A/N: A quick tag for Season 3's episode "As You Were". Call me the cruel hurt/comfort writer, but I'd wondered during the episode what an alternate ending to Neal's confrontation with Van Horn would have felt like. It's really a one-chapter piece, but for the sake of suspence, I'm posting it in six small mini-chapters.

Oh, and as a side note, sorry Van Horn's lines aren't exactly what they should be...writing off memory doesn't work so good when you have no memory to speak of.

Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or basic plot.

1

"The guards have left their post…Peter? Peter!" Neal tapped on the receiver in his ear as hard as he dared. Great. Comms are down. Snorting out a curse of frustration, Neal moved on blind instinct. If comms were down, something was wrong. If something was wrong, he needed to get Jimmy out sooner than soon. Personally, he didn't see much to like about the guy, but he meant a heck of a lot to Jones; that was all Neal needed to hear.

He was up and gliding down the hall before he'd even thought about the danger. There was a small window in the first white door. Jimmy. Cuffed to a chair, bleeding, disoriented. A quick pick of the lock and Neal would rush in as the quiet savior, get Jimmy out and finish the job. Down on his knees, he whipped out a pick from his pocket and set to work.

The hall was silent, only the soft clanking of metal clicks reminded Neal he still had ears. The pick was lodged half-way in the lock. Just one more…

Swish!

Suddenly, a steel arrow flew just inches from Neal's face, into the door-jam just below his hand. Purely on reaction, Neal jumped back in fright, falling on his backside. The look on his face was one mixed of things so unnatural to him: panic and fear.

Out of nowhere, like a lion stalking prey, Van Horn slid into the hallway with murder in his eyes. There's a heartless black crossbow in his hands, a malicious smirk on his face. "Did you actually think you could get away with this? I'm gon'na enjoy killing you."

Even in panic, it's clear to Neal that the first arrow had missed his head on purpose. Van Horn wanted to stalk him, to hunt him. Leaning back helplessly on the polished white marble, Neal decides running is his only option…even if it is what Van Horn wants. Ignoring the green laser mark settled on his chest, he spins as quickly as his adrenaline-trembling limbs would allow and bolts down the hall, desperately searching for a way out.

Van Horn is pleased. He'd been hoping for some excitement. He took his time loading a new arrow and following Neal down the hall. He knew exactly where the corridor lead. Neal did not.

With nothing but the pounding thud of his heart, Neal finds a winding staircase and all but leaps down the steps. There. A sharp turn to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, Neal spotted the double doors he prayed would be his freedom. If there's one good thing about arrows, it's their firing limits compared to bullets. Manically, he reaches out, praying the glass will give. Clammy fingers wrap around the handles and he pulls with all is weight…

No give.

Yanking hard, refusing to believe the truth, he tries again and again. But the great double doors were locked. No time to pick it.

Van Horn knew this, too. He reached the top of the stairs and lifted his bow leisurely. "You know there's nothing better than the thrill of the hunt," his words leak out like smooth death. Neal drops low behind the stairwall, just out of his stalker's sight. "Your move, Commander."

Neal didn't know what made him jump. Fear, desperation, one last grapple at hope; whatever the cause, he bolted out from the wall and leapt over the expanse where Van Horn had his arrow marked.

There was a sadistic grin on the hunter's face. At the flash of white, his fingers snapped back. The arrow was free.

In half a second, Neal had willed the world to spin just a little faster, give him just a little more time. There was still too much he needed to fix. But, he couldn't make time go any faster. No one can.

The green laser sight on the combat bow cuts across the bleached whites of his uniform. The palladium-tipped arrow screams through the air.

The crash to the ground caught Neal on his side, stunned, with merlot red flowing through the stark background of a fake military jacket.

There was nothing in him to describe what he'd felt. The sensibleness still left inside him forced Neal to pull himself up to his elbows, painfully inching backwards till his spine jammed into a corner; the space between a doorframe and its door.

Gasping, he collapsed against the wall and held up a hand: a pointless blockade from the power hunting him down.

Van Horn already knew he'd won. It was a short hunt, yes, but satisfying nonetheless. As he sauntered down the stairs, he was chuckling to himself, pulling another arrow into the bow's cradle. "Do you know what this thing can do at close range?"

Still tenacious, still unflappable to the very end, Neal shakes his head. His voice is a grotesque hybrid of agony and exhaustion. "I'll take your word for it."

Van Horn grinned. He had to admit, the kid had spunk. A whole lot more than he expected.

Oh well.

Pulling the arrow back into the bow, he lifted the weapon, little green dot illuminating the dead center of Neal's outstretched hand. Arrow prone to fly, he adjusted his mark and—

"Freeze, FBI!"

Neal could've jumped (had he the energy) when Jones popped out of a hallway he hadn't seen. If he could've felt anything akin to relief at that moment it would have burst through him when Jones ripped the bow out of Van Horn's hands and cuffed him securely in FBI custody.

But when there's a thirty-inch rod of spiked metal lodged in your chest, emotions like relief and joy tend to swirl into nothing. Absently, he noticed the worry painted on Jones' face, but he must've blacked out for a minute because he was aware of nothing else until Peter's voice flooded his ears.

"Neal! Neal! Can you hear me?" everything was a blur around him. Peter was calling to him; there was a warm hand on his left shoulder. A female…Diana was making a call. There was an urgency in her tone like non Neal had never heard. "We need EMTs up here now! We've got a man down, I repeat, man down. There's an arrow in the right side of his chest. He's losing blood, fast."

It was then, that Neal realized something wasn't right. He kept blinking, slowly, drunkenly trying to clear his vision but the fuzzy halo around Peter's face just wouldn't go away. His body hurt so much he was beginning to think he was imagining it.

Gently, Peter placed his hands just under Neal's jawline, holding up the boy's head. It hurt Peter so much…Neal's eyes were glassy and red-rimmed. The distinct color was draining from his features; all too fast Neal was becoming a ghost. Peter watched in his own type of agony as Neal tried to speak, tried to form some type of reply, but failed. The arrow had cut off Neal's air; cut off his voice. "It's gon'na be alright, Neal. I promise, alright?" Peter was frantic. Neal's blood was all over his hands. "Just hang on."

Neal nodded. It took everything he had, but he nodded. Something wasn't right. Neal wanted to tell Peter, needed him to know, but there were no words.

New voices came yelling. Diana was making short commands. "Over here! His name's Neal Caffrey. He's been shot with an arrow."

A male voice. A new face replaced Peter's as the FBI agent reluctantly backed away. "Mr. Caffrey? We're gon'na get you to a hospital, okay? Just stay with us."

While Neal hadn't planned it, the expression on his face just then was much like the look in Sachmo's eyes when Peter said something he just didn't understand. Neal saw the EMT, heard something faint like a voice coming from his moving lips but with every passing word, the man's voice faded from words and tones to the sound of a mosquito in his ear. What on earth was the man talking about?

The Medic recognized Neal's look. "He's going into shock. We've got'ta move him, now."

Nods were exchanged between him and his team. Peter and his team hung on every second with bated breath. Two medics with a stretcher appeared. In an instant four men counted to three and lifted Neal as carefully as they could to the white sheet of the gurney. Neal's white jacket was seeping into such a deep crimson that it made Peter sick.

When they'd settled Neal down and strapped him to the wheeled cot, Peter's heart stopped.

Neal's eyes were closed.

TBC