Free Me If You Can

Chapter 11

By

Lacadiva

Rating: PG-13/R for violence. Disclaimer: All rights belong to he mighty, mighty Jeff Eastin and the awesome White Collar gang. I still can't believe it's over. Pain.

Summary: Post-Judgment Day – a different take. Peter doesn't signal Neal, and Neal is arrested and faces life – or death – in prison. What kind of a dangerous game is Kramer playing? And if Neal plays along, will Peter be able to free him from his deal with the devil before Kramer gets Neal killed?

ALSO: So sorry for the character name snafu…I meant to name the young female agent Brigit, but in earlier chapters I called her Denise…same name as the DoC Doctor in the first two or three chapters! Yikes! I was suffering through some hard times in the early days of this story – two deaths and a job loss. Confusing times, indeed. So from here on out, Agent Spears is Brigit. Dr. Runyon is Denise. I'll go back and fix the earlier chapters later. Please note that I'm taking a few liberties just for the sake of storytelling. So if there are glaring inaccuracies, please forgive and indulge me. It's all for fun anyway, right? Hope you'll kindly review.

~WC~

Neal was more than a little surprised to find that Blues Alley was actually located in a Georgetown alley. Wide, lighted and clean, but an alley, nonetheless. Extra points for coolness, he thought, as he followed the sounds of a strident jazz trumpet tripping along the scales.

He entered and stopped by the tiny ticket booth and made a mental note to apply extra points to the coolness factor when he heard a smooth voice singing from inside the club's main room.

"Reservation?" A svelte, 60-something woman behind the booth asked with a smile that went from standard business to schoolgirl coquettish when she made out Neal's face in the semi-dark.

"Guest of Reginald," he said, as he'd been instructed.

She gave him the eye. Her gold eyeliner shimmered and thick false lashes fluttered.

"Um-hm. Don't move, baby. Stay right there."

Neal remained as she disappeared from the booth and seconds later appeared at his side, casually slipping her slim arm around Caffrey's. She smelled faintly of Chanel No. 5, second hand smoke and peppermint candy, and reminded him of a much flirtier version of June.

Her dark-berry shoulders and cheeks glistened from gold powder, as did her short-cropped hair. Neal barely noticed that she was old enough to be his…

"Don't stare too hard," she said mellifluously. "Your eyes might fall out. And with eyes yours, gorgeous, that would be crying shame."

Neal cleared his throat and placed a hand upon hers.

"After you," he said.

"Um-hm."

She escorted him to a round two top in the back of the club.

The singer on stage was doing a tribute to Phyllis Hyman, a DC favorite for many years before her untimely demise.

"You know how to love me…"

Neal's escort was enjoying the song too.

"They don't make 'em like that anymore," she said. Then, "Reggie said wait for him here, he's running a little behind schedule. You want something? To drink, I mean?"

"Club soda," said Neal. "Lime, no ice. Thank you."

"Um-hm," she said, as if a little disappointed he hadn't chosen stronger stuff, and sauntered off as Neal settled into his seat.

The music was good, if not just a little loud for such an intimate club. But he allowed himself to let go, and found his head moving in time, fingers snapping quietly to the beat.

He recalled singing with June on so many social occasions. Her voice was strong, pitch-perfect and impeccable, and she so easily shared her limelight with him.

A few moments later, Neal felt someone close to him – too close – and looked up as a white, weathered hand place a club soda and lime before him. It wasn't a waiter.

"Nice place. Not my style."

Perkins sat next to Neal and pulled up close, so they could talk without the neighboring tables listening in.

"What's this all about?" he asked.

Neal moved in closer, fingers intertwined. "I decided it was time to make my move."

"Good for you. What does that have to do with me?"

"When this train leaves the station, I want you on it."

"What if I don't want to be travelling buddies?"

"Then you're probably a dead man. Like Toliver and Radamacher are about to be."

Perkins sat back and considered Neal's words. Shook his head.

"He's setting up the other members of your crew for a fall as we speak," Neal continued. "They won't survive."

"They don't deserve to survive," said Perkins.

"You're next."

"I always suspected it would end like this. Kramer's endgame, whatever it is, never included any of us riding off happily into the sunset. So, Neal…now that you have my attention, do you have any idea how he plans to do it?"

"If I had to guess, I'd say Kramer will send you on a job outside of the DC area so he can control the situation with a bit of anonymity. He'll set you up with a couple of guys you never met before, but reassure you they're pros, completely trustworthy. Then, the moment you turn your back…"

Perkin reached into his inside jacket pocket and produced his cell phone. He swiped the screen a few times then handed the phone to Neal.

It was Perkin's voice mail, and the voice on the other end was Kramer.

"Mr. Perkins…I have a job for you. I want you to go to Philadelphia…hope you don't mind driving. A couple of friends need a third man on a job. They're pros…they come highly recommended…"

Neal didn't need to hear any more. He placed the phone on the table and slid it back to Perkins.

"How did you know, Caffrey?"

"That's how these things happen," said Neal, his voice a little sad. "I'm sorry."

"So if I go to Philly…?"

"The job will go sour…"

"And I'll be a chalk outline on the floor."

"Kramer will solve the case and walk away a hero…"

"And I'll be donating my body to science."

Perkins picked up Caffrey's club soda and took a sip, then grimaced.

"Drink like a man or don't drink at all," he said, and pushed the glass away. "So what's your plan, con man?" he asked.

"We take Kramer down. Take everything. Leave him with nothing."

"You sure you can do it?"

"I'm confident."

"One condition," Perkins said. "When the time comes, Kramer doesn't go to jail. I get to pull the trigger. Kramer is mine. Deal?"

"It'd be a far worse fate if he ended up in jail, right along with every felon he put away. Poetic justice."

"There is no justice. And poetry, I got no use for it. Kramer's mine, or no deal."

"Deal."

"Gentlemen?"

Neal and Perkins looked up to find Reginald standing before them.

"Forgive my tardiness, but I had a little…congressional indiscretion to help take care of. This way, please."

~WC~

The basement at the bottom of a short flight of rickety wooden stairs held storage. It smelled of mildew and dust and was filled with open boxes of wine and liquor bottles, broken chairs, restaurant supplies and sundry items that defied categorizing.

Neal sat watching Reginald and Perkins, and how the two contemporaries eyed one another with open mistrust and unveiled suspicion. He hoped his scheme would work, and that the two of them could work together to help bring his time in DC to a close.

Gaines was sitting across the room next to Spears. Both agents looked as if they were ready to arrest the lot of them, or pull their service weapons at the slightest provocation.

All they needed now, Neal mused, was Mozzie.

An instant later Mozzie came barreling down the steps, iPad in the crook of one arm and a bottle of Shiraz tucked under the other arm.

"Greetings, fellow anti-establishment warriors in the struggle. I come baring technology. The wine is just for me."

"Everybody," Neal said as he stood, "this is Mozzie. He's my inside man…"

"And outside man," said Mozzie, as he searched for something with which to open the bottle, and held the corkscrew high triumphantly when he found it.

"I'm sort of an all around renaissance man, for lack of a better term."

"Thank you all for being here," Neal said, continuing. "Agent Spears, Agent Gaines, I know you're both anxious to know what this is all about. If you are the least bit uncertain about this, now is a good time to leave."

The agents looked at one another, then back to Neal. Neither made a move to exit.

"I appreciate your trust," said Neal, and turned to Mozzie as his friend was turning the wine bottle to his lips.

"No clean glasses," he said, and took a generous sip. "A bit dry. But any port…or Shiraz…in a storm…"

"Moz, what's the iPad for?"

"Our mystery guest."

Neal and the others waited while Mozzie flipped the cover from the iPad, made a few swipes across the screen, then sat it upright on a table.

Peter Burke appeared on the screen.

"Everybody, meet Suit," said Mozzie. "Suit, meet everybody."

"Peter…"

"Neal."

"It's good to see you."

"You look…"

"I know. It's been a rough couple of weeks. But I'm coming home. We just have to get through this."

Neal moved closer, then introduced everyone to Peter by name.

"So you're Neal's old handler?" asked Gaines.

"That's correct," said Peter.

"You trust him?"

"Without reservation."

"Okay," said Gaines. "Let's do this. Whatever it is we're doing…"

"And quickly," said Peter. "If there's still someone watching my house, he'll notice the bathroom light's been on for a while."

And so Neal told them all, as quickly as he could.

About how Kramer set him up and arrested him, basically indenturing Neal to the bureau and to Kramer indefinitely…

Of his brief but brutal incarceration, and how Kramer had Neal tortured, beaten and stabbed…

About Kramer's abuse of CI's and prisoners, and how he planted, destroyed and manipulated evidence…

About the theft of the Iraqi gold and the murder of the General and his wife…

Finally, he told them of the plan to set up his crew, steal the Capaldi Diamond from the White House and ultimately flee the country with the treasure.

The room was silent for a few beats.

"I can't believe he's responsible for so much misery," said Spears. "He's one of us. He took an oath. I don't want to believe this."

"I practically worshiped the guy," said Gaines. "This all sounds like some crazy novel."

"I think I read it," Spears retorted.

"He was my mentor," said Peter. "Like a father to me."

"We all got the wool pulled over our eyes," Perkins added. "Time for some payback."

"Neal," asked Peter, causing everyone to turn back to the screen. "How worried do I have to be about you being so close to one of the world's most expensive diamonds? Can you walk away from it?"

"I'll admit the idea is tempting, Peter. Exceedingly. And it won't be easy turning it over. But if it brings an end to Kramer's reign of terror and puts him behind bars, it will be well worth it."

"You talk a good game…"

"Peter…I'm still on an anklet. Where would I run?"

"Nowhere, because you know I will find you. I always find you."

"You always say that, but remember how long it took..."

"I hate to break up this little 'catch me if you can' love fest," Perkins interjected, "but I'd like to finish this up. If all you have to do is steal a little blue rock and get Kramer caught with it, where do we all come in?"

Neal smiled. "All of you are going to help me steal it. Moz?"

"Neal will send me a copy of his invitation. Within an hour, you'll each have your own meticulously forged invitations, along with personas and bona fides to get you into the party of the political century."

"Pardon his hyperbole," said Neal.

"I have a question," said Spears, partially raising her hand. "Won't there be a list of invitees? Not to mention layers of stringent security. I mean, it IS the White House, not some wood-paneled ball room at the Econo-Lodge. They'll check and double check their lists and dig into our covers to see if we are who we say we are."

"Leave that to me," said Peter. "I have a few good friends in Washington. You may be surprised."

"So we get inside," Gaines said. "What then?"

"That's when the fun begins," said Neal, and flashed his patented Neal Caffrey smile.

~WC~

The next morning, Neal was returning to his office with a cup of coffee, running and rerunning the game plan for the evening in his head when Kramer gave Neal the much-hated finger point.

"Close the door," Kramer said, barely looking up from his desk when Neal entered.

Neal complied, then waited for the okay to sit down. Nothing.

"Your invitation," Kramer finally said, handing Neal the cream colored, gold embossed envelope.

Neal smiled when he saw "THE WHITE HOUSE" in the upper left corner, and chuckled when he saw that the invitation was addressed to "Adam Tiler."

"Very funny," he said. "And appropriate. Adam Tiler…the one who absconds with the stolen goods. So…you'll be there tonight to watch me work?"

"No, I've already given my regrets. The farther I am from the fray, the better. But that doesn't mean you won't be closely watched."

Kramer stood and confronted Neal.

"This is the most important undertaking of my entire life, Caffrey. Everything rides on the success of this operation. Failure isn't an option. Do you understand me? If you do fail, you won't live to implicate me."

Kramer took his service weapon from his holster, removed the magazine, took out a bullet, and held it up.

"When a bullet enters the brain," he began, sounding spookily, clinically detached, "traveling at a speed of over 3,000 feet per second, you lose brain function immediately."

He laughed now. "You'll be dead before you know it."

Neal didn't find it funny, but he held onto the information.

"If you are arrested, someone will be there," Kramer continued, "to put a bullet in your head before you step onto the back of that security van. The cuffs will still be cold on your wrists."

"I want nothing more than to put that diamond into your hands, Agent Kramer."

"Good."

Kramer dropped the bullet into Neal's shirt pocket. The coolness of it made Neal shudder.

As Kramer made his way back to his desk, he picked up a black business card and held it out to Neal.

"You'll need a tux for tonight. This is my guy. You have a one o'clock with him. Don't be late. He doesn't reschedule."

Kramer sat down opened a folder. Neal took the hint and headed for the door.

"One more thing," the agent said.

Neal stopped, waited.

"Mr. Toliver and Mr. Radamacher will no longer be working with us."

Neal felt his gut clench. He fought to keep a poker face as he turned back pretending to want an explanation. He already knew.

"They met with unfortunate circumstances on a job last night. Tripped an alarm. Sloppy. The police arrived. Apparently Toliver's gun jammed. They didn't make it."

"That's unfortunate. What about Perkins?"

"I sent him on a little mission up the 95 to Philly. He should be arriving in a couple hours. I haven't heard back from him yet. I hope things are okay."

"I'm sorry," said Neal. "I know what your crew meant to you." Neal hoped Kramer could not detect the sarcasm in his voice.

"Guns jam. Things go awry. Careless men die. But with careful planning, we have a better chance of surviving. Survive this, Caffrey, and go live like a king."

"That's the plan, sir. It's a slow day. I'm going to take an early lunch. Stop by the tux shop, and work on a few plans of my own, if you don't mind."

"Do what you need, my boy. We'll talk tomorrow."

And with that, Neal left.

~WC~

"Your personas!"

Mozzie delightedly handed out perfectly fabricated White House invitations, passports and driver's IDs to Neal's crew, who had all once again gathered at the Blues Alley basement to solidify their plans.

"This is incredible work," said Spears. "I don't know whether to congratulate you or arrest you."

"I say arrest him," said Gaines.

"You say that now," said Mozzie. "Remember, you need me if you want this sting to have a the slightest modicum of zing."

"So who am I exactly?" Spears asked.

Neal entered, heard, and answered.

"You, Agent Spears, are my chief diversionary tactic. My ability to get to the diamond hinges upon your ability to convince everyone in the room that you are in anaphylactic shock."

Mozzie continued the briefing.

"Your name is Lucy Dillard, second special assistant to the Mayor of Culpeper, Virginia, and daughter of a wealthy philanthropist. Tomorrow night you are going to suffer what appears to be a serious reaction brought on by a sensitivity to shell fish."

"Agent Gaines," said Neal, "you will be her date, who just happens to be a hot-shot, superbly talented med student from George Washington University."

"You get to save her life," Mozzie added. "The more dramatic, the better."

"I like that," said Gaines, smiling. "My mother wanted me to be a doctor."

"What about me?" asked Perkins.

"You'll be with Mozzie. Champagne service."

Perkins groaned his disapproval and sat in a corner.

"Reginald," Neal continued, "you will be a diplomat from the Grenadines."

"How come he gets to be a diplomat I get to schlep champagne?"

"Because Reginald genuinely likes people, and he knows how to grab and hold everyone's attention," Mozzie explained. "You, my gray haired friend, get to help me get the diamond out of the White House."

"Oh. Okay then," Perkins acquiesced.

~WC~

THE PRE-STING

Neal tied his tie perfectly, but kept fiddling with it. He was dressed a little sooner than he needed to be, anxious to get the evening going. The fiddling helped keep him from over-rehearsing the plan. Nothing was worse than an over-rehearsed plan.

There needed to be room for improvising. Life had taught him that. Too much thought meant opening the door for doubt and fear. Just the right amount of prep….

Tonight Neal had to be sharp; he had to be focused. The slightest glitch could mean life in prison - if he made it into custody - or a bullet in the head, just like Kramer threatened. Neal knew that Kramer would make good on his threat. So much was at stake.

He wanted to call Peter. Hear the man's voice and glean some encouragement from Peter's warnings and reprimands. Maybe even hear Elizabeth's voice. She always saw the good in him. He could imagine her sitting at the breakfast table with Peter and championing his cause. Convincing Peter that maybe Neal could be trusted. It made him smile to think of their friendship.

No, they were more than friends; they were family. He missed his family.

Grateful as we was to have Mozzie around, he missed the stability of Peter and El's friendship, home cooked meals, walking Satchmo, the occasional night on the couch, coffees served in those little blue and white Amphora cups that, though quasi-Greek in design, always smacked of New York City.

He missed his old life.

If he succeeded, if he managed to get the Capaldi diamond into Kramer's hands and implicate him in this and a long list of other crimes, maybe he could get back to New York, and back to his old life.

Or he could just skip the country with the Capaldi diamond himself, and…

"Live like kings…"

Suddenly the idea of living like a king became less palatable when he remembered these words coming out of Kramer's mouth.

Neal touched his side where his wound was practically healed. There will always be a scar there now, something to remind him of Kramer. It seemed like that stabbing happened a lifetime ago. But he still remembered the shock and the pain, the fear and the blood. He still remembered Kramer's visit to the infirmary, where he slammed his beefy fist into Neal just-stitched wound. The pain was staggering.

He also remembered how Kramer broke his finger. That pain was nauseating.

He remembered every beating, every whispered threat he received while in jail.

He recalled the look on Vernon's face before he shanked Neal in the cafeteria…he was so terrified of Kramer.

He even remembered Toliver and Radamacher. Though neither man were the definition of good, no one deserved to be set up and murdered as they were.

Kramer had to be stopped.

So tonight, Neal willingly sacrificed his desire for the big score. The diamond was nothing more to him than the means to an end.

What he was about to do was for Peter and El, for Vernon, for Toliver and Radamacher, for Mozzie, for Perkins, for Spears and Gaines and every one who had been on the receiving end of Kramer's very particularly kind of mayhem.

But mostly, it was for his freedom. Well, trading one anklet for another. But he also knew that if he brought Kramer down, maybe…just maybe…it would be enough to convince the FBI to award him his freedom.

He touched the end of his nose, remembering the moment from one of his favorite movies of all times, "The Sting." Yes, this was going to be his Redford moment.

Neal called a cab, requested #641, and made a special request.

"Do me a favor…tell Reg to give Jimmy and Wanda my warm regards."

End Chapter 11

NOTE: Dear readers, please forgive me. I know it's been a long, long, long time between chapters, but I figure I will end this story in just two more installments, and hope to complete it by the end of the summer. My apologies, and thanks for all the reviews and comments urging me to finish. Work prevents me from writing fanfic these days, but I promise this will be done, and once again, I thank you. I hope you'll also be kind and write a review. Again, my sincere thanks. Lacadiva.