Chapter 9: THE CAPTURE
Federal holding smelled like disinfectant and despair.
I waited in the observation room while Peter conducted the initial interview, watching through one-way glass as two brilliant men circled each other with words. Neal Caffrey sat in his orange jumpsuit, somehow making incarceration look elegant. Peter paced, voice controlled, questions designed to probe for weakness.
"Kate's gone, Neal. Nobody knows where."
"Then help me find her."
"You're a convicted felon who just escaped from prison. Why would I help you do anything?"
Neal's smile was thin, bitter, knowing.
"Because you want to solve cases, Peter. And I can give you solutions you'll never find on your own."
[OBSERVATION: NEGOTIATION IN PROGRESS]
[NEAL CAFFREY: ATTEMPTING CONSULTANT PITCH]
[PROBABILITY OF SUCCESS: 67%]
The pitch unfolded exactly as I remembered from the show. Neal offered expertise in exchange for limited freedom. Peter scoffed, rejected, circled back. The dance of predator and prey, except neither was entirely sure who was which.
Jones appeared at my elbow.
"You've been watching for three hours."
"Fascinating subject."
"Peter says you predicted this. That Caffrey would try to make a deal."
"He's smart. Deals are what smart people do when they're out of options."
Jones studied me with the careful attention of a man who noticed details others missed.
"You're not what you seem, are you, Dark?"
"Nobody is."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
Through the glass, Peter finally stood. The interview was over—for now. Neal would go back to his cell, and the next phase would begin.
"He'll take the deal," I said.
Jones raised an eyebrow.
"Caffrey?"
"Peter." I watched Peter gather his files, shoulders tight with frustration. "He doesn't want to. But he needs Caffrey's skills. And Caffrey needs freedom enough to behave."
"That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen."
"Most partnerships do."
The next seventy-two hours moved fast.
Paperwork. Arguments. Negotiations with the Bureau brass who weren't thrilled about releasing a convicted felon into Peter Burke's custody. I stayed peripheral, observing, occasionally offering analysis when asked.
The Hartley Gallery case proceeded in parallel. My evidence had been enough to justify warrants, and the dominoes were falling. Marcus Hartley was arrested three days after the gallery opening. His network began to unravel.
But I couldn't stop thinking about Keller. About Adler. About the larger conspiracy that was already spinning its web around people who didn't even know they were targets.
Kate Moreau was out there somewhere, controlled by forces she didn't understand. Neal was about to become a tool of the FBI, completely unaware that his girlfriend was a pawn in a much larger game.
And I held information that could change everything—if I chose to share it.
[MORAL ASSESSMENT: CONFLICT DETECTED]
[INACTION CONSEQUENCES: PROBABLE HARM TO INNOCENTS]
[ACTION CONSEQUENCES: UNPREDICTABLE TIMELINE CHANGES]
I dismissed the prompt. The system's moral calculus was too simple. Real ethics didn't fit into percentage points.
Neal Caffrey was released on a Thursday.
I was there when they fitted his ankle monitor—a sleek black band that looked almost fashionable if you didn't know what it meant. Two-mile radius from his handler. Twenty-four-hour GPS tracking. The illusion of freedom wrapped around the reality of control.
"Nice jewelry," I said.
Neal looked up. Recognition flickered in his eyes—he remembered me from the arrest.
"Thanks. It goes with everything."
"I'm Aron Dark. I consult with the White Collar division."
"I heard." Neal's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Apparently Peter's been collecting strays."
"Something like that."
We stood in the processing area while guards finished paperwork. Two men who operated in the same world, sizing each other up with the practiced ease of professionals.
"You're the one who found Kate's apartment," Neal said. "Traced the rental payments."
"I'm good with numbers."
"So am I." His voice carried an edge. "Different kind of numbers."
[RELATIONSHIP ASSESSMENT: NEAL CAFFREY]
[STATUS: COMPETITIVE / WARY]
[RECOMMENDATION: ESTABLISH BOUNDARIES]
"I'm not your enemy, Caffrey."
"Didn't say you were." Neal adjusted his monitor, testing the fit. "But you're not my friend either. Not yet."
"Fair enough."
Peter appeared with final paperwork. His expression was somewhere between triumph and resignation—the look of a man who'd won a battle and wasn't sure about the war.
"Ready?"
"Born ready." Neal's charm switched on like a lightbulb. "Lead the way, partner."
Peter's eye-roll was legendary.
We drove uptown in uncomfortable silence. Peter at the wheel, Neal in the passenger seat, me in the back. Three men who didn't entirely trust each other, bound together by circumstance and necessity.
"Ground rules," Peter said. "You live within your radius. You check in every morning. You don't make any moves without clearing it through me first."
"And in exchange?"
"You help solve cases. You stay out of prison. Maybe—maybe—we find Kate."
Neal was quiet for a moment.
"That's not much."
"It's more than you deserve." Peter's voice hardened. "You escaped from federal prison, Neal. You're lucky you're not in solitary for the next decade."
"Lucky." Neal's laugh was hollow. "Yeah. That's me."
I watched the exchange from the back seat, cataloguing dynamics. The friction between them was real—years of history, chase and capture, mutual respect buried under mutual frustration. But so was the potential for partnership.
They need each other. They just don't know it yet.
Peter pulled up outside a brownstone in the Village. June Ellington's building.
My stomach dropped.
"This is your radius," Peter said. "June Ellington owns the building. She's agreed to let you stay in the upstairs apartment."
"June?" Neal's voice carried genuine warmth. "You got me a room at June's?"
"She owed me a favor."
I kept my face blank, but my mind was racing. June's building. The same building where I lived. The same landlord who'd taken me in because I reminded her of Byron.
Of course. Of course Neal ends up here.
The universe—or the narrative logic of a story I was living inside—had a sick sense of humor.
"Problem, Dark?"
Peter was watching me in the rearview mirror.
"No." I forced my voice steady. "Just thinking about the radius constraints. Tight squeeze for someone used to international travel."
"International art theft," Peter corrected. "And yes. That's the point."
We climbed out of the car. Neal stood on the sidewalk, looking up at June's brownstone with an expression I couldn't read.
"Small world," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I've heard about this place." His smile was cryptic. "Friends of friends."
June appeared on the front steps, regal as ever in silk and pearls. Her eyes found mine for a moment—a flicker of something that might have been amusement—before settling on Neal.
"Mr. Caffrey. I've heard so much about you."
"All lies, I'm sure."
"The best kind." June's smile was warm. "Come in. I'll show you to your apartment."
Peter followed them inside. I hung back, processing.
Neal Caffrey was about to become my neighbor. The man I'd been hearing about, reading about, positioning myself around—now sleeping one floor above me.
Competition and opportunity, wrapped in one charismatic package.
[SITUATION ASSESSMENT: COMPLEX]
[RECOMMENDATION: ESTABLISH COOPERATIVE DYNAMIC]
[WARNING: RIVALRY PROBABILITY HIGH]
The system wasn't wrong. Neal and I would be competing for the same resources: Peter's trust, FBI access, June's favor. The consultant role I'd carved out for myself was about to be shared with someone who'd been doing this longer and better.
But rivalry wasn't the only option.
Neal needed information—about Kate, about Adler, about the forces conspiring against him. I had that information, locked away in memories of a TV show that felt increasingly like prophecy.
The question was whether to share it.
I climbed the steps and entered June's building. The familiar smell of old wood and good coffee wrapped around me. Upstairs, I could hear Peter giving Neal the standard consultant briefing: rules, expectations, consequences.
Tomorrow, we'd start working together. Tomorrow, the real game would begin.
I found June in her sitting room, pouring tea she'd already prepared.
"You knew," I said.
"I suspected." She handed me a cup. "Peter asked about available apartments. I mentioned the third floor was occupied by another of his projects."
"And you didn't warn me?"
"Would you have wanted me to?"
I sipped the tea. Earl Grey, perfectly brewed.
"No," I admitted. "I suppose not."
"Mr. Caffrey is not a threat to you, Aron." June's voice was gentle but firm. "He's a potential ally, if you're smart enough to see it."
"He's a rival."
"He's a man looking for answers." Her eyes held mine. "So are you. Perhaps you could look together."
Footsteps on the stairs. Peter and Neal descending, voices low in conversation.
"Dark." Peter spotted me through the doorway. "Walk out with me?"
I set down my tea and followed.
Peter stopped on the sidewalk, car keys in hand.
"Two consultants." His expression was unreadable. "I must be crazy."
"You're creative."
"That's one word for it." Peter studied me for a long moment. "Caffrey has skills I need. So do you. Different skills, different approaches. You could complement each other."
"Or compete."
"That too." His voice hardened. "If it becomes a problem, I'll remove the problem. Understood?"
"Understood."
Peter nodded and climbed into his car. The engine turned over on the second try—a small imperfection in an otherwise precise machine.
I watched the taillights disappear down the street. Then I looked up at June's brownstone.
Third-floor window: my apartment, dark and empty.
Fourth-floor window: Neal's new residence, light already glowing warm.
Two stories. Two men. One building full of secrets.
The game had just gotten significantly more complicated.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number again. This time, a text:
You're not as invisible as you think.
I deleted the message and went inside. Somewhere in the city, someone was watching. Someone who knew enough to send warnings.
Tomorrow, I'd start looking for answers.
Tonight, I needed sleep.
But first, I climbed the stairs to the third floor, locked my door, and sat in Byron's leather chair, thinking about chess pieces and the hands that moved them.
Neal Caffrey was now my neighbor. Peter Burke was now my handler. And somewhere in the shadows, Vincent Adler's people were already positioning for a game I was only beginning to understand.
Time to stop reacting, I thought. Time to start planning.
The city hummed beyond my window. Millions of people, millions of stories, all of them oblivious to the conspiracies spinning through their midst.
I pulled out Byron's records and started reading again. The seven criminal contacts I'd identified—dormant connections waiting to be activated.
One way or another, I was going to need allies.
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