ANGEL

Chapter 1

His head and stomach were at war, and apparently taking no prisoners. The staggering smell of bodily fluids laced with antiseptic added to this trifecta of misery. He took a deep breath and rolled onto his side in the small infirmary bed. His stomach took the first salvo when his gut clenched. Desperate to rid himself of the roiling contents in his belly, he bolted upright almost falling to the floor.

"Whoa buddy! Here, take this."

Peter held out the worn emesis basin, and Neal emptied the remainder of his dinner.

"Feel better?"

"Not really. What happened to me?"

"You got jumped by two inmates. The guards found you unconscious outside your cell. Doctor says you have some bruised ribs, a dislocated shoulder and maybe a mild concussion."

"So much for maximum security," he winced trying to find a comfortable position. Everything hurt. Suddenly his thoughts took a dark turn and his body tensed.

"Peter, was I..."

"No, no," he interjected hurriedly, sparing his partner the need to speak his fear out loud.

"I'm sorry Neal. Hughes is pulling in every favor to try and get you released."

"And?"

"While this incident might help us, he's up against Deputy Director Roark. He's never been a fan of the use of CI's and he's been very vocal in his reservations about you. The art theft, El's kidnapping …. taking down Keller made a lot of noise. There are people who still believe you stole the treasure, and Roark is at the top of that list."

"But we recovered the treasure, Elizabeth's home and Keller is doing a life sentence. What else do they want?"

"I know," Peter said wearily. This was not the time for another lecture on actions and consequences.

He was tired, bone tired. He needed to be home before dark and the thought of the commute back into the city, made his tired muscles ache. Even though Keller posed no threat to them now, he hated the idea of Elizabeth being alone after nightfall. Then there was the paperwork, mountains of submissions and fillings. Roark wanted blood. If he couldn't have Neal's, someone else would pay the price. Right now the entire white collar division was in his cross hairs. As much as he hated to admit it, it was hard getting past his anger with Neal, even harder was his disappointment. He believed he was his friend, brought him into his family. Maybe Kramer was right after all, con men and cops… a recipe for failure. He would never abandon his responsibility to Neal, but it was getting harder and harder to stay emotionally invested.

"It is what it is, Neal. It's a process and until it gets resolved and the investigation completed, our deal is suspended. I am afraid it gets worse. Warden Pederson says the word in the prison is out about your work for the FBI. You're not safe."

"Tell me about it." he swung his legs over the bed. How much worse could it get he thought, as he massaged his side and struggled to control his stomach.

"She doesn't have the resources to monitor you around the clock. And the only space that could afford any reasonable security is the solitary confinement unit."

"No, Peter! I'm not going into solitary." His breathing accelerated, as echoes of past confinements reverberated in his brain.

"We don't have any choice."

"You mean I don't have any choice."

He was angry. His life, what was left of it anyway, was not his own. Somehow it had all passed out of his hands. He couldn't remember when he had a real choice, when he was the sole decider, not Kate, not Mozzie, not Peter. Yet, he didn't have the right to protest. He crossed a line, maybe an unforgivable one. He knew the enormous betrayal everyone felt, especially the man across from him. But how long was he to be punished, was there no way back home? His head was swimming.

"Did they drug me?"

"The doctor gave you something for pain and antibiotics. He wants you to stay overnight for observation, you'll be transferred in the morning. One more thing, there is one other occupant on the unit. Ambrose Snow."

"That name sounds familiar."

"He is on a very short list of people to escape a Supermax facility."

"A man of my own liking."

"Don't get any ideas about comparing notes. Snow is dangerous. Very dangerous, Neal. He murdered his entire family, every man, woman and child. He killed several guards escaping his last Supermax, and those that lived wished they hadn't. Believe me, this was our last option."

WCWCWCWC

The next morning Neal was delivered to the solitary confinement unit, ostensibly for his own protection. He was shackled at his feet and waist. Two guards flanked his side. They moved down a long hallway to a booth where two other guards were stationed. A code was entered into a high tech keypad by one guard; another guard placed his eye against a retinal scanner. A huge steel door slid open, revealing two tiny cells.

The guard in the booth stepped out and approached Neal.

"This is Officer Paul and I'm Officer Riley. Warden says you'll be our guest until you get released."

Riley was tall, broad shouldered, two hundred and some pounds easily with close cut blond hair. He was obviously in control. Neal observed how the other men looked to him for clues on how to behave toward him.

"The rules are simple. You do what we tell you, when we tell you," he said sizing up the new occupant.

The door to the small cell slid open and Neal was led in, his shackles were removed. Everything was grey, grey concrete. The walls, the ceiling, the floor, even the bed was concrete. The room was 8 x 10, smaller than his bathroom at June's. There was a tiny stainless steel sink and toilet in the corner. A large steel door covered his cell; behind it was a clear plexiglas wall with a slot where meals were slid on plastic trays. There were no windows.

His despair was palpable as he stood taking in his new surroundings. Riley approached him from behind, abruptly pulling him out of his daze.

"You get two thirty minute breaks for exercise, in the yard," he motioned to his right.

For a moment Neal saw a slender opening of hope in this suffocating prison of concrete. It was only momentary, as Riley pointed to a small enclosure right off the unit. It amounted to no more than a concrete dog run. Trying not to panic, he turned to Riley to try and explain his situation.

"I think there may be a mistake. I was told this was just a protective confinement and I would still be entitled to the same privileges I had in general population. Agent Burke, my .…"

"I know who he is, and I know who you are. There are no privileges here, Neal. The sooner you accept that, the easier things will be on you."

"But …what about visiting hours?"

"Am I going to have to repeat myself?" he moved into Neal's personal space and smiled icily.

"No, Neal nodded.

"Good boy. Lunch should be here shortly." He looked to the cell across from Neal's. "Ambrose Snow is our permanent resident; no one makes contact with him. Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Neal sat on the concrete bed and prayed for Peter to arrive and free him from this hell. Lost in his head, he barely heard the keypad beep. Two guards came in carrying a plastic tray with two plastic food containers. The heavy gate to Snow's unit slid open and a container was pushed in. Then the procedure was repeated at his cell as the food tray was pushed through his slot. Not sure if it was the medications, the beating he took or just plain despair taking over; the thought of eating made his stomach knot. He took the container and looked at the food, a perfect match of grey. While fingering the plate, he noticed a scrap of paper on the underside.

Waiting until the guards left, he unfolded the paper. To his astonishment there was a portrait of an angel, a glorious pre Raphaelite angel done in the most beautiful fashion after Cimabue or Duccio. He was seldom amazed by forgeries, but this was breath taking. Wrapped in the beauty of the image, he didn't hear the door slide open and Riley enter.

"Where did you get this?" Riley demanded, snatching the paper from Neal.

Before he could offer any explanation, Riley pulled him to his feet like a rag doll, backing him against the wall. His meaty red face inches from Neal's, rancid breath coming in quick bursts. He tightened his hands around his throat. Neal's pulse beat wildly under his rough grip, as he thrashed and struggled against the bigger man. His eyes bulged and watered, he gasped for breath. Riley squeezed harder until his pulse slowed and slowed. His brilliant blue eyes almost inky black, his pupils impossibly dilated and fixing, his body went limp.

"Riley!" the other guard shouted.

"Man let go, you're killing him!" he moved to intervene.

"Touch me again and I swear to God…" he swung toward the other man.

Distracted momentarily, he released his murderous grip. Neal staggered forward with a convulsive exhalation. Giant ragged breaths sucked in and out as his chest heaved. Riley wasn't done. He grabbed his battered shoulder, spun him against the wall pinning his arm behind him. He couldn't scream. The force of Riley's two hundred and fifty pound frame against his back emptied the air from his lungs. Riley's cheek was next to his, his hot breath on his neck, hips grinding against his body. He held the portrait of the angel with his free hand up for Neal to see. His voice low and filed with menace.

"Fuck with me one more time and I will tear you apart. We clear on that?"

Neal nodded desperately, his voice strangled with panic and pain. He was fighting to stay conscious. Riley said nothing. Just moved away, turned to the door and left. The other guard followed. Neal heard the keypad beep and knew the unit was closed. The room went silent. He closed his eyes and collapsed.

WCWCWCWC

He had no idea how long he'd been out. Struggling to his feet, he barely made it to the small sink. His chest was on fire and his entire body felt warmer than it should. He splashed his face. The coldness of the water helped. He staggered to the spartan bed and sat, running his hands along his side trying to assess the damage to his bruised and battered body.

He was sitting on the edge of the small bed, staring at the wall unaware of how much time had passed. The stench of Riley's cheap cologne still on his skin. He felt naked and ashamed. He waited and waited…. for Peter. It was not so much that he depended entirely now on Peter for his survival that unanchored him, as much as that he needed him. He did everything he asked. He risked his life. He tried to disconnect himself from his past, from his previous self. Now that there was nothing left but a jumble of parts and pieces, how did he put himself together again? He didn't know how. The keypad beeped.

"Peter, thought you would never come…."

"I was detained by Warden Pederson, do you know why? Cleaning up your messes, as usual," he huffed.

Not giving Neal a chance to respond, he launched into an angry tirade. His face filled with anger and resentment.

"She wants to boot you off the unit, for aiding and abetting Snow. This gives Roark all the ammunition he needs. I ask you to do one thing. One thing, Neal. Do you think this is some game, one of your little cons? God! Ambrose Snow is not your friend, he's a monster. The warden's filling a report with the Bureau."

Peter was pacing the small unit, so angry he couldn't bring himself to look at Neal.

"Peter it's not what you think… "

"It never is, Neal. That's the problem." He was standing with his back to Neal, looking across toward the sealed metal door to Snow's unit.

"Just let me explain, please."

"Stop, he held up his hand. No more excuses, Neal. I can't believe your selfishness. The entire division is at risk. Reese's reputation, his leadership is being questioned. This could go in Diana and Clinton's permanent record. My job is hanging by a thread. Do you even care? Do you? I can't keep doing this, putting the things and people I care about in danger for you."

"Peter, I'm sorry."

Confused and hurt more than he could have ever imagined, he looked down at the floor. He wanted to mount an argument against Peter, but nothing came. There was no fight left in him.

"Maybe I'm hurting you more than helping you. Asking you to be someone you can't. I think when this is over; maybe you should get another handler, Neal."

He felt as if he had been stabbed. It was an excruciating pain thrusting down between his shoulder blades, compressing his lungs making it hard to breathe. He wanted to cry but he wouldn't. He felt sick and bewildered. Didn't Peter understand the love and loyalty he felt for him? He gazed at the floor, vision dulled. First Kate, then Mozzie and now Peter. He was alone. His body trembled slightly.

The silence was deafening as both men processed the moment. Peter finally turned to face Neal, assured he'd won the struggle to maintain his resolve. Instantly his face turned from resentment and mistrust to concern, as he saw what rough shape the younger man was in.

"Neal, look at me. What happened to you?"

Neal slowly lifted his head, the purple and blue marks lining his neck and jaw, stood in stark comparison to the pallor of his face, his eyes bloodshot from petechial hemorrhaging.

"Jesus, Neal. Who did this to you?" he moved toward him.

"Don't, he pulled back from his touch. Peter was caught off guard.

"I'll be OK. Go home Peter," he said quietly.

"Neal, I can't leave you like this."

The keypad beeped, and the night guard entered. "Sorry agent Burke, your time is up."

"What happened to this man?" he snarled.

"Sir, you'll have to take that up with Warden Pederson. Right now, step out of the unit."

"I need to see her, now!" he demanded.

"Sir, Warden Pederson won't be in until tomorrow morning. Are we going to have a problem? Please step out of the unit."

"Neal, I'll be back tomorrow. I promise you," a visibly shaken Peter tried to make contact with his friend.

"I'm tired Peter. I just want to sleep now."

As Peter was escorted away, Neal turned in his small bed faced the wall of his cell and let the world shrink away.

WCWCWCWC

He awoke from a fitful sleep, with the sound of the heavy steel door to the unit sliding open. The lights remained on twenty-four seven, but it was dark. This was his first indication something was wrong, terribly wrong. He heard footsteps, maybe three or four men moving quickly. The way they maneuvered in the dark told him they had done this before. His heart was hammering in his chest, as he struggled to remain still. Then the door of Snow's unit slid open and he could hear the unmistakable sound of Riley's voice.

"So Ambrose, you like to play games. You like showing off, showing how clever and smart you are. Right? What's that? Cat's got your tongue?"

The room filled with laughter as one of the other men removed the mouth guard from the shackled prisoner's face. Ambrose Snow sat motionless, his face arranged in an almost serene mask.

"Let's play a game, Ambrose. I'm no fancy art thief and forger like your boyfriend next door, but I enjoy a work of beauty just like the next guy. Recognize this?"

Riley pulled from his pocket the portrait of the angel Snow had passed to Neal. Snow sat impassively, giving no acknowledgment of Riley's gesture.

"No? You're blood sugar must be down, probably hungry from missing lunch today."

He took a stun gun from his belt and placed it against Snow's thigh causing him to involuntarily gasp. He then forced the crumpled portrait of the Angel into his mouth. The other men swarmed in and held Snow, as Riley ripped one sheath after another from Snow's sketch book and crammed them down his throat. Snow's eyes jammed wide and the veins in his neck bulged and wriggled like giant worms.

"Now, let's have some real fun." He slammed the stun gun into Snow's gut, sending him toppling to the floor, as the men punched and kicked at him.

Neal placed his hands over his ears in a futile attempt to block out the sounds. He knew that Riley left the door open for him to hear. He wanted an audience. A further warning of his complete control and power over him.

"OK, get him up! Now for dessert."

Riley was red faced and panting. He put his hands on his belt and slowly unbuckled it. He unzipped his pants. He smiled.

The sound was unmistakable to Neal, even mixed in with the noise of three men breathing hard. He felt so helpless, so impotent, as the guards took turns with Snow.

After what seemed an eternity, he heard the heavy door to Snow's unit close. The footsteps approached his cell and stopped. He could feel Riley's cold stare on his body. He was hyperventilating, his hands shaking badly. Then they moved away, the keypad beeped and everything went silent again. Snow was not the only monster there.

Peter asked if he had ever hit rock bottom. As tears rivered down his cheeks in the dark, he could barely contain the sobs racking his body. He had hit rock bottom.

He slept off and on, in a dreamless oblivion. As he tossed and turned, he thought he heard voices. Afraid he was losing his mind, he strained in the dark to hear and then it came to him, a faint whisper.

"I've been waiting for you."