Chapter 2- Semi
I had barely hung up the phone when Lauren saw me.
"Jeez, boss," she hurried over to my side, "What's wrong?"
Jones was a step behind her, and I motioned them both close to me. "Here's the deal," I said in a hushed tone, "Caffrey's in trouble. He's got himself locked in the warehouse in the back of a truck with the stolen artwork."
Jones shook her head, but Lauren protested, "He's going to get hurt! These guys are dangerous."
"Maybe. In about twenty seconds, we're going to get a call that his tracker has been cut. We're going to gather everyone up and go after him and get the evidence we need. For everyone else, we're going to make this look like a planned job, but I want you two to know the truth."
"Idiot kid," Lauren shook her head. "Why would he try something like that?"
"He tried it before and it worked," Jones noted, alluding to the Dutchman case.
"I know, but we can't try that too many times," I pointed out. "Eventually, it's going to be seen as wrongfully-obtained evidence and thrown out of court. Which means all our work is in vain."
"Did you tell Caffrey that?" Jones asked.
I shook my head in regret, and then my cell phone went off.
Ten minutes later, we were packing into the cars. As I got into mine and Lauren slid into the passenger seat, I tried to keep calm and think rationally. Yes, Neal had disobeyed me, disobeyed a direct order, but was he completely to blame? I had been impressed when he figured out a way to catch the Dutchman, so much so that I hadn't really explained the procedures of the FBI to him all the way afterwards. That's one of my flaws when it comes to Neal – he's so smart and conniving and good at figuring out cases, that I assume he knows all standard FBI conduct like I do. I forget that I went to college to major in criminal justice and then trained at Quantico and have been working for the FBI for over twenty years, and Neal did none of those things.
I do think of him as a partner most of the time, a junior partner who follows my lead but carries his own weight and does his share of the work. Of course, I don't really tell him that or he'd be three times as arrogant. Other times I think of him as a younger brother or annoying nephew, and let's face it, he does go out of his way to annoy me. Those suits and June's coffee and that ridiculous hat – no one can tell me that he doesn't get a kick out of irritating me.
Which made it so nice when he got sick – too ill to go out of his way to tease me. Okay, I didn't like him being sick and the sinus infection did worry me and Neal can't take care of himself, what with running around in the rain like a moron and not wanting to take his medicine.
But still . . . he was new to all this FBI work.
At that moment, I didn't know whether or not I should be very stern with him or just let it go with a lecture. Last time I punished him, he knew he was in the wrong. He had stolen my car, driven off when he should be working, and got caught by the police for driving without a license. No way did Neal not know he was in the wrong there.
But here, he meant to help – he wanted to solve the case as quickly as possible. I felt all torn about how to deal with him, and that's Neal for you. Confusing your emotions, getting you feeling sorry for him, hating to see those sad blue eyes turning up to you like a kicked puppy.
"Damn kid," I growled, pounding the steering wheel with one hand.
"Hey, don't worry," Lauren gave me a concerned look. "Neal's a smart guy. He'll figure out a way to stay safe until we get there. Come on, Peter, the guy was in prison for four years. He can look after himself."
"I – I keep forgetting," I frowned in frustration. "I assume that because Neal outsmarted the FBI for so long, that he knows all the protocol, and he doesn't."
"Then tell him that," Lauren urged. "Sit him down, and have a nice long conversation about how he has to rely on you as senior agent because you know more than he does. Lay it all out, and Neal will see reason. Just stay calm and cool . . . of course, this is after you nail his ass to the door for today."
I growled deep in my chest.
Lauren grinned at me. "Can I be there when you tear him apart? I want to hear you yell at him, shred him for running off." Lauren beamed from ear to ear, like a sister anticipating her brother getting yelled at by a parent. "Make him sit in the chair while you pace and put your hands on your hips and shake your finger at him and his head droops lower and lower."
"You got a mean streak," I commented.
"No, I got brothers that were always in trouble. Nothing is better than seeing your brother, who tormented you endlessly, get chewed out by your father for acting like an idiot."
"Life's simple pleasures."
"What else are you going to do to him?" Lauren was starting to look about twelve years old. "Take away his allowance? Shorten his tracker to twenty feet so he can't leave his room at June's? Put him in one of those kid leashes and drag him around the office?"
I laughed out loud. Lauren was helping to calm me, and though I still planned to lecture Neal severely once I got him home, I knew I had to be calm in order to rescue him first.
I turned the car and saw the warehouse up ahead.
------
Waiting in the dark for someone to come and rescue me has to be the worst way to spend time. It would be a while, I knew, but time seemed to crawl by.
I desperately scrambled for a plan to help me get out of here. I had called Peter, but I couldn't just sit there and be rescued like some fairytale damsel in distress. I'm Neal Caffrey – I avoided the FBI for three years and escaped a maximum security prison. Peter was on his way, but I wasn't just sitting there like a doll.
So when the truck suddenly rolled up, I didn't stay hidden. I jumped up, my FBI wallet hanging open from my mouth and my hands clasped on the back of my head.
"On't oot!" I said between clenched teeth, meaning of course Don't shoot.
The two men at the end of the truck stepped back in surprise, raising semi-automatics up towards me. I flinched, but I crept towards them, careful to keep my hands on the back of my head. My coat was wrapped around the tracker in the far corner so they could see that I didn't have a weapon on me.
"Who are you?" one man demanded in a strong Italian accent. "How did you get in? Answer."
He lifted the gun threateningly, and I leaned forward slightly so the other man could take the badge.
They looked over it and the second man snorted, "FBI consultant."
They both broke into a bout of Italian curses.
"Hey, hey," I objected. "Can I say something?"
"Yes, you talk," the first man sneered. "You talk and then we shoot you and put you in a dumpster."
"I work for the FBI and they sent me to investigate, but I saw what you have here and I want in. You have millions of dollars of artwork in that truck and probably more in the other two. I have connections here in America – I can get you better deals."
"What do you know about the underworld of art?" the second man scoffed.
"I was in prison. I did time for forgery. The FBI has me on a work-release program. I don't get enough money to live on – I barely have enough to exist from day to day. Even if you give me a ten percent cut, I'd have enough to go to Mexico and live out my days like a king."
"Why should we give you a cut of anything? Even if we don't kill you, you work for us for free!"
"If I'm getting ten percent, I'll be motivated to get you the most for your art." I gave him a wide grin, hoping my eyes reflected pure greed. They just had to buy my act long enough for Peter and the FBI to get here. I didn't know how many more thugs were in the area, but at least I would keep the two guys here busy while Peter got his team into place.
The two men looked at me.
Then, before I could blink, the second man lashed the gun out, pistol-whipping me across the left side of my face. I barely realized what he had done when I stumbled back to fall on the concrete. My face burned with hot, numb pain, and my eyes filled with tears as I lifted fingers to my cheek. I felt wetness; I drew my hand back to see the tips of my fingers dabbed with blood.
"Baby," the first man laughed. "Hardened criminal – I think not."
He stuck the gun right in my face.
"No," I struggled to stay still and not jerk away. I really hate guns. "Don't shoot me. This was a trap. The FBI will be here any moment. They'll catch you. You know how many years murder gets you? A lot. You can still make a plea bargain – you were just the guards and not the main smuggler."
"Listen to him beg," the second man laughed. "Back into a wall, sniveling like a child – weep for me, pretty baby."
He kicked me in the side, and I got the air knocked out of me. Open mouthed, I gasped for breath, tears blinding me. In that moment, I felt my life had been nothing but an unfair fight where I got beaten, and shoved, and kicked around. When I finally got air in, tears spilled down my cheeks. I swiped at them hastily, wishing I didn't hurt so bad.
"He's a pretty bitch," the first man noted. "We could sell him. With that face and body, he's worth at least half a million Euros."
"I would rather kill him," the second man decided.
This was by far the most violent encounter I had ever had. I was in agony and the two men standing over me were discussing selling me as a sex slave.
"Shh!" the first man held up a hand. "Do you hear that?"
They both listened. I heard the soft rumble of cars approaching.
"Told you," I managed to get up to a sitting position.
They yelled at each other in Italian, and then the second man stalked over and yanked me up by the collar. "We will use you for ransom. Giovanni, call them, we will get the trucks out of here."
While Giovanni ran towards the far door on the other side of the building, the second man dragged me towards the front of the car. We reached the door and he opened it, and I went into action. I had no idea how to physically fight this man, but I refused to be taken hostage.
I butted my head back and felt it connect with the man's nose.
He screamed and I dashed forward. I tripped over his foot and fell to the concrete, my hands catching myself, my mouth striking the ground hard. More pain in my face, but I turned over on my back and kicked at the man's leg before he could aim the gun at me. His nose was bleeding, and when my shoe connected with the side of his knee, he yelled in pain again.
I scrambled up into the truck and slammed the door shut. The control panel had dozens of buttons all over the place, but I turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine start. There were too many pedals on the floor board, and a stick shift with too many gears, but I stomped down on what I thought was a clutch. The stick shift protested as I yanked it forward. I let off the pedal and thanked God when the truck rolled forward. Something banged against the door, and I knew I had to drive faster.
I hoped I wouldn't damage any of the art in the back, but I stepped on what I hoped was the gas and the truck groaned as it started gaining speed. The metal warehouse wall came closer and closer, and I wondered if it would hold when the truck hit it. I had to break through – I had no idea how to back this thing up and try hitting the wall again like a battering ram.
Faster, and faster – the wall speeding towards me. Twenty feet, ten feet, five – I closed my eyes as I stepped down on the gas as hard as I could.
It hit the wall. The impact threw me back against the seat, but the truck broke through the wall, the metal screeching as it gunned through the hole in the metal wall.
I flinched at the bright sunlight, but I kept driving. Something wet dripped down my chin. I pulled the overhead mirror down to see my lips cut and bleeding. They must have been bashed when I hit the concrete.
I saw the FBI cars to my left, and I turned the truck to drive towards them.
However, I've never – um, driven a semi truck before. I assumed I would turn the wheel hard and the whole truck would turn with the front.
However, that did not happen.
The front cab did turn making a sharp 90-degree angle turn to the left. But the weight and speed of the back kept going forward, and I got caught in some kind of jack-knifed drag to the right side. I fought to keep control of the truck, but the gears were screaming and the tires were shredding.
And suddenly the whole back of the truck started tipping to the right.
"No, no!" I yelled, struggling against the wheel.
But the truck refused to listen, and the back fell over. For a second, I looked at myself in the mirror in absolute horror – my poor bruised face – and then the cab was whip-lashed up in the air and fell to the side, the right door smashing into the ground and glass shattering.
I was thrown against the back of the seat and then tumbled down towards the broken glass.
My leg got caught between the steering wheel and the seat; tangled against the stick shift, I wondered how in hell I could ever get out of this with the smallest bit of dignity, considering the fact that I was hanging upside down with broken glass everywhere.
"Jeez, boss," she hurried over to my side, "What's wrong?"
Jones was a step behind her, and I motioned them both close to me. "Here's the deal," I said in a hushed tone, "Caffrey's in trouble. He's got himself locked in the warehouse in the back of a truck with the stolen artwork."
Jones shook her head, but Lauren protested, "He's going to get hurt! These guys are dangerous."
"Maybe. In about twenty seconds, we're going to get a call that his tracker has been cut. We're going to gather everyone up and go after him and get the evidence we need. For everyone else, we're going to make this look like a planned job, but I want you two to know the truth."
"Idiot kid," Lauren shook her head. "Why would he try something like that?"
"He tried it before and it worked," Jones noted, alluding to the Dutchman case.
"I know, but we can't try that too many times," I pointed out. "Eventually, it's going to be seen as wrongfully-obtained evidence and thrown out of court. Which means all our work is in vain."
"Did you tell Caffrey that?" Jones asked.
I shook my head in regret, and then my cell phone went off.
Ten minutes later, we were packing into the cars. As I got into mine and Lauren slid into the passenger seat, I tried to keep calm and think rationally. Yes, Neal had disobeyed me, disobeyed a direct order, but was he completely to blame? I had been impressed when he figured out a way to catch the Dutchman, so much so that I hadn't really explained the procedures of the FBI to him all the way afterwards. That's one of my flaws when it comes to Neal – he's so smart and conniving and good at figuring out cases, that I assume he knows all standard FBI conduct like I do. I forget that I went to college to major in criminal justice and then trained at Quantico and have been working for the FBI for over twenty years, and Neal did none of those things.
I do think of him as a partner most of the time, a junior partner who follows my lead but carries his own weight and does his share of the work. Of course, I don't really tell him that or he'd be three times as arrogant. Other times I think of him as a younger brother or annoying nephew, and let's face it, he does go out of his way to annoy me. Those suits and June's coffee and that ridiculous hat – no one can tell me that he doesn't get a kick out of irritating me.
Which made it so nice when he got sick – too ill to go out of his way to tease me. Okay, I didn't like him being sick and the sinus infection did worry me and Neal can't take care of himself, what with running around in the rain like a moron and not wanting to take his medicine.
But still . . . he was new to all this FBI work.
At that moment, I didn't know whether or not I should be very stern with him or just let it go with a lecture. Last time I punished him, he knew he was in the wrong. He had stolen my car, driven off when he should be working, and got caught by the police for driving without a license. No way did Neal not know he was in the wrong there.
But here, he meant to help – he wanted to solve the case as quickly as possible. I felt all torn about how to deal with him, and that's Neal for you. Confusing your emotions, getting you feeling sorry for him, hating to see those sad blue eyes turning up to you like a kicked puppy.
"Damn kid," I growled, pounding the steering wheel with one hand.
"Hey, don't worry," Lauren gave me a concerned look. "Neal's a smart guy. He'll figure out a way to stay safe until we get there. Come on, Peter, the guy was in prison for four years. He can look after himself."
"I – I keep forgetting," I frowned in frustration. "I assume that because Neal outsmarted the FBI for so long, that he knows all the protocol, and he doesn't."
"Then tell him that," Lauren urged. "Sit him down, and have a nice long conversation about how he has to rely on you as senior agent because you know more than he does. Lay it all out, and Neal will see reason. Just stay calm and cool . . . of course, this is after you nail his ass to the door for today."
I growled deep in my chest.
Lauren grinned at me. "Can I be there when you tear him apart? I want to hear you yell at him, shred him for running off." Lauren beamed from ear to ear, like a sister anticipating her brother getting yelled at by a parent. "Make him sit in the chair while you pace and put your hands on your hips and shake your finger at him and his head droops lower and lower."
"You got a mean streak," I commented.
"No, I got brothers that were always in trouble. Nothing is better than seeing your brother, who tormented you endlessly, get chewed out by your father for acting like an idiot."
"Life's simple pleasures."
"What else are you going to do to him?" Lauren was starting to look about twelve years old. "Take away his allowance? Shorten his tracker to twenty feet so he can't leave his room at June's? Put him in one of those kid leashes and drag him around the office?"
I laughed out loud. Lauren was helping to calm me, and though I still planned to lecture Neal severely once I got him home, I knew I had to be calm in order to rescue him first.
I turned the car and saw the warehouse up ahead.
------
Waiting in the dark for someone to come and rescue me has to be the worst way to spend time. It would be a while, I knew, but time seemed to crawl by.
I desperately scrambled for a plan to help me get out of here. I had called Peter, but I couldn't just sit there and be rescued like some fairytale damsel in distress. I'm Neal Caffrey – I avoided the FBI for three years and escaped a maximum security prison. Peter was on his way, but I wasn't just sitting there like a doll.
So when the truck suddenly rolled up, I didn't stay hidden. I jumped up, my FBI wallet hanging open from my mouth and my hands clasped on the back of my head.
"On't oot!" I said between clenched teeth, meaning of course Don't shoot.
The two men at the end of the truck stepped back in surprise, raising semi-automatics up towards me. I flinched, but I crept towards them, careful to keep my hands on the back of my head. My coat was wrapped around the tracker in the far corner so they could see that I didn't have a weapon on me.
"Who are you?" one man demanded in a strong Italian accent. "How did you get in? Answer."
He lifted the gun threateningly, and I leaned forward slightly so the other man could take the badge.
They looked over it and the second man snorted, "FBI consultant."
They both broke into a bout of Italian curses.
"Hey, hey," I objected. "Can I say something?"
"Yes, you talk," the first man sneered. "You talk and then we shoot you and put you in a dumpster."
"I work for the FBI and they sent me to investigate, but I saw what you have here and I want in. You have millions of dollars of artwork in that truck and probably more in the other two. I have connections here in America – I can get you better deals."
"What do you know about the underworld of art?" the second man scoffed.
"I was in prison. I did time for forgery. The FBI has me on a work-release program. I don't get enough money to live on – I barely have enough to exist from day to day. Even if you give me a ten percent cut, I'd have enough to go to Mexico and live out my days like a king."
"Why should we give you a cut of anything? Even if we don't kill you, you work for us for free!"
"If I'm getting ten percent, I'll be motivated to get you the most for your art." I gave him a wide grin, hoping my eyes reflected pure greed. They just had to buy my act long enough for Peter and the FBI to get here. I didn't know how many more thugs were in the area, but at least I would keep the two guys here busy while Peter got his team into place.
The two men looked at me.
Then, before I could blink, the second man lashed the gun out, pistol-whipping me across the left side of my face. I barely realized what he had done when I stumbled back to fall on the concrete. My face burned with hot, numb pain, and my eyes filled with tears as I lifted fingers to my cheek. I felt wetness; I drew my hand back to see the tips of my fingers dabbed with blood.
"Baby," the first man laughed. "Hardened criminal – I think not."
He stuck the gun right in my face.
"No," I struggled to stay still and not jerk away. I really hate guns. "Don't shoot me. This was a trap. The FBI will be here any moment. They'll catch you. You know how many years murder gets you? A lot. You can still make a plea bargain – you were just the guards and not the main smuggler."
"Listen to him beg," the second man laughed. "Back into a wall, sniveling like a child – weep for me, pretty baby."
He kicked me in the side, and I got the air knocked out of me. Open mouthed, I gasped for breath, tears blinding me. In that moment, I felt my life had been nothing but an unfair fight where I got beaten, and shoved, and kicked around. When I finally got air in, tears spilled down my cheeks. I swiped at them hastily, wishing I didn't hurt so bad.
"He's a pretty bitch," the first man noted. "We could sell him. With that face and body, he's worth at least half a million Euros."
"I would rather kill him," the second man decided.
This was by far the most violent encounter I had ever had. I was in agony and the two men standing over me were discussing selling me as a sex slave.
"Shh!" the first man held up a hand. "Do you hear that?"
They both listened. I heard the soft rumble of cars approaching.
"Told you," I managed to get up to a sitting position.
They yelled at each other in Italian, and then the second man stalked over and yanked me up by the collar. "We will use you for ransom. Giovanni, call them, we will get the trucks out of here."
While Giovanni ran towards the far door on the other side of the building, the second man dragged me towards the front of the car. We reached the door and he opened it, and I went into action. I had no idea how to physically fight this man, but I refused to be taken hostage.
I butted my head back and felt it connect with the man's nose.
He screamed and I dashed forward. I tripped over his foot and fell to the concrete, my hands catching myself, my mouth striking the ground hard. More pain in my face, but I turned over on my back and kicked at the man's leg before he could aim the gun at me. His nose was bleeding, and when my shoe connected with the side of his knee, he yelled in pain again.
I scrambled up into the truck and slammed the door shut. The control panel had dozens of buttons all over the place, but I turned the key in the ignition and heard the engine start. There were too many pedals on the floor board, and a stick shift with too many gears, but I stomped down on what I thought was a clutch. The stick shift protested as I yanked it forward. I let off the pedal and thanked God when the truck rolled forward. Something banged against the door, and I knew I had to drive faster.
I hoped I wouldn't damage any of the art in the back, but I stepped on what I hoped was the gas and the truck groaned as it started gaining speed. The metal warehouse wall came closer and closer, and I wondered if it would hold when the truck hit it. I had to break through – I had no idea how to back this thing up and try hitting the wall again like a battering ram.
Faster, and faster – the wall speeding towards me. Twenty feet, ten feet, five – I closed my eyes as I stepped down on the gas as hard as I could.
It hit the wall. The impact threw me back against the seat, but the truck broke through the wall, the metal screeching as it gunned through the hole in the metal wall.
I flinched at the bright sunlight, but I kept driving. Something wet dripped down my chin. I pulled the overhead mirror down to see my lips cut and bleeding. They must have been bashed when I hit the concrete.
I saw the FBI cars to my left, and I turned the truck to drive towards them.
However, I've never – um, driven a semi truck before. I assumed I would turn the wheel hard and the whole truck would turn with the front.
However, that did not happen.
The front cab did turn making a sharp 90-degree angle turn to the left. But the weight and speed of the back kept going forward, and I got caught in some kind of jack-knifed drag to the right side. I fought to keep control of the truck, but the gears were screaming and the tires were shredding.
And suddenly the whole back of the truck started tipping to the right.
"No, no!" I yelled, struggling against the wheel.
But the truck refused to listen, and the back fell over. For a second, I looked at myself in the mirror in absolute horror – my poor bruised face – and then the cab was whip-lashed up in the air and fell to the side, the right door smashing into the ground and glass shattering.
I was thrown against the back of the seat and then tumbled down towards the broken glass.
My leg got caught between the steering wheel and the seat; tangled against the stick shift, I wondered how in hell I could ever get out of this with the smallest bit of dignity, considering the fact that I was hanging upside down with broken glass everywhere.