Neal was staring through a loupe at one of the forged paintings. Diana and the two museum officials were crowded around the other one. Neal was subconsciously cataloguing all the problems with the painting-the wrong type of paint, the ill use of lighting, the stunted brush strokes. He folded up the eyepiece and crossed his arms. He glared at the painting. It was too poor quality to even pass for Curtis "The Dutchman" Hagan's work.

"I don't recognize the work. I think it was done from a photo. I don't think the artist saw the original at any time before painting it. May I look at that one, Diana?"

Diana switched places with him. Neal elbowed his way between the art appraiser and the docent. He could tell instantly that the paintings were done by two different people, and said as much.

"How do you know?" The tall, balding docent peered hawklike over Neal's shoulder.

Neal looked at him in surprise. "You can't see the differences?" Neal paused, then launched into a detailed description of the many differences between the two paintings. He concluded, "I kind of think the artist of this one here, was teaching the guy who painted that one. I think he was mimicking the stylistic elements-you can tell how he held the brush, here, the strokes..." Neal's voice trailed off as he examined the paintings.

Diana glanced at the clock and interrupted Neal's musings. "Hey, we gotta go. It's time for the rendezvous." The left the museum and insurance officials suddenly feeling very out-classed. With a sigh, the insurance agent picked up the loupe and stared at the painting again, trying to notice all the problems Neal pointed out with ease.

Diana and Neal walked into the crowded conference room where Jones was busy briefing the different teams on their locations and responsibilities. One of the probationary officers was dressed like a Starbuck's barista. The rest were wearing plainclothes, or employee uniforms from Barnes and Nobel. Neal tried to pay attention to Jones' instructions, but was quickly distracted by worries of seeing his childhood friend again.

Neal had always been attracted to the white-collar crimes. It was easy to outsmart his victims; stealing a PIN for a debit card was child's play. Curtis Hagan and he shared a mutual love of artwork and the fine things in life, but Davis had been lured into the gun and drug trade because of the quick and easy money. By all accounts, he had somehow managed to stay out of jail-a miracle considering he started out running drugs across state lines-but Neal had no doubts that he was indirectly responsible for a great deal of violence. Keller had always followed Davis around, and the two fed off each other. Neal thought back to their childhood. Davis always hinted at violence when he thought he wasn't going to get his way, just like he had last night on the phone. "I'll bring you back to Saint Louis, then, without your tracker."

"Got it, Neal?" Neal jerked his gaze back to Jones, completely unaware of what he had been asked.

"I said, after you make the hand-off, go out the back door and go straight away to the surveillance van. Don't loiter in the bookstore. We don't know if he's got his own guys in there, or not. Okay?" Jones asked again, seriously.

"Straight away to the van. Got it." Neal nodded and tried to pay attention. He realized Peter was watching him from across the room, and he shrugged sheepishly. Peter's brow furrowed, wondering what had Neal so distracted.

Neal sat in a stuffed char in a corner of the bookstore, his forged copy of the journal in a briefcase at his feet. He twisted the brown paper sleeve around his cup of coffee and tried to focus on a book he picked up to kill the time. The words were out of focus; he was far too aware of his surroundings.

Peter and Jones, listening and watching from the van, were just as tense. They spotted Davis long before Neal did, though.

Despite his vigilance, Davis still managed to surprise him. Neal looked up and was started to see Davis sitting in the chair next to him.

"It's been a long time." Neal greeted Davis. He tried to see if Davis was armed, but couldn't tell if there was a gun tucked under his shirt or in a leg holster.

"Mos' def, brother. You got what Ammon wanted?"

"You don't waste time with the small talk." Neal glanced around to see if Davis had brought back-up with him. He didn't see anyone.

"Aint no need. You don't want to talk to me anyway." Davis grinned.

"Only because you're hanging around with Keller." Neal muttered as he reached for the briefcase.

Davis raised his eyebrows. "Keller is in jail, homes. Visitation isn't exactly what I'd call 'hanging out.' Are you just pissy cause he suggested I call the cops on you?"

"You know we don't get along." Neal rolled his eyes and popped open the briefcase, balancing it on his knees. "Before I give this to you, what guarantee do I have that this is it? I mean, is Ammon going to make me do something else, later?"

Peter felt his blood pressure rise. "What is he doing! Jones! Why is he bantering with him?!"

Ignoring Peter's outburst, Jones continued to watch the two on the screen. No wonder Neal was nervous. "You realize he's armed, right?"

"What?" Peter glared at Jones. In response, Jones reached forward and tilted the screen around so that Peter could see it.

"Right there. He's got something tucked in the back of his pants."

Peter cursed under his breath. "Get him out. Why is he dragging this on?"

Neal, meanwhile, was arguing with Davis. "Look, get him on the phone, or something. I'm done. I'm out. I can't go back to prison, and doing shit like this is going to get the FBI all over me. Tell him I'm out, and I want the original paintings returned."

"That's not part of the deal, homes." Davis leaned back in the fluffy chair. He shrugged at Neal. "You can talk to him. But you need to give me that."

Neal shook his head.

Peter felt his blood pressure skyrocket.

Neal flicked the lid off his coffee cup. It tumbled to the ground, it seemed to Peter, in slow motion. He realized immediately what Neal was about to do. Sure enough, he held the cup over the briefcase. Neal's voice came through Peter's headset loud and clear. "Get him on the phone, or I'll ruin the journal."

Peter ripped his headphones off and jumped to his feet. "Get him out of there. Right now. Who's the barista? Get the barista on the phone or is she wearing an earpiece? Tell her to get him out of there! Where the hell are the rest of my agents? I'm going in." Peter grabbed for the door handle but Diana stopped him.

Diana put her hand on Peter's sleeve, gently. "I'll go in. I'm sure he'll recognize you." She took her headset off, grabbed her purse, and slid out the back of the van. Peter slumped back into the chair and fumbled his headset.

"I'm going to kill him."

Jones raised his eyebrows at Peter. "Be quiet, boss, I think Davis actually went through with the phone call. I can't really pick up what he's saying, with your ranting. Neal worked for these guys for years, he knows what he's doing."

Peter glared at Jones, but directed his attention to the unfolding conversation anyway. Why couldn't Neal just listen to instructions and get out of there already? Did he not realize how dangerous Davis and Ammon could be?

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, guys. I should have the last two (maybe three) chapters up by the end of this coming week-barring no unforeseen life adventures. Work has been super hectic, and I haven't had a moment to myself.