? He’s going to cut into Neal in the kitchen.”
Peter shared all those fears. “Eli’s a field trauma surgeon – these conditions are probably the best he’s had since his residency. I think we have to trust him and his abilities.”
Without a word, Moz walked back to Eli, who was having Neal prepped. “Peter trusts you. And I – well – I trust him in this. Go save Neal’s life.”
Eli gave them both a quick, tight smile before finishing up with Neal.
A young woman, tall and hard-eyed, strode into the room like she owned it. She ignored Peter and went straight to Eli. They talked – or argued – fiercely for a few moments, and Eli kept pointing towards him and Moz. The woman shook her head, shrugged and came over to them.
“Which one of you is going to New York now?”
“That would be me – but I want to wait until Neal is out of danger.”
“Moz – you can’t – I’m worried that Collins will escalate this back in New York. He and Kramer can do a lot of damage.”
Moz looked torn, but before Peter could continue his argument, the young woman interrupted. “We need to leave now, our flight plans are filed. We have to make a refueling stop in Lisbon, and then we’ll go direct to New York.”
Moz looked from him, to Neal as he was taken to the kitchen-cum-operating theater, to the woman with hard eyes, then back to Peter.
“Neal will be all right, Moz. I promise you.”
“Okay – okay. Give me five minutes.” Moz ran off.
Peter couldn’t help but ask. “What was your argument with Eli about?”
The woman, her expression schooled to blandness, looked like she wasn’t going to answer, but Peter didn’t want to let it go. Too much was at stake. He stared at her. She met his gaze and it was a contest to see who’d break first.
Neither did, and Peter was rewarded with a tight smile.
“I don’t like the idea of leaving Dr. Yahalom.”
“There is a rather impressive security force that accompanied him.”
“They’re mercenaries.”
And you’re not. You’re *official.* “Do you have a spare weapon?”
The smile grew a little more shark-like. “He said you’d probably ask for one. Glock-22?”
Peter nodded.
“You’ll have it before we leave.”
Their departure seemed to be sooner than later. Moz came out of the house, a small satchel in hand. “I’m ready.” To Peter’s eyes, he seemed just that much taller.
Eli joined them. “Neal’s ready for surgery – do you want to see him before we take him in?”
They went over to the gurney; Peter was surprised that Neal was awake, and he felt guilty that he could offer nothing but the most banal of comforts. “You’re in good hands.”
Neal smiled through the bruising and swelling. “I don’t doubt that.”
Moz leaned over and whispered something, but all Peter caught was the word “bedpans” and Neal’s pained chuff of laughter. The medics wheeled Neal out of the bedroom, and before Eli could follow, Peter pulled him to one side.
“What’s the matter?”
“Neal.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Was raped.”
Eli’s eyes went wide.
“We didn’t wash him – is there any way you can do a swab sample?”
“Of course – don’t worry about it.” Eli shook his head. “Stupid thing to say. Of course you’re going to worry about it. Sometimes words just fail.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Eli went to scrub up presumably, and Peter walked out to the courtyard with Moz and Eli’s unnamed associate.
She handed him a small aluminum case. “This should suit your needs.” There was another case on the ground, and she picked it up and handed that too him as well. “A secure line in case you need to reach the airplane when it’s in transit.” She checked her watch. “If we stay on schedule, we’ll be in New York in twelve hours.”
Moz didn’t say goodbye. The look on his face was farewell enough.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Day Three
Moz spent the better part of the flight to Lisbon using the private jet’s computers and printers. He duplicated the DVDs – because there was no way he’d hand the originals over to anyone. Working from the duplicates (the originals hidden in his satchel), he printed out several dozen screen shots of Collins torturing Neal. That was the worst, but he made himself do it, and to find some distance was essential. He’d fall apart if he couldn’t.
His traveling companion, Ms Tall, Dark and Mysterious, poured him a glass of whiskey, but he waved it off.
“Can I help?”
Moz didn’t look away from the monitor. “I don’t think so.” He remembered his manners. “But thank you.” He was careful not to ask her name.
“What are you going to do when you get to New York?”
“Not quite sure, yet. I don’t know if our enemies have preceded me.” He tried to focus on the technical aspects of the image on the screen, not the image itself.
She gently tried to push him out of the seat. “I’ll do this – go rest.”
“No – no. This isn’t something a lady should do.”
The “lady” laughed; a rich and bitter note. “I’m sure I’ve seen worse.” She gave him another shove.
Acceding, Moz got up. He grabbed the end of the table when everything started to spin. It wasn’t the plane, he was dizzy with weariness. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept – maybe two days ago? Three? It was a short distance to the seats, but even the few steps seemed like a tremendous effort. He fell asleep as soon as he was horizontal.
He had a vague memory of someone buckling him in and the plane landing then taking off again. By the time he achieved full consciousness, the cabin was dark and quiet. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he noticed his fellow traveler reclining in the seat across from him. Moz must have made a noise; her eyes snapped open.
She looked at her watch, got up and left the cabin without a word. Moz followed. She wasn’t going to the head – the door to the pilot’s cabin slammed shut in his face. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to have seen the flight deck; he’d never had a chance to pilot something quite this exotic.
He washed up and went to check everything. The discs in his bag hadn’t been disturbed, and there was a pile of print-outs and the copies of the DVDs in an envelope. Obsessive and attentive as he was, Moz was compelled to double-check everything, and it was all in order. When she came back into the cabin, Moz just nodded and she returned the small salute.
“We’ll be landing in Teterboro in about two hours.” Without asking his preferences, she retrieved a small tray of food and placed it in front of him. He fell on it, devouring it all, including the cheese.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“What time will it be in New York when we land?”
“About noon.”
“And the day?”
“Tuesday.”
“Okay – ” Moz scratched at his beard and looked down at himself. This was too important, he needed to be taken seriously. “We’ll stop at my safe house in lower Manhattan first, then it’s the FBI offices.” He had thought about approaching Peter’s boss in less public confines, but time was running short. “Did you check with Peter when we were on the ground, refueling?”
That earned him a clear, bright smile. “Your friend made it through surgery just fine. Eli says he’ll make a full recovery, given time.”
Mozzie blinked and pulled off his glasses, tears of relief burning his eyes.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
There were things about this job that Reese Hughes always despised. Interoffice dick-measuring contests were at the top of that list.
Kyle Collins had been cooling his heels in the conference room since mid-morning and it was now close to two in the afternoon. The agent had simply appeared, slightly worse for wear, with a swollen lip and a black eye. He was insisting that Peter Burke had done this to him while abetting Neal Caffrey’s flight from Cape Verde. Philip Kramer, the old gasbag, had called his office a half-dozen times. He was insisting that Burke had nothing to do with that, and that Collins needed to get back out there and capture Caffrey.
There was, unfortunately, probably more than just a little truth to the story behind Collins’ bruises. But Collins himself was disturbing – careful inquiries told him that before joining the FBI, the man had done a few tours in Iraq, attached to several unnamed units based in Baghdad. Reese didn’t need to dig further to find out just what those units were. He wondered how Collins passed the psych evaluations.
There was a small commotion in the bullpen. Berrigan and Jones were hovering around a civilian. The man was more than vaguely familiar. While they had never been formally introduced, he knew this was Caffrey’s friend and purported attorney, Havisham.
That didn’t bode well. For anyone.
He went out to the balcony and summoned them. As they came up the stairs, Hughes thought their formation was interesting – Jones in front, Berrigan behind, and a woman in her mid-thirties trailing everyone. From the corner of his eye, he saw Collins emerge from the conference room – or try to. Without giving a single instruction, Jones blocked the other agent. Hughes gestured for Havisham to go into his office and he shut the door behind them. Berrigan and the stranger stood guard outside his door.
“Well?” He knew Havisham’s reputation. Peter called him a paranoid genius with an inbred distaste for authority of any form, and if there was a reason for Neal to go off the reservation, this man was probably behind it, somehow. Peter also told him that Havisham was one of the most honorable men he had ever met, in his own way. And maybe just slightly crazy.
Dressed in an expensive looking black suit and tie, he didn’t appear crazy now – just angry and determined.
“I am going to let these speak for themselves.” He handed him a large manila envelope.
Hughes didn’t take his eyes off the other man until he extracted the contents. That was an old trick he learned from a mentor a long time ago. It was usually effective, but not in this case.
When he finally looked down at the paper – photographs actually – he understood Havisham. His determination, his anger.
The photo on top showed Collins striking Neal Caffrey across the face. Caffrey was in handcuffs, arms above his head. The second and third pictures were equally disturbing. Collins was punching Neal in the stomach, in the chest.
He looked up and met Havisham’s eyes but said nothing.
His brow furrowed as he looked at the next picture. Collins was kneeling, Neal had no shoes on. And he was holding a set of jumper cables.
Jesus...
There were three or four more in the same vein – in each one, Neal was screaming. Hughes flipped back to the first one to check the timestamp. He swallowed against the rising nausea – these images were taken over the course of an hour.
“Keep going. It doesn’t get better.” Havisham commented, ice in his voice.
Not only didn’t it get better, it got worse. The next sequence was Collins beating Neal with what looked like a belt. Again, the difference in the timestamps between the first and last pictures was almost an hour.
He breathed through his nose, trying to keep control.
Only to lose it on the next-to-last set of pictures. Of Kyle Collins, FBI Agent, raping Neal Caffrey.
Hughes held up the last photograph and stared at it without blinking. It terrified him. Collins had a pistol pointed at the base of Neal’s spine – a likely point for a bullet hole if he were shot trying to flee custody.
He carefully put the pictures back in the envelope, got up, and went to a small safe in the bookcase. He took out his service weapon and a clip; in a series of familiar, economical movements, he slid the clip into place, flicked off the safety, and chambered a round.
He hoped that bastard in the conference room resisted arrest. He hoped for that the way he had never hoped for anything since he was seven years old and wanted a pony for Christmas.
Go to Part Two: On LJ | On DW
Author:
elrhiarhodanFandom: White Collar
Rating: R (For Violence)
Characters/Pairings: Mozzie, Peter Burke, Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth Burke, Reese Hughes, Diana Berrigan, Clinton Jones, Kyle Collins, Henry Dobbs, OMC, OFC
Spoilers: None
Warnings/Enticements/Triggers: Reference to torture, rape, electrocution, attempted murder. On-camera violence. Medical procedures.
Word Count: ~16,700
Beta Credit:
coffeethyme4me (And to jrosemary for cheerleading and just being awesome credit, too)Summary: Completely A/U from the start of S4.02 - Most Wanted (Henry Dobbs is no one special). The “Comfort” sequel to the “Hurt” in Six Hours to Freedom. What happens after Neal is rescued - Peter calls in an old favor to save Neal’s life, to keep them safe, and to get them home. Moz is a badass to end all badasses, except that Reese Hughes is also seriously badass. So are Jones and Diana.
Day One
Mozzie pushed Henry Dobbs up the stairs, his rage giving him strength. Each time Dobbs stumbled, Moz kicked him. He didn’t care where the blows landed, and from the squeal of pain, he was certain that he got him in the balls at least once.
Seeing Neal battered and bloody and struggling for each breath stripped the veneer of civility off him. Violence wasn’t usually ever a tool he liked using, but there were always exceptions. By the time they made it back to the house, Moz had left several more marks on their erstwhile protector.
“Your security room, and don’t think of trying anything.” He shoved the muzzle of his gun into the small of Dobbs’ back. “Ever hear of the Dentist of Detroit?”
“Yeah.” Dobbs’ reply was barely audible.
“I didn’t hear you.”
“Yeah, yeah – of course I’ve heard of the Dentist.”
“Well, guess what, you’ve just made your first appointment. You need an extraction, and I’m all out of Novocain.”
Dobbs was frozen and Moz actually enjoyed the fear on his face. “You double crossed us, you piece of shit, and now you’re going to pay for it.” Moz raised his hand, as if to pistol whip him. “Your security room and the tapes you made of Collins – NOW.”
Dobbs flinched and held up his hands. “Okay, okay. Just don’t hurt me.”
Typical coward. Moz poked the gun in the man’s back and followed him. They stopped at a locked door. Moz screwed the muzzle into Dobbs’ side as he reached into his pocket for the keys. The room was empty, but there was a bank of monitors, all but one focused on the exterior of the house. That monitor showed the cell where Collins had –
Moz couldn’t finish the thought. He saw what the bastard did to Neal, and he was going to pay for it, hopefully with his life.
There was a state of the art video recording deck and a pile of DVDs. “You like to watch, Henry?” Dobbs didn’t answer and Moz backhanded him across the face, his rings tearing strips of skin off. “I asked, do you like to watch?”
“Yes.” Dobbs moaned through the blood pouring out of his mouth.
The discs were labeled with location, dates and times. There were four marked “Basement Cell” and today’s date. Moz ran each of them. When he got to the third disc, Neal, battered almost beyond recognition, was hanging from his arms, feet twisted as if he couldn’t stand. Next to him was a car battery, a pair of jumper cables, and a bucket of water with metal rods in it.
There were times in Moz’s life when rage colored his world with blood. It happened when he discovered Hale’s body, again when he received Neal’s message that Keller had taken Elizabeth. He controlled himself then.
This time was not the same. This time, he just let go.
By time Moz was finished, Henry Dobbs was a bleeding mess on the marble floor. He was still alive and he’d probably stay that way if someone got to him in time. Pity that he locked the door behind him.
Peter counted the minutes until Mozzie returned. He cradled Neal gently in his arms, afraid that even the slightest movement would cause him pain.
Collins was on the concrete floor outside of the cell, but Peter wasn’t worried about him. He had cuffed the man (he refused to think of the sadistic bastard as a fellow agent) after knocking him out. Moz had procured as second set of cuffs and put them on Collins’ feet, trussing him like a Thanksgiving turkey, his dick still hanging out.
Neal moaned and shifted in his arms. Peter tried to quiet him. “Shh, I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” Neal seemed to take comfort in Peter’s voice, so he kept talking. Nonsense stuff, about how everyone missed him and wanted him home where he belonged.
“June’s got your room draped in dust covers. Once we fix everything, you’ll be able to step right back into your life. It will be like you just went on vacation.”
Neal was, to Peter’s surprise, conscious. “Yeah, it was a nice vacation, until this morning.” He wheezed.
“I’m so sorry – if I hadn’t tried to find you, this never would have happened. If I hadn’t called in Kramer … ”
Peter tried not to wince as Neal’s fingers dug into him. “That doesn’t matter. You got here in time. That’s what counts, you’ll always find me.”
“In time? Collins was a few seconds from putting a bullet in you. He tortured you.”
“Shh, it’s okay. I’ll survive.” Neal coughed and struggled to breath; Peter wasn’t so sure about Neal’s optimism.
“Stop trying to comfort me – it’s my job to take care of you.” He held Neal on his lap, uncomfortably reminded of the Pietà and wondered where the hell Mozzie was.
“Are you okay, would it be easier to sit?”
“No, this is fine, if you don’t mind.” Neal rested his head against Peter’s shoulder, smearing the shirt with blood, his hands gripping his arm, holding on to him with a terrible strength. “Hey, sorry.”
“It’ll wash out, don’t worry.” Even if it didn’t, Peter would never wear this shirt again.
There was a clatter and an ooof, the sound of someone being kicked. Mozzie was back. It seemed that he couldn’t help himself as he walked by Collins. Peter didn’t blame him.
“I’ve got them, now what?”
“You are sure they’re the right discs?”
“I’ve checked them, Suit. Believe me, they are the right discs.”
Peter sensed Mozzie’s rage and feared the worst. “What about Dobbs?”
“He won’t be bothering us for a while.”
And the all-important question: “How are we going to get out of here and get Neal to a hospital?”
Moz grimaced. “That’s going to be a problem – Dobbs undoubtedly has fingers in that pie, too. Neal won’t be safe in a local facility for long.”
Peter figured as much. “Let’s worry about that later, Neal needs medical treatment now.”
“Hey, Moz.” Neal tried to sit up.
Moz all but fell to his knees. “How are you doing?”
“I’ve had better days, my friend.”
“Listen, if I call Maya, do you think she’ll help?”
“NO!” Neal struggled and Peter held him tight, he was going to fall.
“Why? Don’t you trust her?”
“No – don’t want her involved; don’t want her in the middle of this. If it gets back to Dobbs that she helped us…”
Peter interrupted. “We need to get you out of here, now. As inconspicuously as possible.” It took a little effort, but he stood up and put Neal into the chair. Neal whimpered, and Peter closed his eyes against the heartbreak. Neal’s shirt had been tossed in the corner, as were his shoes. His pants – cut down the back and stained with blood and semen– were unsalvageable, but were evidence. He asked Moz to take them.
“Here.” Moz thrust something at him, a pair of swim trunks. Peter didn’t ask how he got them; he didn’t think he wanted to know. Between the two of them, they got Neal dressed. And Peter noticed something, something that just might save Neal. Time for that later – they needed to get out of here before Dobbs set his bodyguards on them.
“Can you walk?” The soles of Neal’s feet were bloody, covered in burn marks and blisters. He had stifled a scream when they slipped his shoes on.
“I’ll have to.”
Peter thought, of all the moments when he had seen Neal rise above circumstance, this was the one he’d remember forever. The climb up the stairs was slow. Neal’s broken ribs and nose made it difficult to for him to breathe. Moz and Peter supported Neal as much as they could, until Peter swept him up in his arms, carrying him up the last dozen steps. There was almost no place on his torso that wasn’t bruised or beaten or whipped.
It had been a long time since Peter believed in a benevolent god, but just maybe someone was watching out for them; they made it to the garage in the back of the mansion without being seen. There were a half-dozen vehicles and Peter carefully laid Neal on the back seat of a road-worn SUV. Moz pulled out the GPS and hot wired it. As soon as they cleared the front gate, Neal reached the end of his resources and passed out.
“Where to?” Peter asked.
“My villa.”
During the seemingly endless ride to Mozzie’s villa, Peter debated with him about contacting Maya. Moz was worried that someone – Dobbs or Collins – would have her tailed. In the end, Peter reluctantly agreed with him.
But that didn’t solve the problem of Neal’s urgent need for medical attention. He held Neal carefully, trying to give him whatever comfort he could. But Neal was shivering, probably going into shock from the trauma. As soon as they arrived, Moz him helped carry Neal into a bedroom. They piled on whatever blankets they could find to keep him warm.
Moz paced the length of the room. “I’ve got to get rid of that truck and get some medical supplies. You need to figure out how to get Neal out of here.”
Peter nodded. “I think I have an idea. Just watch your back.”
Moz nodded. “You’ll know if there’s trouble, Suit.” He handed Peter a set of keys. “If you have to get out of here quickly, take care of Neal, don’t worry about me.”
Peter nodded back; getting Neal to safety was the most important thing of all.
Moz left and Peter pulled out his cell phone. He needed to contact an old friend, to call in an old favor. He hoped that the telephone number was still in service. It did ring through, someone picked up, and Peter completed the security protocols he memorized a decade ago. The clicks on the line told him nothing; he monitored the length of the call on his watch and wondered if the delay was to give them time to triangulate his location.
“Peter Burke, to what do I owe this pleasure?”
Peter sighed in relief. “Ze’ev, you old wolf, how are you?”
“I’ve been better, but I’ve been worse too. And you?”
“Could say the same.”
“Now, I don’t think you’re calling me here for the simple joy of hearing my voice. As you Americans say, ‘What gives’?”
Peter was blunt, he had no choice. “I have to call in that favor. And by the time we’re done, I’ll probably end up owing you in return.”
“Hmm – don’t know if that’s possible, Peter. Tell me what you need.”
“I need medical care and legal sanctuary for a friend.” He didn’t say anything else, hoping that Ze’ev could read between the lines.
“Does it have anything to do with why you’re in Cape Verde?” Ze’ev asked, confirming Peter’s suspicions that his call was traced. “And why can’t your vaunted Federal Bureau of Investigations give you assistance?”
“Because my trip is not sanctioned and the damage was done by a fellow agent.”
Ze’ev was, thankfully, perceptive. “Ah. I see.
“My friend was – ” Peter took a deep breath - it was hard to say. “Tortured. He’s badly injured and is going to need care beyond what can be provided here. And he won’t be able to withstand public air transportation. Can you help?”
The silence at the other end was nerve-wracking. Finally Ze’ev replied. “Let’s make this clear. Are you invoking the Law of Return on your friend’s behalf?”
Peter swallowed. This was going against everything he believed was right and good and proper. “Yes.”
“And you have proof that your friend has that right?”
“He’s circumcised.”
Ze’ev snorted in wry amusement. “Well, that’s step one. What about a birth certificate, a letter from a rabbi?”
“Under the circumstances that might be difficult.” And yet, Peter thought that Mozzie could probably produce the appropriate documentation without too much effort. “My friend isn’t going to permanently emigrate. He just needs medical care and sanctuary until his legal situation is resolved.”
“Ah – I take it that you mean he needs sanctuary from the U.S. government? The Law of Return is not absolute, my friend. We don’t shelter murderers. We turned away Meyer Lansky, despite his millions.”
“My friend hasn’t murdered anyone. He’s in a difficult situation that’s mostly my fault. We are working on resolving it, but we need some time.” It was a pity that the treasure was back in Russia. A piece or two might have gone a long way in buying what was needed.
”Peter – I owe you more than my life is worth – and I would do anything to accommodate you and your friend, but trust me, invoking the Law of Return is not in your friend’s best interests. The political climate here is difficult, to put it delicately. Your friend is the target of a fugitive warrant, right? I can’t guarantee that my government wouldn’t happily turn him over to your people if it would buy them some goodwill.”
Peter knew this plan was a long shot, but he hadn’t expected it to crash quite so readily. “Can you help at all?” He knew he was begging.
“You said you needed medical help and a safe place, right? How safe are you now?”
Mozzie’s villa – unlike Neal’s – was on a hilltop, deep in the forest. It had a fortress quality to it, akin to some of the little guy’s safe houses back in New York. It also had the advantage of secrecy. Collins didn’t know about Moz, and he doubted that Dobbs would be willing to identify Moz – or more accurately – the Dentist of Detroit. “We’re secure, but I don’t know how long we’ll remain that way.”
“What if I could send you what you need? Doctors, medical supplies, some security, transportation back to America when you need it? Everything under the radar. Would that buy you the time you needed?”
“You could do that? You would do that?”
“My son is alive and well and has given me three beautiful grandchildren because Peter Burke was a mensch. This is the very least I can do. Tell me what you’ll need.”
Peter gave his friend a rundown of Neal’s injuries, his voice breaking as he described the results of Collins’ torture.
“How is his breathing?”
“Labored.”
“Can you tell me, is his belly hard?”
“When did you become a doctor?” Peter commented and went to check. Neal moaned as Peter palped the area. It felt hard, tense, and there was bruising from his hips to his collarbone.
“I was a field medic once, actually thought about becoming a doctor.”
“Instead, you became a spook and your kid became the doctor. And yes, his belly’s hard and tender. Swollen too.”
“Not good – he may be bleeding internally. I’m sending a surgical team. What time is it there?”
“About six PM.”
“You’ve got a long night ahead of you. I’ll have medical and security teams in the air within the hour. I have your coordinates – they’ll be on the ground and at your location by three AM.”
Peter wondered if Moz would throw a fit when Israeli mercenaries showed up at the gate. Probably not, if they were accompanied by surgeons with instructions to keep Neal alive. “Ze’ev, thank you.”
“Next time, Peter – ask me for something difficult.”
Moz thought long and hard about where to dump the truck. He could ditch it in the jungle, let the trees take it, but that presented an interesting problem – he’d be stuck too. And getting Neal medical supplies was priority. He could leave it some place in town, someplace conspicuous, as if he were thumbing his nose at Dobbs and Collins. It would be convenient for picking up the pharmaceuticals, but he would still need to get back to his mountain retreat.
The third alternative was the most dangerous one. Neal had a car, flashy and good-looking but rarely used. Moz figured that he could leave the truck in town, get the supplies, and walk to Neal’s villa – about ten minutes away. The risk was that Dobbs or Collins could be sitting on the house, just waiting for Neal and Peter to show up. But Moz wasn’t a man who shied away from risk. He was, after all, Neal’s friend.
Mind made up, he parked on the outskirts of the market area. The daytime vendors had long closed up, but his friend Hector was hanging around. The boy’s eyes widened when he spotted Moz.
“You okay? I heard that Senhor Maine was in bad trouble.”
Moz didn’t bother to reassure Hector. He may have been only eight, but he wasn’t sheltered from the harshness of life. “He needs some help.” Moz handed the boy money. “Can you go to the farmácia and get me bandages?”
Hector took the money and ran off. Moz went into the town’s other drug store – which wasn’t quite a store, per se. Shortly after arriving on the island, Moz had ingratiated himself with a local medical practitioner. Like him, Samuels was an ex pat, probably on the run from the law. The man had some unpleasant habits and wasn’t particular about cleanliness. Moz wouldn’t bring him to his villa to treat Neal, but he’d get the rest of what he needed from him.
It took a lot of bargaining and a little more arm-twisting, but Moz walked out with a bottle of Vicodin, a bottle of Erythromycin, some topical antibiotics and lidocaine to help with the pain. He met up with Hector on their accustomed street corner. The boy handed him the bandages and left, knowing that he shouldn’t be seen with him right now.
The streets that evening were typically busy – tourists and locals mingling – the sounds of the good life pouring out of the local bars and restaurants. Moz ignored them all, keeping a careful lookout for Dobbs’ men, or worse – Mad Dog Collins. There was no sign of any local trouble and he made his way back to Neal’s villa. The grounds were disturbed – broken shrubbery, windows broken, lights left on – Collins had been here. But was he gone?
Moz picked his way up the drive – the place looked deserted – but Collins was FBI and Moz had learned not to underestimate the Suits – especially the kind that like to rape and torture people. He watched the house, wishing for at least one piece of Russian military surplus – maybe an infrared scope or a hand-held missile launcher. After a sweat-soaked hour watching for any movement, Moz scurried over to the garage. He listened carefully before picking the lock. Neal’s little black BMW convertible was there waiting for him, keys in the ignition. Every instinct screamed at him to race out of there, to burn rubber, but he took it slowly. A fast car on this road would bring unnecessary attention.
Neal hovered between comatose and consciousness. Pain from the whipping made it uncomfortable to lie on his back, but the broken ribs and swollen nose meant he couldn’t rest on his stomach or side.
Peter did his best to make Neal comfortable. Cold compresses applied on his face to reduce the swelling, keeping the sheet away from his blistered feet. Too little to really make a difference. He watched the time slowly slip by, listening to Neal’s labored breathing. As bad as they were, the injuries to his back and feet seemed relatively minor compared to the potential internal bleeding and the risk of shock.
He piled blankets across Neal’s torso to prevent that, but if something was ruptured inside, there was little he could do. Peter had never felt this helpless – not even when Keller had taken Elizabeth. Then, he could do something – he could bring his skills, the power of the FBI, the force of law to bear. This was a simple waiting game.
Neal stirred and moaned, and all Peter could do was carefully stroke his forehead – one of the few unbruised places on his face. The touch soothed Neal, and he relaxed until Peter removed his hand, then he shifted restlessly and opened his eyes.
“Peter?”
“Hey there.” Peter smiled but it felt like he was tearing part of his face off.
“I have to tell you something…”
“Shh – just take it easy.”
Neal struggled and pulled an arm out from under the covers. “Peter, no – you have to listen to me.” He sounded so terribly desperate.
Peter was afraid that his friend was going to confess to some heinous crime, something that Peter would have to arrest him for later. “Whatever it is, it’s not important.”
“It is, please. You have to listen to me.”
“Okay, okay.” He took Neal’s hand, rubbing a gentle finger across the bruised and raw skin on his wrists. Something else to take out of Collins’ hide.
“Remember the night after we took down Van Horn, when you called me?”
Peter knew exactly the night Neal that was talking about. “Yeah – we talked. Sara had just broken up with you. You were upset but were trying to hide it. We were so broken – but I couldn’t let you suffer alone.”
Neal swallowed and a flash of pain crossed his face. He licked his lips and Peter started to get up, to get him some ice chips, but Neal clung to his hand. “No – don’t go. Let me finish, before I can’t.”
“Neal – it’s not important.” Peter repeated.
“No – it is. You have to know. I can’t die with this on my soul.”
“You’re not going to die, Neal. You hear me? You understand, I’m not going to let you die.” The words, like the terror in his soul, were icy, angry.
“You may not be able to stop the inevitable.”
Peter didn’t, couldn’t answer.
Neal licked his lips again and struggled to take a deep breath. “That night – when you called – I wasn’t in my apartment. I was … I was at your house. In your house. I broke into your house – You were out in the surveillance van, Moz arranged to take Elizabeth out – and I broke in.”
Peter closed his eyes and sighed. “You were after the u-boat manifest.”
“I’m sorry. I was sorry when I did it. I lied to you, I lied to Mozzie. I lied to everyone. I deserve this.”
“NO!” Peter’s denial was explosive. “Never – you never deserved this.”
“I – ”
Peter took a deep breath, and another. “Maybe under different circumstances I’d be terribly angry with you. But we both messed up. And you didn’t run – at least not because of the treasure. There’s nothing to forgive.” He leaned over and carefully wiped away Neal’s tears.
“Thank you, Peter. I didn’t want to die with that on my conscience. Of all the bad things I’ve done, I think that was the worst. I betrayed your trust.”
“And I betrayed yours when I accused you. I compounded it when I called in Kramer. So maybe we’re even?”
Neal closed his eyes and his lips twitched in a smile. “Okay. I’m tired now. Gonna take a nap, ‘kay?”
“Rest. I’ll watch over you.”
Moz was thankful that the villa was quiet when he got back. Peter was sitting with Neal, holding his hand, and something in him ached.
When Neal told him about his deal with the Suits two years – a lifetime – ago, he never expected Neal to make it past the first month. The only thing that stood between his friend and skipping out was the cost of a set of wire cutters. But Neal didn’t run, not when he had the chance, not for the best of reasons – not even when he thought the Suit had betrayed him. Moz didn’t count the time he got close enough to get on an airplane – because Neal had, after all, turned back.
He knew, he always knew that Neal wasn’t going to leave with him. Despite the plans, the promise of unlimited wealth, the life of luxury, Neal was too firmly fixed on recreating the life he wanted as a child. If he couldn’t be a cop, he’d become the next best thing.
When Neal called him, told him he had to run, his heart sang for joy – Neal was finally, firmly in his camp again. No more Suits, no more pretenses, just the dream. It took less than a week to realize that Neal really didn’t share the dream. He’d always long for New York, for the life he left behind. He’d long for the Suits, for The Suit.
For Peter.
Moz didn’t quite know what to make of their relationship anymore. Originally, he was certain it was one of mutual use. Peter used Neal’s wits, his connections, his smarts to put others of his kind behind bars, and Neal used Peter keep himself out of prison, to help him find Kate. But by the time he actually met Peter, he wasn’t so sure. People who were just using each other didn’t share that level of respect.
It was clear that they were friends, that Neal liked the Suit; he liked the Suit’s life, his intelligence, his decency. Moz could see why – had Neal actually been who he thought he was, he could have been another version of the Suit.
All well and good, but that wasn’t quite it. There was something more to their relationship, and watching their reunion on top of that tower, watching them now, Moz knew what it was. They were David and Jonathan; they loved each other – as friends, as brothers. Maybe someday, or maybe in another universe, they’d be lovers, too. But he didn’t see that here – or at least not yet.
He should have been jealous – or at least more jealous. He had parts of Neal that the Suit could never claim, but looking at them now, listening to Peter absolve Neal, taking on the blame for this terrible debacle, it was clear that Peter was always going to hold the best parts of Neal close to his heart.
As well he should.
He waited as Peter pressed a soft kiss on Neal’s brow, he waited long enough so that Peter wouldn’t think he had been eavesdropping. “Suit? How’s he doing?”
Peter turned around as he approached, and Moz was shocked at how much the other man had aged – in just a day.
“He’s in pain, and I think he’s bleeding inside.”
He put the medical supplies on the bedside table and they started working on Neal. “So, what are we going to do? Do we risk a hospital?”
“No – I called in a favor, a huge one.”
Moz was both impressed and incredulous as Peter explained his plan.
“Let me get this straight. In a few hours, a medical team specializing in battlefield trauma and a troop of IDF-trained mercenaries are going to land, secure transport and drive up here. They’ll operate on Neal, if necessary, and keep Collins out, keep Dobbs out, and once it’s safe to bring Neal home, they’ll provide transport back to the States?”
Peter nodded, a grim smile on his lips. “That about sums it up.”
“You have better contacts than I do. But one question. How do we make sure it’s safe for Neal to go home?”
“That’s going to be your job, Moz. You’ll have to take those discs back to New York and show them to Hughes. You’re going to have to leverage them to get Neal’s deal back, or something better. It was what Neal was planning – except he never expected Collins to take it so far. Can you do that?”
Neal knew that Peter and Moz thought he had passed out, but he hadn’t. He was just resting. Of course Peter was going to fix this – although the thought of someone operating on him in Mozzie’s kitchen was a little terrifying.
He stifled a gasp of pain as Peter applied something to the soles of his feet. Whatever it was, it worked. The aching burn evaporated into numbness. They lifted him up and did the same thing to his back. The relief was spectacular.
He wanted to interrupt them, to ask for something so embarrassing, so intimate, but he couldn’t. Maybe when the doctors came. He could still feel Collins’ slime on him, he wanted to be clean. He didn’t want to die with that on him.
But Neal didn’t, couldn’t ask his friends for that. They had already done so much.
Day Two
About one AM, Peter got the call from Ze’ev that the team was on the ground in Praia, and that they had secured transport. They would be at Moz’s villa within the hour. He watched the road, leaving Moz and Neal for a few moments of privacy. Three large black SUVs rolled up to the gate, and not for the first time, Peter wished he had a gun.
A man in his early thirties jumped out of the lead vehicle, a silhouette against the headlights.
“Is that you, Special Agent Peter Burke, of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
To his great relief, Peter recognized the voice. “Dr. Eli Yahalom, shalom.” He opened the gates, and stepped aside. The trucks rumbled through and people spilled out. The security team in the first vehicle didn’t bother to acknowledge anyone; they just set up a perimeter. The group from the second was unloading cases of what Peter hoped was medical equipment.
Eli approached, hand outstretched and Peter took it gratefully. “Thank you.”
“No, no thanks are necessary. Take us to the patient, we’ll talk later.”
The medics trailed them into the house and Eli shouted out orders in Hebrew before turning back to Peter. “The best place to set up an operating theater will be the kitchen, where is it?”
Peter swallowed and nodded before giving them directions. Half the team peeled off, presumably to prep the space and Peter took Eli and the rest into the bedroom.
Moz stood up, ready to defend Neal against any danger.
Peter told him, “It’s okay – Eli’s an old friend.”
Moz didn’t look convinced, but before Peter could explain, Eli jumped in. “Agent Peter Burke saved my life many years ago – I was young and stupid and I should have gone to prison or worse.” Eli paused and pulled the blankets off of Neal.
He kept talking as he pulled on gloves and conducted the examination. “When I was an intern, I got swept up in a fake pill racket with some pretty terrible people, but Peter…” Eli paused as he felt Neal’s stomach, a worried look replacing the eager friendliness. “Excuse me.” The story stopped short as he put on his stethoscope to listen.
Peter caught Moz’s eye and they both stepped away from the bed, letting the doctor and his team work on Neal. Eli called out more orders, and a portable x-ray machine was rolled in. They watched and waited, and Peter thought that things were much worse than they seemed, since the instructions, mostly in Hebrew, were flying fast. When a stretcher appeared, the worst was confirmed.
Eli stripped off his gloves and approached them. “Your friend has sustained quite a beating.”
Moz was still a little hostile. “Thank you for stating the obvious.”
Peter shushed him but Eli didn’t blink. “He’s got a slow bleed from his spleen and there are several broken ribs. I think his kidneys will be all right, though. I’m concerned about operating, given the state of his air intake. We’ll intubate, but there’s a risk.”
“And if you don’t operate?”
“I think Neal’s spleen could rupture and then he will bleed to death in short order.”
Peter looked at Moz – they both needed to made this decision. Moz asked the smart questions. “What are the risks if you do operate here? Do you have the right equipment? How long will it be before Neal can travel?”
Eli looked at Peter first before answering. He didn’t have anything to add.
“Well, there is always the risk of infection, but that can be managed. We have the equipment needed for the operation – which we’ll be able to do laparoscopically – and for post operative care. If there are complications from the lung problems, Neal will be kept intubated and sedated. He can fly on private transport in about three days, barring complications. Any other questions?”
Moz pulled him to one side. “You trust him? He’s going to cut into Neal in the kitchen.”
Peter shared all those fears. “Eli’s a field trauma surgeon – these conditions are probably the best he’s had since his residency. I think we have to trust him and his abilities.”
Without a word, Moz walked back to Eli, who was having Neal prepped. “Peter trusts you. And I – well – I trust him in this. Go save Neal’s life.”
Eli gave them both a quick, tight smile before finishing up with Neal.
A young woman, tall and hard-eyed, strode into the room like she owned it. She ignored Peter and went straight to Eli. They talked – or argued – fiercely for a few moments, and Eli kept pointing towards him and Moz. The woman shook her head, shrugged and came over to them.
“Which one of you is going to New York now?”
“That would be me – but I want to wait until Neal is out of danger.”
“Moz – you can’t – I’m worried that Collins will escalate this back in New York. He and Kramer can do a lot of damage.”
Moz looked torn, but before Peter could continue his argument, the young woman interrupted. “We need to leave now, our flight plans are filed. We have to make a refueling stop in Lisbon, and then we’ll go direct to New York.”
Moz looked from him, to Neal as he was taken to the kitchen-cum-operating theater, to the woman with hard eyes, then back to Peter.
“Neal will be all right, Moz. I promise you.”
“Okay – okay. Give me five minutes.” Moz ran off.
Peter couldn’t help but ask. “What was your argument with Eli about?”
The woman, her expression schooled to blandness, looked like she wasn’t going to answer, but Peter didn’t want to let it go. Too much was at stake. He stared at her. She met his gaze and it was a contest to see who’d break first.
Neither did, and Peter was rewarded with a tight smile.
“I don’t like the idea of leaving Dr. Yahalom.”
“There is a rather impressive security force that accompanied him.”
“They’re mercenaries.”
And you’re not. You’re *official.* “Do you have a spare weapon?”
The smile grew a little more shark-like. “He said you’d probably ask for one. Glock-22?”
Peter nodded.
“You’ll have it before we leave.”
Their departure seemed to be sooner than later. Moz came out of the house, a small satchel in hand. “I’m ready.” To Peter’s eyes, he seemed just that much taller.
Eli joined them. “Neal’s ready for surgery – do you want to see him before we take him in?”
They went over to the gurney; Peter was surprised that Neal was awake, and he felt guilty that he could offer nothing but the most banal of comforts. “You’re in good hands.”
Neal smiled through the bruising and swelling. “I don’t doubt that.”
Moz leaned over and whispered something, but all Peter caught was the word “bedpans” and Neal’s pained chuff of laughter. The medics wheeled Neal out of the bedroom, and before Eli could follow, Peter pulled him to one side.
“What’s the matter?”
“Neal.” He paused and took a deep breath. “Was raped.”
Eli’s eyes went wide.
“We didn’t wash him – is there any way you can do a swab sample?”
“Of course – don’t worry about it.” Eli shook his head. “Stupid thing to say. Of course you’re going to worry about it. Sometimes words just fail.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Eli went to scrub up presumably, and Peter walked out to the courtyard with Moz and Eli’s unnamed associate.
She handed him a small aluminum case. “This should suit your needs.” There was another case on the ground, and she picked it up and handed that too him as well. “A secure line in case you need to reach the airplane when it’s in transit.” She checked her watch. “If we stay on schedule, we’ll be in New York in twelve hours.”
Moz didn’t say goodbye. The look on his face was farewell enough.
Day Three
Moz spent the better part of the flight to Lisbon using the private jet’s computers and printers. He duplicated the DVDs – because there was no way he’d hand the originals over to anyone. Working from the duplicates (the originals hidden in his satchel), he printed out several dozen screen shots of Collins torturing Neal. That was the worst, but he made himself do it, and to find some distance was essential. He’d fall apart if he couldn’t.
His traveling companion, Ms Tall, Dark and Mysterious, poured him a glass of whiskey, but he waved it off.
“Can I help?”
Moz didn’t look away from the monitor. “I don’t think so.” He remembered his manners. “But thank you.” He was careful not to ask her name.
“What are you going to do when you get to New York?”
“Not quite sure, yet. I don’t know if our enemies have preceded me.” He tried to focus on the technical aspects of the image on the screen, not the image itself.
She gently tried to push him out of the seat. “I’ll do this – go rest.”
“No – no. This isn’t something a lady should do.”
The “lady” laughed; a rich and bitter note. “I’m sure I’ve seen worse.” She gave him another shove.
Acceding, Moz got up. He grabbed the end of the table when everything started to spin. It wasn’t the plane, he was dizzy with weariness. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept – maybe two days ago? Three? It was a short distance to the seats, but even the few steps seemed like a tremendous effort. He fell asleep as soon as he was horizontal.
He had a vague memory of someone buckling him in and the plane landing then taking off again. By the time he achieved full consciousness, the cabin was dark and quiet. His eyes adjusted to the dim light and he noticed his fellow traveler reclining in the seat across from him. Moz must have made a noise; her eyes snapped open.
She looked at her watch, got up and left the cabin without a word. Moz followed. She wasn’t going to the head – the door to the pilot’s cabin slammed shut in his face. Under different circumstances, he would have liked to have seen the flight deck; he’d never had a chance to pilot something quite this exotic.
He washed up and went to check everything. The discs in his bag hadn’t been disturbed, and there was a pile of print-outs and the copies of the DVDs in an envelope. Obsessive and attentive as he was, Moz was compelled to double-check everything, and it was all in order. When she came back into the cabin, Moz just nodded and she returned the small salute.
“We’ll be landing in Teterboro in about two hours.” Without asking his preferences, she retrieved a small tray of food and placed it in front of him. He fell on it, devouring it all, including the cheese.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
“What time will it be in New York when we land?”
“About noon.”
“And the day?”
“Tuesday.”
“Okay – ” Moz scratched at his beard and looked down at himself. This was too important, he needed to be taken seriously. “We’ll stop at my safe house in lower Manhattan first, then it’s the FBI offices.” He had thought about approaching Peter’s boss in less public confines, but time was running short. “Did you check with Peter when we were on the ground, refueling?”
That earned him a clear, bright smile. “Your friend made it through surgery just fine. Eli says he’ll make a full recovery, given time.”
Mozzie blinked and pulled off his glasses, tears of relief burning his eyes.
There were things about this job that Reese Hughes always despised. Interoffice dick-measuring contests were at the top of that list.
Kyle Collins had been cooling his heels in the conference room since mid-morning and it was now close to two in the afternoon. The agent had simply appeared, slightly worse for wear, with a swollen lip and a black eye. He was insisting that Peter Burke had done this to him while abetting Neal Caffrey’s flight from Cape Verde. Philip Kramer, the old gasbag, had called his office a half-dozen times. He was insisting that Burke had nothing to do with that, and that Collins needed to get back out there and capture Caffrey.
There was, unfortunately, probably more than just a little truth to the story behind Collins’ bruises. But Collins himself was disturbing – careful inquiries told him that before joining the FBI, the man had done a few tours in Iraq, attached to several unnamed units based in Baghdad. Reese didn’t need to dig further to find out just what those units were. He wondered how Collins passed the psych evaluations.
There was a small commotion in the bullpen. Berrigan and Jones were hovering around a civilian. The man was more than vaguely familiar. While they had never been formally introduced, he knew this was Caffrey’s friend and purported attorney, Havisham.
That didn’t bode well. For anyone.
He went out to the balcony and summoned them. As they came up the stairs, Hughes thought their formation was interesting – Jones in front, Berrigan behind, and a woman in her mid-thirties trailing everyone. From the corner of his eye, he saw Collins emerge from the conference room – or try to. Without giving a single instruction, Jones blocked the other agent. Hughes gestured for Havisham to go into his office and he shut the door behind them. Berrigan and the stranger stood guard outside his door.
“Well?” He knew Havisham’s reputation. Peter called him a paranoid genius with an inbred distaste for authority of any form, and if there was a reason for Neal to go off the reservation, this man was probably behind it, somehow. Peter also told him that Havisham was one of the most honorable men he had ever met, in his own way. And maybe just slightly crazy.
Dressed in an expensive looking black suit and tie, he didn’t appear crazy now – just angry and determined.
“I am going to let these speak for themselves.” He handed him a large manila envelope.
Hughes didn’t take his eyes off the other man until he extracted the contents. That was an old trick he learned from a mentor a long time ago. It was usually effective, but not in this case.
When he finally looked down at the paper – photographs actually – he understood Havisham. His determination, his anger.
The photo on top showed Collins striking Neal Caffrey across the face. Caffrey was in handcuffs, arms above his head. The second and third pictures were equally disturbing. Collins was punching Neal in the stomach, in the chest.
He looked up and met Havisham’s eyes but said nothing.
His brow furrowed as he looked at the next picture. Collins was kneeling, Neal had no shoes on. And he was holding a set of jumper cables.
Jesus...
There were three or four more in the same vein – in each one, Neal was screaming. Hughes flipped back to the first one to check the timestamp. He swallowed against the rising nausea – these images were taken over the course of an hour.
“Keep going. It doesn’t get better.” Havisham commented, ice in his voice.
Not only didn’t it get better, it got worse. The next sequence was Collins beating Neal with what looked like a belt. Again, the difference in the timestamps between the first and last pictures was almost an hour.
He breathed through his nose, trying to keep control.
Only to lose it on the next-to-last set of pictures. Of Kyle Collins, FBI Agent, raping Neal Caffrey.
Hughes held up the last photograph and stared at it without blinking. It terrified him. Collins had a pistol pointed at the base of Neal’s spine – a likely point for a bullet hole if he were shot trying to flee custody.
He carefully put the pictures back in the envelope, got up, and went to a small safe in the bookcase. He took out his service weapon and a clip; in a series of familiar, economical movements, he slid the clip into place, flicked off the safety, and chambered a round.
He hoped that bastard in the conference room resisted arrest. He hoped for that the way he had never hoped for anything since he was seven years old and wanted a pony for Christmas.
Tags:
- character: clinton jones,
- character: diana berrigan,
- character: elizabeth burke,
- character: kyle collins,
- character: mozzie,
- character: neal caffrey,
- character: ofc,
- character: omc,
- character: peter burke,
- character: reese hughes,
- genre: alternative universe,
- genre: angst,
- genre: badassery,
- genre: friendship,
- genre: hurt/comfort,
- type: fan fiction,
- type: longfic,
- white collar,
- year: 2012
