In spite of the timing, this is not a Christmas story. It was, however, an exercise in self-discipline because I swore to myself I wouldn't post the first chapter until the final one was written. So my present to myself was to finish it before Christmas, and I have. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it. I wish each of you a very Merry Christmas and and Exceptionally Happy New Year.

For those who haven't read my stories before, please know I generally write hurt/comfort. That's what I like to read and what I like to write. My Neal is more open; my Peter is more thoughtful. So if that's not your thing, then my stories may not be for you.

As stated numerous times, I own nothing but the mistakes for which I accept all responsibility.

Chapter One

In a mix of rage and desperation, Peter spun, closing the short distance between them so quickly that when the shot was fired the sound was muffled by their bodies. He felt the recoil as well as a searing pain along his right side but it didn't stop him. He wrapped one arm around the man, driving him back into the wall as he tried to pry the gun from his hand or at least shift its direction before another shot could be fired.

He should have done this sooner, in the parking deck when he'd first been confronted but he hadn't. Instead, he'd delayed, wasting precious time trying to reason with the man. It didn't take long to see there was no use, the man was bent on revenge and nothing he could say was going to change that. Realizing the man intended to kill him, Peter had been about to make a move when Neal stepped out of the stairwell and into the middle of a situation he knew nothing about.

When the man had accosted him moments earlier, Peter hadn't known what it was about either but he'd since been educated.

"Peter Burke. I've been waiting for you." The voice had sounded from behind him and he'd turned as a heavyset man about his age stepped out from beside the stairwell. He didn't recognize him but he recognized the weapon leveled at his chest. A Glock 21.

Peter had just gone through four hours of budget meetings. If he'd thought his day couldn't get any worse, he'd been mistaken.

"It's Agent Burke," Peter corrected sternly, "and you need to think very carefully about what you are doing."

The man didn't waver at his warning. Instead, the corners of his mouth turned up slightly; his eyes flashed with pride.

"Oh, I have thought about it, Agent Burke," he replied. "In fact, I've thought about nothing else since you killed my brother."

Contrary to popular belief, agents didn't go around killing people on a daily basis. Many got through entire careers without ever having to fire a shot. He personally hadn't been that lucky, but still, he hadn't fired his service weapon in the line of duty in almost a year. And even then...

He stopped short. The man had died. Not from the bullet Peter had sent through his shoulder, but from complications that later developed. Despite assurances from both the Medical Examiner and Agent Hughes, Peter had felt a sense of responsibility for the man's death. His name had been Victor Reich.

He could see the similarities between him and the man now standing in front of him; their coloring, the shape of their mouth and noses. Victor had been younger, his eyes were more desperate, more frightened. This man's eyes were hard and angry, but the resemblance between the two was undeniable.

It had been a joint operation with the NYPD Organized Crime Division on an illegal gambling operation in East Harlem. After three months of investigation, Peter and his counterparts had moved in to make the arrests. One of the suspects, Reich, had drawn a weapon. Peter had fired first, sending a round through his right shoulder. The others had been taken without incident and Reich had been transported to the hospital.

Peter had followed proper procedures, surrendering his weapon and meeting with the agent's of the Inspector Division immediately after the incident. In less than twenty-four hours, the shoot was deemed justified, Peter's weapon was returned and he was cleared for active duty.

Reich had undergone surgery on his shoulder that afternoon and was expected to make a full recovery but three days later, he was dead. There had been a preexisting condition, Agent Hughes had explained at the time, some kind of heart problem that had caused a stroke. The official cause of death was an Ischemic stroke which, according to the ME's report, could have occurred at any time, with or without the man's injuries. His death had not been considered a result of Peter's actions and therefore, had not been categorized as such.

He had not used deadly force, Hughes had reminded him. The man's death, unfortunate as it was, was not his fault nor responsibility. Peter had struggled with that and so, apparently, had the man's brother.

"I'm sorry about what happened to Victor," Peter said truthfully. "I really am but I didn't kill him. He had a heart problem; that is what killed him."

"After you shot him," the man snapped, making the same cause-and-effect connection Peter had made himself at the time. "You're the reason he's dead and I'm here to make you pay for it."

The man's expression left little doubt as to how he planned to do that. He'd come to kill, to take a life for a life, and if Peter wanted to survive, he needed to act quickly. But just at that moment, the door to the stairs swung open; it was Neal.

"Peter," he said, stepping from the stairwell, "I'm glad I caught you. I-" he stopped, frowning at the look on Peter's face. "What's-"

His inquiry was abruptly cut off when Reich's thick arm closed around his neck, jerking him back sharply and shoving the gun that had been trained on Peter into his rib cage. Neal grunted, eyes widening in alarm, his hands instinctively grasping the arm encircling his neck.

"Stop it," Reich growled into Neal's ear, increasing the pressure around his neck until, unable to breathe, Neal ceased his struggle and dropped his hands in submission. "That's better," the man said. He didn't relinquish his grip but he loosened it enough for Neal to get a breath.

"Take out your gun, Burke." He'd kept his eyes locked on Peter's the entire time. "Nice and slow."

Neal's arrival significantly reduced Peter's options. He'd been about to take a gamble and charge Reich but he couldn't risk that now. Now there was more than his life at stake; there was Neal's.

"Okay," Peter replied calmly, his eyes moving from Reich's face to Neal's, "just relax." His words were as much for Neal as for Reich. He removed his weapon from his shoulder holster and when it was clear, Reich nodded at the trash receptacle near the door Neal had just exited. "In there."

Neal's head shook slightly, his eyes urging Peter not to comply but with Reich's gun pressed into Neal's side, Peter had no choice but to do as he was told. Neal grimaced as the gun clanged in the bottom of the almost empty can.

"Your back up, too," the man continued. "I know you have one. Don't make me come find it."

Still keeping his eyes on Reich, Peter stooped and retrieved the Smith and Wesson from his ankle holster. Another nod in the direction of the trash can told Peter what was expected. Again, Peter did as he was bidden, dropping the smaller weapon into the can with its partner.

Reich's arm tightened again around Neal's throat. "Yours too, pretty boy."

Neal shook his head as best he could given the choke hold Reich had him in. "I don't have one," he whispered. "I'm not an agent."

Reich simultaneously dug the gun barrel into Neal's side and squeezed his throat harder. "Bullshit."

"He's telling you the truth," Peter said quickly, his voice rising as the man again cut off Neal's oxygen supply. "He's just a CI; he has nothing to do with this."

"So you're just a snitch." Reich's tone was one of disgust but he loosened his grip and again Neal coughed, sputtered and gasp for air. "Phones, too. In the can. Both of you." Peter and Neal obliged, dropping their respective phones into the can. "Now, move." Reich indicated the direction with a quick nod of the head. "To your car, Burke. We're going for a ride."

Being kidnapped wasn't ideal but at least it bought them some time. Peter had suspected the man had more planned for him than just a bullet or he'd have shot him already. Reich seemed to be the type that liked to boast, to gloat. He'd been planning this a long time and would want to take his time and enjoy it.

Still, whatever his plan was, Neal hadn't been part of it and Reich could have chosen to shoot him on the spot.

So, grateful for that in spite of his misgivings about leaving the garage, Peter moved across the structure.

Reich stopped at his Taurus. "You drive."

After unlocking the doors, Peter got in behind the wheel. Reich forced Neal into the back seat, then took his position in the center of the seat, with a clear view of Peter. Moments later, they were out of the garage and moving down the street. It had felt like hours since he'd left the office but the dashboard clock indicated it had only been seven minutes.

As long as he was driving, Reich wasn't likely to shoot him but Neal was a different story. The man's forearm was no longer wrapped around Neal's neck but the gun was still pressed into his side. Peter could tell because each time Neal tried to engage the man, his words ended in a grunt of pain as the muzzle was jammed into his ribs.

When they crossed the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn, a new worry was added to the growing list. What would happen when they moved out of Neal's two-mile radius?

The good thing about that was the authorities would be immediately notified, their location would be known and Federal Agents and law enforcement would be dispatched. Response time was less than ten minutes.

The bad thing was that ten minutes was more than enough time for Reich to kill them both, dump their bodies, and make his escape.