hurinhouse

Title: More Than One Way to Skin a Mobster
Author: hurinhouse
Fandom: White Collar
Rating: PG
Characters: Mozzie, Peter, Neal
Summary: The FBI relies on all sorts of resources: official, and not so much.
Disclaimer: Entirely fiction
Word Count: 2445
Notes: For Elrhiarhodan's Promptfest IX for the prompts: Mozzie - trust, then Peter - dogmatic, followed by a new conclusion which could be used for Neal - maverick

And there he is, showed up just like Neal said. Not playing by the rules, though. He's supposed to be sitting on the gray horse with the red saddle. The carousel's gone round three times and he still hasn't gotten on. He's not going to.

That's a G-man for you. And Neal wonders why Moz trusts no one in the government. Sure he brought the right publication but how is Moz supposed to remain anonymous if he has to approach him out here in the open?

Fine, fine, do it for Neal. Good thing Moz has an ongoing trading relationship with the novelty store. Wigs can get expensive.

Moz stands in the small crowd of parents behind Burke, holds his paper cutout high, angled to block the sun on the sidewalk. This is why he watches Channel 2; that meteorologist knows how to do his job.

It takes entirely too long for the Suit to notice the ostrich shadow, but when he does, he turns and finds Moz immediately, too quick to hide his little Ollie.

"Who are you?"

"That's not the meeting phrase, Suit."

The Suit accosts him, pulls him by the arm in an iron grip, away from the crowd and over to a bench. He would call out for help but the Man must have some kind of vocal cord blocking mechanism stashed on him.

"Who are you? Your message said you had intel about a world-class forger."

This is getting dicey very quickly. He should run. But he's been this brave and he's nothing if not loyal.

"James Bonds. He's in trouble."

"How do you know that name?" Ha. The F.B.I. thinks no one knows their secrets.

"I didn't come here for an interrogation, Fed! You didn't even follow protocol."

Burke tosses the latest GQ on the bench. "I don't read this stuff and I don't get on kids' rides. Why am I here?"

"Our mutual friend- "

"Friend?"

"-has been kidnapped by the Dioli family."

"What? Italian mafia? How'd he get mixed up with them?"

"He may have been considering a job with them - which he did not do! - till he learned who it was. When he tried to leave they captured him, in a very cold-war like move, I might add."

"So you want me to rescue him."

Moz snorts. "Please. Have you ever heard of the slipperiness of an eel?"

"So he got away?"

"Not exactly."

Burke throws his arms up in the air, he's going to attract attention with all that flapping. "Are we going to get to the point any time soon?" Why are government employees so impatient?

"He found some merchandise the Dioli's are smuggling in the warehouse they're keeping him in."

"So he can get away, but he's staying to steal the goods?"

"What? Why would I come to you if he was doing something illegal?"

"I don't know why you'd come to me at all."

"He's staying there to rescue the merchandise, but he can't sneak it out on his own."

"Rescue? Look, if he gives information on stolen antiquities to the bureau, it'll go a long way to reducing his sentence on those bonds. But he shouldn't try to be a hero. The Diolis will kill him."

"Exactly! You don't get it, Suit! It's teenagers!"

"Teenagers? The Dioli's are involved with human trafficking?"

"Finally! Yes and Ne- James Bonds is trying to help them get away."

Now he's taking him seriously. "Why don't you come downtown with me to-"

"Nice try, Suit. Not happening."

"Fine, give me the warehouse location. We need to verify this intel but if it's good we'll get in there immediately."

"Just make sure he doesn't get hurt. Self-preservation has never been his specialty." Moz hands Ollie off to Burke, the address hidden inside his wings, and does his best sprint to get away.

But not everyone is an eel, "Wait!"

"Don't even think about detaining me, Suit. I know my rights!"

Burke chuckles of all things. "Fine. What is your relationship to James Bonds?"

"You can just call me Q."

* * * * *

Most people assume Peter thinks in black and white since he's in law enforcement. It's true that he has to be more intransigent than most, but G-men are not innately narrow-minded. He knows there's a difference between James Bonds and the average criminal. He knows Bonds has no business in the Dioli warehouse.

Bonds is more perceptive than most. He must realize Peter's not a drone, sending his friend for help, though said friend clearly disagrees. Says a lot about their friendship, so instead of a footnote at the bottom of a page in James Bonds' files, he creates a whole new section dedicated to Q, complete with a brand new purple tab. This is the first purple he's pulled out.

He's been using green tabs for each of Bonds' bolt holes they'd discovered; green for safety, luxury. Brown for each of his aliases - reliability, confidence. He doesn't have much in these folders - adding to either is like gold.

He'd used Gray for each of Bonds' targets, most of them rich dull traditionalists, like they'd been singled out according to personality.

Orange is the enthusiasm of the people that'd met Bonds but not been swindled. It's almost as if he'd abandoned heists against marks he'd come to like. They'd loved the bastard. Hell, even those who'd been taken had a hard time believing "that nice young man" was the miscreant.

There are crimes the FBI suspects Bonds of for which they'll never have evidence. Peter sees red every time he thinks about it so the tabs follow suit.

Blue. Though every crime has some kind of collateral damage, not one act of violence has been perpetrated by Bonds in any of his suspected crimes. Blue for honor, the little a criminal can possess. It's not so much that he thinks the guy wears it like a badge, but that it's just a part of him, as much as stealing or laughing or running.

Bonds' girlfriend is a natural for pink. They have absolutely nothing on her and until this morning she was the only human link they'd had. For all the cities Bonds has pulled something, Peter labels White. It's not like all those metropolises were pure before Bonds got there, but it works well with his system, so there you go.

He'd found some vibrant Rainbow tabs in the storeroom for each bit of intel on Bonds' psyche. Those phone calls and gifts have come in handy. Of what he can discern, Bonds' personality spans the widest spectrum of colors Peter's ever seen, and even though black is technically the inclusion of all color, it also represents death. He doesn't want to associate black with someone so full of life, no matter how much the kid needs to be behind bars.

And now Q. Peter had art class just like every other 5th grader in the United States; he knows what Blue and Red make. Q's loyalty, to Bonds, and the guts it took him to contact an institution he's petrified of deserve the hues that create purple.

He adds Q's file to the kaleidoscope of the Caffrey drawer and takes in the array before him.

Black and white, my ass.

"Peter, got the warrant for the Dioli warehouse. Organized Crime is on their way."

Time to meet the rainbow. "Let's move!"

* * * * *

Every time one of the Diolis yells from the front of the warehouse, or a gun goes off, the girls whimper. No screaming; that seems to have been conditioned out of them. He'd scoped out several ways to get out of this sealed factory on his own since they shoved him back here two days ago, but none that the girls could collectively manage. As soon as Dioli had heard "FBI!," he'd ordered his men to tie Neal to a water pipe and they haven't been back. They'd also clocked him with the butt of a gun; the pounding in his head may have masked any yelling he'd missed. Less than five minutes ago all noise toward the rear of the warehouse ceased. He's not sure if that's good or bad.

He's gotten used to the stench, but it's sad to think about the reality of these girls having a connection with that word. Some are frightened out of their minds but many are so drugged that they have no clue what's going on. Some life.

Dimples has been clinging to him most of the time he's been here. The nickname is a little impersonal but she doesn't speak English and he works better when he has a name. It's a little odd to be surrounded by thirty some females and have no romantic interest in any of them. What kind of person gets off on kidnapped, terrified minors?

A collective gasp brings him back to the present, a reality he didn't realize he was drifting from. He lifts his head and follows the girls' stares to the back entrance. Peter Burke is there, wearing an FBI windbreaker for all the world to see. His gun is drawn and he's stepping silently toward Neal. So, Moz followed directions. Neal hopes the smile he pulls is welcoming. "Peter," he whispers.

Peter cuts the zip-ties round Neal's wrists and Neal drops into his arms by default. "Hey, you okay?"

"'Course." He pushes himself off the agent, stands through the wooziness. "What 'appened to the guys in the back?"

"The FBI happened," Peter brags. He seems far too delighted about it.

Two more agents, similarly outfitted, slip into the warehouse behind Peter just as a gunshot goes off toward the front. The agents start methodically ushering the girls out the back, one by one, starting with Dimples, who's reluctant to leave Neal. Neal smiles and stumbles toward the exit with her, trying to shake off the dizziness. As she's delivered to the next agent just outside, Neal hears a click, then registers the cuffs around his wrists.

"Really, Pet'r? I just single-handedly saved thirty girls from traff'kers."

"Single-handedly? What did you need me for, then?"

Neal shrugs, his words slurred, "A witness to t' brilliance?"

Peter shakes his head and hands Neal off to another agent, "Harper, get him checked out by EMTs. Sounds like he's concussed. Jones, Shay, with me."

Neal looks back, sees Peter and two more agents heading toward the front of the building. He hopes they're wearing vests.

He's guided through alleys in a convoy of confused teens and determined G-men. Harper seems pretty young, so Neal thinks there's hope of getting free, but the way the agent holds Neal's arm leaves no room to pick, or even slip, the cuffs. Neal's nausea doesn't help. After a couple of blocks they step into a parking lot with several EMTs, two girls already sitting on the back of an ambulance.

He's escorted to his own ambulance off to the side, an EMT waiting with an agent, wearing the same exciting windbreaker. Finally, he can relax.

Harper's a stickler, "Badge please?"

The Agent follows protocol, provides a shiny piece of metal in a wallet with words and numbers. Harper seems mollified.

"Haversham, huh? Okay, possible concussion here, but he's a prisoner, so you need to stay with him at the hospital. Don't let him out of your site," Harper warns.

"No worry about that," Agent Haversham promises, and he helps Neal up onto a gurney, cuffs him to the rail.

The EMT starts Neal's vitals, her hands warm and familiar on Neal's chest. "Sir, can you lie down for me, please?"

Harper stands watch for a moment, torn between guarding Neal and going back to assist with more girls. The parking lot holds about half of them now. Neal sees Dimples being given a bottle of water.

"Agent Haversham, his blood pressure is dropping. We need to get him to the hospital now." The EMT's voice carries an urgency and Neal helpfully starts to hyperventilate.

"Fine. Excuse me," Haversham closes one of the back doors. Harper holds the other open, watching Neal. "Agent?"

Harper looks back up to Haversham, "Yeah, yeah. You got this?"

"I got it."

"Slow breaths, Sir. Calm down."

"Okay." Harper takes one last look and tears off in the direction of the warehouse. Agent Haversham closes the second door, climbs into the driver's seat and flips the sirens on.

"That attracts too much attention, Moz."

"It's just for a block or two, Neal. I've always wanted to do that."

Neal looks up into the eyes of the EMT, "Hey, Alex."

"You're nothing but trouble, Caffrey. You're lucky I was in town. Now lie back, you're about ready to pass out."

He does. He lies back and closes his eyes as Moz takes off. He's been tense the past two days, caught between the fear that Dioli would kill him and the worry that this little escapade in martyrdom would land him in prison. Heroism is stressful.

* * * * *

"Hey, Peter."

"Neal Caffrey."

"Yeah, I assumed Dioli would burn my alias."

"An alias? Or the real thing?"

"Aliases are real, Peter. Especially those from MI6." He can hear Peter chuckling over the line so he adds with a smile, "I always did feel an affinity for spy work."

"Even the guns?"

"No, not that part."

"Good. A little rude of you to skip the party, though."

"You were pretty busy; didn't want to cause even more work for you. You got the thank you card, didn't you?"

"This was not safe, Neal, or whatever your name actually is. You should have gotten out of there first, then told us about the girls."

He' d thought about it at the time, while he sat there in that warehouse, Dioli believing Neal was secure. It would have been easy to slip out so many times. But the look on those girls' faces...

"Would you have taken it as seriously? Or would you have thought I was setting you up?"

"With the Dioli's? I suspect you've done a lot of things, but I don't think you'd set me up to get murdered by the mafia."

"I wouldn't." Neal needed Peter to know he meant it. No sarcasm. No side-step.

"Dioli's quite the prize; you could have cut a deal."

"Nah, not my style. Speaking of prizes, how was the sucker?"

"From the bank? I've been saving it."

"For?"

"A special occasion." Oh, Peter has a wicked side.

"In that case, I'm in no hurry for you to taste it."

"Oddly enough, neither am I. Don't do anything else to make that happen."

"No promises, Peter."

"I thought not."