Chapter 6: The Game Begins

The tension in Neal's loft was palpable. He paced back and forth, his unease evident in every movement. I sat at the small dining table, sipping coffee, watching him with amusement.

"Henry, I don't think you understand what you're walking into," Neal said, stopping mid-step to glare at me. "Peter isn't going to play games."

"Neither am I," I replied calmly.

"That's not the point!" Neal snapped, throwing his hands in the air. "He's already suspicious. Showing up and playing mysterious isn't going to help."

"What do you suggest?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

Neal hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know. Tell him something. Give him enough to keep him from digging."

I chuckled. "You mean lie to him."

"No," Neal said quickly, then sighed. "Okay, maybe a little. But you can't just walk into the lion's den with nothing."

I stood, setting my coffee cup down. "Relax, Neal. I've got this."

Neal stared at me, his frustration evident. "Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"

The meeting with Peter was set at a quiet café, one of his usual spots for informal interrogations. Neal and I arrived together, and Peter was already waiting, his sharp eyes fixed on us as we entered.

Peter stood as we approached, offering a polite but firm handshake. "Henry. Neal."

"Peter," Neal greeted, his tone a little too cheerful.

I extended my hand, meeting Peter's gaze. "Agent Burke. Nice to see you again."

Peter's handshake was firm, his eyes searching mine for answers I wouldn't give.

"Have a seat," Peter said, gesturing to the table.

We sat, the tension palpable. Peter wasted no time getting to the point.

"So, Henry," he began, leaning forward slightly. "I've been trying to learn more about you."

"I'm flattered," I said, giving him a faint smile.

Peter didn't smile back. "The thing is, I haven't found much. No records, no history. It's like you don't exist."

"Maybe I don't," I replied lightly, taking a sip of water.

Peter's eyes narrowed. "That's not how this works."

Neal shifted uncomfortably beside me. "Peter, come on. Henry's not—"

"It's okay," I interrupted, holding up a hand. I turned back to Peter. "You're thorough. I respect that. But if you're expecting me to explain my entire life story, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"Why's that?" Peter asked, his tone sharp.

I leaned back in my chair, meeting his gaze evenly. "Because some things are better left unsaid."

Peter didn't blink. "You're hiding something."

I smirked. "Aren't we all?"

The tension was electric. Peter was good—better than I'd anticipated. But I was better.

After the meeting, Neal and I walked in silence for a while. Finally, he spoke.

"That could have gone worse," he admitted.

"It went exactly as I planned," I replied.

Neal gave me a skeptical look. "Really? Because it looked like you just dodged every question Peter threw at you."

"And he bought it," I said with a grin.

Neal shook his head. "You're playing with fire."

"Maybe," I said. "But I'm good at not getting burned."

At FBI Headquarters

Peter sat at his desk, going over the conversation in his mind. Henry's answers had been frustratingly vague, yet there was a confidence to him that Peter couldn't ignore.

"Boss?" Jones said, interrupting Peter's thoughts.

Peter looked up. "What is it, Jones?"

Jones hesitated. "I did another search. This time, I cross-referenced Neal's old contacts with potential aliases for Henry."

Peter's interest piqued. "And?"

Jones handed him a file. "There's a pattern. He might not have a record, but he's been around. Always in the shadows, always just out of reach."

Peter opened the file, scanning the information. It wasn't much—just a series of vague connections and circumstantial evidence—but it painted a picture of someone who was more than a simple con artist.

"He's good," Peter muttered.

"Too good," Jones agreed.

Peter closed the file, his mind racing. Henry Caffrey was an enigma, and Peter didn't like enigmas.

Later That Night

Back at my safehouse, I reviewed the intercepted feed from Peter's office. The man was predictable in his tenacity, and I'd anticipated him digging deeper.

"You're good, Peter," I muttered to myself. "But you're playing my game now."

I leaned back in my chair, the flickering monitors casting shadows on the walls. The pieces were moving into place, and the real game was about to begin.