Chapter 8: THE ESCAPE
Two days later, Neal Caffrey walked out of a federal supermax facility wearing a stolen guard's uniform and a smile.
I found out the same way everyone else did: morning news, coffee gone cold in my hand, watching the anchor describe an escape that shouldn't have been possible.
"...Caffrey, convicted of bond forgery and currently serving a four-year sentence, was discovered missing during a routine bed check at approximately 3:47 AM. Federal marshals have issued an all-points bulletin..."
The photo on screen was almost flattering. Blue eyes, boyish charm, the kind of face that made people want to trust him. Even in a mugshot, Neal Caffrey looked like he was in on a joke the rest of the world hadn't heard yet.
My phone rang. Peter Burke.
"Get to the office. Now. All hands."
The line went dead before I could respond.
FBI White Collar had transformed into a war room.
Agents clustered around desks, phones pressed to ears, the controlled chaos of law enforcement in crisis mode. Peter stood at the center of it all, jacket off, tie loosened, looking like he hadn't slept.
"Dark. Good." He spotted me and waved me over. "I need those financial analysis skills of yours."
"What do you need?"
"Caffrey's escape was planned. He had help—someone on the outside provided the uniform, the credentials, the route. I need to know who."
The irony wasn't lost on me. I probably knew more about Neal Caffrey than anyone in this room except Peter himself. His history, his motivations, his obsession with Kate Moreau. The tragedy that would unfold over the next several years.
But I couldn't say any of that.
"Show me what you have."
Peter led me to a conference room where Diana was already coordinating the search. Maps covered the walls—prison layouts, escape routes, potential destinations.
"He had four years left on his sentence," Diana said. "Three months from parole hearing. Why run now?"
"Kate." Peter's voice carried weight. "His girlfriend. She stopped visiting four months ago. Stopped accepting his calls. Something happened to her, and he couldn't wait to find out what."
[INTEL CONFIRMED: KATE MOREAU CONNECTION]
[MC KNOWLEDGE: KATE IS COMPROMISED]
I kept my expression neutral.
"If he's looking for her, where would he start?"
"That's what we need to figure out." Peter pulled up a file. "Kate Moreau. Art restoration specialist. Clean record except for association with Caffrey. Last known address: 847 West 43rd Street, Apartment 6C."
The address matched what I already knew. What the show had burned into my memory during marathon viewing sessions in my old life.
Play this careful.
"Can I see his financial records? Pre-incarceration?"
Diana handed over a thick folder. I spread the contents across the table, creating the illusion of analysis while my mind raced.
Twenty minutes of shuffling papers. Thirty minutes of calculated silence.
"Here." I pointed to a series of transactions. "Regular payments to a rental company. Same amount, same day, every month. Stopped when he went to prison—but someone kept paying for another six months after."
Peter leaned in.
"That's Kate's building."
"Makes sense. He was covering her rent. When he couldn't anymore, someone else stepped in." I paused. "But the payments stopped four months ago. Right when she stopped visiting."
Diana's eyes widened.
"She was forced out."
"Or she ran." I straightened. "Either way, if Caffrey is looking for answers, that apartment is his first stop. Even if Kate's gone, there might be evidence of where she went."
Peter grabbed his jacket.
"Jones, get a team together. Diana, coordinate with marshals. Dark—you're with me."
We hit traffic on Eighth Avenue. Peter drove with the tense focus of a man who'd chased Neal Caffrey before and lost.
"You know his file pretty well," I said.
"I put him away." Peter's jaw tightened. "Three years of my life tracking his operations. I know how he thinks better than he knows himself."
"And yet he escaped."
"Yeah." The word came out bitter. "He did."
I watched the city slide past my window. Somewhere out there, Neal Caffrey was running toward a woman who'd already slipped through his fingers. A tragedy already in motion.
"He's smart," I said. "But he's also emotional. He escaped for Kate, not for freedom. That makes him predictable."
"Which is why we're going to catch him."
Yes, I thought. You will. And then everything changes.
The conference room briefing had given me time to think. Three months from now—or maybe sooner, given how timelines were shifting—Neal would be back in custody and pitching his consultant deal. Peter would reluctantly accept. The show's central dynamic would snap into place.
The question was where I fit into that equation.
"Peter." I chose my words carefully. "If you catch him tonight... what happens?"
"Four more years on his sentence for the escape. Maybe more."
"And if he cooperates?"
Peter glanced at me.
"What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking a man who escaped a supermax facility in a guard's uniform might be more useful outside a cell than inside one."
Silence stretched between us. Peter's hands tightened on the wheel.
"You suggesting I make a deal with a convicted felon?"
"I'm suggesting you already made a deal with me." I met his eyes. "And I wasn't exactly a model citizen when we met."
Peter's expression didn't change. But something shifted behind his eyes—consideration where there had been dismissal.
"Let's catch him first. Then we'll see what we're dealing with."
Kate's building was quiet when we arrived. The tactical team had secured the perimeter. No movement on the street. No sign of surveillance.
"Third floor," Peter said. "Jones, take the back. Diana, with me."
"And me?"
"You stay in the car." His look brooked no argument. "Consultant, not agent. Remember?"
I watched them enter the building. Waited. Counted seconds.
The radio crackled.
"We've got him." Jones's voice, professionally flat. "Apartment 6C. No resistance."
Peter's response was lost in static. But I already knew what they'd found: Neal Caffrey sitting on Kate's empty bed, clutching a photograph, all the fight gone out of him.
A man who'd broken out of prison to find the woman he loved, only to discover she'd already disappeared.
The tragedy begins.
Five minutes later, they led him out in handcuffs.
Our eyes met as he passed the car. Blue meeting gray-green. A single moment of mutual assessment.
[MARK ANALYSIS: NEAL CAFFREY]
[EMOTIONAL STATE: DEVASTATED | CALCULATING]
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: HIGH INTELLIGENCE]
[NOTE: TARGET NOTICED OBSERVER]
He looked at me the way I looked at marks: cataloguing, assessing, filing away for future reference. Even in defeat, even in handcuffs, Neal Caffrey was taking notes.
Then Diana pushed him into a transport vehicle, and the moment passed.
Peter walked over. Exhaustion lined his face.
"Got him."
"I saw." I kept my voice neutral. "He didn't fight?"
"Didn't run either. Just sat there holding her picture." Peter shook his head. "Three months from parole, and he threw it away for a woman who wasn't even there."
"Love makes people stupid."
"Yeah." Peter opened the car door. "It does."
We followed the transport vehicle through Manhattan's late-night streets. I watched the taillights ahead and thought about what came next.
Neal would propose his consultant deal. Peter would hesitate, then accept. The partnership that had defined the show would begin.
And I'd be standing in the middle of it, holding secrets that could reshape everything.
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