Chapter 4: Beneath the Surface

Peter Burke was sharp, no doubt about it. His handshake had been firm, his eyes unwavering, and his questions loaded with an unspoken demand for answers. It was clear he wasn't the kind of man to leave loose ends untied. Neal had warned me about him, but experiencing it firsthand was a different beast altogether.

As I left the café, I could feel Peter's gaze on my back, analyzing every move I made. The man was a bloodhound, and I knew he wouldn't stop until he had me figured out. The problem for him was that there was nothing to figure out—I didn't exist, at least not in any system he could access.

Later that evening, I was back at Neal's loft, nursing a glass of whiskey while Neal paced the room.

"Peter's going to dig," Neal said, running a hand through his hair. "He always does. He's like a dog with a bone."

"Let him," I replied, leaning back against the couch. "He won't find anything."

"You're awfully confident," Neal muttered.

I smirked. "Because I'm thorough. Every record, every trace—gone. To the system, I'm a ghost."

Neal stopped pacing and turned to face me. "That might work for now, but Peter doesn't give up. He's going to start watching you, tailing you."

"Then I'll give him a show," I said with a shrug. "Let him think he's in control. It'll keep him off your back."

Neal sighed, shaking his head. "This is why I work alone."

"You don't work alone," I corrected, raising my glass. "You just like to think you do."

He glared at me but didn't argue.

The next day, Neal was called to a meeting at FBI headquarters. I used the opportunity to dig deeper into Adler's network. Victor's file had been useful, but it only scratched the surface. If I wanted to get ahead of Adler—and protect Neal—I needed more.

That led me to a small gallery in the Meatpacking District, one of Adler's suspected laundering fronts. It was the kind of place that catered to high-end clientele, with minimalist decor and exorbitant price tags.

I entered the gallery dressed in a tailored suit, blending seamlessly with the wealthy patrons browsing the artwork. A soft-spoken curator approached me almost immediately.

"Good afternoon," she said with a polite smile. "Can I help you with anything?"

"Just admiring the collection," I replied, returning her smile. "But if you have any pieces by up-and-coming artists, I'd be interested in taking a look."

She nodded, gesturing for me to follow her. As we moved through the gallery, I kept an eye out for anything unusual—hidden cameras, security measures, anything that might confirm my suspicions.

In the back room, the curator showed me a selection of paintings by lesser-known artists. While she spoke, I casually scanned the room, noting the layout and the positioning of a locked cabinet near the far wall.

"These are exquisite," I said, feigning interest in one of the paintings. "Do you mind if I take a closer look?"

"Of course," she replied, stepping aside.

As she turned her attention to another patron, I slipped a small device from my pocket—a signal interceptor disguised as a pen. I placed it discreetly on the edge of a nearby table, where it would go unnoticed. The device would intercept the gallery's security feed, giving me remote access.

Later that evening, I returned to my safehouse and accessed the intercepted feed. It didn't take long to confirm my suspicions—the gallery was more than it seemed. Hidden in the back room, behind the locked cabinet, was a small but active smuggling operation. Crates of stolen artifacts were being cataloged and prepared for transport.

I leaned back in my chair, a satisfied smile on my face. Adler was clever, but not clever enough. This was the kind of leverage I needed.

The next day, Neal stopped by my safehouse unannounced.

"What is this place?" he asked, looking around the sleek, minimalist space.

"Home," I said simply, gesturing for him to sit.

"Looks more like a spy den," Neal muttered, but he sat down anyway.

"What can I say? I like to stay prepared," I replied, pulling up the intercepted security footage on my laptop.

Neal leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he watched the feed. "That's Adler's gallery."

"And that," I said, pointing to the screen, "is Adler's operation. Smuggling stolen artifacts right under everyone's noses."

Neal frowned, his jaw tightening. "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you need to see what you're up against," I said, closing the laptop. "Adler isn't just some wealthy businessman with a taste for art. He's running a global operation. If you want to take him down, you need to think bigger."

Neal leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "This is insane."

"It's reality," I said firmly. "And if we're going to bring him down, we need to be smart about it."

"We?" Neal repeated, raising an eyebrow.

I smirked. "You didn't think I was just going to sit back and watch, did you?"

Neal sighed, shaking his head. "This is going to blow up in our faces."

"Only if we let it," I replied.

Meanwhile, Peter was following his instincts.

Back at FBI headquarters, he was poring over the footage from the art heist, his brow furrowed in concentration. Something about the case didn't sit right with him. The thief's precision, the lack of any identifiable traces—it was too clean, too perfect.

"Jones," Peter called out, gesturing for his colleague to join him.

"What's up, boss?" Jones asked, leaning over Peter's shoulder.

"This guy," Peter said, pointing to the grainy still of the thief. "I need everything we can get on him. Neal swears it's not his brother, but my gut tells me there's more to this story."

Jones nodded. "I'll get on it."

As Jones left, Peter leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against the desk. Henry Caffrey was an enigma, and Peter didn't like enigmas.