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It was a foggy Sunday morning, the sun barely peeking through the skyscrapers. Which meant, of course, that it was the perfect time for Dick to be standing out in the chill, hat tilted at a jaunty angle and thermos of coffee held in a distinctly non-jaunty grip.
“Why can’t the criminals be a bit more considerate of my days off?” he grumbled, taking a sip. He had been up late last night precisely because he didn’t have to be anywhere this morning. Damian and Steph had been taking a new patrol route, and he had stayed up chatting with them and helping out with some research. He wasn’t anywhere near as fast as Babs would have been, of course, but he wasn’t a half bad substitute when she was busy with the Justice League. It was more about spending time with them, anyway. But that all added up to him falling into bed past two a.m. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except for the call that he received barely three hours later.
“We’re all here on our days off, Neal,” Peter reminded, surveying the building. “Besides, you said you weren’t doing anything this weekend.”
Dick muttered incomprehensibly.
Diana laughed, looking obnoxiously awake. “You don’t look like you got much sleep, Caffrey. Got lucky last night?”
Dick scrounged up a Caffrey grin for her. “I’m surprised at you, Diana. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
Diana snorted.
“I’ve got the warrant!” Jones said, jogging up to them, holding up a piece of paper triumphantly. “Had to bang on a judge’s door a few times, but he agreed there was enough evidence.”
“Good work Jones,” Peter said, taking the warrant and glancing over it. “Alright team, we’re looking for Ms. Cinthia Thompson. Suspected identity and business fraud, extortion, and racketeering, but nothing’s ever stuck.”
“This sounds more like Organized Crime’s area,” Dick pointed out.
“She’s operating under a legal business,” Jones said, grabbing a coffee from the cardboard holder sat on top of one of the cars. He took a sip and grimaced at the lukewarm temperature.
“Rider’s Engineering,” Peter confirmed. “Inherited from her grandfather, Boris Rider. He may have gotten it going, but she’s the one that turned it into an empire. Lots of money going in, lots of money coming out. But not quite enough.”
“You think she’s skimming?” Dick asked, accepting the file that Diana retrieved from the back of the car. “Could be overhead costs.”
“Maybe, but we got a look at their records. Three months ago, they updated a lot of equipment. You’d expect the amount of money missing to increase accordingly, but it doesn’t.” Diana tapped one of the pages, grinning. “It’s too consistent. There’s an average 0.2% missing every quarter. Not really enough to stand out on paper-”
“But with as much money they’re making, it’s a substantial number for someone’s bank account,” Dick finished, snapping the file shut. “It’s clever. A small enough number that it’ll fly under the radar while still giving her a nice nest egg. A bit surprised it was enough for the warrant, though.”
“That’s not all she’s been up to,” Peter said. Diana reached over and flipped the file back open, turning to the last page. Dick squinted at the pictures inside. “We got these shots of her meeting with a mysterious contact, not on any of her calendars.”
Dick glanced at him. “And I assume you have a name.” The slight grin in Peter’s voice gave it away. His handler might seem stoic, but compared to Batman he was an open book.
“Kurt Bawd,” Peter confirmed. “He’s been on Organized Crime’s radar for a long time.”
“Once again,” Dick said, gesturing with his thermos. “Why are we here? Why am I here?”
“Caffrey was up late last night,” Diana stage-whispered to Jones, a sly grin on her face. Jones made a little ‘oh’ of understanding and sent Dick a thumbs up.
“We’re here because Organized Crime is tracking down Bawd and we are the pincer. You are here because you thought it was a good idea to be a criminal, and criminals don’t get to sleep in.”
Dick sent Peter a long-suffering look, but followed along as they made their way to the building. Diana and Jones pulled their guns as they entered the lobby. Peter was armed only with the warrant, and Dick was annoyed at how much that bothered him. He knew Peter was fast and skilled, and that did a lot to quiet the voice shouting in the back of his head, but it never managed to shut it up all the way. Sure, Dick and his family threw themselves at gun-wielding criminals nightly, but Peter didn’t have tri-weave reinforced kevlar or the best training the world had to offer. He had a gun that was in its holster, FBI training that would put him a level above the average criminal, and a piece of paper.
Pretending to be helpless was one of the most annoying things about this job. The anklet had been a strong contender at the beginning, but now that he was used to the weight it barely registered as a problem. The actual tracking had never even been a blip on his radar. The anklet itself might be difficult to crack, but the Marshal’s databases? Not so much.
“FBI,” Peter said, holding up his badge to the guard at the front desk. “We have a warrant to search apartment 32.”
The guard took the warrant and read it over carefully before handing it back. “Elevators are to your left,” he said.
Dick glanced back as they headed to the elevators. The guard was murmuring rapidly into his phone. “He probably just alerted Thompson,” he told Peter as they got in the elevator.
“Not surprising,” Peter said, watching the floor numbers tick higher. “Alright, so once we go in, Jones, Diana, take the sides. She might try to make a break for it. Neal, stay close to me. Thompson’s not shown any evidence of violence, but be on your guard.”
No one answered when they knocked, even with Peter barking, “FBI! Open the door!” Peter glanced at the three of them as they counted the mandatory 20 seconds. He tucked the warrant away, pulled out his own gun, and nodded to Jones.
Jones kicked the door open and they spread out. Dick resisted the urge to cover Jones’ six, hanging back behind Peter, who was moving forward into the main living space, leaving the rooms on either side to Jones and Diana.
The penthouse was empty. Peter cursed. “They can never make it easy,” he muttered.
“So inconsiderate,” Dick agreed.
“You don’t have any room to talk,” Peter reminded him. “El still reminds me about all the weekends and evenings I missed tracking you down.”
Dick grimaced. “Remind me to send her a fruit basket.”
“I’ll do that.” Peter sighed, letting his gun drop. “She’s not here. What is she doing out this early on a Sunday?”
“Maybe she jogs,” Dick suggested.
Peter shot him an unamused look and gestured toward the room. “Let’s start looking for evidence. Anything that could tie her to Bawd.”
Dick tugged on his gloves and started poking around. This was where he got to flex his skills a little bit. Neal Caffrey was excellent at noticing tiny little details, ostensibly because of his history as a forger and thief. It was a nice change to not bite his tongue around his observations. “That’s a Klimt,” Dick said, pointing at a painting shining gold near the fireplace. “She’s new money. A purchase like that would have been talked about, in my circles if not yours.”
“Meaning she either got it as a gift, very quietly, or very illegally.”
“Probably a combination of all three,” Dick said, running a gloved hand down the side of the frame before lifting it off the wall. “Does Bawd deal in paintings?”
“He got caught moving some,” Peter confirmed, opening Thompson’s cabinets. “Worked with a forger on a few jobs. I actually looked at their operation as a potential sighting for you back in the day.”
Dick pulled back from his examination of the Klimt to give Peter a look. “I’m offended, Peter.”
“Yes, yes, we determined very quickly that the forger was not up to your skill level,” Peter said, waving him off. He huffed. “There’s nothing here, and I can’t get a conviction on a painting and six jars of tomato sauce.”
“She a fan of spaghetti?” Dick asked, grinning as he rehung the painting and nudged it until it was hanging just half a centimeter off level, just as he’d found it.
“Half Italian,” Peter shot back. Dick could hear the smile in his voice even as he ducked into the next room.
“Guys, there’s nothing in the guest rooms,” Diana reported. “But I found a key; looks like it’s to a basement storage room.”
“Check it out,” Peter said. “Jones, how’s your end?”
“I’ve got some petty cash under the mattress- well, petty for someone in an apartment like this. A couple birthday cards on her dresser-”
“Sentimental,” Peter muttered. “Wouldn’t have guessed it.”
“What, that a criminal can have a rich and flourishing social life?” Dick asked cheekily.
“Your best friends are a conspiracy nut who doesn’t trust his own shadow and the fed who sent you to prison for four years,” Diana said.
Dick opened his mouth to protest, paused, and then shrugged. He couldn’t dispute her as Neal. Dick could barely argue that his own social life was rich and flourishing, for all that he knew aliens and demigods. FBI surveillance wasn’t the best, but that combined with Peter’s habit of dropping by unannounced put a damper on visits. As it was, Peter was convinced he was running some sort of young felon support group. As in supporting their felonies, not their rehabilitation. In a way, he wasn’t wrong. Dick had absolutely been helping Tim work out the best way to break into a building. And Tim had definitely stolen something from said building. So actually Peter was exactly right in his suspicions, but still.
“I don’t think we’re going to find anything,” he said, electing to just pass over Diana’s jab. Diana let out a quiet ‘ha’ of victory through the comm. Dick rolled his eyes.
“I haven’t found anything else,” Jones agreed, entering the room. “No phones, no computers, no Alexas or e-home technology.”
“She’s good,” Peter conceded, “but we’ve still got her on camera with a known felon.”
“Enough to get a warrant for her office next?” Dick asked. It could really go either way in cases like this. If the judge denied them, their hands would be tied. This is why Dick preferred Batman’s method of obtaining evidence.
“If we can get the right judge,” Peter answered.
“I’ve got a sighting!” Diana’s voice cut through their comms and Dick felt all his nerves light up in response. “Thompson just came inside. Blue blouse, slacks, carrying a big bag, can’t see what’s inside. I’m by the stairs, she hasn’t seen me.”
“Is she headed for the apartments?” Peter asked, moving toward the door.
“She’s heading for the elevator- the security guard stopped her-” Diana swore. “She’s making a break for it! In pursuit.”
Dick and Peter sprinted for the door, Jones joining them as they burst into the hallway. Peter made for the elevator while Jones ran for the stairs. Dick hesitated for a split second, weighing the options. He would be a lot faster down the stairs, but then he’d have to explain his agility. Sure, Neal Caffrey was fit and could get away with a fair amount of skill -- even parachuting off a skyscraper if he was pushing it -- but dropping three stories at a time down the center of a staircase? Dick knew himself, and he knew his self control wouldn’t be strong enough to keep him running at a reasonable pace.
All these thoughts flew through his mind before Peter even made it to the elevator. “Neal!” he shouted, and Dick ran after him, decision made. Better to force himself still in the confines of the elevator. Diana was a skilled FBI agent, and he still had important work to do in the FBI.
As if summoned by his thoughts, Diana’s voice came back over the comms. “Heading down Harald,” she said, clearly running. Dick placed her in his mental map. Harald was one of the smaller side streets. It made sense for a fugitive to try and lose them back there, especially since she was familiar with the area.
“We’re on our way, Diana,” Peter assured her. “Be careful.”
“Better hurry, boss,” Diana replied. “Or I’ll take all the fun before you get here.”
The ride down was intense. The elevator blocked their comms, so they couldn’t hear Diana anymore. The two of them burst through the doors the moment they opened, sprinting through the lobby. “Diana, update,” Peter barked into his comm.
There was no reply.
Dick’s stomach dropped, his jaw tightening. No matter how many times the people he cared about were put in danger, it never got any easier.
“Diana,” Peter repeated, faltering a little in his rush. “Jones?”
“She stopped talking a couple minutes ago,” Jones reported, sounding a bit winded from his race down the stairs. “Didn’t sound like anything was wrong.” His tone was grim. They all knew what could happen in just a few minutes.
“We lost her in the elevator,” Peter growled, regaining his stride.
“I’m around the back. Harald runs right past here but I don’t see any sign of them,” Jones said. Dick scanned the surrounding area. There was a street sweeper chugging along, a few cars slipping past it. A cluster of fancily dressed women walked down the street opposite, coffee in hand. The street was quiet for New York, this early on the weekend.
“Witnesses?” he asked. His spine was tingling with the need to go after Diana now, to make sure she was okay now, but they couldn’t go running through the streets hoping they stumbled across the right one. If he were Nightwing right now he could do it, with a team at his back and Oracle in his ear, but he wasn’t, and the only backup they had was fifteen minutes out.
Peter put his hands on his hips, puffing out his cheeks and blowing out a long breath. Dick could see the tension draining from his shoulders. He opened his eyes, a steely glint shining in them as he met Dick’s gaze. Just like that, he was calm and focused again.
“Witnesses,” he agreed, nodding to the women who had paused outside a shop window, gossiping and gesturing at the dresses and purses displayed inside. “Let’s start with them.”
It had been four hours without a word from Diana. He and Peter had talked to every witness in the area while Jones got in contact with the NYPD. No one had seen anything.
“And you’re sure?” Peter pressed. “You didn’t see anything suspicious?”
The street sweeper shook his head, hands held tightly in his lap. “I was sweeping,” he repeated. “I have to focus on my job. Those big sweepers can cause a lot of damage if you’re not careful.”
Dick watched the sweeper, eyes narrowed. It had taken them a while to track down the correct sweeper. In the time it had taken them to set up a perimeter, he had disappeared. According to the sweeper, 6th had been his last street and he had just headed back to the garage. The company backed him up, showing them the schedule which had indeed listed 6th street as the sweeper’s final location. It certainly seemed above-board, but something was nagging at him. And Dick had long ago learned to trust his instincts.
“There’s something off about this,” Dick told Peter once they left the conference room.
“Peter gave him a tired look. “I thought so too, but his story checks out.” He dropped into his chair and logged on to his computer. “Keep looking. Jones is going through security tapes.”
Dick tapped his file against his palm. “Alright,” he said. He’d let his subconscious keep working on the sweeper problem. For now, they had 39 camera feeds to look through in the area surrounding Thompson’s apartment building.
15 minutes later, Dick was ready to either rip his hair out or break his cover by calling in Oracle. He hated sorting through camera feeds.
“I’ve got her on Oak Street,” Jones piped up. Dick leaned over to see. Jones had zoomed in on the corner of one of the grainy security videos. It was still clear enough for them to see a flash of movement, a blur of blonde hair, and then Diana's familiar jacket.
“Oak Street,” Dick repeated, leaning over the map they had been using. He marked the location with a bright pin. “So they left Harald pretty quickly. Can you tell which way they’re moving?”
Jones frowned at the list of camera locations. “West north-west.”
“Adjust the search radius in that direction?” Dick asked
Jones tapped on his desk, considering. “Let’s see if we can find proof they kept that heading.”
They didn’t. All signs of them disappeared from that point on. Dick paced back and forth, chewing on his lip. He wanted to suit up and go. Diana was his friend, and she was in danger. He should be out there.
Dick stayed. Ten months ago, the League of Assassins had used their entrenched agents to clear the forged papers for three plots of land upstate, which the bats had been keeping a very close eye on. Four months after that, they leaked the files of three agents from various departments and locations, all of whom were found dead within the next weeks. Just two weeks ago, they distracted the FBI from the murder of a businessman and the theft of all of his assets.
Dick knew what he wanted to pick, but he also knew what he had to pick.
“Neal, Jones,” Peter called. He quirked his fingers at them when they looked up. Neal looked about ready to wear a hole in the floor. Peter knew how he felt, there were jitters running through his own chest at the moment. He should probably send someone to pick up lunch for them; it was past one. But they didn’t have time. Diana’s life depended on them.
“Any news?” Neal asked as soon as he stepped into the room. His eyes darted over the people crowded in the conference room, stopping on Hughes for a long moment before flicking back to Peter. Peter opened his mouth and paused, his throat tightening.
“Sit down, Caffrey,” Hughes said from his position in the front of the room. His arms were crossed, his expression unimpressed, and Peter took the chance for what it was, taking a deep breath and forcing his emotions to settle. Diana may have been his protégé, but that was all the more reason to do this right, to not get distracted.
“We have received contact,” Peter said, his voice steady, “from Cinthia Thompson.”
The room was dead silent, every eye fixed on him. Peter looked them over for a moment. They were all here on their day off, working tirelessly to bring Diana back. For the first time since Diana had failed to respond, Peter felt like smiling. He had a good team. The urge to smile disappeared as he remembered that even his team had their limits. “This is what we were sent.” He stepped to the side and nodded at Bingsley, who tapped his laptop. The video started. Peter stepped back to watch it, even though he had seen it once already.
A few seconds of black followed by the rustling of cloth and the camera swinging up to show Diana tied to a chair. Cinthia Thompson stepped into frame. She was shorter than Diana, with blonde hair and a manic expression that matched the gun in her hand.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said, gesturing with the gun toward the camera. “You’re going to release Kurt Bawd, fully, no strings, or else I’ll shoot your agent here in the head.”
Diana glared at Thompson, disdain clear in her eyes. Thompson glanced at her and scowled “A token of my sincerity,” she said, looking back at the camera just long enough to flash a fake smile before hitting Diana across the face with the gun.
Diana’s head snapped to the side. She spit out some blood and glared. Peter’s jaw ached from clenching. Thompson would pay for that.
Thompson looked back at the camera. “You’ve got 12 hours,” she said. The screen went black.
The room was silent. Nobody moved. Even Neal was eerily still, his hands resting flat on the table and his gaze locked on the screen. Peter sucked in a breath to speak, but Neal beat him to it. “Play it back,” he said. Peter blinked. Everyone turned to look at Neal. The conman didn’t bother meeting any of their gazes. His hand scrabbled over the table until his fingers met a pad of paper and a pen. “Play it back,” he repeated, pen already dancing over the page.
They’d be doing that anyway, so Peter nodded to Bingsley. “Look for identifying features, any details that can help us narrow down location,” he said. Normally he’d be watching the video along with anyone else, scanning dark corners and analyzing light patterns, but he couldn’t drag his eyes away from Neal. He had seen his C.I. focused, angry, intense; hell, he’d seen him murderous. But he had never seen the expression that was on Neal’s face right now. It was cold and hard and nothing Peter associated with Neal Caffrey. His long fingers dashed over the paper. Peter couldn’t imagine what he was writing down. The other agents were making occasional notes, but Neal hadn’t stopped writing once.
The sound of gun hitting skin brought Peter’s attention to the screen. He pinched his lips together as Thompson gave the time limit and then disappeared. “Right,” he said, looking back at the room, praying some of them had managed to notice details he missed. “What have you got?”
Even as the team started throwing out suggestions, Peter’s gaze slid back to Neal, who was now shuffling through the files scattered over the table, still scribbling things down at top speed. It was everything they had on Thompson, but Peter didn’t know what he was hoping to find. He didn’t like not knowing. Neal Caffrey was his C.I., his responsibility, his friend. He knew him better than almost anyone, information first learned over years of chasing him down and now from years of working together. Anytime he didn’t know what Neal was doing, there ended up being a mess that he had to clean up. Peter just hoped that if Neal was planning something illegal, it would help Diana. If it was, he might be too busy coordinating everyone else to notice Neal’s antics. Just this once, because he was frazzled about Diana being captured, of course.
“Probably a basement,” Morin suggested. “Standard for kidnappings and the light didn’t suggest any windows.”
Windows could have been covered, but Peter didn’t interrupt, just nodding at Morin. Any suggestion was a good suggestion at the moment.
“Not a basement,” Neal said. He was sitting ramrod straight in his chair, hands folded in front of him on the table, gaze sliding over everyone in the group before locking back on the screen.
Peter blinked at him. “Neal?” He allowed a hint of warning to slip into his voice, mostly because he didn’t know what the hell Neal was doing and it was making him even more antsy than he already was.
Neal barely even looked at him. “It’s too clean to be a basement,” he explained, leaning over the table and flicking a hand toward the screen. “Look at the floor, look at the ceiling corners. There’s no dirt or spider webs, the floor is sealed and polished concrete without any scuffs, and there’re no marks on the wall.”
“It could be a finished basement,” Jones offered. “Unusual for a kidnapping, but it would explain the cleanliness. Thompson hasn’t shown any signs of violent crime before; that could explain the unconventional location.”
Neal shook his head. “They’re in an industrial building. Even ignoring the flooring, look at the struts, there, left bottom corner, and the light fixture. Neither of those belong in a private residence.”
The strut? Peter wondered incredulously, taking a step back to look at the screen. Now that he was looking, he supposed the wall didn’t look very much like a private residence. But that didn’t rule out a basement.
“The light fixture isn’t visible,” Jones pointed out cautiously. Peter didn’t blame him for that caution. Even Neal’s voice had changed, becoming commanding in a way Peter hadn’t heard from him before. The confidence was expected, but Neal’s confidence was usually smooth and suave, flirty smiles and the easy rattling off of art history. This confidence was more like the experienced agents Peter had worked with in the past: He knew he could handle anything that was thrown at him. Neal was settled into his skin, which hit Peter in the face with the realization that his C.I. had edges of tension hovering around him the rest of the time.
“Maybe not, but the quality of the light isn’t the same,” Neal said easily, as if everyone should be able to analyze the quality of light. FBI agents were trained to recognize daylight versus artificial, but that was about as far as it went. “Residential buildings have warmer lighting, and it’s not as bright. Commercial buildings have harsher, brighter lights. Industrial buildings,” he jerked his chin at the screen, “even more so, because they need the entire space illuminated to be up to code. That tells us that she’s not only in an industrial building, but she’s in one that is at least trying to be up to code.” Neal finished this explanation with a neutral face, rather than the proud or gleeful expression he usually had after showing off his knowledge.
“Okay,” Peter said, unable to say anything else beyond the rotating chorus of what the fuck in his brain.
“How do you know that, Caffrey?” Hughes asked suspiciously.
“You pick up some things, when you work in as many places as I have,” Neal said, shrugging. There was nothing in his face to give him away as lying, but Peter could tell, with senses tuned to years of Neal Caffrey, that he was keeping something back. It was a relief that he still had that at least.
“Anything else?” Hughes asked. It sounded half sincere, half sarcastic.
Neal nodded. He snapped on a pair of gloves and picked up one of the plastic bags of evidence, flashing the birthday card inside around the room. “This is from Thomson’s apartment,” he said. He reached inside and carefully removed the card, flipping it open. “Happy birthday. May this be a day of blessings and joy for you, and may the years ahead be filled with good things,” he read, and then looked at them as if that was supposed to mean something.
Peter frowned, grabbing one of the copied images of the card and scanning the wording himself. “We don’t have time for you to be coy, Neal,” he said when he couldn’t find the connection. “Spill.”
“It’s a cipher,” Neal explained, flipping the pad of paper to a new page and clicking his pen. He wrote out the message quickly, and then a new set of letters underneath. “Translated into Gaelic, scrambled, and then shifted by three.”
“Gaelic,” Peter echoed incredulously. He knew Neal spoke a lot of languages, but they were all widely spoken and made sense for an international conman to know. But Gaelic? That wasn’t even considering the fact that Neal could apparently break complex, multi-part ciphers in a few minutes with a piece of paper. Peter supposed that could be chalked up to Mozzie’s influence, though. The man did love his puzzles.
Neal shrugged. “The Duolingo course interested me,” he said. “The point is,” he emphatically drew a circle on his pad of paper and spun it around. “This is what he was really telling her.”
Peter leaned forward, tilting his head. There were dozens of tiny lines of writing covering the page, most of them pure gibberish. The one Neal circled was at the bottom. “Monday 5 Black 6:51 Apple?” Maybe he should rethink Neal’s skills. His headache gave a particularly strong throb, and Peter glared at his C.I. “Neal, this doesn’t mean anything.”
Neal gave him an unimpressed look. “On Monday, tomorrow, something is happening at Number 5 Black Avenue at 6:51 a.m. Probably a trade of some sort, maybe more of the art that we recognized at Thompson’s apartment.”
Peter blinked, then snatched the pad of paper away from Neal and looked closer at it. “Black Avenue,” he murmured, scarcely daring to believe it. It seemed too ridiculous, switching ciphers in Gaelic for crying out loud! This could be a waste of their time, it could put Diana in more danger if it turned out to be a dead end. But Neal looked at him so steadily and seemed so secure in his opinion that Peter felt himself accepting it.
“Okay,” he said. “Say this is true and they’re having a meeting. That won’t help us find Diana.”
“No,” Neal agreed. “But it does tell us something important.” He grabbed the second birthday card they had pulled off Thompson’s dresser. He twirled his pen, grinning, sly and pleased with himself in a way that made Peter’s shoulders relax a little. That was the Neal Caffrey he knew. “The thing with codes is that once you’ve cracked one, it’s easy to crack the others. Bawd tried to disguise his handwriting, but the little loop he adds to the bottom of his J’s gave it away. This card is from two weeks ago. She really should have burned it,” Neal said gleefully. It took him only a few seconds to scribble out the translated message and read it aloud: “My friend visits Wednesday; new shipment Thursday.”
“So they were working together,” Rodden said. “We already knew that.”
“Yes, but this gives us our motivation for Thompson trying to break Bawd out of prison.”
“‘My’ friend,” Jones said slowly. “Not ‘our’ friend.”
Neal nodded proudly. “Exactly. Thompson didn’t come up with this. ‘Bawd’ is a Scottish last name, hence the Gaelic. He’s the mastermind. Which is also why it’s been so hard to pin anything on Thompson. She plays her role, but she’s not the one pulling the strings.”
“A profitable role, though,” Peter said. He had decided to deal with the pile of new information and the avalanche of questions that came with it by filing it all away to puzzle over later and focusing on the information. It didn’t matter where it came from right now, as long as it could help Diana.
“True, but only as long as she has Bawd,” Neal explained. “He sets up the meetings and drops; she funds or makes purchases while providing a front of legitimacy. She’s not used to getting her hands dirty or worrying about the details. Which,” he added, “is why she’s so desperate. She knows we’re onto her now. She’ll need to run for it, get out of the country if she can, and Bawd’s contacts are her best bet at doing that. But whoever is meeting her tomorrow on Black Avenue is expecting Bawd, and Thompson clearly knows they won’t deal with her unless Bawd is there. They’re powerful or dangerous enough that she’d rather threaten an FBI agent than risk meeting them on her own.”
The room was silent as everyone stared at Neal. “Damn,” Jones breathed.
“Yes, I’m very interested in learning where this knowledge has come from,” Hughes said. “And why you haven't been using it to solve cases.”
“You have to notice a lot when you’re a forger,” Neal said. “Even more so in some other alleged fields. And I haven’t needed to use them before. We close our cases regardless.”
Hughes pursed his lips. Peter jumped in before they could get too far off track. “This is good information if it’s true, but we still need to figure out where Thompson is keeping Diana.”
Neal gave him an unimpressed look that had none of its usual amused charm. Peter abruptly felt like he was failing a performance review. He scowled at his C.I.
“Come on, Peter,” Neal said. “Diana is being held in an currently up-to-code industrial building that Thompson has ready access to. She’s desperate, the feds know who she is, and she’s definitely going to be prepping to leave the country. She’ll be somewhere she feels comfortable, in control, safe enough to threaten an FBI agent.”
Peter stared at his C.I. “It can’t be,” he said. Surely it wouldn’t be that simple, surely Thompson wouldn’t choose such an obvious hiding place.
Neal just quirked a small, satisfied smile. “I did say she wasn’t the mastermind.”
Peter shook his head. “Rider’s Engineering.”
“I’m going in,” Neal said. Peter gave him a harsh look, but Neal met him head-on, that same, unfamiliar, steely look in his eye. “I’m going in, Peter,” he said, and it wasn’t a question. On another day, Peter might have argued with him. But it had been a long, long day, and his best agent was missing.
“Fine,” he said, pulling out his gun. “But you’re staying behind everyone else.”
Neal nodded sharply, but Peter didn’t feel assured. He wished he could assign someone to watch Neal, or even handcuff Neal to his desk back at the office, but there was no time and Neal would only break out of the handcuffs anyway. Peter would like to remain in blissful ignorance of just how fast Neal could pick his cuffs.
There was a strange sense of deja vu as the team burst through the doors. But this time the team was much larger, agents in S.W.A.T. gear racing off through the building, clearing the floors and blocking the doors. And there was a hole at his side that Diana was supposed to fill with her confidence and snarky sense of humor. He’d fill that hole by the end of the night, Peter promised himself.
He led the way down to the sublevels, where the heavy equipment was stored. Everything was brightly lit and clinical, clearly marked signs denoting what was in each room. Soldering equipment. Banks of computers. A handful of employees still here after hours, screaming in surprise as the S.W.A.T. team burst through the doors. But no Diana, and no Thompson.
It took over 30 minutes to clear the entire building. Every exit was watched, the building surrounded and a further, 5-block perimeter set up to be safe. No one went in or out. And Diana wasn’t there.
“Are you sure that’s everyone?” Peter demanded, heart sitting somewhere around his knees.
“Building is clear, sir,” his radio confirmed. “All employees have been rounded up and are currently being processed for questioning. No suspicious personnel. Agent Berrigan is not on the premises.”
Peter whipped around to where Neal was gripping a door handle with white knuckles, staring around the final room they had cleared as if Diana would just appear. “Neal,” he begged. “You told us they were here.” And dammit, he shouldn’t have blindly followed Neal’s suggestion, he should have at least asked more questions, looked deeper into it, not devoted almost their entire force in a single location. There wasn’t time to search the whole city, they had barely had enough time to get everyone into place and move Bawd out of prison and into their custody, just in case they had to show him to Thompson to calm her down and get Diana out safely.
Neal turned to look at him, jaw hard and eyes sharp. “I did,” he said. “They were.”
“They’re not,” Peter snapped.
“I know,” Neal snapped back. “But they were here.” He led the way back down the hallway, to a quiet room off to the side that looked like an unused storeroom. He crouched and pointed at the floor. “Look here, there are scuff marks indicative of a heavy chair being jerked around.”
Peter blinked at him and crouched as well, squinting at the floor. It just looked like a scuff mark to him. “How can you know that?” he asked.
Neal sighed, but gestured at the marks. “Look at how the scuffs are only in those four spots, where the legs of a chair would be. They’re contained, but still present. How would a chair make scuff marks like that? It wasn’t dragged across the floor, there’s no corresponding desk marks, and it’s in a weird place for a desk anyway,” he added, gesturing at the position relative to the door. “Someone placed a chair here, and then was jerking around in the chair hard enough to make these scuffs. Diana was seated in a chair, in a room looking just like this one, tied up and angry. And she was pistol whipped,” the C.I. added, expression darkening. “That alone would make her jerk around. So we know she was here.”
Peter frowned at the scuff marks. “That’s not going to hold up,” he said slowly.
“It doesn’t need to as long as we find her,” Neal said, standing up. “Besides, look at this room. There’s the light, there’s the strut I pointed out, the floor and the walls match. This is where the video was taken.”
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. It was too late to save Diana any other way, and the room did look very similar. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Alright, well where is she now?”
Dick paced around the room a little, eyeing the doorposts. “I don’t know.”
“There’s no scuffs on the walls that can tell you?” Peter asked, only a little sarcastic.
Neal shook his head, letting his hand drop from the door jam. He scowled at the floor. “No.” He paced back and forth, muttering under his breath.
Peter asked Jones for an update and got a tense, “Nothing to report,” back.
“I’m missing something!” Neal burst out.
Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then all the rest of us missed it too,” he said, sighing. “I’m going to tell them to pack up, start searching the surrounding area, have some of the probies back at the office look over the tapes again. It might have been filmed here but maybe she mentions something that we missed.”
Neal fisted his hands in his hair, looking worried and furious. “I need to figure this out,” he said. “Diana’s not coming back in a body bag!”
Peter felt like he’d been punched. He sucked in a breath but Neal had frozen to the spot, his eyes wide, and Peter hesitated. “Neal?”
“The bag,” Neal breathed.
Peter blinked. “What?”
“The bag, Peter!” Neal repeated, letting go of his hair. It stuck up in all directions. “Diana said Thompson had a big bag with her. She didn’t have it on the cameras, so what happened to it?”
“She probably dropped it because it was too bulky to run with,” Peter said slowly, trying to work out where Neal was going with this. He wasn’t too hopeful. Peter was no slouch, but the leaps of logic Neal had made that had been right was on a different level. He just had to hope Neal was right with whatever he was thinking now.
“But there was no bag in the apartment building,” Neal said, running a hand through his hair and managing to stick it up even more. “Or in the surrounding areas, we combed those streets to the last alley. She ditched it somewhere else, somewhere we wouldn’t look.”
Peter frowned for a moment, sorting through possible hiding places, locations they had searched that morning. The lightbulb went off, and Peter’s eyes widened as he looked at Neal. He could see matching realization in the younger man’s eyes.
“The street sweeper,” they said together.
Peter didn’t waste any time asking questions. He jumped on his radio and started barking orders, rerouting their teams to the garage they had visited hours ago. He grinned at Neal, desperation replaced by adrenaline. They still had time, now that they had a location. “Let’s go, partner,” he said.
Dick’s whole body was thrumming with tension. If he was wrong, if Diana wasn’t here, then he’d wasted all their time and Diana would be shot. They crept up to the door of the garage, all sirens and lights turned off to hide their presence. The S.W.A.T. teams spread out around the building, ready to burst in. But first they needed to get eyes on Diana. They had a plan, a slapdash one thrown together on the way over, and if everything went well they’d get Diana back without a hitch.
Peter gave him a questioning look and Dick nodded, tugging his jacket straight and tilting his hat to its usual jaunty angle. He slipped through the door, senses on high alert and body language relaxed.
The street sweepers loomed around him in the semi-darkness. There was only one set of lights on, and Dick headed for the lit area, forcing himself not to blend in with the shadows as he naturally wanted to. Instead, he let his heels click a little as he turned the final corner, just enough warning that Thompson hopefully wouldn’t spook and shoot Diana. He smiled as he stepped into the light, met by the glint of the gun barrel aimed at his head. Foolish, she should be aiming for the center of mass. The way her hand was shaking, she probably wouldn’t come anywhere close to hitting him.
“Good evening,” he said. There was movement out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t look in that direction, but out of his peripheral vision he could see Diana peering at him from her position on a step ladder next to a street sweeper. Thompson was probably making her retrieve the bag.
“Who are you?” Thompson demanded.
Dick tipped his hat. “My name is Nick Halden,” he said. “And I’m the reason the feds haven’t arrested you.”
Thompson lowered the gun a little, visibly confused, before she shook her head and raised it again. “What does that mean?”
Dick stifled a smile. “What, you thought you got away with this on your own? Your plan was clear,” Dick said. “The feds were onto you, so I redirected them.” He tilted his head to the side, the pleasant smile on his face holding just a hint of condescension. “They’re currently across town, tearing apart some old warehouses by the docks. You’re welcome.”
“Why would you do that?” Thompson demanded, but she looked uncertain, her gun dipping and swaying as she nervously glanced around.
“You have something of value,” Dick said blandly. “My employer is interested in the object, and they will not receive it if you are arrested tonight. What you do after tomorrow at 6:51 a.m. is up to you.”
Thompson visibly paled and she lowered the gun. “It wasn’t my fault,” she said. “I got away and I- I’m working on getting Bawd out-”
“The FBI does not negotiate,” Dick said, still in that bland voice. Gotham didn’t just have insane supervillains, and he had learned over the years that when it came to organized crime, the scariest people were the most calm, the ones who never shifted from a state of steady professionalism no matter what happened in front of them. Dick’s own impression was a healthy mix of Black Mask’s assistant Ms. Li, Damian’s…everything, and Bruce’s rarely-used-but-terrifying-to-behold business voice.
Diana was creeping down the stepladder, so slowly that it was barely noticeable. Dick still needed to keep the attention on him. “You never had a chance of freeing Mr. Bawd,” he continued, sending her a pitying look. “Which is why I’m here.”
Thompson hesitated, torn between raising the gun again and keeping the peace. “Why is that?” she asked, a tremor in her voice.
“To retrieve the item,” Dick said, “and complete your end of the bargain.”
“No!” Thompson cried, raising the gun. “He will have the painting tomorrow, where I can bargain with him. I have to get out of this city.”
“Out of this country more like, Ms. Thompson. You kidnapped and assaulted an FBI agent, after all.” She couldn’t have done that alone. She was scared and inexperienced and physically no match for Diana. Dick pretended to glance around. “Though I notice Mr. Bawd’s men have vacated the premises. Did you no longer need them?”
“They’re standing guard,” Thompson snapped. “Three of them, so don’t get any ideas.”
“Of course, not. This is just a friendly conversation,” Dick said, folding his hands in front of him. “If you need transportation out of the country, we can work out a deal.”
Diana was on the ground now, and Peter whispered, “We’ve got the guards. Keep her talking, Neal,” in his ear.
“What kind of deal?” Thompson asked.
“My employer is willing to provide transportation to a destination of your choice. In exchange, you will give me the painting and certain…activities will be credited to your operation.”
When Thompson opened her mouth to protest, Dick raised a hand, judging it safe enough for the movement. It looked like Thompson had almost forgotten about the gun in her hand. “You won’t be able to return either way,” he said firmly. “I will remind you that kidnapping and assaulting an FBI agent carries a 20-year sentence. And that is a modest estimate, not considering your other illicit activities.”
Thompson let out a frightened moan. Dick might have felt some sympathy for a woman who had gotten in over her head, but he could see the bruise spreading over Diana’s face as she edged closer to Thompson and his smile remained icy cold. “So,” he said, resisting the urge to clap his hands together. Thompson didn’t look steady enough for loud noises. “Do we have a deal?”
“You’ll provide transportation?” Thompson confirmed anxiously.
“Yes. Simply keep our original appointment, and we will bring you wherever you wish.”
“Okay,” Thompson said, looking like she was about to fall over. “Okay.” She turned toward the street sweeper, and Diana disarmed her in one swift movement, pointing the gun back at her.
“On your knees,” she said.
“Clear,” Dick said cheerfully, and the S.W.A.T. team burst through the doors, sweeping through the building as Peter rushed up to them.
“Diana, are you alright?”
“I’m fine, boss,” Diana said, giving Dick an impressed glance as Jones came up and handcuffed Thompson. “You play one hell of an enforcer.”
Dick smirked a little. “Why, thank you.”
“He also plays one hell of a detective,” Jones said, pulling Thompson to her feet. “He figured out where Thompson had filmed that ransom video in about three seconds, and then he figured out you were here because of a bag.”
“Damn, Caffrey,” Diana said. “Maybe they should start paying you the big bucks.”
“Any bucks would be big compared to $700 rent,” Dick said dryly.
Diana snorted and headed back to the street sweeper. She pulled the bag out. “I think the contents of this should be interesting.”
They all gathered around as Diana opened the bag. Dick whistled quietly. “That’s another Klimt,” he murmured. “This mystery ‘him’ must have a taste for them.”
Jones grinned. “Maybe we can use that. They do have a meeting scheduled for tomorrow. It would be a shame to stand him up.”
Dick met Jones’ and Diana’s matching grins and Peter’s relieved smile. He felt himself settling back into himself, the skin of Neal Caffrey wrapping back around him like a well-worn coat. He had made it in time. He had found her and she was safe. He tilted his hat and sent them a wicked Caffrey grin. “They won’t know what hit them.”