Neal leaned against the railing, looking out over the river. The water flowed past, seeming to mock him, as he considered his fate. A day earlier, New York had seemed like the best of all possible worlds – because from there, he could reach the rest of the world. And with the prospect of no anklet, no remaining sentence hanging over his head, he would once again be free to explore that world, yet always come home.

Now, with that gold ring pulled, once again, out of his grasp, he could only stare at the river. The water was running by him, leaving New York, not coming back.

He turned his attention back to the here and now… and there they were.

The boots.

Definitely not standard footwear for the normal denizens of The City That Never Sleeps. And he'd seen them one too many times over the last couple of days.

A little voice in the back of his head was whispering, in a quite decent impression of Peter's tone, that he shouldn't do anything rash. But he was tired of being played, used. And so he approached the stranger on the bench.

"Hey, why are you following me? Who are you?"

The man slowly dropped his newspaper and looked up, revealing blue eyes nearly the shade of Neal's own. But even now, up close, Neal couldn't place the face. And nothing could have prepared him for the words the man said.

"I'm about to become the last person on earth who knows where you are."

Before Neal could even process that answer, he felt other bodies behind him, next to him, a hood slipping over his head. He tried to pull away, to struggle, but they were strong and fast, confident in their actions. He opened his mouth, intending to make a scene – they were in a public park after all – but in that moment he felt a prick on the right side of his neck. He had just enough left in him to realize he'd been drugged, and not enough left to remember why he had opened his mouth.

He tried to focus on his feet, which still seemed to be moving, though he wasn't conscious of telling them to do so. And other feet next to his, moving with him; his vision was blurring, and he wasn't exactly sure how many feet there were.

They stopped abruptly, and then Neal felt himself being pushed forward. With the last of his mental acuity fading fast, he had enough time to wonder if he was being propelled into the river. But he landed quickly on something hard, and he heard a noise like a door slamming.

He opened his mouth again, but no sound came out. He tried to raise his head, but a wave of nausea hit him like a ton of bricks.

His head fell back, and unconsciousness claimed him.

There was a spring in his step as Mozzie headed off across the park. Near-death experiences were good for making one realize what he had – and the most recent brush with the grim reaper had left him with a true appreciation for his life. Granted, he still missed the fortune that he – Teddy Winters – had lost a few months earlier. But with the stake money Neal had provided, courtesy of the crooked shrink, he'd made a good start on rebuilding the empire.

The fact that Neal now seemed to be ready to re-commit to The Life made things just that much sweeter. In truth, he'd been a bit alarmed the other night when Neal was making proclamations about going straight. And part of him did actually sympathize with his friend, having his dreams of freedom snatched away by The Man – again.

But he'd find a way to get Neal some freedom, on their terms, and everything would be all right.

Of course, the work on hacking the anklet would go even better if Neal had just the right wine on hand…

Mozzie turned back, intending to offer some advice on the vino, but Neal was no longer where he had been. In fact, he was no longer on the path by the river.

Mozzie was just about to call out – because really, Neal hadn't been dressed for running, so he couldn't have gotten too far – when something caught his attention in the other direction.

And that something made his blood run cold.

That was definitely Neal, a hood over his head, goons on either side, being dragged toward the western end of the park. A third man trailed behind them, scanning the area as if watching for trouble.

Mozzie didn't consider himself to be either coward or hero, generally content to live life somewhere in between. And he certainly wasn't foolish enough to think he could take on three thugs, who might very well be armed, in physical combat.

But what he could do was be a witness, and hopefully gather enough information so that he could find Neal later.

There was a slight grade leading away from the river, and he worked his way up the hill, on a parallel track to the men ahead of him. Even from a distance it seemed that Neal's struggles were weakening – probably injured or drugged.

His jacket snagged on some brush, and rather than take the time to get it loose he shrugged out of it and continued on.

Mozzie reached the top of the hill just in time to see Neal, lying crumpled in the back of a van, with one of the unidentified men next to him. The doors closed and the other two men walked toward the front of the vehicle.

He worked his way carefully to the edge of the trees. It wasn't the best vantage point, but he could see part of the license plate as the van started up and pulled away.

Mozzie was debating his first call – his own street army, or the Suit – as he reached for his phone…

His hand came up empty.

Damn! The only one he'd even consider using for a call to a FBI number was in his jacket, halfway down the hill.

He looked back at the where the van had been; it was already pulling off of the curb and turning out onto the street. Then he looked back down the hill, where he could just make out his jacket.

Well, there was no way he'd catch that van on foot…

He stood up and made his way down the hill as fast as he could go. And he was already dialing a non-Suit number on his primary phone as he went.

Peter stared at the open box in front of him, not really seeing the contents. When the picture frame fell out of his hand, landing on his foot, he finally came back to the here and now with a start. Mumbling a soft curse at the pain, he bent down and picked the offending item up.

It was a photo taken in the White Collar office. The whole unit was gathered, with his core team front and center. Jones, Diana…

Neal.

He remembered the day it was taken, in celebration of closing a big case. Hughes had even read a letter of commendation from DC in recognition of a job well done, and then the senior agent played photographer, directing everyone into place.

It was a testament to the best damn FBI team he'd ever been a part of. Quite possibly the best he'd ever see in his career.

And now it just seemed like Fate was conspiring to tear that team apart.

Peter couldn't have even answered the question of how long he had been standing there, lost in thought. A day ago – hell, just a few hours ago – everything had seemed so clear. He was confident in his decision to move to DC, start fresh with a new job, new responsibilities, new location. He'd miss what would be left behind in New York, of course. But after everything that the last few months had brought – the fear, the anger, the chaos, the questions, the losses, the triumphs – a fresh start had seemed just the ticket. And wrapping the case on Rachel Turner – mercenary, thief, assassin – was just the way to close out his career in New York.

Well, closing out Neal's sentence would have been the icing on that ending. But that plan had certainly been scuttled.

And now…

Now, he was turning his back on a promotion and a move he'd been excited about just the day before. If he groveled enough, maybe he could step back into the open ASAC position he'd just vacated. Or his old position, in charge of the Manhattan White Collar division.

Of course, if he pissed off enough people by backing out of DC at the last moment, he might find himself assigned to the evidence warehouse again.

Thinking about the possibilities reminded him that he still needed to call Bruce Hall, make his choice to stay in New York official.

But even that seemed secondary to what he was doing now. Instead of just packing boxes, he was now going through the cartons, dividing out what would be going to DC with El, and what he would keep in New York.

He had never anticipated her response – that she understood his need to stay, but she'd be going…

He hoped he had hidden his surprise well, even though her announcement had hit him like the proverbial ton of bricks. And after the initial shock, he really did understand – the National Gallery job truly was a once in a lifetime opportunity.

He wouldn't – couldn't – stand in her way.

Just the thought of her leaving, though, was enough to make his knees feel weak, and he dropped down onto the edge of the bed. Intellectually, of course, he knew that plenty of couples overcame distances far greater than the roughly two hundred and fifty miles or so between New York and the nation's capital. The last time he'd had cause to travel to DC, there had been more than two dozen train departures from Penn Station to choose from each day, with the same variety of times to return to Manhattan.

It just wasn't the same as knowing that El would be there, in the same house, almost every night. And Skype most certainly wasn't a long term substitute.

Hell, they didn't even really have the house any longer – not after the end of the month. They'd arranged to rent it out, and a contract had been signed. He had less than two weeks to figure out where he'd lay his head at night.

While El was decorating a house in Georgetown, he might be bunking with the unfriendly dog at the Empire Hotel – or "Motel with an M" as Neal put it.

Peter sighed and set the photo aside – it would definitely stay with him in New York. But right now, he should probably suck it up and make the call to Bruce.

Thinking about where he might be living was getting ahead of himself. He should probably make sure he still had a job first…

Lost in concentration over finalizing the details on the report for the Worth case, the ringing phone almost didn't register. He finally picked it up, answering almost absently. "Jones."

The words spoken on the other end brought him quickly to attention.

"When?" He grabbed a pen, scribbling down the details related to him. "Where was this? Anything unusual before that? Right, we'll take the lead and coordinate with you if needed."

He hung up the phone, shaking his head. "Damn," he said softly.

But not softly enough, because Diana was just walking by, and she stopped. "Problem?"

"Caffrey's anklet was just cut," Jones replied, already opening a new screen with the tracking application on it.

"Damn." Diana echoed his reaction as she leaned in to study the map. "That doesn't make sense. Why would he do that now?"

"I don't know. I mean, there was something going on between him and Peter while you were out."

"Like what?"

Jones shook his head. "Peter wouldn't say."

"And Neal?"

"I never asked him," Jones admitted. "But it seemed like they had worked out whatever it was."

"Any other information on what happened today?"

"The Marshals just had the when and where." Jones looked around, making sure no one else was listening in. "Maybe we could go take a look, before making this official."

"It has been kind of a rough time for Caffrey," Diana agreed. "I'm with you." She straightened up, started toward her desk, and then turned back. "Are you going to call Peter?"

Jones hesitated. "Technically, he's not Caffrey's handler anymore."

"But you know he'd want to hear about this."

"Yeah," Jones said, though it came out more as a sigh. He reached for the phone…

Peter disconnected the call and leaned heavily against the kitchen bar, staring at his phone. The conversation with Bruce Hall had been… uncomfortable.

Actually, it had been downright painful.

He absently rubbed at his ear, almost convinced that he felt physical discomfort there from the heated words that had been lobbed in his direction. And maybe there was actually some physical pain – as the conversation had become more and more heated, he had tensed, and held the phone tighter to his ear.

Peter had the distinct feeling that Bruce's tirade probably could have been heard around the neighborhood if he hadn't held the phone so close.

To say that Bruce was upset that Peter was turning down the job wouldn't even come close to describing the other man's mood. And Peter had had no choice but to listen as the senior agent ran through all of the favors he had called in to get one Special Agent Peter Burke invited to the big show in Washington, DC.

And had Peter forgotten that it was only a few months earlier that he was sitting in a prison cell, looking at not only the end of his FBI career, but also quite possibly an extended stay in lockup…

"As if I could forget," Peter muttered, finally making himself move. He made it as far as the refrigerator, where he extracted a bottle of beer, twisted the cap off, and guzzled most of it before even closing the door. It probably wasn't going to help him calm down after the call, or make the sorting and packing any easier, but it sure tasted good. And it did, at least momentarily, soothe him a bit.

And there was some good news as a result of the call. After Bruce ranted for a while, he had finally admitted that the Bureau didn't have any strong candidates in line to take over as New York ASAC. After the fiasco of putting Amanda Callaway into that position, they were treading carefully. So Peter could keep his office, for now – but he was newly christened as the interim ASAC, and warned that he'd have to go through the selection and interview process to try and keep the job.

That was the least of his worries right at the moment.

Peter drained the rest of the beer, dropped the empty bottle in the recycling bin, and decided against a second. He'd made a promise to El to help with all of the re-packing. Plus, once the moving van was loaded the next morning, she'd be on her way to meet the movers at the new house. He wanted to spend as much time as possible with her before they became one of those couples separated by physical distance.

He was just heading for the stairs when his phone rang. His first impulse was to just turn it off – but then he saw the identity of the caller.

"Hi, Jones."

'Hey, Peter… uh, how's the packing?'

Something about the hesitation in the younger agent's question made Peter come alert, and decide this wasn't the time to announce his new career plans. "What's wrong, Jones?"

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. 'Caffrey's anklet was cut.'

"What!"

'We just got the alert from the Marshals. Look, I know you're officially done here, but I figured you'd want to know.'

"You're right, I do. Where was he?"

'Tracking data shows he was by York and 60th, a park down by the river. Then he must have been in a cab or something, judging by the speed. The signal dropped a few blocks later.'

Peter was regretting guzzling that beer now that he was trying to process the information Jones was relaying. "You tried calling him?"

'Straight to voicemail. And it looks like his phone is turned off. Diana's not getting a GPS signal.'

"Damn."

'Look, Peter, I know things had been a little tense between the two of you, but it seemed like you had worked things out. Is there a reason he'd run?'

Peter found he wasn't even really sure how to answer that. Well, you see, he just got a promise of freedom yanked away, and he wasn't very happy… "I'll meet you at the park," he said, evading the question. "Let's see what we can find."

'We're on our way.'

Peter disconnected the call and started up the stairs, his mind already awhirl with putting together a plan to find the wayward consultant. Maybe if they could locate Neal quickly enough, settle him down, there would be a way to cover this little escapade without having it formally become an escape. But hadn't he warned the younger man not to do anything rash…

"Damn it, Neal!"

"Suit, this is the third message. Where are you? Neal needs help!"

Mozzie stabbed angrily at the button to disconnect the call, and then pulled out the other cell phone – one that would never make a call to any law enforcement number. Or any other official government or industrial military complex number.

But it was perfect for who he was about to call now.

"Kato? Listen carefully. We need more help finding Neal…"